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She stepped out of line. “Tom, when Amanda comes out, I’ll need your help. Make sure you’re beside me, okay? I’d love a photo with her, a proper one on my camera, not my phone. Its flash isn’t bright enough.”

He nodded and waved his hand in dismissal. His fan club of seven rolled their eyes and chuckled behind their hair at Alex, and then continued with their discussion about Mayfair’s trendiest clubs.

Alex shivered intermittently, the spring chill amplifying her nervousness. She smoothed her bangs. Thank goodness that pimple on her forehead was no longer mountainous, but now just a mere pink dot, easily covered with foundation. No filters would be needed to make her look half-decent in the photo with Amanda. To pass the time, she checked the voice message left before the curtain went up. A jocular Cockney voice burst through the phone. The part-time café job—hers, starting Wednesday—two days from now. Alex smiled. Things were looking up!

She leaned towards a short woman with curly blonde hair wearing a black beret. “Excuse me, I’ve never done a stage door in London before. How long’s the wait usually?”

“My friends were here last week. Amanda came out quickly, within twenty minutes. Shouldn’t be—” Squeals erupted a few feet ahead, cutting off the girl’s answer.

Alex’s eyes flew towards the red stage door. Amanda! In the flesh. Goosebumps tickled her neck while her mind danced with questions: Did Amanda spend time with the playwright during rehearsals? Did they collaborate? How does she feel about working with new writers?

Alex’s two passions, playwriting and fangirling, were colliding so spectacularly this evening. How often do you get to bend the ear of a favourite actress?

Fans took turns receiving autographs and photos. Amanda chatted with each person and doled out hugs. Alex held back, tapping her foot and looking back towards the theatre. Where’s Tom? He and his girl gang must have snuck away to the Royal Court’s downstairs bar. She yanked open the lobby door and galloped down the steps.

Her heart plummeted. No sign of him.

Screw it! A badly-lit selfie would have to do.

She raced up the stairs and tripped on the top step, crumpling in a painful heap against the glass door. Did anyone notice? A rip in the knee of her tights mocked her attempt at a graceful recovery. She smoothed down her skirt and dashed outside.

Laughter hung in the cool spring air as fans happy with their autographs and photos headed towards the Tube entrance next door. Her chest heaving, Alex bobbed through the dwindling crowd. Her reward—a glimpse of the theatre’s security guard closing the stage door firmly behind him.

She threw her arms up in the air. “Great. Thanks a lot, Tom.”

“No worries! Thanks for what?”

Tom strolled out of the shadows behind Alex, casually rolling a cigarette between his fingers. He struck a match, its sharp glow briefly illuminating the abandoned alley. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and broke out into a carefree grin. “Those girls are hilarious, trying to drag me to a new dance club.”

He tilted his head, blowing smoke at the stars. “I was halfway down the road and thought, Bugger—I’d better check with you first in case you want to tag along—”

She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. He didn’t even offer a whiff of an apology. Enough of this tomfoolery. “No, I don’t. Just go. I’m going home.”

Tom stared at her with squished eyebrows. “Suit yourself, Miss America. Laters!” He turned on his heels and loped off into the darkness.

Alex stomped towards the Sloane Square Tube entrance, muttering a vow under her breath. The next time she tried a stage door, she wouldn’t place her trust in someone else. It was always the same old story.

You can only rely on yourself.

Ten

Texts, Twitter retweets, and Instagram images flew back and forth in the week since Alex and Lucy crashed back into each other’s lives. Old inside jokes were resurrected and debates on who was the hottest actor picked up where they left off two years before. But best of all, this relationship originally cultivated online was blossoming into a tangible friendship, and Lucy brought with her a ready-made posse; today on the final Saturday in May, Alex would meet Freddie Ryan.

To Alex, meeting new friends was almost as thrilling as meeting a potential boyfriend. While growing up, Alex didn’t have the largest pool of friends to rely on, just a casual group of kids she hung around with on the soccer field or at swimming lessons. She’d have a best friend here and there, someone to share secrets, crushes on boys, and dreams for the future, but too often the best friend moved away or eventually dumped her for someone cooler. Unfortunately, a love of reading, writing, and theatre didn’t top the popularity charts with the in-crowd at her sports-loving American high school. And during her senior year at Emory, many of her classmates fell by the wayside, too, casualties of their mutual friendships with Devin and Taylor. Alex was used to making friends and then losing them. She had joked to her dad that she had a degree in solitude, having spent so much time alone over the years.

She hoped life in London would put an end to all that, and this Freddie fellow’s advance billing was stellar. By day, he toiled as a TV program scheduler for the BBC. By night, the twenty-three-year-old morphed back into his devoted fanboy persona, hanging out in theatres and cinemas. Lucy said he loved James Bond films, romantic comedies, pub quizzes, and dancing. Alex was already enamoured.

“I wouldn’t share Freddie with just anyone.” Lucy scratched at the shoulder of her blue ‘Impossible Girl’ tee and plonked down on Alex’s futon, picking up her friend’s suffragette play.

Alex was half-dressed in cotton bikini briefs and a thin, long-sleeved striped sweater, its blue hue making her eyes pop. She straightened her hair frantically while Lucy kept the conversation flowing. “He means the world to me. I know he’ll fall head over heels for you. How could he not?”

“Aw, thanks.”

With straighteners in one hand, Alex reached towards her tea on the floor with the other. She reached around the dwindling burst of snapdragons, careful not to bump into the book towers teetering close by, but her awkward stretch creased a big L-bend into her locks. “Damn it.” She clamped the flat iron’s plates back into position along the kinked section of hair, but it just made the curve worse.

“Sorry, Lucy. We should’ve been on our way by now. Can’t believe I slept through my alarm.”

“No rush. Take your time. You’re probably still getting over jet lag.”