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It had been eleven days since Alex emailed Isabella an excerpt of the bridge play. Since hitting send, every ping from Alex’s inbox sent her madly clicking between programs. Her pulse would race and then stagger to a crawl once she clued in that the new arrival wasn’t from the playwright. The cycle repeated again and again, but she remained hopeful. As a writer herself, surely Isabella remembered what it was like to be awaiting feedback.
The time travel piece had veered off in a more heartwarming direction. Isabella’s simple advice seeped into Alex’s core. She poured much of her own heart and soul into this work—a flood of prose had flowed through her fingertips and across her laptop screen without any coaxing into the early hours of each breaking day.
Alex craved some downtime. Lucy was meeting her in Soho at the Curzon cinema on Shaftsbury Avenue for the seven o’clock showing of The Lobster, Ben Whishaw’s latest film. The Tube offered little breathing space. Early Christmas shoppers and their cumbersome bags of holiday cheer filled her carriage, jammed against cranky commuters, like cattle in a paddock. Alex fought the urge to ‘moo’ ironically. Thankfully, the crush didn’t cause any delays between Waterloo and Leicester Square stations.
Dodging black cabs while crossing Gerrard Place, Alex spotted Lucy outside the Curzon, hopping from one foot to another, her gloveless hands tunnelling under her arms like two mice seeking shelter. “Hiya, Lex. God, I love my boss. He let us leave an hour early to get a jump on Christmas shopping. We’ve all been in the pub.”
She spotted Alex’s laptop bag. “Were you writing today? I thought the two plays were done.”
“Just the first drafts, but I can’t leave the bridge one alone. I keep finding things to tweak.” Alex held the door open for her friend.
“I finished reading your time travel play.” Lucy pulled out a folder containing a thick bundle of pages from her satchel. “It’s even better than the suffragette one. I ugly-cried on the Tube this morning.”
“Aw, I hoped for tears. I knew you’d love the grandmother…” Alex noticed blue smudges on the heel of Lucy’s left hand. “Wait, what’s that? Above your wrist…”
“Oh, just some marker. Got bored in a meeting and sketched the VP, as you do.”
“Hmm. Most people doodle in meetings. They don’t sketch. That’s the artist in you screaming to escape.”
Lucy rolled her eyes as she trotted down the steps to the cinema’s lower level, still embracing Alex’s play. “So, it’s based on Joan, right?”
“Yep, she said something about going back in time, what she’d tell herself at age twenty if given the chance. It felt like a neat playwriting exercise. Basically, it’s a love letter to her.”
The girls stopped at the bar, Alex treating Lucy to her ticket, M&Ms, popcorn, and bottled water. It was the least she could do after being such a grumpy hermit since her argument with Mark.
“Joan will get a kick out of seeing her younger self choosing theatre over an early marriage and kids. I know she loves your dad to bits, but she must wonder ‘what if’ sometimes. The play’s really uplifting. I felt empowered afterwards. Would it be okay if I read it again?”
Alex put away her change. “Sure, go for it. I’m not showing it to Joan yet. It’s her Christmas present.”
“It’s really good, Lex.” Lucy hugged the folder against her chest. “Please promise me, though, you won’t hide it when it’s done? Share it. Show it to Isabella, enter it into a competition—something?”
Alex shook her head. “Maybe one day, but right now my focus is on the bridge play. I’m dying to hear what Isabella thinks. I usually hate constructive criticism, but her advice could make a huge difference going forward.”
Lucy gathered their snacks, glancing at the growing cinema crowd. “We better take our seats. The show’s about to start.”
• • •
The sunny, crisp afternoon on the second Saturday in December gave Alex the perfect excuse to bring Freddie and Lucy to Broadway Market in her old neighbourhood. Sharing the congested road with local hipsters, young couples toting bundled-up babies, and dogs hoovering discarded morsels off the ground, they were spoilt for choice. Stalls selling artisanal fudge and posh Scotch eggs rubbed shoulders with vendors peddling handmade scarves and antiques, while tables boasting handmade holiday decorations and spicy mulled wine did a brisk trade.
“Did we have to come all this way to find a Christmas tree? I bet we could’ve bought one near our flat.” Lucy tightened her scarf. “We’ll be really bloody popular on the Tube home.”
Alex dropped fifty pence into the box belonging to four craggy old gentlemen singing carols near the northern end of the market, their warbling voices wrapping the street in festive cheer. “When I lived at Harry’s I never brought you guys here, and look how freaking amazing it is. Shut up and eat your lunch. It’s not every day I spring for food.”
“This sandwich is to die for.” Lucy chomped a fried egg, maple bacon, and cheddar creation stuffed into a steamed Bao bun. “Want to try?” She nudged her lunch towards Alex.
She scrunched up her nose. “Ew, as if.”
Lucy laughed. “I knew you’d say that, Picky Pants. More for me.”
“Not so fast.” Freddie quickly chewed his pork dumplings. Lucy scowled, but handed over her sandwich.
Alex rolled down the lip of a green and white paper bag, revealing a pasty. “The lady in the Percy Ingle shop remembered me, wondered where the crazy cheese and onion girl went to. It’s nice to be missed for a change.”
She took a bite, and several pastry flakes fluttered down onto her wool coat.
“Hey, I finally heard from Keegs this morning,” said Freddie.
Alex brushed her coat and poked her knitted hat away from her eyes.
