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Thirty-Four
One month later
Rihanna meant business and so did Alex. The booming chorus of “Only Girl in the World”, in sync with her pumping arms and determined feet, surged her forward along the narrow Regent’s Canal towpath, past rows of moored canal boats. She weaved around cyclists, Saturday morning walkers, and fellow joggers, seeking a big finish to her run—just what she needed after receiving that email earlier in the morning.
Pushing herself, her breathing upped its pace to match her full-on sprint. She squinted into late May’s overdue sunshine, across the canal at two steel gasholders towering into the blue sky. Their presence and the railway and street bridges looming ahead signaled that the first half of her daily run was almost over, and the steps leading to Mare Street were, thankfully, around the corner.
Third chorus in, RiRi gave way to the Sherlock theme. Alex’s phone, strapped to her upper arm, kept the caller’s identity out of sight. “Hello?”
“Sincy, it’s Tarq!”
“And good-bye.” Alex pushed her earbud cord’s disconnect button as her eyes scanned the puzzling ‘break a leg’ graffiti spray-painted underneath the railway bridge.
Ten seconds later, the theme played again. Ugh. She stumbled to a stop just beyond the second bridge overpass, her chest rising and falling with breathless abandon. “What?”
“Sorry about Sincy. It has now been deleted from my vocab. You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Your breathing is heavy…”
“Not for the reason you think.”
“Shame, that.”
“Tarquin, what do you want? You’ve ruined my jog.”
“A fellow jogger? Blimey, a girl after my own heart.”
“I’m not after anything, Tarquin. What do you want?”
“Someone to hang with this afternoon. Harry said you were back.”
Alex winced and slowly climbed the steps leading to Mare Street.
“Meet me on the South Bank.”
“I can’t. I’m in Hackney.”
“After your jog. After your shower.”
“I have writing to do.”
“On Saturday? Look up. The sky’s glorious. Shame to waste it. I’ll buy you ice cream outside the National Theatre. Go on, Sunshine, say yes—you know you want to!”
He had a point: this May day was a stunner. And…if they did sit outside the National, maybe she would see the literary manager, or someone from the New Work department…remind them she still existed…but she couldn’t stay out all afternoon.
“I’m meeting Lucy later.”
“I’ll have you back before she shows. Harry says she’s always late, anyway. Come on! A wander and a chat, that’s all I’m after.”
“Okay.”
“Brilliant. Meet me at the foot of the Golden Jubilee Bridge—you know, in front of the Royal Festival Hall? Half past twelve?”
• • •
Waiting on a concrete bench, Alex ignored the Thames view and flicked through a cheap magazine she had found discarded on the Tube. Just a few pages in and…surprise! Yet another slap to the face—photos of Mark and Fallon leaving Soho House. Fallon was all over him, like he was her personal jungle gym. A twinge of jealousy pinched her heart. Mark was laughing, moving on…
