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“Part of me is. I hate what he did to me. I hate that he showed up—and just when Mark and I got closer. It makes me feel…conflicted. And confused. But I’m handling it in my own way. Not everyone wants to start a world war like you do.” She smiled at Lucy.

“If you let this arsehole get in the way of potential happiness with Mark, I will never speak to you again.”

Alex rubbed her bloodshot eyes. “And I’m supposed to be the theatrical one.”

Twenty-Seven

Alex’s first tour on Monday didn’t start until noon, so she left her desk and went downstairs to check out the Long Bar. The supervisor and a delivery guy were shifting beer bottles. No Mark. She played with the scooped-neck of her knitted burgundy dress. Friday’s kiss and the possibility of seeing him today kept her awake last night, teasing and tormenting her; the ache for him still constant, it warmed her like a fever that wouldn’t break…

Where was he?

Back in the office, she pushed aside her spreadsheets and dedicated the rest of her morning to social media monitoring. She grabbed her charging phone. No texts. No photos. No joy. She hadn’t received any texts all day Saturday or Sunday either. Now that Monday had arrived, shouldn’t there be a funny message from Freddie about her slobbering over Mark or a cheeky hello from the snogging victim himself? Her screen stared back at her, blank.

Maybe Facebook offered some clues. Freddie last posted on Friday morning—before their night out—and Mark’s page hadn’t been updated for several months. Alex knew every photo, every comment by heart. What would it hurt to scroll through again? Go on, just a few minutes. His taste in pop culture made her swoon every time: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Roman Holiday (scooters!), Before Sunrise, Franz Ferdinand, Snow Patrol, The 1975—Tom Jones? That one always made her chuckle; she meant to ask him about that.

Alex sighed. She checked her email for the eighth time that hour. Nope, nothing except a promotion for geeky t-shirts at Red Bubble. She jumped between Instagram, WhatsApp, Snapchat, and Twitter, but her friends were all AWOL there, too. Why so quiet? Was a zombie apocalypse raging outside, or did her friends deem her too delicate to discuss Friday’s wacko events? Maybe her behaviour horrified her entire social circle? Oh God. If no one wanted to talk about it, she must’ve made a massive fool of herself—again.

One tweet stole her attention…a What’s On Stage post about five up-and-coming playwrights being showcased in an ambitious London-based workshop starting in December. She clicked quickly on the link.

Smiling confidently from the webpage in a beautifully staged black and white headshot…Olivia. Her bio listed her accomplishments, her BA in playwriting, blah blah fucking blah…

Alex’s fingers scratched at her computer’s touchpad, only slowing down when a certain word rolled into view—suffragettes. No need to read further.

“Cow.”

Her phone pinged with a text from Harry:

‘Hey Alex! Missing you ‘round here. Hope all’s well. Msg me when you can. H x’

She ignored it and opened a tour schedule spreadsheet.

• • •

At quarter to two, Alex dropped off a tour in front of the National’s bookshop and hurried across the lobby to Kitchen. The high-pitched growls multiplying in her stomach needed muzzling, pronto.

Her eyes flew around the room, pouring over each table and every customer holding trays in line. Still no sign of Mark.

She had arrived at the conclusion that apologizing was the right thing to do, even though she didn’t want to apologize at all. The desire to kiss him had haunted her for weeks. Why should she be sorry? If only Mark would proclaim that their impromptu snog left him craving a repeat performance—then she could skirt ‘sorry’ altogether.

But what if he didn’t enjoy it, if he was annoyed, or worse—grossed out? She would deal with her embarrassment and go back to hiding her true feelings. She was getting rather good at it.

She grabbed a cute ladybug box that housed a kid-sized cheese sandwich on white, and a Pepsi, and joined the queue to pay.

“What’s for lunch?” An Irish lilt floated over her shoulder.

His warm breath on her neck made her nerve endings sizzle. Found him! She scrunched her eyes and spun to face him, the pleated skirt of her dress whirling close behind.

“Wow. Fancy.” He stepped back, taking in her outfit with approving eyes. “Are you just back from having cocktails at The Ivy?”

Alex smiled. “I didn’t think you were working today.”

“Yeah.” Mark leaned in. “Scheduled every day this week, actually. But I’m hoping to get a call back this week. That TV series I was telling you about? I’ve read lines for the producer and director twice already. I think the third time might be the charm.”

“Fingers crossed. Not that you need any luck. I’m sure you’re perfect for it.” She babbled and squeezed her cola can.

Mark grinned as the line shifted forward. He rested his hand on her back just long enough to nudge her ahead. “I wanted to check up on you yesterday, but my phone fell out of my pocket on the trip home Saturday night.” He rolled up the cuffs of his black button-down. “Luckily I had the early shift yesterday, so I could spend the rest of the day getting a new one sorted.”

Her gaze slipped between his eyes and his lips…searching for a sign…