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“Well, that Naomi is back and has her claws into Mark,” said Alex.

“I doubt that,” said Freddie. “She moved on the moment she boarded that flight to New York last year. Sure, he was flattered. Who wouldn’t be with all…that. It was hot for a spell, a right bonk-a-thon…I didn’t see Mark around for weeks, but they quickly fizzled out. She’s got bigger targets in her scope than Keegs. And it didn’t take him long to figure that out, either.”

“Didn’t look like it this afternoon at the National. She practically unzipped his jeans right in front of me,” said Alex.

“Fuck. I thought he was better than that. God, all men are pigs,” said Lucy.

“Ahem. Not all of us, sweetie.” Freddie picked up his phone. “Look, I’ll text him. Find out what the hell’s going on.”

“No! Don’t.” Alex yanked her hair off her forehead. “I’m serious, Freddie. Don’t. He’s been a distraction. I didn’t come here to find a boyfriend.”

“But if you’re really devoting 100 percent of your heart to writing, Lex, why are you blinking back tears? I think you doth protest too much, my darling.”

Her bottom lip trembled. “It’s been a long day. I’m tired. I’m starving. And I’m behind in my writing. Stop assuming I’m upset about him. I’m not.” She pounded upstairs and slammed her door.

Lucy turned to Freddie. “And I’m Beyoncé.”

Twenty-Eight

That night, Freddie and Lucy clashed over what to do. Freddie pleaded with Lucy— “just one text to Mark, go on!”—but Lucy stood firm. Two cups of tea and a packet of biscuits later, she’d won: Alex needed time and distance from Mark—not to mention Devin—to write and to heal her heart; she also needed their united support, more than ever. Alex had been panic attack-free since her move, and Lucy wanted to keep it that way.

Tuesday through Thursday, Alex couldn’t keep tea or toast down. She didn’t fight Lucy’s suggestion of calling in sick and stayed bundled up in her bedroom, writing in between naps and sprints to the toilet. She blamed a dodgy chicken burger late Monday night for her digestive unraveling, but she didn’t fool anyone.

Lucy occasionally knocked on her flatmate’s bedroom door to check if she needed crackers or water, but got shooed away every time. When Alex fled to the toilet, she’d sneak in to leave behind a banana or a sports drink, worried that her friend was plunging further into dehydration and desperation. She knew Alex would kill her if she ever caught wind of her snooping, but Lucy took a moment to scroll through the screen on the open laptop. Page upon page of writing met her intrusive eyes. Lucy smiled at her discovery. The taps in the bathroom squealed their alert, so she tiptoed out of the room and back downstairs.

Come Friday, Alex wobbled into work. Despite the dark circles and ghostly pallor, she donned her black pinstriped trousers, slim-fitting pink sweater, and flats, and acted the part of a happy, confident tour guide. Chatting with visitors boosted her spirits and by the end of her final tour at quarter to six, a slight smile warmed her cheeks.

Coat and phone in hand, she walked along the lip of the bookstore’s entrance, keeping her distance from the Long Bar. A girlish howl filled her ears, coaxing her eyes where they didn’t want to linger. There was Naomi, head thrown back, laughing and dusting something off Mark’s chest. Fuck. Alex’s delicate stomach deflated like a punctured Yorkshire pudding. Rubbing it in, a familiar chorus of Snow Patrol’s You Could Be Happy taunted her from the bookstore’s speakers. Great—one of Mark’s favourites. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away.

A buzz tickled her hand, halting her getaway.

‘I see you! Got time for a brew? Harry x’

She scanned the foyer. There he was in a three-piece black suit, striding towards her from the main entrance. Any chance of escape, gone. His face lit up with a huge grin, and his eyes shone bright like a sunny afternoon.

“Hello.” Harry pointed at the National Theatre security pass dangling from Alex’s neck, and pulled her into a tight clinch. “Alexandra Sinclair, are you working in an actual theatre? I knew it would be just a matter of time.”

“I’m a backstage tour guide. I’m moving on up.”

“I’d say. Do you sleep here? I can’t see you ever leaving this place. It’s your church.”

Alex smiled.

“What’s with the visit? This isn’t your ‘hood.”

“We’re seeing the play in the Lyttleton tonight. I had some time to kill, so I thought I’d wander around the South Bank. Actually, that’s not true. I needed a wee, so I came in here.”

Alex chuckled.

“Olivia won’t be here for at least an hour, and Tom—God knows when he’ll show up. Fancy a tea or a slice of cake or something? We need to catch up.”

Her shoulders tensed. “Sure…I’m done for today.” She threw one more look towards the Long Bar and herded Harry into Kitchen.

“So, what’s new? How’s the flat? You and Lucy aren’t killing each other, I hope.”

“Very funny. No, we’re perfect housemates. We’ve worked out a pretty good system. I clean. She cooks. Everyone’s happy. And then Freddie comes over and messes the place up and eats our food.”

“And how’s your writing going?” They circled around the centre table piled high with wooden slabs covered in cakes, cookies, and squares built from chocolate and marshmallow.