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“Lucy’s right,” said Michael. “Olivia can’t argue against solid proof like that. Blow the bloody doors off. I would.”

“But how would I even bring it up to Isabella, though? And what about Harry? What will he think?”

“Who cares!” said Freddie. “If anything, you’ll be doing him a favour, exposing his fiancée’s true colours.”

Michael adjusted his glasses. “He’s engaged to her now? Christ…”

“You don’t have to make your mind up now, love, but think about it,” said Joan. “You have options now. Ten minutes ago, you didn’t. There’s nothing better than a surprise gift at Christmas, is there?”

Thirty-Four

Freddie and Lucy fell asleep on the butt-numbing Sunday afternoon journey down to London. With the heat pumping on the bus and the lolling motion along the motorway, they were goners within twenty minutes of their Manchester departure. But not Alex. The unexpected surprises of the past two and a half days were the gift that kept on giving. Her mind wouldn’t rest. She still couldn’t believe Joan’s generosity or the miracle wedged into her childhood photo album. The unexpected text and flowers from Mark were the icing on the Christmas cake. Her lifelong hatred of surprises ebbed away with each passing mile.

She wouldn’t forget this Christmas break for a long time—lounging around in PJs, eating her weight in chocolate, and playing tipsy charades—it all served to temporarily push the anguish of the workshop to the far reaches of her mind, if only for a while.

The two or three times she had felt on the verge of a funk, Freddie and Joan cheered her up with their gut-busting double act. Thinking back, Alex chuckled out loud and clutched her ribs, still sore from the hilarity that ensued Christmas night. With her dad and Helen safely ensconced at the neighbourhood pub, Freddie cracked open Cards Against Humanity, daring Joan to join in—a challenge she wholeheartedly accepted.

The semi-detached house shook with politically incorrect laughter for hours. Alex wheezed like a bagpipe gasping for air, and Lucy had to run upstairs to the bathroom, frightful that she was about to pee her pants. At one point, the neighbours banged on the common wall, demanding that the Sinclair household shut up or they’d call the cops—the crowning moment to an epic night.

But now her biggest challenge lay ahead—Wednesday, January 6—the date of the next workshop. Still a week and a half away, but there it loomed, not budging from her path, snarling like a rabid dog. Her breath grew short.

What to do?

She pulled the hardcopy of her suffragette play from her tote bag. Two years of determination, passion, and plenty of tears lay within its pages. The frustration. How she’d pull her hair out when characters wouldn’t cooperate or the story arc unraveled on a whim.

Would it be so wrong to stick to The Plan—to let the play and its tangle of emotions and memories go for good? To remain at a distance and let the story live on in Olivia’s hands? Alex tried to analyze her own motives honestly…self-preservation was a biggie. She had never met anyone as intimidating as Olivia. And then there was saving Harry from the upset of exposing his girlfriend. The path of least resistance—avoiding conflict, running away…before Alex arrived in London that had always been her M.O., so why change now?

Besides, she’d resigned herself months ago to the idea that she’d watch the play’s progress in silence from the sidelines, only a select few knowing that she gave life to those characters.

But that was before Christmas—before she had options and damning proof, back when her dusty photo album kept its secret at the bottom of her overstuffed closet on Henshaw Street.

Alex recalled her dad’s words:

“Blow the bloody doors off.”

She flipped through the crinkled pages of the first act and then the second. Strong confident women spoke her words under the bus’s dim night-light. Forget the superheroes that she loved and often imitated in cosplay; these characters—some invented, most pulled from the pages of history—were the real wonder women.

Something clicked.

All three of her most recent plays—the suffragettes, Waterloo Bridge, and Joan’s time travel adventure—were populated with trailblazers, outsiders, and rebels…women who fought the good fight and shook the foundations of society. They lived with fervor and courage, overcame seemingly insurmountable odds, and ultimately succeeded. How ironic that she hadn’t taken a page out of one of her own plays…

Until now.

Alex looked at the page open on her lap and blinked several times, fighting sleep. As she closed her eyes, the characters seemed to whisper, ‘Don’t let us down.’

• • •

To Alex, December 31 had a hugely exaggerated reputation. In her life, only two New Years were in any way ‘happy’—the two she spent with Devin. Their first was at a house party off-campus, only memorable because it was the first NYE far from home with a boyfriend, while the second unfolded at a four-star hotel in downtown Atlanta. Devin didn’t spare any expense, booking VIP tickets to an exclusive bash seventy-three floors above the city. That night, after dancing for hours and downing enough champagne to make Alex hiccup, giggle and sneeze simultaneously, Devin gave her a small black velvet box at midnight. Inside she found her beloved silver A necklace resting on a bed of purple satin. Following their prolonged midnight kiss and another twirl around the ballroom, they continued their revelry between the sheets in their hotel room. Despite the heartbreak that followed just ten months later, Alex still wasn’t sure another New Year’s Eve could match it.

But this afternoon, she felt hopeful…out with the old, in with the new. With Freddie throwing his annual year-end celebration in his flat, and Mark promising to make their reunion special, this New Year’s Eve took on new significance. And to Alex’s delight, for the first time ever, her attendance was requested at more than one venue; Harry had also invited her to Bespoke’s private party, but she begged off, blaming co-hosting duties at Freddie’s as the reason why she sadly couldn’t make an appearance.

The National gave Alex a half-day off, so she surrendered fully to the NYE cause—to look and feel confident, gorgeous, and sexy. Nails polished, hair pin-straight, legs and bikini line waxed, smoky-eye makeup applied—she wasn’t sitting back, letting the new year fold in around her. Nope. She would kick it into gear with her amazing friends and a passionate kiss with Mark. She had one wish for tonight—to pick up where they left off at Zippers, but without her drunkenness and Devin’s shadow looming over them.

She arrived at three thirty that afternoon to help Freddie set up. Lucy would follow after work, and Mark was due after that—his flight from Dublin landing at six thirty. Co-workers from the BBC and Pret, friends from Freddie’s clubbing exploits, and a few mutual stage door buddies of Lucy’s were also expected to join the festivities around nine o’clock.

With Prince’s Greatest Hits blaring at full volume, Alex danced around Freddie’s flat, dusting his shelves and swaying her ass, all the while breathless in anticipation, her mind stuck on nothing but Mark’s return and that longed for midnight kiss. It created the most welcome distraction, something exciting to dwell on, shifting the January 6 workshop out of mind.

The previous seven months had been tough, but optimism wiggled its finger, urging her to enter January with a bounce in her stride and a fresh mindset. As a first step, Alex accepted Devin’s Facebook friend request. There was no longer any love there, or anything to yearn for where he was concerned. She was ready to close that chapter of her life—for good. What better time than a new year to move on, forgive, and remember the lessons learned along the way? She felt lighter, more confident, cutting away all the anger and sadness that had been twisted like barbed wire around her heart. And Freddie was right—she needed to give herself a break, too.