Devoted 2 : Where the Ivy Grows (11 page)

‘You’re just jealous,’ I mutter.

‘You didn’t play fair,’ says Cecile. ‘You pretended you didn’t want him, then snuck in when my back was turned. So now it’s my turn. I’ll do whatever it takes to win Marc. And if that means telling the world what you’re really like, then so be it. He’ll work out what you are eventually, anyway.’

‘I’m not like you,’ I say. ‘Things just happened. It wasn’t planned -’

‘That’s not how it looked to me,’ says Cecile. ‘Or anyone else. You’re just some little nobody sleeping with Marc to get famous. That’s what
everyone
thinks. The newspapers. Everyone. It’s not as if they had to force the story out of me. They’d pretty much written it before they even spoke to me.’

Ouch
. Is that what everyone thinks? I haven’t spoken to Tom and Tanya yet – are they believing what they’ve read in the papers?

‘You’ve made your bed,’ says Cecile, gliding towards the door. ‘And now you’ll have to lie in it.’

I search my brain for some witty retort – something that will put her in her place. But I can’t think of one. It’ll come to me later, and I’ll replay this little scene, wishing I’d said something clever and cutting.

The bathroom door slams, and I’m left staring at it, feeling helpless, furious and alone.

Fuming, I head down to the GMQ lobby. I don’t get angry often, but when I do, I find it hard to think straight.

Ahead, I see Marc’s limo through the automatic glass doors. Two wheels are mounted on the pavement.

I’m so wrapped up in anger that I don’t notice the other person in the lobby until I feel a pressure on my elbow.

‘Sophia.’ It’s a man’s voice.

I turn. Oh my god.

It’s Giles Getty.

He’s taller than he looked at the college gates this morning. Not as tall as Marc, but tall, nonetheless, and my eyes are level with his soft shirt collar. He’s dressed in that fashionable media way – black jeans, loose, creased blue shirt and a navy suit jacket.

He looks normal enough. Almost handsome. But his eyes are bulging and wild, and I can see he’s having a hard time keeping still. He’s agitated. Not at peace. 

I look down at my elbow and see hairy fingers gripping my cashmere coat.

‘Please take your hands off me.’ I try to make my voice as firm as possible, even though I’m not feeling very firm at all. The truth is, there’s something very frightening about this man.

‘Just wanted to talk, that’s all. You don’t mind talking, do you?’ He’s speaking quickly. Too quickly.

His grey
eyes dart back and forth.

‘I need to go,’ I say
, pulling my arm free. ‘Marc’s outside.’

‘Hey. Wait. Wait.’ He blocks my path, bouncing from one foot to the other. He reminds me of a boxer in the ring before the fight starts. All energy and fury. I can’t see the limo anymore. ‘Look, I’ve known Marc for a long time. Years. I’m just interested in the new lady in his life, that’s all. Is that so bad?’

He sticks out his bottom lip a little, I guess to look cute, but he doesn’t look cute at all. His eyes are bulging more than ever. ‘How about a glass of champagne?’

‘No, I really have to go.’

‘Your friend Cecile’s here. Did you know?’

‘She’s not my friend.’ I try to walk around him, but he moves to stand in my way.

‘Wouldn’t you like to make some money, Sophia?’ When he says my name, it feels like a snake has slithered around my shoulder. ‘I’ve heard about your background. Seen your family home. Not exactly a wealthy upbringing. I can set you up with the right people, show you how to tell a good story.’

‘Haven’t you told enough lies?’

Getty laughs, a long, throaty laugh. ‘We have a caped crusader in our midst. Truth, honesty and justice? I wouldn’t have expected Marc to settle for anything less. Tell me Sophia, what’s he like in bed?’

My hands start to shake, and I try to move around him again, but he sidesteps in my way.

‘Does he tie you up and spank you like he does the other women?’

I look around the lobby, but there’s no one. The reception desk is empty. Did Getty plan this? Me in the empty lobby?

‘You must know, Sophia, that you’re just a novelty to him. A toy. You won’t last. Nobody does. Sell your story and make some cash while you still can. Like I say, I’ve known Marc a long time.’

‘Too long.’ The words boom around the lobby, and Marc appea
rs behind Getty’s shoulder. ‘Move out of her way.’

Getty turns around. His eyes look ready to pop out of his head. ‘Well, well. The hero of the hour. But you’re not really a hero. Are you?’ He’s talking more quickly than ever, and his face has gone white.

‘I hardly think you’re in a position to judge heroism. Move out of her way. Right now.’

Getty steps aside. ‘Pardon me. Just doing my job.’

‘Go do it somewhere else.’

‘It’s a free country.’

Getty whips his camera out and takes a snap before either of us can react.

I’m momentarily stunned by the flash of white, but Marc launches
forward, pushing Getty aside and pulling me to him. He bundles me towards the automatic doors.

‘God damn him,’ he shouts as we charge down the steps to the waiting limo.  Marc opens the limo door and helps me inside. I fall onto leather, hearing the door slam behind us. ‘I won’t let him do this. Not this time.’

The car pulls out, and I’m thrown
onto the leather couch.

Marc sits opposite me and leans across to take my hands.

‘Are you okay?’

I swallow. ‘A bit shaken up.’

‘Christ, I’m such an idiot. I should have seen this coming. I’ve known Getty for long enough.’

‘How?’ I ask. ‘He said he knew you too. How do you know him?’

Marc shakes his head and drops my hands. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He stares out of the window and mutters, ‘
How
did he know you were there?’

‘Maybe just coincidence?’ I say. ‘
I think he brought Cecile to GMQ.’

‘There’s no such thing as coincidence. Not where Getty is concerned. No, he knew. Why didn’t I stay with
you? I thought ... I thought GMQ was safe. Getty doesn’t have any connections there. I was certain. Christ, what a fool I am. And now he’s got his picture.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’ I say. ‘I mean, maybe he’ll leave us alone now.’

Marc laughs. ‘Leave us alone? As long as he can get money for our pictures, he’ll keep taking them. And if and when the papers lose interest in the real story, he’ll just set up what he can and make the stories up himself. Anything to get at me.’

‘But why? Why does he want to get at you?’

‘Let’s just say we have a past, and leave it at that.’

‘Where are we going?’ I ask as the car charges out of Central London.

‘The only place I can keep you safe,’ says Marc. ‘My town house.’

‘But I thought you said ... don’t you have a visitor?’

‘Well, we’ll just have to deal with that when we get there.’

Marc looks out the window and doesn’t say anything more.

On the pavement by Marc’s townhouse, a pack of photographers jostle and fight for position. I slide down the seat when I see them. The windows are tinted, but it still feels like they can see in.

When the photographers see our limo, they charge towards it, shoving cameras against the glass and banging on the windows.

‘Marc! Marc, is Sophia in there with you?’

‘Is it true she’s only with you to get famous, Marc?’

I remember Arabella’s words, ‘A bird in a cage’, and that’s exactly how I feel. A very frightened bird.

Concern creases Marc’s forehead, and he leaps across the car to sit beside me. He puts an arm around my shaking shoulders, and I bury my head in his chest, trying to drown out the banging and shouting.

We drive through the gates, and the photographers don’t follow. I guess they know better than to trespass. I see them through the back window, milling around, cameras dangling from their hands.

As we drive down into the underground garage, the sunshine disappears and all I can see is dark and concrete.

‘How long will we have to stay here?’ I ask. ‘Hidden away.’

‘A few weeks. A few months. It really depends.’

‘A few
months
?’

‘Sophia, I just want you to be safe,’ Marc whispers into my hair. ‘I can look after you here. I’ve spent years getting the security right.’

I nod, climbing out of the car into the dark, underground space. His words should make me feel comforted, but ... I don’t want to be stuck in a house, no matter how safe it is, for weeks or months on end. I need sunshine.

Marc’s cars are spread around the garage, shiny and expensive looking. I can almost hear them purring.

His Ford Mustang is parked in the corner, shiny and raring to go. I notice the wasp yellow car again. The one that doesn’t suit Marc at all. Marc’s leather shoes click on the concrete behind me.

‘You still haven’t told me why you keep your father’s car,’ I say, turning.

‘Keep your enemies close, isn’t that what I said?’

‘You did, but that’s not much of an explanation.’

‘I don’t like talking about my past.’

‘Marc, I want to know about you. If we’re going to do this for real, you’re going to have to get used to opening up.’

‘You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?’ He heads to the stairs.

‘Probably not.’ I catch up with him and take his hand.
‘Tell me about your father. How did he die?’

‘Cancer,’ says Marc, curtly. ‘Long and drawn out.’

‘And ... do you ever regret not being there? At the funeral?’

‘No
, I don’t,’ says Marc. ‘The only regret I have, where my father is concerned, is that I didn’t protect my sister better.’

‘But you were so young. J
ust a child.’

‘It doesn’t change the way I feel.’
Marc’s lips clamp shut.

‘So tell me about the car.’

‘I keep that car because my father bought it with my childhood earnings. Does that go some way to explaining things?’

‘A little, but ... not really.’

Marc lets out a long breath. ‘What do you remember about your childhood?’

‘All kinds of things. Playing with Jen. Going to football
matches with my grandpa. School plays. Christmas. Camping in the woods. And bad things too. My mum dying, and my dad falling apart. But I try not to focus on that.’

‘All I remember of being a child is working. And this car was paid for with that money. So I suppose you could say this car is my childhood.’

‘That’s ... sort of sad, but also sort of beautiful,’ I say, squeezing his hand. ‘So that’s why you keep it? Because you don’t want to let your childhood go?’

‘No
. I keep it because I never want to forget what my father did to me. I want a constant reminder.’

‘Marc, is that completely healthy?’

Marc shrugs. ‘Probably not. But that’s who I am.’

‘And I love who you are.’

We reach the top of the stairs, and suddenly Marc turns to me and slips his hands around my back. He kisses me, a long, slow kiss that makes me cling to him. His lips move gently over mine, and his tongue slips forward, stroking and caressing. I’m lost in a world of senses – his hands running around my lower back, his chest pressed against mine and his beautiful smell.

It’s such a tender kiss. So unlike Marc’s usual kisses, but I still feel his hunger.

Suddenly, Marc breaks away, leaving me a little disorientated and wobbly legged. I feel like a giddy schoolgirl. He scoops an arm around my back, opens the door to the house and leads me into the large hallway.

‘Why the kiss?’ I ask, smiling.

‘Are you complaining?’ Marc raises an eyebrow.

‘Not at all.’

‘Let’s just say I was struck by how much I can love a girl in such a short space of time.’

My smile grows. ‘I love you too.’

I see the familiar pictures of buildings along the hall, and the red carpet running along and up the sweeping staircase.

There’s a clinking sound from the kitchen.

‘Marc?’ calls a voice. A woman’s voice, musical and light.

‘Your visitor?’ I say, hoping my tone doesn’t betray my jealousy.

Marc nods.

‘Who is she?’

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he grips my waist, and we head into the kitchen. ‘You’re up. I thought you’d still be in bed.’

In
bed
?

At the kitchen counter, I see a tall, skinny woman with very long, straight brown hair that comes to her waist. The bones of her knees and shoulders show through a
floaty, flowery dress.