Devoted 2 : Where the Ivy Grows (23 page)

‘Know what?’

‘He didn’t tell you?’

‘Tell me w
hat?’ I’m confused.

‘The friend. The fr
iend who showed me the way, for better or worse. You can’t guess who he is?’

I stare at him, bewildered. ‘I have no idea,’ I say.

‘The friend was Giles Getty.’

‘
Giles Getty?
’ I practically spit the words out.

Marc nods. ‘He introduced me to the scene.
A scene where women liked men to take charge.’

I feel sick. ‘You’re kidding me. Giles Getty?’ Just saying his name makes my tongue feel slimy. ‘He ... he said you were friends, but I thought ...’

‘That he was exaggerating?’ Marc’s blue eyes are wider and clearer than I’ve ever seen them. ‘No.’

Green turns to grey as we enter the outskirts of London.

‘How?’ I say, hearing utter confusion in my voice. ‘When?’

‘A long time ago. He wasn’t quite the evil bastard he is now, but he was on his way. But I didn’t see it. Until it was too late.’

Marc puts his head in his hands, and I see his pale fingers slip through his thick brown hair. I want to touch him. To hold him. To tell him it’s all okay. But ... I don’t know if everything is okay.

‘What happened?’ I ask.

Marc sighs into his hands.

‘I was young and stupid and didn’t realise what I was getting into until it was too late. When Getty introduced me to his scene ... the world he showed me, it awakened something. Who I really am, I guess you could say. Or at least, who I wanted to be. In charge. Cool and in control.
And the pleasure I could bring by being that way. I guess Getty saw something in me that was ... similar to him.’

I shake my head. ‘You’re not similar.’

‘We are,’ says Marc. ‘More than you know. Getty got me into ... domination, shall we call it. Taking charge, sexually. He brought me to the clubs, introduced me to the women.’

I feel sick. Partly about the thought of him with other women, but mainly because Getty was involved in such an intimate part of Marc’s life.

‘When I hooked into that scene,’ says Marc, ‘all the bad feelings I carried around ... those worthless, frightened feelings that came from a life with my father ... they left. Just like that. The power I felt was tremendous.’

Someho
w, our bodies have moved apart.

‘The first night I was with a woman from one of Getty’s clubs,’ Marc continues, ‘she asked me to tie her up. The more I restrained her and took charge, the more she liked it
. And I felt alive. I felt like me. The real me.’

‘So you and the woman ...’

Marc waves a dismissive hand. ‘I have no idea what happened to her. She’s not important. It wasn’t about her. It was about me. I met many more women like her. I got good at reading the signs.’

‘Did you read the signs in me?’

Marc doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes.’

‘You knew I’d enjoy you hurting me?’

‘Not
hurting
you. Taking charge of you. It’s what you needed. It’s what you still need.’

Marc stretches his legs out and puts an arm on the edge of the window.

‘Getty was clever. He didn’t show me exactly who
he
was at first. We visited clubs where women wanted men to be in charge, and I thought that was Getty’s thing too. But Getty wanted more. He liked watching women get hurt. Women who weren’t necessarily enjoying themselves. It excited him. And there are specialist places where you can watch that sort of thing. And take part.’

I swallow thickly, feeling sick.

‘And ... did you take part in that?’

Marc shakes his head sharply. ‘I already told you. It’s not about pain for me. It’s about bringing pleasure through taking control. Sometimes that control means pain. But I can’t abide the thought of a woman getting hurt against her will. My mother and sister were both beaten by a man who was supposed to be taking care of them. The thought of hurting a woman who isn’t consensual sickens me.’

‘So what happened?’ I ask. ‘With you and Getty?’

‘When I found out what he was in to, I told him that was the end of our acquaintance.
And I reported his activities to the police. He responded by hounding my sister, and selling story after story on her.’

‘Your poor sister.’ I swallow, nausea stirring my stomach.

‘It ruined her life,’ Marc says, matter-of-factly.

The car is slowing now as it meets London traffic, and Marc turns to gaze out of the window. ‘If it wasn’t for those press stories, she could have turned her life around
before now. But she never had a chance.’

The car drives on, and we sit in silence for a while. Then I say, ‘Thank you. For telling me. I wish you’d told me sooner.
Not that it matters now, I guess. But I’m glad I know.’

‘I’m glad y
ou know the truth, too. At least, part of it.’ Marc’s jaw becomes firmer, and he takes his Blackberry from his pocket, flicking his thumb over it. ‘Back to business. You’ll be seeing Denise tonight. And after your rehearsals for the rest of the week. Then we’ll meet again. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I say, my head in a whirl. I d
on’t know what to think or what to feel.

I’m on time for the rehearsal, and predictably I perform better than I have in a long time. I don’t know if it was riding the horse, Marc’s praise or just being with Marc that made me more confident, but I waltz into the theatre like I own the place and act my heart out.

Davina’s
mouth opens and closes a few times, but it seems she can’t think of much to criticise me about today.

I’m positively glowing when we finish that evening, and I trek across the college for my lesson with Denise.

I’ve been thinking about Marc all day, of course, and even more so now the rehearsals are finished. As I walk across the cold grounds, I think about all the pain Marc’s had to deal with. How difficult his life has been. I understand that after a life like his, you could become a little addicted to being in charge.

It’s bitterly cold now, and light puffs of snow swirl and flick around. The college looks so beautiful with snow floating around, especially now all the Christmas decorations have been hung. Fairy lights decorate the trees, making the college look even more magical and mysterious, and nets of twinkling stars have been thrown over the college roof tops.

When I reach Denise’s classroom, I see candles flickering in the window and hear low, soft music. There are fake blue snowflakes stuck all over the windows, and I see Denise inside, sitting on a beanbag, flicking through
Stage
magazine.

I knock on the door.

‘Sophia?’ Denise calls.

‘Hi.’ I creak the door open, and dust snow from my arms and hair.

Denise gets to her feet. ‘Well, look at you. More beautiful than ever. And performing in the West End, no less. But ...’ She puts a finger to her lips. ‘What’s on your mind, my love? Or should I say,
who
?’

I smile. ‘The usual who.’

‘Oh? Our Mr Blackwell?’

‘Who else?’

‘I’ve missed you in my classes,’ says Denise.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I hang my coat over a plastic chair. ‘I’ve missed you too. But the rehearsals are taking up so much time.’

‘And how are they going?’ Denise asks, bustling over to her kettle. ‘Tea?’

‘Yes
, please.’ I put my cold fingers against a radiator. ‘They’re ... going okay. Today they were okay. Before today, it’s been awful.’

‘Awful?’

I nod. ‘Marc was right. I never should have taken this part. It was offered to me for all the wrong reasons, and now it’s too late to back out.’

‘Ah, the lovely Marc,’ says Denise, pouring hot water into cups. ‘I hear the two of you went horse riding this morning.’

‘
I
did. He stood and watched.’

‘How are the two of you? Still struggling?’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘So no hope for the star-crossed lovers?’

I sit heavily in an orange plastic chair. ‘I don’t think so. I wish there was. Marc’s pretty determined.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Denise hands
me a tea, and I smell cinnamon. ‘Do you want a drop of brandy in it?’ she asks. ‘Christmas time, and all that?’

‘Yes
, please,’ I say. ‘I could use a drink right now.’

Denise takes a little bottle of toffee-coloured brandy from a cupboard and sloshes a good measure into my tea.

I take a sip. ‘Mmm, delicious.’ I taste cherry, spices and brown sugar.

‘So you and Marc ... he’s tutoring you again, is that the story?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And it’s helping. Just being around him ... it helped today.’

‘I can imagine,’ says Denise. ‘He really is an excellent teacher. Very strict, but he has such faith in his pupils. Such trust. It carries. When we feel someone’s faith in us, we believe in ourselves.’

‘Maybe that’s why I have such a hard time with Davina,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t have any faith in me.’

‘Diva
Davina? Don’t let her get to you. She’s well known in musical circles, and from what I’ve heard, she’s nothing but a bully. A great director in some ways, but she takes her moods out on her performers.’

‘She’s fine with Leo.’

‘Well, she would be. He’s a Hollywood star. She knows what side her bread is buttered. She’s going to keep him as sweet as possible. Connections.’ Denise taps her nose.

‘She has a point, though,’ I say. ‘I’m nowhere near as good as Leo. I’m an amateur.’

‘An incredibly gifted amateur. Don’t you forget that. Leo may have had years of practise, but he doesn’t have your talent. You just need a little refining, that’s all.’

I laugh. ‘That’s what Leo said.’

‘And what does Marc say?’

‘He says I need to take charge more.’

‘A good point. Well, my dear. Shall we get started? Get you warmed up, and then get you belting out those
Beauty and the Beast
numbers?’

‘Okay.’

The singing lesson with Denise is exactly what I need, and I leave her studio feeling lighter than I have done since Marc and I broke up.

It’s late, but I’m liking being out in the dark, under swirling snow, lost in my thoughts.

There are no students around, and I half remember Tanya saying something about a test tomorrow. I guess everyone must be inside studying. But as I near the accommodation block, I hear a man’s voice.

‘You promised me access. This isn’t access.’

Oh my god. I recognise that voice, and it makes me feel far chillier than the snow.

I flatten myself against the nearest wall, my heart pounding. Then I hear another voice – a female this time.

‘How was I to know she wouldn’t be there?’

And then the man again.

‘You’d better not be playing games with me.’

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

The man is Giles Getty.

My throat goes thick and hot, and my fingertips cling to the crumbly wall.

Every sense in my body tells me to run in the opposite direction, but if I move, he might see me.

Giles’s quick, smart voice floats into the night air again.

‘You’ve blown it. She must be with him. I’ll have to come back another time.’

There’s the smack of leather on concrete, and I realise someone is heading my way.

Pushing myself flat against the wall, I inch away from the voices. My feet are in a flower bed, and I winch as I realise the damage I’m doing to the winter pansies, but still I creep, creep along, towards a privet hedge near the edge of the building.

Giles turns the corner, just
as I pull myself into the hedge and feel twigs poke and stab my face and hands.

He stops dead
and looks right at the bush, but it must be too dark for him to see me because he walks straight past.

I hold my breath, feeling the agitation and anger in his movements. He is not a happy man. Not a peaceful man. I remember what Marc said about him liking to see women hurt, and feel sick to my stomach.

I’m still hidden, too scared to move, when I hear a sound that cuts right to my stomach.

It’s the deep, haunting sound of sobbing, and every muscle in my body tenses. It’s awful, that sound. Frighteningly. It seems to suck the joy from my very soul.

Tentatively, I step out from the bush, still feeling afraid, but sad too, for whoever is sobbing. It’s a crazy kind of crying. Unnatural.

I peer around the corner.

Oh my god.

It’s ... Cecile.

She’s leaning against the accommodation block, head in her hands, whole body shaking with grief. She was the woman Getty was speaking to.