London Belongs to Me Read online

  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.

  “Harry said his girlfriend was in the arts, but I didn’t realize we’re on the same path.”

  “She’ll be home soon, actually. You’ll love her.” Tom laughed, weaving through the beer bottles on the floor. “Everyone adores darling Olivia.”

  Something in the way Tom delivered that last statement made Alex pause. Did everyone adore Olivia? Was she the doting sister, perfect friend, irresistible lover? Or was Tom being sarcastic in that charming yet confusing way Brits can be?

  Four

  Alex appreciated Tom’s ‘tour’, but it kept her from her most urgent desire—her room. Once introduced to her own private space, a little freshening up—perhaps a relaxing bath or warm shower—she’d feel more at home. With Olivia expected to walk through the door at any moment, she couldn’t think of anything else.

  “What’s with the face?” said Tom.

  Alex scrunched up her eyebrows. “My face? Nothing. That’s just the way it is. I look pouty if I’m not smiling.”

  “Some girls I know pay a small fortune to get luscious lips like yours.” Tom threw a heavy arm over Alex’s shoulder and pulled her into his chest. “Come along, Miss America, the next stop is the sleeping quarters.”

  She let out a nervous giggle and shifted slightly away from him. Tom was attractive and charming in an odd, still drunk way, but she didn’t like strangers invading her personal space, especially if they needed a shower. And was he flirting with her? All that touching, hugging—she didn’t want to flatter herself, but…seriously? Compared to the pretty girl on the doorstep, Alex shouldn’t register on Tom’s hook-up list at all: short, A-cup breasts, freckles, and a slight gap between her front teeth. Picking up her backpack and laptop bag by the door provided the excuse to slip out of his touchy-feely grasp.

  “The redhead I ran into downstairs…is she your girlfriend?”

  “Who? Oh…nah. She just popped ‘round for a cup of sugar,” Tom winked. “Actually, I met her last night in the pub by the park. I doubt I’ll see her again.” His response surprised her, but then Alex wasn’t a one-night-stand kind of girl.

  “So what about you? Did you leave a boyfriend behind in Florida?” They swerved around an expensive looking road bike propped up against the wall. Shiny without a blemish, it still dreamt of its first outing.

  Alex bit her nails. “How much time do you have?” she said, intentionally being evasive.

  “Ooh, a lady with a past. Love it. You’ll have to tell me everything.”

  Alex’s long bangs concealed her eye roll. Tom seemed even more interested now. Great.

  The first two doors along the hallway were closed, the bathroom, and the bedroom belonging to Harry and Olivia. The third door was open—Tom’s room—and much like the man himself, a mess. Cluttered with empty take-out cartons, crumpled magazines, and clothing, both designer and casual, haphazardly strewn over every surface, it looked like a hurricane had hit recently.

  Her eyes widened at the chaos. She struggled to find something nice to say. “Looks…cozy.”

  “It is,” said Tom, not picking up on Alex’s neat freak-inspired disgust. “I haven’t been here long, but I’ve certainly made it my own.”

  Alex smirked. “Yes, you have.” Stifling a giggle, she turned away from him and set her sights on the final door. Her room. A smile slowly crept across her face.

  “And here we are, my dear.” The door stuck, so Tom gave it a hearty push. It swung open and clobbered something in its path. He swept his left arm out
in front of his body like a game show model revealing a breathtaking prize. “Ta-da!”

  Alex gasped.

  And shook her head.

  The ‘prize’ hidden behind door number four could hardly be classified as a winner or even a bedroom. A storage closet, maybe, but only at a stretch. A narrow wardrobe leaned crookedly against the wall, its wire hangers dangling precariously over a twin-size futon that hogged most of the floor. An ugly ceramic table lamp lay sideways on the hardwood, its green shade bashed in—the casualty of Tom’s door shove, perhaps?

  If Alex wanted a dresser, desk or chair—forget it. Even her backpack and laptop bag faced a struggle for real estate. High-end shopping bags from Harvey Nichols, Burberry, and Matthew Williamson appeared to be multiplying like rabbits in the remaining floor space and on top of the futon. Clothes, purses, and who knows what else overflowed from their cardboard and paper constraints. Suitcases, old Christmas decorations, out-of-season clothes belonged here, not humans.

  No window. Only one visible power outlet. Her crappy dorm room back in Atlanta was easily three times larger.

  Tom looked at Alex open mouthed, staring silently at the floor. “Shit. Harry told Olivia to shift these bags, but she must’ve had a breakfast meeting and forgot.” He grabbed an armful, tossing them into the hallway. “It’s a shame this room is so titchy, but at least you’re travelling light, Alex.”

  Her chin trembled. It took every scrap of self-control not to burst into tears at Tom’s joke. For months she had been picturing this moment, how she’d skip into her own room, jump on the fluffy bed and instantly make herself at home with her books, clothes, and cherished mementos. Her London bedroom was supposed to have been a comfortable haven from which she’d launch her career and in the process, figure out who she was destined to become. She should’ve known better. In Alex’s experience, real life and dreams never synced; this room, her latest proof.

  Slumped soaking wet against the doorway of the ‘titchy’ broom cupboard, her confidence and excitement had pooled on the floor along with excess water from her clothes. She didn’t feel how she was supposed to feel at all. She shivered, hiding her face behind her hands. I’m an idiot. Kiss goodbye to any semblance of cool in front of the new flatmate.

  Tom tugged at his t-shirt. “Was it something I said? Oh…” He legged it.

  Alex rubbed her eyes until they watered. Tom popped back in the room, holding a grey cotton sweatshirt adorned with red fabric hearts.

  “A peace offering?” His previously relaxed posture, now rigid. Tom and upset women—not a good mix. “You’ll feel better in something dry and warm. Put this on. Olivia won’t mind. She’s always sharing clothes with her girlfriends.”

  A stranger’s clothes? Alex scrunched up her nose and shook her head. She spotted the label inside the collar—Stella McCartney. Oh, God. Designer clothing. This top wasn’t like the college sweats from home, the shirts you’d wear at all-you-can-eat wings night at the sports bar. It probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.

  She pressed her lips together, and shifted her weight from one foot to another. At this point, she’d eat a slice from that gross day-old pizza or even snog Tom…anything to quash the damp goosebumps riddling her skin. And Tom presented a pretty good argument, so…

  She nipped into the bathroom and slipped it over her head. Unfurled, it became a mini-dress on her small frame. Its soft sleeves reached well beyond her hands, and her breasts disappeared altogether. Is this Olivia girl some kind of giant? Alex stepped out of the bathroom, rolling the excess material above her slim wrists.

  Tom chuckled. “Yeah, Olivia’s got at least six inches on you. She’s very leggy, so I can’t kit you out with her jeans. But your top half’s dry. I know it doesn’t make up for the wee room, but at least you won’t catch your death.”

  “Thanks. At least I won’t stretch it or anything. You’re sure she won’t mind?”

  “She won’t even know it’s missing, trust me,” said Tom.

  Alex pulled her hair out of the ponytail. “Is there a shop nearby? My toothbrush and shampoo are in my checked bags. I want to look presentable for your sister.”

  Alex gave a squinty grin towards the sun. Its warmth, paired with the post-shower scent of drying pavement along Broadway Market, added a spring to her step, last seen at Paddington Tube station. The two-storey shops hugging the street made her feel like she was strolling through one of her favourite British movies like Love Actually, or Pride.

  Her stomach cooed blissfully as she wolfed down a Time Out chocolate bar and a small packet of Cadbury chocolate buttons. The candy bars from the States couldn’t compete with the creamy silkiness of British chocolate. One of the best parts of moving to the UK—indulging her chocoholic tendencies whenever a craving hit, instead of relying on sporadic care packages mailed by her dad.

  Birds chattered their bliss from lampposts while a grey squirrel frolicked across the pavement, happy for the sun’s return. Locals popping out of shop doorways looked up at the blue sky and its cotton ball clouds, and grinned. Alex swung her bags of toiletries and groceries, absorbed in her new neighbourhood.

  Along the curb, a black cab swerved, its front wheel plunging into a pothole brimming with grimy water. A surge of dirty muck rained over the sidewalk—and Alex, baptizing her with sludge.

  “Eeeeewwww!”

  Her eyes stung. The cold gasoline and mud mixture oozed through the fibres of the sweatshirt’s right side, its chill spreading downward in a gunky smear.

  “Fuck!” Alex stomped the ground as her gaze followed the taxi. It merrily chugged around the corner onto Westgate Street. Her throat constricted. Olivia can’t see this.

  Alex’s shoes slapped along the sidewalk, the bulging plastic bags of cereal boxes, English muffins, and bottles attacking her legs with each stride. She leaped up the stairs two at a time, cursing her decision to accept Tom’s help. If only she’d followed her gut…

  She stuck her key into 2B’s lock, but the door drifted open. Raised voices roared from the kitchen. One voice belonged to Tom, the other an unseen female. Alex tiptoed inside.

  “You’re twenty-four-years-old and still can’t follow the simplest of instructions.” The woman’s accent sounded like actress Elizabeth Hurley’s—sultry and posh. Alex bit her lip and nudged the door closed.

  “You’ve done a piss-poor job. This place is exactly the same as when I left at seven: a pigsty. I’m sick of your excuses.”

  The voice barely paused for air.

  “So tell me. Who was it this time? That jogging nutritionist from the Isle of Wight? Not the barista around the corner, again? It’s busier than Piccadilly Circus in there. The revolving door to your bedroom has got to stop—”

  Tom snapped back. “Why do you care? I don’t pry into your sex life. Maybe I should. Is Harry working too much at Bespoke, sister dear? Too many hours in the company of hot cocktail girls?”

  Alex stared down at the caked mud and gulped, her temples damp and tingly. Damn. Olivia.

  “Shut up, Tom. You’re such an arse.”

  The click-clack of high heels grew louder and closer. Alex’s blood chilled. She turned to her left, slipping down the hall, but her sensitive nose tickled with a waft of sweet raspberry and peonies.

  Tom’s twenty-two-year-old sister stopped mid-stride on the edge of the lounge, immaculate in a stunning emerald green knee-length dress that highlighted her coltish legs and slim waist, her dark hair, corralled in a sleek, low ponytail. A square amethyst, large enough to feed a family of five for half a decade, glittered on her right hand, its brilliance dancing in the light when she stabbed the air in Alex’s direction.

  “And who the hell are you?” Her green eyes narrowed. Tom crept up behind her, his hand stroking his chin stubble.

  Alex gasped, knocked senseless by a strange combo of fright and Olivia’s beauty—the kind of beauty that always gets its way. She wasn’t sure whether to flee or stand her ground.

  Olivia curled her lip
and stormed at Alex. “Tom, it’s bad enough that you bring your conquests back here, but to then dress them in my clothes…”

  She snatched the shirt’s right sleeve. “Look at the state of my Stella top.” Alex flinched. Olivia’s nails grabbed more than just a fistful of material. “It’s filthy! I’ve had the day from hell and now I have to deal—”

  “Olivia.” Tom wrapped his arm around the diminutive blonde’s quaking shoulder. “Meet Alex, Harry’s friend. Remember she’s staying with us for a while?”

  The brunette blinked her long eyelashes several times, her fingers releasing the Floridian’s arm. “You’re…Alex?” Her voice softened. “I’m so sorry for this misunderstanding. You know how siblings are.” Olivia shot a frustrated sneer at Tom.

  Alex bit the inside of her cheek, unsure if the fireworks were truly over. She eased out of Tom’s embrace and rummaged with jittery hands through her plastic bags. “It’s okay. I fight with my older sister all the time. What family doesn’t have drama?” She tossed her bangs over her right eye. Is the zit still hidden?

  Olivia’s eyes travelled along the mud splatter on the top.

  Alex shuddered. “I’m so sorry about your shirt. I arrived drenched and without luggage, so Tom loaned me your top. On the way back from the shops, a taxi splashed me. I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning—”

  “No need.” Jaw clenched, Olivia snapped up several wet plastic shopping bags off the floor. She delivered one last glare at Tom and clomped down the hall.

  Alex set her grocery bags on the floor, then yanked off her running shoes. So much for winning over Harry’s girlfriend.

  “Well done! That went well,” Tom whispered, breaking into an apologetic smirk. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. My laziness put her in this foul mood. She’s cross at me. Our friends are arriving in an hour and a half, and this place is a tip.”