Page 23

Eight

Nine days later

Alex squeezed through the noisy patrons of the Marquis Cornwallis. The Bloomsbury pub offered little breathing space; tourists fresh from the British Library and University of London students seeking a boozy distraction from coursework hogged the tables and most of its floor space. She grabbed a stool at the bar. A sickly knot, an unwanted souvenir from thirty minutes before, wouldn’t budge from her throat.

She called Mark.

“Hello. Sorry, I’m not here right now…” Her heart sunk. Truer words were never spoken. “…please leave a message. Promise, we will speak soon.” BEEP.

“Hey, it’s me. Everything okay? I…haven’t heard from you in three days. I had that meeting this morning, so…call me when you can? Love you.”

Her finger jabbed the disconnect button then she typed a quick text to him: Marmalade.

Five minutes passed—nothing. She blinked, holding back the rising tears that threatened to breach her eyelashes.

Instagram would have to do. She flicked through #MarkKeegan, desperate to feel close to him, even if it was one-sided and two-dimensional. Despite pleas from his BBC publicist, Mark had never buckled, holding firm on his pre-fame decision to steer clear of all social media platforms. He still had his rarely used Facebook page, but it was locked down to a handful of friends and family, and two months before he had said no to an official website.

Scrolling along, several funny Mark-inspired memes appeared along with fan selfies from his film shoot in Thailand the previous April. Mark smiled back at her through the photos, his sunny expression reassuring, like he was telling her, “Don’t worry, Mouse.” Travelling deeper into the hashtag, a series of sneaky photos from their picnic in St. Stephen’s Green and Tom and Naomi’s wedding crept up the screen, blurry and crooked, snapped on the sly without permission.

“Hey babe, sorry I’m late. Did you order me a pint?”

Alex wiped her nose and slapped her phone down on the bar. “Yep.”

Lucy dropped her satchel on the floor and whipped off her puffer jacket, barely stopping for breath. The glasses she didn’t need but wore for work still sat on her nose. “Today’s been a total pisser. There’s this anti-kale movement spreading on Twitter and Pret’s trying to fend it off.” She shimmied onto a stool, shoving the flyer advertising the pub’s Christmas party availability out of the way. “My boss told me to deal with it, and I think I made it fucking worse. I always enjoyed social media, but now that it’s my job—” Her thumb frantically swept over her phone, searching. “Now customers on the other side of the argument are posting #hailtothekale all over the place. It’s chaos. I hate all vegetarians, even Simon. They’re always hangry—”

Alex’s silence snapped Lucy out of her rant.

“Ah, what am I like? Sorry, Lex. You don’t need to hear this shit. How’d it go?”

She shrugged and didn’t dare speak—opening her mouth would also open up the floodgates, and crying in public was so two years ago.

Lucy wrapped an arm around her friend as the bartender returned with their beverages. “Aw, Lex. Let’s get that drink down ya.”

• • •

The rushed bartender placed their meals—burger for Lucy, fish finger bap for Alex, and fries for both—on the bar.

“Want custard with those fish fingers?” Lucy smirked. Her black turtleneck and high-waisted indigo jeans made her look like a hip cat burglar.

Alex smiled, grateful for the attempt at some Doctor Who-flavoured levity. She had better enjoy this meal—it was lunch and dinner. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

“It’s nice to come somewhere new for a change. Why this place?”

“I was watching Pride again last night.” She loosened the tie-neck of her blouse. “Gay’s The Word, the real bookshop in the film? Just down the street.”

“Ah, okay, so I have been here. I thought it looked familiar.” Lucy scattered salt on her fries. “You and your daft movie location hunts.”

“No, Mark and his daft movie location hunts. He’s the one who got me into it.”

“You’re both certifiable. Running around London finding all the Pride places, did me in. Never. Again.” Lucy set the saltshaker back on the bar.

“We haven’t done one in a while. The last one was months ago—Scandal.”

“The Cate Blanchett film?”

“You’re thinking of Notes on a Scandal. No, Scandal is from the eighties. Ian McKellen, John Hurt…it’s about the Profumo affair?” Alex shook the bejesus out of the vinegar bottle, dousing her fries. “It’s a good film, stars Mark’s fave actors. I can see why he liked it as a thirteen-year-old—naked women and lots of sex. He came across it on late-night TV.” She tasted a fry and continued the vinegary soak-a-thon.

“I bet he came across it!”