Devoted 2 : Where the Ivy Grows (31 page)

‘Let me go,’ I say calmly.

He glares at me. ‘You’ll stay here until I’m finished with you.’

‘I won’t scream,’ I say. ‘Or show fear. You won’t get any satisfaction from me. Take as many pictures as you like, but I won’t be afraid for you.’

He throws the whip to the floor, and upends the bench so I go crashing to the concrete floor shoulder first.

Ouch.

I stay completely still, my body tense. Getty stands over me, his fists clenched, and I know what’s coming. If he can’t make me scream and get his satisfaction that way, he’s going to work out his frustration through his fists.

I wince, bracing myself for the punches.

There’s a crack and I expect to feel pain, but ... nothing. I turn my head up and hear another crack – this time from a few metres away.

I blink in surprise.

Getty has been flung backwards into his wall of instruments, and I see a length of chain unwind from a wall nail and fall to the floor with a clink, clink, clink.

I struggle around and see Marc striding towards Getty, his fists clenched.

Marc.

Oh my god, oh my god.

Warm relief runs around my body.

Whack! Marc’s fist connects with Getty’s jaw again, and Getty slumps to the floor.

Marc stands over him, fists clenched. He turns to me.

‘Sophia. What did that bastard do to you?’

‘Marc,’ I croak, feeling tears rush down my face.

Marc comes to me, kneeling and taking me in his arms.

‘He was outside the theatre,’ I say through the sobs. ‘He knocked me out and then ... we were here.’

‘Did he -?’

I shake my head. ‘No.’

‘If he had of done ...’ I feel Marc’s fists ball up against my back.

‘But he didn’t.’

Marc lets out a long breath.

‘Will you help me out of this?’ I say, looking down at the corset.

Marc picks up the Stanley knife and slashes the corset strings. My body falls free. He peels off his black cashmere jumper and fits it over my head. I thread my arms into the long sleeves, smelling Marc in every inch of the wool.

He lifts me into his arms and carries me up the stairs.

‘How did you know I was here?’ I croak, shivering as we meet the cool air upstairs.

‘Someone inside the theatre was supposed to report when you arrived. But they didn’t. So I put two and two together. I know what Getty’s capable of.’

Marc kicks open the front door, and I see his Aston Martin parked outside.

‘But ... in this house. How did you know I was in this house?’

Marc carries me across the driveway. ‘I didn’t. I went to three other places first. This was a lucky guess. A place I remember from the time I knew him.’ He opens the passenger door and lowers me onto the warm leather seat. Then he slams the door closed and jogs around to the driver’s side.

When he slides into the driver’s seat, I say, ‘Did you ... have you been here before, then? In that basement?’

‘No.’ Marc’s jaw hardens and he starts the car. ‘Never. But I’ve been in the house before. A long time ago. I’ll have someone come over to take care of Getty. An old friend from Baz Smith days.’

‘Someone to ...
take care
of him?’

Marc puts the car in drive and pulls out onto the empty road. He doesn’t look at me.

‘Marc? What does that mean, take care of him?’

‘Use your imagination.’

‘You’re not going to ... is someone going to hurt him? Kill him?’

Marc turns the wheel, keeping his gaze on the road.

‘Please, Marc, no.’

Marc stops the car at a junction, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the handbrake. ‘Why the hell not?’

‘I don’t want him hurt. Or killed. I just want him to be stopped from hurting anyone else.’

‘You really are remarkable. You know that? After what you’ve just been though ... I don’t know, Sophia. I don’t know if I can let him get away with this.’

‘Please, Marc.’ I put my hand over his on the handbrake. ‘Just ... let’s just go to the police.’

‘Is that what you really want?’

‘That’s what I really want.’

He sighs. ‘Okay. I know a few people on the force. I’ll arrange someone to come to t
he townhouse. I don’t want you going to a police station. Not after what you’ve just been through. Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘I’m sure.’

Two hours later, I’m sitting in Marc’s lounge with a hot chocolate when there’s a crackle, and I hear voices over the intercom. Marc leaps up and heads into the hallway.

‘Who is it?’ I call out.

‘The police,’ Marc calls back.

I hear the front door open, then voices. Marc returns with two female police officers and shows them into the lounge.

‘Sophia. These are police officers Bridges and Dale. They’re here to take your statement.’

One of the women is large and blonde – sort of big boned, like an Olympic swimmer. The other is smaller, with mousy brown hair and glasses.

‘Good to meet you, Sophia,’ says the blonde officer, reaching out to shake my hand. ‘I’m Officer Bridges. We don’t usually take statements in people’s homes, but ... in this case
, we’ve been able to make an exception.’

I glance at Marc and know he must have pulled a few strings.

‘I’d like to be with Sophia while she makes her statement,’ says Marc.

‘No.’ I turn to him. ‘Please, Marc. I’d rather do it alone. I don’t want you having to hear all the details.’

Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘Sophia -’

‘Please.’

‘Okay. I’ll have Rodney bring in some coffee.’

He vanishes into the hallway.

I turn to the police officers. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

It takes nearly two hours to give my statement. The officers have so many detailed questions, and I can’t answer all of them, but I try my best. I’m surprised by how calm I sound, because inside there’s a storm going on. Thunder claps of fear. Lightning flashes of panic. Right now, I never want to leave Marc’s side again.

The officers take a DNA sample from my cheek before they leave, and snap pictures of my bruised cheek and wrist. They tell me to call them if I remember anything else.

Letting out a long breath, I relax back into the sofa, trying to let the images of what we’ve just spoken about slip away from me.

I feel Marc before I see him.

‘I’m proud of you, Sophia.’

He’s behind me, and I feel his arms come over my shoulders and around my chest.

‘It’s done now.’ I feel tears coming. ‘Over with.’

Marc’s arms tighten. ‘I can hardly live with myself for not protecting you.’

‘But you did,’ I say. ‘You saved me.’

‘I should have been cleverer than Getty. It kills me to think what could have happened to you.’

‘But it didn’t.’ I turn to him, slipping around in his arms. His eyes are cloudy. Sad.

‘I’m doubling security,’ says Marc. ‘And I’ll stay with you during your dress rehearsals and performances at the theatre. The whole time. I won’t let you o
ut of my sight.’

‘Marc, I don’t think ... the play. I don’t think I can do it. After what just happened. I’m just too afraid. You were right. I should never have taken the part. I wasn’t ready for all this ...’

My gaze is on the carpet. Marc puts a finger under my chin and very gently lifts my face so I’m looking into cloudy blue.

‘You should play the part.’ His eyes are soft
, and I see the love in them.

‘Marc, I don’t know.’

‘You were born to play that part. It’s perfect for you. I was wrong to stop you taking it. I should have helped you from the start, but ... I was afraid.’

‘You? Afraid?’

Marc smiles. ‘Terrified. Of losing you. Of losing control of you.’

‘And look what happened.’

We both smile.

‘Don’t let Getty ruin this for you. You’ve worked so hard, fought so hard. Your audience are w
aiting. I’ll help you. We have one more week. I’ll work with you. Help you get your confidence back.’ He pulls me into his chest. ‘And I’ll protect you, Sophia. Always.’

The next week is both the longest and the shortest of my life.

It’s long because Marc makes me do all sorts of training exercises with him, and arranges sessions with hypnotists and psychotherapists.

It’s short because, before I know it, opening night is here.

I find the hypnotist really helpful. She gets me to work through the logic of what happened – and how unlikely it is that it will ever happen again. And she gives me techniques to help me focus on the present moment and reduce my anxiety.

Whenever I feel anxious, I squeeze my thumb and forefinger together, and it helps me calm down. It works. Kind of.

Marc arranges for me to see my family and Jen, too. He’s so clever – he knows they’re part of what I need for my recovery. He has Jen come and hang out at the townhouse, and even arranges a family meal in an Italian restaurant for Dad,
Genoveva, Jen, Samuel and me. Marc comes too, of course, and it’s great to see him play with Sam and chat with Jen and my dad.

I’m so relieved to see Dad up and well. He’s positively glowing with health, and the doctors say he’s in great shape.

Although we’re closer than ever after what happened with Getty, Marc and I still haven’t made love since the incident. Marc treats me like a fragile little doll. He lifts me carefully into bed at night, kisses me tenderly on the forehead, then folds me in his arms and watches me until I fall asleep. But he doesn’t try to make love to me, and soon I begin to ache for that connection.

I love him so much, and I know he loves me, but until we’re together properly
, I know I’m not healed. Things aren’t right.

Anyway. Opening night is here already. And I’m scared. The thumb and forefinger is working a little, but not a lot.

Marc drives me to the theatre and parks up by the stage entrance.

‘You can do this,’ he says, pulling up the handbrake.

I nod, staring at the red stage door. There are two security guards outside, and my heart beats fast at the sight of them. I grab Marc’s hand.

‘I don’t know if I can.’

Marc turns to me, his expression serious. ‘You can. Believe me. You can. Wait there.’ He jumps out of the car and marches towards the security guards. Once he’s checked their IDs, he opens the passenger door.

My legs are shaking as my feet hit the tarmac.

I take Marc’s hand and pull him close to me.

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I promise. You’ll be okay.’

I wait in the wings, my heart beating hard in my throat. I’m holding Marc’s hand so tight that I’m pretty sure I’m leaving nail marks in his palm.

I can hear the audience murmuring behind the heavy red curtain.

Oh my god. This is really it. This is really happening. I’m about to perform in a West End musical in front of thousands of people.

I don’t know if I can do this.

I glance down at my free hand and see that it’s shaking. My knees feel so weak that I’m amazed I’m still standing.

Boom boom!

The music starts and the big, swishing red curtain begins to rise.

Oh my god, oh my god. No. I can’t do it. I can’t.

I watch the shadowy grey audience appear as the curtain goes up, up, up.

Oh Christ.

The auditorium is packed. It’s a full house.

Marc loosens his grip on my hand. ‘Time for your debut,’ he whispers.

I should be walking on stage, but I’m frozen. Completely frozen.

The curtain tune finishes, and I hear the first notes of
One True Love
, Belle’s opening number.

I try to make my legs move, but they won’t.

Breathe. Breathe.

Oh my god.

‘Sophia.’ The word is a whisper, but it sends rushes through my stomach. ‘You can do this.’

I feel Marc's heat, and turn to see his handsome profile.

‘I have stage fright.’

‘Everyone gets stage fright.’ Marc squeezes my hand. ‘The actor’s job is to overcome it. No matter what challenges they’ve faced.’

My eyes drift back to the audience. I bet some of them would be really happy if I choked and didn’t make it on stage. What a great story for the newspapers.

The newspapers.
I think of Getty. We still can’t get an update on what’s happening with him. We’re not even allowed to know if he was taken into custody, but Marc’s working on it.

No, I won’t let Getty ruin this for me. Marc’s right. I won’t let him win.