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“Oh, no…” Olivia turned away from the panic and slyly smirked behind her hair.
The ginger-haired writer scrolled through his phone. “There’s a computer shop two minutes down the road, beside Waterloo Station that’s open until half nine. If you rush, they might help you before closing.”
“Thanks.” Alex grabbed her belongings and dashed out of the room, praying her laptop could be saved.
• • •
Alex stood watery-eyed in front of the computer genius hoping for a Christmas miracle.
“I’m sorry, love. This thing was dead on arrival.” The expert shook his head. “There’s nothing to salvage from this dinosaur.” He handed back the sticky laptop. “Bring us your back-ups, and we’ll get you a new laptop up and running.”
Alex rubbed her bloodshot eyes, her hand flecked in smudged mascara. “Thanks for trying.” She bowed her head, exiting into the rain. A new laptop? Not on her wage. And worse, she stupidly hadn’t backed up her files for at least…what, three weeks now? The entire second act of the bridge play was gone. The hard copy Lucy returned of her time travel play was the first draft from early December; weeks’ worth of writing, wiped out.
She needed someone to lean on. She called Lucy. No answer. The Pret Christmas party was this evening, and Freddie was her date. She tried her dad—a busy signal. She tried again…still busy. With Mark gone astray and Harry off-limits, she felt more alone than she had in months.
Thirty-Two
Alex turned up her collar against the bitter wind gusting between the National and the BFI building. She wasn’t scheduled to work this Saturday morning, but after last night’s run-in with Olivia, she needed a peaceful place to think about her future. Lucy snored loudly in a post-party coma at the flat, and Freddie’s phone skipped straight to voicemail, so she still hadn’t shared last night’s disaster. Even her dad, Helen, and Joan were out of reach this morning with either busy signals or voicemail on each attempt. She longed to speak to someone, anyone.
She passed strangers in groups of two or more, sharing laughs along the South Bank’s riverside terrace. How could they carry on without a care in the world when her life was in tatters? They appeared buoyant. Happy. How dare they.
She grabbed a hot chocolate from Kitchen and a copy of Time Out magazine, and trudged up the stairs inside the National, seeking solace in the familiar. Her second floor spot with its striped cushions and soaring windows, welcomed her into its bosom. Without her beloved laptop for company, she draped her coat over her black jeans, and sighed. Her hands flipped through the magazine, her eyes barely absorbing the text and colourful photos on its pages. She gulped her drink and stared straight ahead.
In the shadows, a figure passed by on the far side of the floor near the stalls entrance to the Olivier Theatre.
“Mark?” Alex hollered and caught her breath.
He stopped and peered her way, like a deer trapped in car headlights.
Her heart did a somersault. She waved him over, desperate for a friendly face, or even a not-so-friendly face. She regretted how they’d parted a few weeks ago. She slapped on a smile and adopted a breezy tone.
“Hello, stranger. I heard you were filming in Scotland. The TV role?”
A tight-lipped nod greeted her as he stashed his hands in his front pockets. “Yeah.”
“Mark, congratulations. That’s massive.”
He shrugged, his eyes briefly meeting hers. “Not really. It’s just a small part.”
“It’s still a huge deal.”
“Thanks.” He pivoted his body towards the stairwell. “I should get back. I was looking for tumblers at the Olivier’s bar, but they’re not there, so…”
Alex knew that the tiny bar on this level was closed for refurbishment.
“I’ve missed you.” Alex blurted out. “I mean our chats… I’ve missed our chats.”
“Me too.” Mark nodded towards the floor, his hands still in his pockets. “But I thought you wanted space, so…”
Panic rose in Alex’s throat. She couldn’t let him slip away. “I’ve been a totally selfish brat. Blaming everyone but myself for letting my writing fall by the wayside…”
She yanked the cuffs of her black cardigan over her palms.
“…not listening, thinking only about myself and what I want…”
“We’re all guilty of that sometimes,” said Mark.
“But I heard only what I wanted to hear. I didn’t let you explain—and that’s not fair. Friends don’t do that to one another.”
