Love is a Laserquest - Alex Turner/Arctic Monkeys Fan Fiction

I Always Knew

2014

I arrive at Kings Cross station on Friday afternoon, and I grab a coffee before boarding my train. I'm distracted as I navigate my way through the bodies and find a window seat, volume turned all the way up on the Vaccines streaming through my headphones. It's been days since my meeting at HarperCollins, since Alex showed up and tried to speak to me, since the estate agent told me she sold Dad's house, and my head has been done in by it all.

The meeting went better than I could have hoped. The HarperCollins agent, Richard, told me that they had loved the pages I had sent to them, that they wanted to work up a book proposal with me so they could officially give me an advance and sign a contract. Alexa deftly asked the right questions, made the right suggestions, and then said her lawyer would be working to represent me in all business matters. She even scheduled our next meeting for the book proposal, for which she would be present again.

When we left the HarperCollins building, stepping into the summer sun, Alexa elbowed me, and asked, "All right?"

I shook my head, feeling overwhelmed.

We walked in silence for a beat, before I finally said, "This is everything I've ever wanted..."

"But?"

"But– Alex..."

"Please don't let that dickhead distract you from this," she said. "I mean, I love the boy, but– Jesus! Has he no sense?" I smiled at that. "He's always been in the spotlight, babe, please let yourself have it right now."

I let this sink in. I thought about all the times I'd traveled the country– the world– to visit Alex, or see the band perform, or be by his side while he wrote or recorded. I thought about all the days I spent in a maid's uniform, in empty hotel rooms and hallways, on my knees scrubbing, vacuuming, unseen. I remembered the weight of failure when I had to drop out of King's College, when I accepted the job at the Mannerly, every time I lied to Alex. I felt the sting of annoyance– replacing my yearning to know what he wanted to say– from Alex nearly interrupting my once-in-a-lifetime meeting after all that.

"You're right," I said to Alexa. "Thank you for this."

But Alexa didn't want my gratitude, she just wanted to help me. And she did. She came up to the proposal meeting, and then introduced me to her lawyer. And she was there, in the background, grinning but quiet, when I signed a formal contract with HarperCollins and received my advance. Then, when I gave my notice at the Mannerly, she and Rosie both took me out for drinks to celebrate, and she would never let on how much she had been to one to help me– she simply congratulated me like she had had no part in any of it.

After that, my days emptied of mundane obligations to the Mannerly, of drudgery and boredom, and have been replaced with writing. I set my alarm early and spend my days diligently working on my novel, pushing myself to keep at it hour after hour. I start in my living room, and then move to a cafe, and then to my bedroom. And in between writing, I've tried to not think of Alex. I've wanted to know what he wanted so desperately to say to me before my meeting. Was he going to turn me down? Was that why it was such a struggle? Was he going to apologize? I've no idea, and I desperately want to know, but I know there's a chance it will derail me from my writing if I dwell on it– or if I seek Alex out and open up all these old wounds. So, I don't. I push forward.

Until the estate agent calls and says she's sold Dad's house.

It leaves a pit in my stomach to think of someone else living in our home in Sheffield, to think of a stranger taking over, painting the walls, stripping the floors, starting anew and emptying it of our memories, but I've no choice. I agree to meet with the agent at the house on Friday afternoon to finish the last of the paperwork to sign it over, and to take any remaining belongings I might want from the house, and I try to think of the future.