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The wedding…their awkward marriage convo…their sensuous morning after…like dominos, the memories toppled, one after another. She nodded, lost in his voice and their past, unable to function.

“How are you?” A surge of longing lifted his voice. “How’s Michael…Joan…?”

“Good. Thanks. You? Your…mum?”

“Good, yeah…” He stepped closer.

He smelled so good.

“Mum’s well. She misses y—” He cut himself off, his eyes darting through the swarm of bodies an elbow away.

Alex held her breath, fearful that exhaling would release the wave of loss and sadness that was threatening to flood her heart all over again.

“So…big night, eh?” Mark smiled again. “So much talent on show.”

“Yeah. I was flattered to be included.”

“You deserved to be included. Your scene blew the others off the stage.”

She let her breath go. “You saw it?”

“Yeah! From side stage. Wink and I got here just before Fal’s…” He cleared his throat and looked away. “Wink looks after both of us now.”

“Right.” Reality slapped Alex out of her nostalgic stupor. How cosy. Mark and “Fal” shared an agent. They shared holidays. They shared a past…and the present. Alex’s face began to flush. First loves. Like Helen and her dad. Despite the teenage angst, years spent apart, and relationships with other people, they would always find their way back into each other’s arms. Mark’s future had never been hers—it was Fallon’s.

Tonight’s Facebook discovery, his total 180 on social media, his stupid makeover…this awkward conversation reminded her once again that this guy was not the unspoiled Irish actor she had met in the lobby of this theatre three years ago. This rising star was not the Mark she had fallen in love with. Things were different now. Her world hadn’t just slipped off its axis; it had been flung from it.

What am I doing? Feeling sentimental? Missing him? No.

No sadness, no yearning, no regrets would seep into this conversation. She clenched her jaw, a renewed sense of cool, detached anger—of purpose—rising from her chest.

“Congratulations on Full Throttle 3.”

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s exciting…” Mark smiled.

“How’s the script?”

“Actually, I haven’t seen it. Soon though. I signed on because, well, it’s a massive…”

His eyes searched hers; for what, Alex had no clue. If it was words he needed to finish that sentence, she could offer a few: ‘piece of shit’ immediately came to mind, as did ‘sell-out’, but she remained silent. This new Mark was just doing what he did best—following Wink’s advice, even if Full Throttle 3 was sure to be void of creativity, heart, truthfulness, or any of the qualities he used to hope for in a script. The urge to shout, You’ve become the celebrity we used to LAUGH about! while smacking some sense into him was overpowering.

“…opportunity.” His grin stretched farther. “The movie of next summer, they’re saying.”

“Well, if they’re saying it, it must be true…”

Mark dragged his hand through his hair, his smile softening. He leaned close to her ear. “Lex, there’s something you should know—”

“There you are!” An arm snaked around her waist from behind.

Alex flinched. Her eyes dropped, catching a flash of silver—a ring—on a determined thumb, stroking her side.

Tarquin.

The smile glued to Mark’s face dissolved.

A strange mix of relief and unease quivered in Alex’s chest. She closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them again, she would find herself anywhere but there. The Court wasn’t the place for a scene.

“Car’s waiting, Sunshine…” Tarquin’s eyes took in Mark like an afterthought. “Oh, hello. I’m Tarquin.” He extended his hand. “You’re Mark, right?”