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Alex glared.
He held his hands up, palms facing her. “Seriously, don’t worry, Lucy didn’t betray any confidences. All I know is that she wants you to be happy again—and actor boy definitely wasn’t the man for you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Tarquin, if you’re trying to get into my pants, you are so wasting your time.”
“I’m not trying to get into your pants…” He grinned, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “I just want out of mine! Well, these cheap trousers at least. I can’t sit down. When you’re ready to leave, just say the word. I’m dying for a smoke.”
Alex scooted to the seat’s edge, desperate to send Tarquin, his cigarettes, and his contempt for Mark off into the night along with their disaster of an outing. The world ‘shame’ didn’t begin to cover it. How dare a panic attack take her down there—of all places—at the theatre…her safe place.
She knew how anxiety burrowed into her mind, how it left behind spores of doubt to feed and grow another attack. She would do just about anything, even the absurd, to dodge situations or places associated with anxiety meltdowns. Once an attack happened, that place was tainted, on her no-go list, a hall of shame that was long and riddled with lowlights. The memories made her grimace: the Florida store where she had fainted, the laundromat near college, Heathrow terminal three arrivals, Bridgewater House—even London’s Boris bikes. She and Mark took a spin once, and the insane traffic roundabout near the IMAX on Waterloo Road left her a hyperventilating puddle on the curb. Now, new to the list, her beloved theatre.
Alex pouted. There was no way she would allow panic to tarnish the theatre or banish it to the growing tally of places to be avoided. Hell no! Something else—someone else—would shoulder the blame. Her eyes crept up the towering figure standing in front of her, watching crew members shift a piece of unused scenery past the doorway.
Avoiding the theatre was out of the question. Avoiding Tarquin? Her answer.
She snatched her purse. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
• • •
Trudging up three flights of stairs, Alex shoved her key in the lock and pushed inside her dark flat, setting her purse on the chair where it shared real estate with mail yet to be posted: Tom’s birthday card, packages addressed to two London theatres, and a box destined for the States.
The flat’s eerie quiet weighed her down; only a vague cry from the infant next door punctured the silence. She looked around the space, purged of belongings, spare three boxes of books, two lonely suitcases, a backpack, her laptop bag, and the dishes she had yet to pack. Her happy, heady life with Mark was being erased and stored away like it had never happened. In five days, another couple would call this place home, collecting memories, reaching milestones, and building a future…together.
Her nose prickled. No. She wouldn’t cry. She had never felt more alone…or determined. She started texting Lucy.
Hey. Need a favour. Here are my social media passwords. Please change all of them, and keep the new ones to yourself.
