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“Well, call me if it goes tits up, okay? I can swing by in a cab; get you and your stuff? Don’t worry about my weird flatmates. I’ll smooth it over with them.”

Alex turned the door’s lock. “Will do.”

Lucy grimaced and hugged her friend. “God, the breakfast from hell. I’m glad it’s you and not me. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Fifteen

Alex took a deep breath in the hopes of reigning in her galloping heart. Her right hand trembled, so she propped it up with her left, turning the key in the lock. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee drifted past the open door. Harry didn’t drink coffee; neither did Tom.

Silence hung over the flat apart from the stern tick-tick-tick of the carriage clock. Alex stepped out of her shoes and approached Harry’s two towering vases of lilies standing regally on the coffee table. She pinched her nose walking past, the lilies’ scent waging war on her nasal passages. A single figure sat further on at the dining table, backlit by the early morning sun spilling from the kitchen’s east-facing window.

“I wondered when I’d see you today.” Wrapped in her silk robe, Olivia lifted her cup and took a dainty sip. “Have a seat. Care for coffee?”

A simple black hair band held the brunette’s tresses off her face, and a slight flush of pink brightened her cheeks. The hue looked effortless and fresh, like the complexion of a china doll.

The blonde shook her head. “No, thanks.” She sat down tentatively as if her pockets held a hoard of raw eggs.

No ranting or raving, Olivia seemed calm and friendly, like she was meeting an old friend for breakfast. She placed her coffee gently back on the table, barely making a sound.

Alex looked around the room. “Where’s Harry…and Tom?”

“Still asleep. Last night went late.”

Olivia stroked her cup with her fingertips, her scarlet manicure shone in the encroaching sunlight. “We had a lot to celebrate. My soirée raised a record amount for charity. All the auction prizes were a hit. We even had a bidding war on the tea with Sir Ian McKellen. I couldn’t cross the ballroom without someone hailing my efforts. Even Kevin Spacey congratulated me. It’s just a shame that not everyone left the party with a smile.” She cocked her sights on Alex.

“It wasn’t a night I’ll forget.” Alex spoke in a hushed tone. She needed to choose her words with care to keep her emotions in check.

Olivia nodded. “Me neither.”

Enough with the niceties. This friend ship had sailed…and was lost at sea. “Why did you take my idea? Why would you do that to me?”

“I didn’t take anything, Alex.” Olivia parroted the Floridian’s low volume and pushed her shoulders back. “Ideas are commonplace. You can’t copyright an idea. It’s one of the first things we’re taught in writing class at university. Don’t you remember? Maybe you were sick that day or they skipped that chapter at your American school…” Olivia shook her head gently. “…You’re so naive. It’s quite endearing, actually—but it won’t help you in London’s theatre world. You need to develop a thicker skin and realize that a good idea is often held by many. Coincidences happen.”

Alex crossed her arms. “A coincidence? Really?”

“Quite. Like I said, ideas are ten a penny. It’s rare to find a good idea that no one else has pondered. You’re getting your knickers in a twist over something that’s unavoidable in this business.” She shrugged and picked up her cup. “Best you learn now, I suppose.”

Alex leaned across the table. “But you didn’t just hear about an idea. You read the entire hardcopy of my play. You took everything—my plans for casting, the relevance to today—all of it. Maybe we should wake Harry so he can decide whether what you did was theft or not?”

Olivia stifled a laugh and took a slow sip. “Oh, Alex. You have no idea how bad things can get for you.” She raised her eyebrows, returning her coffee to the table. “If you share your stories with Harry, your life here will be over before it even began.”

The sharp tick-tick-tick of the carriage clock filled Alex’s ears, each strike of its hands chipping away at her confidence.

“One—you’ll lose Harry’s friendship. Don’t think for one second he’ll believe your schoolyard tales of theft. Do you honestly think he’ll believe you over me? He’ll take one look at your body language, your shaking hands, trembling lips, and frankly unattractive perspiration, and conclude that you’re hiding something…just like you are now. Good God, you’re actually making the table shake.” She snickered softly. “Harry was right. You do have a little anxiety problem, don’t you?”

Alex jerked away from the table, the jolt sending a flurry of dust particles dancing through a warm sunbeam. Oh God, Harry told her? She wrapped her arms around her waist.

“Two—you’ll be homeless. Harry’s very protective of me. I’ll see to it that he has no choice but to throw you out. Kiss goodbye to the cheapest room rental in London. You won’t be able to survive on your earnings from that pathetic café job.”

She folded her hands on the table, the amethyst a sparkly reminder of the chasm between her background and Alex’s. “And three—you’ll be ruined professionally. Did you see the people at my event last night? I’m very well connected. My professional contacts are the crème de la crème of London’s theatre world. I’ll do everything I can to make sure that no doors are left open to you.”

Olivia licked her lips. “And then there’s Isabella. Your idol will never forget the American girl who imploded.”

An urgent need to pee flooded Alex’s bladder. She crossed her legs and scrunched further back into her chair.

“I was mortified on your behalf, truly.” Olivia plucked a cigarette from a silver case with OCS engraved in a swirly script on its front. “You should’ve seen yourself, quaking in front of her, spluttering. That’s no way for an aspiring playwright to behave in front of a potential mentor, is it? And when you froze and then scuttled off, sobbing…that must have sealed it for Isabella. You weren’t up to the task, and, frankly, would you ever be?”

She lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “If you tell Isabella your little story about this supposed theft, she’ll think you’re mad. If it was your original idea, why on Earth didn’t you say something there and then? A good playwright stands up for what she believes in, and you didn’t. You missed your chance. Oh, and FYI, here in England everyone hates a tattletale.”