Page 32
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Forty minutes later, Alex floated through the door of her flat. Fueled by Mark’s impromptu London tour and with two hours remaining before meeting Lucy and Freddie, she felt inspired to write, her latest brainwave based on a conversation she overheard in the café two days earlier. Three hard-hat toting workers, ploughing through their Full English Breakfasts, were discussing Waterloo Bridge and how women were largely responsible for its construction. The topic sounded too good to ignore and possibly too good to be true, but a quick Google search on her phone while frying eggs came up trumps—it was true!
Since her discovery on Wednesday, her fingers had flown over her keyboard, doing research and outlining the facts for a potential play. And the timing couldn’t have been better. Earlier in the week, she smacked into a brick wall with suffragette edits. Alex always found that the best way to climb out of writer’s block was to put the troublesome piece aside and start something fresh. The Waterloo Bridge idea—so cool, so London—was the perfect diversion.
But first, she had to contend with a jagged stack of books threatening to keel over. Some of the largest books in the tower, originally at its base, now leaned precariously from the summit. Every time the cleaner visited, she knocked something over. Bless her. The fact that she even tried to clean Alex’s box room was a huge ask. There was barely any floor space to vacuum and yet she made the effort. The kind lady had tried to rebuild the stack, but it was one nudge away from bludgeoning Paddington. Alex had ignored it yesterday when she got home, in such a hurry to write, but the breeziness of today made her take the time to fix it, and return her con photo with Matt Smith to the top.
A few minutes later, Olivia and Tom burst into the flat, fracturing Alex’s quiet refuge. Olivia’s young playwrights fundraiser was tonight, and she barked commands at her older brother. Alex couldn’t tell through her closed bedroom door if Tom had screwed up or whether Olivia was just super-stressed about the weighty responsibility. They thumped and squabbled around the flat and…vanished. Welcome silence settled in their wake.
Alex ventured into the stuffy kitchen and filled the kettle. Discarded clipboards, revised guest lists, and torn up name cards were left behind by the Chadwick-Smythe whirlwind. Did they ever pick up after themselves?
A few minutes later, a key clicked in the lock.
“Honey, I’m home,” joked Harry, as he strode through the door.
“Your honey’s gone out with Tom,” Alex hollered from the kitchen, unplugging the kettle.
“Ahh, I thought I might miss her.” He walked in and rested four large bouquets of white and pink lilies on the counter. Alex’s jaw dropped. Did he knock over a florist?
“The Piccadilly line was murder. There was a power outage for a while, and it backed up all the trains.”
He reached into a cupboard above the stove and removed two large vases. Alex whirled a spoon round and round in her tea, the three lumpy teaspoons of sugar hesitant to dissolve. She watched Harry fight with the crinkly cellophane wrap cradling the blooms.
“Olivia will be pleased with these when she comes home tonight,” he smiled. A final pull released the elegant flowers from their plastic prison. The burst of fragrance prickled Alex’s nose.
“Ah—choo!…ah-choo!…ah-choo!”
“You done yet?” Harry laughed, filling the vases with cool water and then dunking the stems. Eyes watering, Alex pushed open the kitchen window; the influx of fresh air calming her sneezing fit. Several houseflies took advantage of the open window and sailed inside on the June breeze.
“What’s wrong with you Brits? Haven’t you heard of window screens?” Alex swatted the air, urging the bugs to leave while submerging her nose in a tissue. “Those flowers are epic. What’s the occasion, or are you in the doghouse?”
“Nope. These are ‘congratulations on a brilliant event’ flowers. You see, I’m officially a great boyfriend. Now, time to clean myself up and get going.”
Looking at Alex, he did a double take. “Why are you dressed like that?”
Alex glanced down at her comfy combo of jeans and Batman t-shirt, and scrunched up her face. “Like this? Why? What’s wrong with it?” She slouched against the counter.
Harry shot her an expectant look. “Aren’t you going to the fundraiser tonight? You’re young. You’re a new playwright. This party’s made for you.”
“Well you see, Harry, there’s this thing called an invite—and I don’t have one. It’s no big deal; I’m not bothered. Besides, I have plans with Lucy and Freddie.”
“No, you don’t. Call your friends and tell them you’ll meet them later tonight.” He plucked the mug out of her hand and chucked its contents into the sink.
“Harry, wait—” Alex hated surprises, especially surprises involving dressing up at the last minute, big crowds, and—worst of all—schmoozing with strangers.
He gently pushed her towards her room, continuing his hard sell. “Olivia’s had a lot on her plate; your invite must’ve slipped her mind, but we’ll fix that.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to fix it…”
Harry wasn’t taking no for an answer. He kept nudging her until they reached her wardrobe.
“This event’s a huge deal. Trust me, you need to be there. All the movers and shakers will be in attendance, and it’ll give you the perfect opportunity to toss your name into the playwriting ring. You want these people to remember you.”
“But…I’ve never been to a fundraiser…thing,” said Alex with a pinched expression. “What would I even wear?” She rubbed her eyebrow, searching for a pressure point. “God, I hate wearing heels…”
“A dress would be perfect.” He browsed through the clothes hanging up in her wardrobe. “It doesn’t have to be expensive, but choose something summery. This weather’s glorious, and let’s face it, you should be spending tonight outdoors with us, not shut away in a pub.”
Thirteen
