Page 6

The large, rectangular-shaped space looked like the lair of a bohemian traveller just back from Marrakesh. To the left, a purple velvet sofa rested on an angle, overwhelmed by brightly patterned Moroccan throw pillows and a blue ikat print blanket. A white dress shirt and grey trousers lay discarded on one of the sofa’s armrests.

A pair of distressed wooden crates stood guard on either side of the sofa, covered in gypsy-inspired lanterns and a jungle of dangling houseplants that spilled precarious green tendrils. Atop a square wood coffee table, fashion magazines on the verge of toppling over fought with crumpled newspapers, overflowing ashtrays, and tea-stained mugs.

Alex spotted a grease-smudged delivery box nestled into a white, fuzzy area rug beneath the coffee table. Its torn lid and strong smell hinted at a half-eaten pepperoni pizza lurking inside. She cringed, itching to save the furry textile from the oily cardboard. Not only would the box’s contents attract flies, but it could also leave an irreversible stain, if left there too long.

“Want me to grab that box?” Alex pointed at the leftovers as she hopped around a minefield of beer and wine bottles, and two garish Suzani pouffes.

Tom laughed over his shoulder. “You haven’t even moved in, and you’re already taking Olivia’s side. Nah, leave it.”

To her right, a low, dark wood cabinet stretched diagonally in the corner, displaying a techie nerd’s dream set-up: a large, fifty inch flat-screen television as well as a DVD player, a cable box and a gaming console. Built-in shelves, surrounding an antique fireplace, climbed up the wall behind her. They displayed a mahogany carriage clock, two rows of hastily piled DVDs, a stack of books—titles by Richard Branson and Malcolm Gladwell…probably Harry’s—and silver-framed photos of smiley, well-dressed people. Discarded beer bottles intermingled with pieces of driftwood and a collection of conch seashells.

A bright flash of lightning pulled her eyes back to her right, and three large windows peeking out behind patchwork silk scarf curtains. On a sunny day, natural light would probably spill across the honey-hued hardwood, but today the greyness from the incessant deluge lent a chilly, lonely vibe. More thunder rattled the flat, keeping Alex on her toes.

Tom grabbed an armful of dirty mugs. “Follow me around the corner, and check out our kitchen.” He waved her forward towards a small teak dining table with four mismatched chairs. “It’s a tight squeeze in here—especially on curry take-away night when we’re elbowing each other for the chicken tikka masala.”

Curry. Alex didn’t care for curry, but her stomach growled at the mere mention of anything edible.

With Tom out of sight around the kitchen corner, she doubled back to the coffee table and liberated the disgusting box from the white rug. She bounced into the galley kitchen, placing the cardboard on the edge of the slate grey kitchen counter, careful not to shove it into a crusty stack of white plates, a lipstick-stained wine glass, or an opened tin of baked beans that balanced on the metal rim of the sink. Two slices of whole wheat bread peeked out from the toaster. Buttery toast would be lovely right now…baked beans, not so much.

“Don’t worry about that.” Tom gestured at the smelly can. “I was making breakfast when you arrived. Just call me Jamie Oliver.”

Alex eyed the microwave’s digital clock, its bright blue light blared 4:43 p.m. Tom clearly operated on an unconventional schedule.

“Harry said you’re from Florida. Why would you trade all that glorious bloody sunshine for rainy London?” He hid the mugs in the dishwasher.

Alex’s eyes lit up. “London is theatre geek heaven. You’re an actor. You know!”

He leaned against the opposite counter and held his stomach.

“I’m a total fangirl of the London theatre scene.” She waved her hands, excited to spill. “There’s a perfect mix of plays and musical theatre here. It’s such a thriving community. I desperately want to be a playwright. I graduated two weeks ago with a joint major in playwriting and theatre studies, and couldn’t get on a plane fast enough…”

A hint of green tinged Tom’s face, and sweat stains began to sprout across his Glastonbury tee. His attention… drifting.

“Are you okay?”

He belched. His watery eyes settled on the stale pizza.

“I just need something to soak up the booze.” He fought with the box until a piece pulled free, knocking the wine glass into the dirty plates; Tom made no attempt to save it.

Alex’s stomach gurgled, loud enough to elicit a frown across Tom’s face. He slouched, pointing the cheesy triangle towards her. Pepperoni, especially on a cold, congealed pizza? Disgusting. How do guys eat this stuff? She squinted and shook her head, launching back into her answer.

“…the playwrights and actors I admire call London home. I’d be crazy not to live where my playwriting idol Isabella Archer lives. Where else would I want to be?”

She shrugged with a smile. “Besides, look at me. Florida’s heat and sun are my enemies. Fair hair and pale skin don’t exactly make me beach body ready. I think I’m more likely to fit in here. I love London. I watch British movies just to see London streets. Isn’t it weird how you can fall in love with a place you’ve never even visited?”

He gave Alex an appreciative once over and sniggered between bites. The salty greasiness of the pepperoni hit the spot. “Well, I don’t want to burst your balloon, but it’s a tricky field, playwriting. Not everyone can make a go of it. The competition’s fierce.”

Tom’s words kicked a deep pit into Alex’s stomach. Geez, did he steal ice cream cones from excited little kids, too? Why is he such a downer? She swallowed hard.

“…Well, hopefully I’ll beat the odds.”

She turned her head away and fiddled with a soft tea towel tossed on the stovetop, her eyes following the continuous downward trickle of raindrops on the kitchen window sandwiched between the two counters.

“I’m chasing a deadline, too. I’ve saved enough to cover the rent Harry’s charging me for maybe twelve months. My plan is to concentrate on writing and get a play accepted into a development program —”

Tom interrupted. “You’ll have tons in common with my sister. She’s got a Bachelor’s in playwriting and works in theatre fundraising on the South Bank.” He tossed the last scraps of the pizza crust into its box, licked tomato sauce from his fingers and headed around the corner into the lounge. “Mind you, she seems to spend more time schmoozing with a glass in her hand than at her laptop.”

Alex cleared her throat and blinked several times before following him. Tom’s negative comments still echoed in her ears. She didn’t travel this far to be a failure. Giving up and going back to Tallahassee weren’t options.