Page 54
After elbowing crowds all day at the con, Alex craved a quiet night with Paddington, a cup of tea, and a stockpile of Cabin Pressure BBC radio episodes. Benedict Cumberbatch’s hilarious Captain Martin Crieff always boosted her spirits. She dove her hand into a box of Lucky Charms, her dinner of choice when laziness took hold.
She finished listening to the final episode in series three and took a washroom break. The flat stood empty. Only the ticking of the carriage clock and the white noise from the fan in Tom’s room, slicing through the humid August air, kept her company.
When she stepped back into the hall, a tall, shady figure approached from the lounge. Alex’s heart leapt into her throat; the distinct scent of sweet raspberry and peonies…
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
Olivia strode into the hall, and stood arms crossed and legs splayed wide, blocking Alex’s path to her room. The brunette’s gauzy sundress sprinkled with daises contradicted her ‘I mean business’ demeanour.
Alex leaned against the wall, mirroring Olivia’s crossed arms. “I have nothing to say…”
“Well, that’s convenient because I have plenty to say. Guess who I bumped into at work yesterday?”
Alex shrugged.
“Isabella. We caught up over coffee, and as luck would have it, our conversation turned to you. She remembered you. Unfortunately, it’s for all the wrong reasons…no tangible ideas, crumbling under pressure…”
Alex released her arms and tugged at the bottom of her t-shirt. “Would you move, please? You’re in my way.”
Olivia chuckled, her bare feet remained planted. “Reputations are everything in the theatre community. They’re built on how you deliver—when you’re granted a golden opportunity to impress. We both know your reputation crashed and burned on the runway. It didn’t even make it into the air. That’s one of the many differences between you and me. I don’t let those chances to impress go to waste…”
Exhaling heavily, Alex shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“Your little suffragette idea’s taking me to Isabella’s exclusive Mentorship Program this winter. Granted, the writing’s quite good, but do you want to know the main reason it got selected?” She placed a hand over her heart. “It made an impression because of the reputation of its author—Olivia Chadwick-Smythe. People know me. Everyone likes me—”
Alex spit back. “And most people don’t see through you like I do. You may have fooled everyone else with your perfectly manicured life, but I know what you’re really like.”
Olivia smiled, ignoring Alex’s interruption. “Just watch. I’ll make that idea sing, better than you ever could. You didn’t deserve to have it in the first place. You’ll be on the outside looking in, the Girl Who Melted when it mattered most. Face it. You don’t belong here. You’re an embarrassment, a mistake—you said it yourself, you’re an accident.”
Alex couldn’t catch her breath; Olivia’s hateful remark felt like a sucker punch to her gut, the words cutting deeper than any knife. “…Are you finished?”
“Actually, no—there’s one more thing. Why on Earth are you still here?” said Olivia. “A deal’s a deal. You agreed to move out within a week or two, and here we are…weeks later and your child-like food choices are still in my kitchen, and your ratty hair is clogging the tub’s drain. You’ve more than overstayed your welcome.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t want to live here, either.”
Olivia laughed. “Oh, I’m not worried. In fact, I’ve taken matters into my own hands. I texted Harry tonight and told him how you gave me your two weeks’ notice. So, I guess you’re homeless in…” She checked her watch. “…T minus fourteen days…”
“You can’t do that.” Alex’s hands tightened into fists. “This isn’t your flat.”
“Harry’s heads down with business meetings in Ireland for the next few days, so I’m taking care of everything. Time’s up, Alex. Time to crawl back to America and become a has-been. Oh…wait. You have to be something first before you can be a has-been.”
Alex leaned against the wall, her balance unhinged.
“You were finished before you even began.” Olivia smirked and brushed past towards the lounge.
Alex stomped into her room, grabbing her breath and her phone. She punched a saved number.
“Freddie? Fancy that trip to Manchester? How soon can we go?”
Twenty
Alex fussed with her overstuffed backpack and stared at the departure board at Victoria coach station—National Express London to Manchester, Friday, August 21 at 17:30 p.m.
“C’mon, Lucy. Hurry up.” Alex muttered under her breath, fanning her face. A dull headache squeezed her temples, the stuffy coach station air not helping. Perspiration dotted her upper lip and trickled down the back of her black tank top towards the bum of her jeans. She dumped her backpack on the floor and nudged it against her waiting laptop bag. Fingers crossed, the coach had air conditioning, but this being Britain? Probably not.
Her friends had scampered off to buy snacks for the four hour and forty-five-minute trip, and boarding had already begun. A train would’ve arrived in half the time but its fare exceeded their budgets. Even at seventy-two pounds return, these bus tickets were steep. Alex couldn’t scrape together enough funds with her café hours, so she supplemented her earnings with a temporary evening job the past three weeks, answering focus study questions for various marketing research companies. She had roped in Lucy for comic relief. Both women hated the questions ranging from their opinions on alcohol brands to what kinds of feminine hygiene products they used. Now all those hours stuck in a small stale room felt worth it.
She stood guard over Lucy’s green duffle bag with the broken strap and Freddie’s shiny silver carry-on case with wheels. It didn’t take a travel expert to figure out who would arrive crease-free.
