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Lucy did a little dance, waving the bag under Alex’s nose. “It’s Monster Munch. Otherwise known as today’s breakfast. These corny hands will do nicely.”

She wasn’t kidding. The yellow snacks were shaped like four-fingered hands.

“Brits eat strange things.” Alex purchased a packet of Cadbury chocolate buttons and tore it open as they stepped back onto bustling James Street.

Lucy juggled her umbrella, chomping through her breakfast. “So how’s the glamorous flatmate? Is she helping your writing quest?”

“Not really. I mean, she told me about playwriting workshops, and I think she had a quick read of my play, but I haven’t seen her much this week.”

Alex reloaded on chocolate buttons. “And when I have, she’s been a total grump, so there’s been no chance to ask her opinion. We haven’t had a proper conversation since last Saturday in Pret. Tom says she can be moody. So far, he’s right. She’s up and down like a yo-yo.”

“She sounds high maintenance,” said Lucy, crossing Long Acre to reach Neal Street. “Maybe it’s a good thing, not getting too close? I don’t know if she’d be supportive. Just a feeling I get.”

“I think it’s too early to tell.” Alex crumpled up the deflated purple Cadbury’s wrapper, stuffing it in the pocket of her red raincoat. “I’ve seen both warm and cold Olivia. And not just with me—with Tom and Harry, too. If she hated me, why give me theatre tickets? Maybe she’s having a tough time at work or her writing isn’t going well. You never know. I get grumpy when my characters aren’t cooperating.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Lucy balled up her empty bag. “But speaking of cooperating, I think you should send some of your work in for critique or to those workshop sessions. You never know. Something might stick.”

• • •

Lucy flung her arm around Alex’s shoulders like a geeky Willy Wonka, ushering her theatrically inside Forbidden Planet on Shaftsbury Avenue. “Welcome to Fandom Heaven! All your obsessive desires—graphic novels, anime t-shirts, posters—await inside these doors. And like the TARDIS, it’s much bigger on the inside…”

London geeks were out in full force. Alex had never seen a comic book and collectables store so rammed. They squeezed past shoppers standing four deep just inside the front doors, all gawking at a wall of glass cases displaying intricately designed statues and busts of all the major fandom players: Batman, Loki, and Frodo—to name just a few. Most were limited edition and all boasted jaw-dropping price tags.

“My God, Lucy. The prices! Please tell me this isn’t a window shopping expedition?”

Lucy squeezed Alex’s upper arm. “Not to worry, my fangirl friend. There’s plenty we can afford, and when we’re done, we’ll do Show-and-Tell in the pub.”

Around the corner to the left, Doctor Who memorabilia owned several shelves and crept up the wall to the ceiling. Action figures, t-shirts, mugs, even stuffed toys—the shop had all Whovian merchandise covered. A tall wisp of a guy wearing a black suit jacket, grey t-shirt, and black skinny jeans stood in the middle of the display, carefully stacking a series of small boxes into a pile purposely placed out of reach from two boisterous ten-year-old boys. Lucy rushed forward.

“Freddie!”

His head jerked to attention, sending his floppy fringe of dark brown hair cascading into his green eyes. His face lit up with a broad grin. “Lucy Hardy, if my eyes aren’t deceiving me. Late as always, darling. I was about to audition a new best friend, but the potentials were devastatingly boring.”

He drew his pal into a tight hug, but released his grip to focus on Alex, fidgeting with her dripping umbrella. “Alex, I’ve heard so much about you. Don’t be shy. Give me some lovin’.”

She willingly tucked beside Lucy into Freddie’s group hug. All week Lucy had rambled on about him, so Freddie felt more like an old friend than a stranger.

In the midst of the embrace, Freddie crooked his head over his left shoulder to check that his stash hadn’t been pilfered. “You’ve caught me in my natural habitat, ladies. Hunting for blind box Doctor Who Titan variants. I’m shameless in my pursuit.”

Lucy grabbed his stubbly chin. “Yeah, shameless and a little bit stupid. You know you’ll end up with the figures no one wants. It’s a total gamble, and you always lose. That’s the problem with blind boxed collectibles; you never know what’s inside when you buy them. Don’t throw your money down the drain.”

“Yes, it’s a gamble, but one I enter willingly. I’ve got to get my kicks somehow. Care to place your bets?” He picked up one of the boxes and held it up to his ear as if it might whisper its secret, held within. “Will this box contain the elusive green-windowed TARDIS or the ultra-rare eleventh Doctor with blue shirt?”

Freddie shook and listened to each small box. Lucy guffawed. “Stop it. That looks weird.”

She nudged Alex. “Last time he did this blind box thing he got three blobby Adipose figures—all identical—and a clockwork robot. Hardly worth shouting from the rooftops. He frequently hits his overdraft limit buying these things. Freddie, you’re such a shopaholic.”

“Ye of little faith. You’ll see when it’s Show-and-Tell time. I’ll amaze you with my uncanny ability to uncover the best collectables in the store.” He spun around, and embraced his stockpile of small boxes. He strolled towards the Star Wars figures, muttering, “Please be a green-windowed TARDIS, please be a green-windowed TARDIS…”

“You’re a nutter,” laughed Lucy as she dodged out of the way, escaping the lunging advances of a sticky three-year-old dressed as Spiderman. “I’m going to show Alex the Sherlock and Walking Dead stuff. Meet you downstairs by the graphic novels?”

• • •

After Forbidden Planet, Freddie made them all grab lunch at the baked potato van in Covent Garden’s piazza. Such odd fast food choices. First, triangle-boxed sandwiches, and now hot baked potatoes, slit open from end to end and heaped with cheese, chili, baked beans or chicken curry. While Alex stuffed her face with melting strings of cheddar cheese and starchy spud, Lucy pointed to the sign above the counter—jacket potatoes. If only Brits and Americans spoke the same language.

In the three hours that followed, no corner of Covent Garden remained unexplored. The shopping trio scoured the Apple Market, Paperchase, Benjamin Pollock’s Toyshop (Alex especially loved their toy theatres), the Moomin store, the London Transport Museum, and the seven streets of Seven Dials that stretched outward from the junction into the West End like spokes on a bicycle wheel. Worn out from battling the Saturday afternoon hordes, they decamped northwards atop an iconic double-decker bus. Destination—Freddie’s one-bedroom flat on Holloway Road in Archway. He had plans to see a play with his friend Mark later and welcomed the opportunity to drop off his purchases before setting out again.

“How British is this? You live above a fish and chip shop!” The comforting smell of crispy beer-battered cod hung in the air of the narrow stairwell to Freddie’s flat. Alex’s mouth watered as they trudged up the stairs, past the pockmarked and scuffed walls; scars from moving nightmares of the past.