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A paramedic, pumping a blood pressure cuff, smiled. “Hiya Alex, you’re at the theatre. You fainted, do you remember?”
Tarquin hovered sheepishly. “You fell just as I was about to get the drinks in. If that wasn’t a protest vote for ice cream, I don’t know what is.”
The paramedic tore the Velcro strap from Alex’s arm. “You’re going to be fine, love. Keep taking deep breaths: in through the nose, out through your mouth. Lucky your boyfriend caught you, so you didn’t bang your head.”
“Boyfriend…”
A woman wearing a name tag stepped forward. “There’s no rush, Miss Sinclair. Stay until you feel better, okay?” She turned to the paramedics, thanking them while they packed their cases.
Still groggy, Alex looked around. Somehow, she had been transported to a chaise lounge in…a backstage space? The area was stuffed with racks of costumes and spare props. She shifted up onto her elbows, but the room swayed, nudging her head back down on a silk pillow.
“Oh, God. I’m so embarrassed. Of all the places to pass out…”
Tarquin winced. “The house manager did say he loved your play—”
Nametag Lady jumped in. “Thirteen? Oh, yes it was wonderful.” She smiled and escorted the paramedics towards the exit.
“Shit!” Alex hid behind her hands. “Did the National Theatre guy see me fall, too?”
“National?” Tarquin looked puzzled. “A few people rushed over, but…I didn’t catch any names.”
She pulled herself up. The evening had just gone into the record books as the most humiliating ever. At least the panic attack two years earlier in front of Isabella Archer hadn’t ended with her collapsing at her idol’s feet.
Alex waved him away. “You should go, catch the second act.”
“And cut off my circulation again? I don’t think so.” He smiled and handed over a bottle of water. “Relax. Once you feel better, I’ll drive you home. It’s the least I can do.” His dimples flirted. “I’ve never had a girl fall for me like that.”
“I didn’t swoon, I fainted. Trust me, you’re not my type.”
“Ouch.” Tarquin grinned. “Someone’s feeling better.”
“I’ve had anxiety and panic attacks my whole life.” Maybe that will get rid of him.
Tarquin shifted from one foot to the other. “Ohhh, blimey! I’m…sorry…if I caused this one, shooting my mouth off. It’s the old Eton debater in me. I can be a bit heavy-handed—”
“Tarquin, what was that all about?” Her face pinched. “How would you know when Mark cancelled our holiday?”
He frowned, avoiding eye contact. “Fuck, my big mouth. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He turned to Alex. “Look, I’ll spill, but you’ve gotta promise to tell Harry that tonight was a success. We had a good time, I cheered you up—job well done? Please?”
Alex sat up straight. “Fine, I promise.” She crossed her fingers underneath her thigh.
“I was just trying to make you see, in my not very tactful way, you absolutely did right getting shot of the actor. I know what it’s like, when you keep having second thoughts after a split, wondering if you could’ve done something different, but you did the right thing, everyone says so…”
Her eyebrows creased. “Everyone?”
“I met Harry and Lucy last night for dinner. They filled me in on everything…well, not everything, of course—nothing girly or private! But Lucy did say that when she called the travel agent, they confirmed the trip had been cancelled much earlier. That was all true…sorry.”
Alex’s face fell. “Well, at least I know. But Lucy should have told me…” she murmured.
“She was going to—eventually. She said you were barely functioning the day she found out, so she just let it lie…”
They sat in silence awkwardly.
“So, these panic attacks…what’s the deal? I want to be more…careful—to avoid them next time.”
Next time?Alex shook her head. “Stress triggers them, but they also happen when everything seems fine—when I’m buying groceries, at the cinema, anywhere. They sneak up on me.”
“Does it happen a lot?”
