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“Mrs. Keegan, you must be proud of your son? Give us a smile, eh?”
“Mark! Just need the one shot—hug your mum and girlfriend. Happy families, yeah?”
Face like thunder, Mark tried to shield Niamh’s wheelchair from the swarm, but he was outnumbered. “Guys, come on, would ya back up! She can’t move. Give her space. Please!”
Fallon appeared through the scrum, waving the pushy paps away. A few fans stormed the crush, including the notorious Daisy—no surprise there.
“Niamh must be here for Mark…for Lairds. He’s introducing the salute to Scottish TV.” Alex swallowed. “She’s a sweetheart. She doesn’t deserve this.”
“Tabloid wankers…she looks frightened,” said Tarquin. “Should…I help?”
Alex’s mouth opened and closed, unable to find the words as her past tugged at her heart.
Mark posed briefly with his mum and Fallon, giving the paparazzi what they demanded. Amidst a storm of flashes, Fallon beamed warmly as Niamh attempted a nervous grin. Not a hint of a smile graced Mark’s face. Satisfied, the photographers cleared a path, allowing Mark to steer his mum into the hall’s entrance.
“Lex, you okay?”
Alex retreated from the window and Tarquin’s lap. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
Tarquin smiled, pressing a gentle kiss into her hair, and closed the window.
• • •
“Tarq…” Alex leaned onto her date’s chair and squeezed his arm, jolting him awake. “I’m going to pee myself if I don’t get to the restroom.”
The event’s host bleated on and on about tax credits for TV productions.
“Make a run for it. Save yourself.” Tarquin mimicked shooting himself in the head.
She chuckled quietly and snuck past, joining a wave of women with the same idea. Unfortunately, the restrooms at the Royal Albert Hall weren’t large, and the famous Loggia boxes where Alex was seated shared toilet facilities with the extensive stalls section. The line snaking into the women’s restroom was long and barely moving.
Alex popped open her clutch, took out her phone, and got lost in Freddie’s non-stop backstage texts. He was there tonight with Simon volunteering as talent wranglers.
Fuck me sideways. I’m wrangling bat-shit crazy, you know, that red-nosed car show host? He’s drunk already!
Simon got the diva from Dance-Off. Hopefully she’ll teach him some moves. Don’t tell him I said that!
Freddie and Simon, along with several of Freddie’s BBC co-workers, were each assigned a TV star, and their task for the night was making sure that their ‘talent’ got from point A to point B during the program—“celebrity babysitting” was how Freddie described it. From his texts, he was the worst talent wrangler ever.
Shit! I can’t find him!
Idiot stole some bloke’s disability scooter, found him doing doughnuts backstage!
They’re trying to get it off him now. He wants to drive it away. Train wreck!
Alex typed a response:
You get all the excitement! I’m in the loo queue behind a barmaid fromEastenders.
Three minutes passed. Alex didn’t get a response or hear if the boozy presenter with the stolen scooter made a clean getaway. She hoped he did.
Dumping her phone in her clutch, she spied a small packet of chocolate Buttons: her emergency reserve. She tore it open and munched, oblivious to the mascara-coated glances coveting her rapidly disappearing chocolate stash.
Inching closer, the line dancing was non-stop: a step to the left and a slip to the right, allowing access to the sinks and mirrors. The loud roar of the hand dryers to Alex’s immediate right overpowered polite conversations and a burst of dirty laughter. She stuffed the chocolate wrapper in her clutch and smiled, turning towards the hilarity.
Shit! Fallon?!She was with two friends, talking excitedly in her sing-songy Irish accent. With the drone of the dryers and background noise, Alex couldn’t catch a word. At least they hadn’t seen her.
A glint drew Alex’s eye. That’s not…is it?
