London Belongs to Me Page 2

  “Just a sec, my money’s right…here.”

  A heavy exhale landed on the back of her neck.

  “Excuse me, love. Do you mind stepping aside? I’m really late.”

  Alex looked over her shoulder. A well-groomed man sporting a bowtie, a three-piece suit, and a leather briefcase fussed behind her, shifting his weight back and forth from one leg to the other. He bobbed his neck, checking his watch like the agitated white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

  A woman in a baggy tracksuit twitched behind him, a snotty-nosed baby screaming in a sling tied to her chest. The infant heaved its pacifier and rattle to the floor, his watery eyes cursing Alex’s existence. He resembled a mini-version of the Bond villain Blofeld minus the fuzzy white feline. The young mom huffed and puffed, sticking out a defiant hip.

  “Hurry up, will ya? Bloody tourists.” Her surliness bounced off the kiosk wall.

  Alex wanted the floor to swallow her up. Weren’t British people supposed to be polite?

  She peeked at her watch. 3:10 p.m. “Sorry. One more look, and I’ll get out of your way.”

  Shoving both hands into her bag, she lifted the laptop. Underneath, she spied a purple leather corner. Phew! No need for an international incident.

  “Got it! Can I please get an Oyster card with fifteen pounds on it?” Alex threaded a twenty-pound note through the small opening at the bottom of the glass wicket.

  The Tube employee rolled his eyes and shoved a blue Oyster card back—Alex’s first piece of London identification.

  “Yes! It’s all happening!” She spun on her heels, avoiding the glares thrown by the queue swelling behind her and headed towards the Hammersmith and City line.

  She waved the Oyster card against the round yellow reader on the ticket barrier. It squealed an electronic beep and released its rubber panels with a clumsy shudder. Alex slipped through; successfully maneuvering her two bags clear of the gate’s grip. The mechanical clunk…clunk…clunk rhythm of rising and falling escalator steps filled her ears, a metal-on-metal invitation to the Tube’s dizzying precipice. The escalators plunged sharply into the subterranean depths of the city, but the locals breezed down the steel steps as if on rails, completely unfazed by the steep drop.

  Alex stood on the right side of the escalator, mesmerized by the succession of theatre posters passing by on the walls: Kinky Boots, Billy Elliot, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Every advertisement celebrated a different production. She salivated.

  If one of those posters were advertising MY play, I would DIE!

  The path to the Hammersmith and City line sent commuters along cartoonishly bendy hallways, and up and down several heart-pounding flights of stairs, like an underground fitness test. Alex arrived just in time. The first carriage screeched into the station, the train’s whoosh morphing the platform into a temporary wind tunnel and blowing her ponytail over her head.

  Her first impression upon climbing aboard—the train looked like a toy. Round in shape, its carriages mimicked the tunnel, and wacky patterned material from a bygone era covered the cushions. The train rocked out of the station as Alex’s Tube companions hid behind newspapers or closed their eyes, some lost in private headphone symphonies—all immune to the Underground’s charms—but not Alex. Giggling to herself, she wriggled in her seat like a sleep-deprived kid on Christmas morning. At each stop her wide eyes danced, capturing snapshots of the ads stretching the entire height and length of the curved platform walls, promoting films, cheap airfares, and cheesy tourist attractions. King’s Cross, Euston Square, Barbican—all the station names passing by the window captivated the Anglophile, but Baker Street, home to Sherlock Holmes (the Benedict Cumberbatch version), delighted her the most.

  With one line change and eight Tube stations under her belt, Alex checked her app. Liverpool Street station beckoned, her second and final transfer…

  Five minutes later, rising to street level on the escalator, sunshine greeted her eyes. She raced across the light-filled concourse and boarded the Overground line; three more stops—all above ground. Bring on the sights! She cozied up against the window as the train rattled away from the station, each minute unveiling a fleeting blur of London’s East End.

  What the—?

  Alex wilted. Instead of black taxis and quaint shops flying by, glimpses of obnoxious graffiti tags, rear entrances of squat apartment blocks, and the circular metal gasholders of Bethnal Green whizzed into frame. Not a picture postcard scene in the bunch. She collapsed into her seat, pulling her denim jacket tightly around her. What happened to the pretty London she adored in books and movies?

  Ten minutes into the journey, the breezy blue sky darkened with a menacing scowl. An unrelenting deluge, the kind of gusty cloudburst that drowns sewers, disembowels umbrellas, and drenches pedestrians. The train pulled into Alex’s destination, London Fields station. She swallowed hard. Damn. Her raincoat and umbrella safely stowed in her luggage—her MIA luggage—no use to her now.

  The doors slid open. She ducked her head and lunged for cover under the outdoor station’s metal shelter, its roof popping non-stop as wave after wave of fat raindrops met their maker. She exhaled and stood back, allowing the other passengers to exit down the steps. First challenge completed.

  Alex 1, Rain 0.

  A blinding flash illuminated the sky. She gasped and snapped her eyes shut, bracing against her laptop bag.

  Wait for it…

  An earsplitting clap of thunder shook the elevated train platform. Alex shuddered, the zipper pulls on her backpack and laptop bag jangling with uneasy solidarity. Some people fear spiders, others heights. Alex’s phobia? Thunder and lightning. Mother Nature really knew how to twist the knife. She walked gingerly down the enclosed staircase to ground level. Was it too much to ask for nature’s car wash to complete its cycle by the time she reached the exit?

  Flickering flashes and snarly rumbling threatened through the downpour. Alex hugged her laptop tightly against her chest like a life preserver and ran for it. She splashed along Mentmore Terrace, coming face to face with a red phone box. Perfect timing. What newcomer to the United Kingdom didn’t love this famous icon? And right now, Alex loved it even more. She heaved on the door and squeezed inside.

  But her love proved fickle. She could barely move. Her Converse All-Stars battled for space with crushed beer cans, and her eyes watered, tormented by months—or years, maybe?—of drunk men using the enclosed refuge as a urinal. This was not an Instagram-worthy moment. She held her nose, stifling her gag reflex. Her dripping clothes and bags created a design resembling a Rorschach test on the floor while the breath from her mouth fogged up the greasy windows, lending a fuzzy Dali-esque appearance to the people and vehicles rushing past outside.

  A spike of nausea gurgled in her throat. Urgh. That stench! She stumbled outdoors and bent over, her lungs pleading for fresh air.

  Another searing flash lit up the street. Alex’s heart jolted, an out-of-control jackhammer pounding her chest. Her only choice—run. She sloshed through puddle after puddle, each step splattering filth up to her knees. Pummeling raindrops stung her face, while her jacket offered no defence, its denim sucked onto her bare arms like a second skin. A patch of goosebumps rose underneath her sopping t-shirt, now a useless sponge.

  She gave up the race. Alex 1, Rain 1.

  “London, I love you, but you’re treating me like an ex, not your new crush!” she hollered to the whipping rain while turning onto Martello Street. With each step, the loose shoelace of her left Converse slapped through the overflowing puddles like a bloated noodle.

  London Fields, a large green park dotted with old trees, stretched beyond the street’s right side. The wet grass gave off a fresh springtime scent. Three and four-storey buildings stood shoulder-to-shoulder along Alex’s left. She trudged along the sidewalk, avoiding the park’s canopy of trees and its waving invitation to the lightning gods. In between booms of thunder, an eerie quiet amplified the emptiness of the street,
a dead end. It terminated in an old red and white brick building, retrofitted with modern apartments and blue balconies. A tall metal fence embraced its forecourt; a few cars and wheelie trash bins occupied the limited parking spaces. Alex straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. No more running from the storm. This is it. Harry’s flat.

  She sped up her pace, the intercom affixed to the fence just an arm’s length away, but an exiting car sprung the gate open. She slipped onto the property unannounced and headed towards the front door. A glass awning, peaked like a raised eyebrow, offered a dry welcome.

  A year ago, Alex would’ve scoffed at the suggestion of packing twenty-one years of belongings and memories to live in a city she loved but had never visited. A lot can change in a year, and heartbreak can spur you on to do the previously unthinkable. Buoyed by each deep breath, Alex’s heart danced a little faster. Why not attempt the outrageous, the unexpected? If you don’t try, you’ll never know. She adjusted her wet jacket and smoothed down her bangs.

  She pressed the buzzer for apartment 2B.

  Nothing happened.

  Three

  “Seriously? 2B or…not 2B? Did I press the wrong one?” Alex retrieved a soggy email printout from her jacket pocket. Blurry and beginning to shred, the page offered little assistance.

  She leaned on the circular button. BUZZZZZZ!

  Ten seconds passed. Is anyone home? Where’s the mysterious Tom?

  Alex stepped backwards and tilted her head to peer through the glass awning, the windows above it staring blankly into the park.

  The squeal of a hinge pierced her eardrums. The front door swung open, its metal frame missing her chin by an inch.

  “Hey!”

  Her backpack’s swaying momentum tipped her back onto her heels. Her arms flailed around and around like the sails of a Dutch windmill until she regained a shaky balance.

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you.” The half-hearted apology slipped from the lips of a pretty thirty-something redhead toting a briefcase. She struggled with her trench coat, fumbling its belt with one hand, her half-unbuttoned dress—no longer a secret—lurking underneath. A severe case of bed head and a faint smear of pink lipstick below her mouth betrayed her; someone had an energetic session between the sheets this morning.

  Thunder rumbled overhead. “That’s not the smartest place to stand.” The woman sneered, eyeballing Alex from head to toe.

  The Floridian’s knees wobbled, and yet the urge to put this pushy chick in her place pestered her brain. Who shoves open a door without checking first to ensure the coast is clear? What a bitch.

  But could this girl be one of her flatmates? How would that look?

  Alex bit her tongue. She’d have to get used to dealing with difficult people; egos and tempers ruled the theatre world.

  “I’m looking for Tom. Does he live here?”

  “He’s in 2B,” said Sex Hair, taming her unruly bob. She released the door and opened her umbrella with one hand. Alex lunged, catching the door with both hands. A huge sigh escaped from her mouth, along with a ‘thank you’ that hung in the air, unclaimed. The woman, now a blur, skirted around puddles at the forecourt gate.

  Squish…splotch…squeak. Alex’s saturated shoes protested up the stairs to the second floor, where four apartment doorways punctuated a narrow hallway. 2B stood to her immediate right. A park view from Harry’s flat? Score!

  She knocked three times, her knuckles leaving behind a wet splotch on the white paint.

  The door flew open. A good-looking guy, lanky with messy brown hair stood shirtless, clad only in tight Calvin Klein boxer briefs. His pores emitted a vile cocktail of sweat, cheap beer, and cigarettes. A crooked grin inched across his face while his half-mast eyes swept upwards from the floor.

  “Darling, am I that irresistible?”

  “Um…” Alex blinked.

  His leering smile evaporated. “Shit!”

  The door slammed shut.

  Warmth flooded Alex’s cheeks. Now what? Knock again? … Text Harry?

  The door opened again, and the disheveled fellow reappeared, pulling a badly creased 2013 Glastonbury Festival t-shirt over his six foot two inch frame, his long arms struggling for freedom through the holes. Black, skinny jeans with a torn knee covered his bottom half.

  “Sorry, love. Can I help?” Dark, puffy circles propped up his piercing blue-green eyes.

  “Hi. I’m Alex. Are you…Tom? Harry arranged for me to have the spare room?”

  “Right, right. Sorry. When I heard the knocks I thought you were…oh, never mind, come in.” He waved Alex into the apartment and yawned so widely, she counted all of his fillings.

  A new tightness pinched her chest as she looked down at her dripping clothes. What a nightmare of a first impression. During her flight, she played her arrival over and over again in her head. She’d show up at the flat all carefree and charming, greet Harry with a big hug and win over her his girlfriend instantly. If only. And this Tom fellow…he didn’t exist in her dream at all.

  “Are you a friend of Harry’s?” Her eyes wandered, snooping down the long hallway to her left. She counted four doors, two tennis rackets, and a bicycle.

  “Yes, I’m Tom Chadwick-Smythe. Nice to meet you.” He pulled Alex close and stooped down, delivering a kiss on each cheek. His patchy stubble scratched her skin. “I completely forgot you were arriving today. My mind’s a sieve! Thank goodness I was home.”

  Such a hands-on introduction…with a smelly stranger. Ew. Wide-eyed, she squirmed out of Tom’s intimate greeting.

  “Thanks…so…how many people live here?”

  “Well, you already know Harry, nightclub owner extraordinaire. My younger sister Olivia lives here too. She’s Harry’s girlfriend. And me. I moved in a month ago, actually.”

  Tom kneaded his bloodshot eyes. “Acting jobs have been few and far between lately. My landlord chucked me out, the rotten swine, so Olivia took pity on me.”

  Alex raised her eyebrows. Living with an actor—that’s new.

  “Speaking of which, my sister will kill me if she comes home to a dirty flat.” Tom shrugged. “Our cleaning lady was here yesterday but isn’t due back ‘til Monday. I was supposed to tidy up last night’s mess when I woke, but…got distracted.”

  Alex’s cheeks warmed again. She placed her soaking bags against the closet door in the entryway and folded her jacket on top. The dirty All-Stars—off they went, too; wearing germy outside shoes indoors gave her the willies.

  “Doctor Who fan, I see,” said Tom, pointing at the computer bag. “I always preferred David Tennant to Matt Smith. Tennant’s arched eyebrow was a stroke of acting genius.”

  “It was, but Matt Smith had a charming, boyish quality. He was totally endearing,” said Alex. Hurray, another Doctor Who fan. Fangirling about Doctor Who, a favourite pastime.

  “True. True. We’ll have to debate their qualities later. But first, riddle me this. How did you get so drenched? The nearest exit from our Overground station is only thirty seconds from our gate.”

  Alex rubbed the back of her damp neck. “Seriously? I exited onto Mentmore Terrace. I guess I took the scenic route?”

  “Ha, that you did.” He cracked his knuckles. One. Finger. At. A. Time. And then the popping extravaganza moved along to his other hand. Snap. Snap. Alex’s face blanched. So fidgety. Snap. And annoying. Snap. Like an over-wound toy, the guy flittered on the spot. He played with his unkempt hair and leaned to his right, raising an eyebrow at the floor behind her. “You must have more bags than this? Where’s the rest of your gear?”

  “Misplaced. They’re en route somewhere over the Atlantic.”

  “Oh shit, that sucks. I’d be lost without my stuff.” His hand climbed underneath his t-shirt and scratched his chest. “Anyway, before I tidy up, I’ll show you around. Then you can make yourself at home.” Tom pointed in front of them. “This room’s the lounge.”

  The large, rectangular-shaped space looked like the lair of a bohemian travell
er 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.