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Tom’s pill bottle stopped, label up in front of her—Azithromycin.
“Gross.” His hand scratched his crotch. “Listen, I’m headed to Broadway Market to wander the stalls, maybe grab a bacon butty. Care to join me?”
Olivia hopped to her feet. “I will. I’d like to get something yummy for Harry’s lunch, and I fancy a walk through the park. Let me get dressed.” She tiptoed towards her bedroom.
“Ooh, lucky me. Spending the morning with Jekyll and Hyde.” Tom straightened his jacket over his t-shirt. “Coming, Alex?”
She scrunched up her eyes, desperate for a pee. “No, I seem to have lost my appetite.”
• • •
After a quick loo break, Alex retreated to the safety of her room. After jousting with Olivia, she needed some alone time to smooth her feathers. She didn’t know what to say to Harry when she saw him anyway. If she kept to herself, perhaps she could avoid him until dinner and have time to figure out what lie to spin about last night’s disastrous exit. She collapsed on her futon and dashed off a text to Lucy:
‘I’m fine. No getaway car required. Spoke to Olivia. You’re right. She’s certifiable. Won’t speak to Harry. Don’t worry. I’ll fill in the deets later. Have fun with Freddie today. A x’
She hit send and stared at her laptop…but wait a minute…where was the play? Did Olivia take the actual hardcopy?
Alex dived to the floor, checking the small stack that held her thesaurus, dictionary and a few other reference books. The last time she referred to the hardcopy and the professor’s notes handwritten in its margins was Wednesday before she switched to the bridge play. She swore that she had left it on top of the thesaurus but in all the craziness of the week, maybe her memory was playing tricks?
She shuffled through the pile of books, then another. Nothing.
Maybe it got shoved in her laptop bag? She tore it open, tossing notebooks on her futon. She fluttered through their pages—just in case. Nope.
Her heart upped its pace, tripping in her chest. She looked around her room, her legs like jelly. Her trembling hands rummaged through her wardrobe, under her futon…
The water pipes in the shower groaned; Harry’s up.
She dabbed the sweat on her forehead. Even if she could summon the nerve to ignore Olivia’s threats and tell Harry—the rich bitch had left no trace of her heist.
Sixteen
In the limo ride from Hackney, no one spoke about last night’s fundraiser. Nothing about Alex’s hasty escape, Isabella’s reaction or how much cash Olivia raised. Harry didn’t even ask her how she felt today. Just call her The Invisible Girl.
Instead, the conversation swirled around Olivia’s organization of tonight’s celebratory feast. She chose the restaurant—Winston’s in Mayfair, just a few blocks from Bespoke—the guest list and menu. She even dictated the flowers and the exact brand of candles decorating the tables.
“If the playwriting game doesn’t work out, sis, you could reinvent yourself as an upscale party planner.” Tom adjusted his red paisley tie in the window’s reflection, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Olivia’s cheeks warmed, the colour matching her boho-style dress. She motioned ‘just stop it’ while Harry enveloped her into his black Louis Vuitton suit for a smooch-filled clinch.
Never mind playwriting or party planning, thought Alex—Olivia would make a brilliant actress—cold and biting one moment, loving and charitable the next. Spin the roulette wheel; get a different emotion every time.
She stared at the cutout hem of her navy blue sheath dress. The sting of the last twenty-four hours gnawed at her. Her worry over the missing copy of her play intensified the unshakable ache.
The restaurant staff whisked them through their VIP entrance, checked their coats, and led the way into the private dining room at the back of the venue. Alex lagged behind, her feet already throbbing from her heels. Luxurious carved wood fittings, gleaming antique Art Deco mirrors, pristine white tablecloths, and buttery leather chairs competed for her awe. She had never seen such an opulent restaurant or been treated like a VIP. How long would it take for someone to twig that she didn’t belong here?
Harry and Olivia greeted each arriving guest with laughter, air kisses, and handshakes. Close friends, family members, and business partners made the list. The older women in attendance looked waxy—too many cosmetic procedures, perhaps? —the younger women like they’d stepped out of British Vogue, and the men, regardless of age, oozed wealth and power in their made-to-measure three-piece suits.
Drink in hand, Tom flicked the collar of his navy blue Ted Baker suit and snuck away, presumably outside to torture his lungs with more cigarette smoke. His parents were busy fawning over Olivia, seemingly unaware of his escape.
Alex stood to the side, alone. She accepted a glass of water from a waitress, hoping that the cool liquid would ease the thickness plaguing her throat. Chattering people passed by her without offering a word. Invisible, again.
The wait staff ran ragged during the cocktail hour, refilling champagne glasses, ensuring that every guest stayed lubricated. The private room could easily accommodate about sixty people, but tonight’s exclusive bash held half that number. Three oblong tables of ten provided plenty of elbow room and comfort.
“Hello. Who are you?” A greying blond gentleman wearing a plaid three-piece suit stared down at her. He was the spitting image of Harry albeit thirty years older.
“I’m Alex. I live with Harry, Olivia, and Tom.”
Olivia hovered nearby, monitoring their conversation.
“Nice to meet you, Alex. I’m Harry Sr. I’ve heard wonderful things about you. My son raved about your kindness while he was in the States. I’m pleased you made it over to England.”
