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Alex broke her stare. She’d been gawking at their public display of affection for too long. Nausea toyed with her stomach. That’s what you get for guzzling champagne under the influence of the sweltering sun. She surrendered her empty glass to a passing waiter.

She glanced in the opposite direction. Geez, was that Kevin Spacey? He used to have something to do with the Old Vic Theatre, so maybe?

Several feet away from Maybe-Spacey, she spied Tom, tie askew in a summery white suit, leaning against a large cement plant container. Glass in hand, he whispered in the ear of a pretty Asian girl. She was wearing an expensive silk mini dress that floated around her hips like a cloud. Great. Another person that made Alex feel under dressed. The silk cloud didn’t care for what Tom was proposing because she shot him a disdainful look and glommed onto the first person passing by. Poor Tom. Such a trier. If he put as much energy into his acting career as he did shagging around, he might be winning BAFTAs by now.

Since Harry found Olivia, Alex hadn’t spoken a word. The clique surrounding the brunette felt incestuous like they all knew each other and weren’t open to outsiders. To be fair, Alex knew she wasn’t the best at initiating conversation with strangers. The thought of it made her even more feverish and dizzy. She pondered an escape. A bench beckoned under a shady tree, but Harry stepped in to the rescue.

“Ladies, before we get too carried away discussing the pros and cons of ten quid theatre tickets, let me introduce you to a new voice on London’s theatre scene. Meet my good friend Alexandra Sinclair. She’s a recent playwriting graduate from the States.”

“Welcome to London, Alexandra,” said one theatre supporter, extending her hand. “How long will you be staying?”

Alex grinned, shaking her hand. “Forever, I hope.”

“Such a pleasure to meet you, Alexandra,” said another.

Alex didn’t dare glance up at Olivia. She didn’t have to—her silent contempt pricked Alex’s skin like a pesky heat rash.

“Yes, Alex is here to test the waters, and we’re doing everything we can to help,” said Olivia. “It’s hard coming from so far away with no contacts or support. An artist can’t flourish in isolation.”

The group agreed with a chorus of approval, and continued to ask Alex about Florida. One of them enquired whether she had attended the polo season there. Oh, how her mom would’ve loved this. She stifled a giggle. “No, I haven’t, but—”

Olivia jumped in before she could finish. “The auction will begin in an hour’s time, so be sure to look over the list and see what grabs your fancy. There’s an afternoon tea at The Ritz with Sir Ian McKellen that’s certain to be hugely popular.”

Her words worked their magic, sending her affluent associates scurrying off to the Great Saloon to take a gander. While one group of arts patrons departed, another arrived, doling out handshakes to both Harry and Olivia. One member of this three-person team Alex recognized instantly.

Isabella Archer.

Alex gawked. Isabella was only in her mid-thirties but in the flesh could’ve easily passed for mid-twenties. In a venue populated by designer dresses and trendy fashion statements, her quirky style made her all the more charismatic. She defied tonight’s fashion rules in black jeans, a white t-shirt, and beat-up cherry red Doc Martins. A glittery black and silver scarf snaked through her belt loops. Alex had read that Isabella never wore dresses or skirts. A haphazard bun spilled curly dark blonde tendrils down her long neck. She stood out like an Oreo cookie amidst a jarful of Jammie Dodgers. Isabella didn’t follow the crowd and didn’t care. Alex adored her for it.

Isabella had created a buzz on the UK theatre landscape as a twenty-three-year-old wunderkind from the small town of South Elmsall, up north in Yorkshire. Her edgy debut play was picked up unsolicited by the Soho Theatre and went on to earn her an Olivier Award. The Royal Court snapped up her second work a few months later, and in the ten years that followed, Isabella’s plays captured awards and entertained packed theatres across the country. Alex couldn’t have chosen a worthier idol; a young woman forging her way in a tough business, ripe with rejection and shattered dreams. Her hard work, talent, and drive were legendary, plus she had a reputation for mentoring young writers.

“Olivia, it’s nice to see you again; thanks for inviting me. Congratulations on tonight’s festivities. Impressive. You should be proud. Nights like this one can really make a difference for young playwrights…such as yourself.”

Isabella introduced Olivia and Harry to the two people by her side. Their names flew over Alex’s head. Only Isabella remained in focus. Her role model stood just a handshake away. She dried her clammy palms on her dress in case salutations extended in her direction.

The celebrated playwright shifted her attention towards the short blonde. “Hello. I’m Isabella.”

Alex met her hand halfway. “Hi. Alex Sinclair. It’s a thrill to meet you, Ms. Archer.”

“Lovely! You’re American. Call me Isabella, please.”

Alex dissolved into a tongue-tied stupor. She had so many things she’d love to ask, but her mind collapsed into her bubbling stomach.

Harry smirked and sipped his glass. He’d known Alex long enough to recognize an internal freak out. She needed a parachute. “Isabella, Alex graduated top of her playwriting class at Emory University this spring. She’s really talented. I think she’d make a great candidate for your upcoming writing workshop.”

Olivia looked away, rolling her eyes. Her sour reaction flew under everyone’s radar.

Alex’s cheeks grew warm.

“It’s wonderful to meet a new face.” Isabella’s smile didn’t hold back. “The London theatre world can be quite cliquey and insular. New ideas, new voices are always welcome. It’s the only way our community will thrive.”

The Floridian nodded, fazed to be in the presence of her idol.

“Funny that you mention my workshop, Harry.” Isabella turned to Olivia. “Are you submitting a play again this year? Rejection is never fun, but I’m sure you learned from some of the constructive criticism last year.” She handed her empty glass to a passing waiter. “And will our new American friend be submitting as well? The final deadline is only two weeks away, though. Think you’ll be ready?”

Olivia pushed her shoulders back. “I will.” Her words stepped all over Isabella’s. “I’m working on something special that celebrates British women.”

Harry pulled her close. “Leave it to my girl to come up with something riveting and socially responsible.” He released Olivia from his clinch, letting her take centre stage.