Where the Ivy Grows (#2 Bestselling Devoted Series) Read online

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. Marc gave me his credit card to go shopping. He sort of suggested Old and New Bond Street, so I guess he wants me in designer things.’

  ‘OH MY GOD!’ Jen screeches. ‘What are you doing on the phone to me? You’re wasting time! Go spend, spend, spend.’

  ‘Do you think it’s going to last? Him and me?’

  There’s a pause. ‘You are from two different worlds.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Two very different worlds. Jen, I don’t fit in here. This isn’t me. Shopping for designer clothes isn’t me.’

  ‘Did he say you had to get something designer?’

  ‘No. He just mentioned that the shops are near here.’

  ‘Did he say it like he wanted you to go to those shops?’

  I think for a moment. ‘No. But maybe he meant ... I felt like that’s what he wanted.’

  ‘Do you love him?’ Jen asks, serious now.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Or at least ...’ I think about what he said earlier. About being careful what I wish for and getting to know him better, and the woman at his house. ‘What I know of him. But perhaps there are things I don’ know.’

  ‘That’s a good start,’ says Jen. ‘Hey – do you want me to come help you find something to wear? It’s no trouble; I’m in London today anyway.’

  ‘No, no, you’re working. I’ll be fine.’

  21

  I know it sounds pathetic, but I have to really work up courage to leave the hotel room. Marc speaks the language here, but I’m a foreigner and I feel out of place.

  Staff nod at me as I head through the lobby, and I slap on a smile and murmur, ‘Hello’ as I pass them. I notice all the other guests ignore the staff, but that just feels rude to me. I may not have been brought up with much money, but I was always taught manners cost nothing.

  As I hop down the steps outside, I realise I don’t have a clue where I’m going. There’s a grey-haired doorman by the revolving door, so I ask him where Old Bond Street is.

  ‘Just over the road,’ he says, dimples appearing in his weathered cheeks. ‘Can’t miss it.’ His accent reminds me of my Grandpa Jack, and I smile.

  ‘Do you come from East London?’ I ask.

  His face breaks open into a grin. ‘Highbury. Why ... do you know the area?’

  ‘Know it?’ I smile back. ‘I used to visit Walthamstow every Christmas. My grandparents live there. We’d watch the football at Highbury.’

  ‘Oh right? Football lass, are you?’

  ‘Not really, but I used to love watching live games.’

  ‘We’ve got something in common there, then. I can’t stand the game usually, but seeing it live is different. A world away from this place, eh? The old football matches. Pie and Bovril and all the singing.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ I say.

  He reaches out a white-gloved hand. ‘Bill.’

  ‘Sophia.’ I shake his warm glove and feel at home for the first time today. ‘Really good to meet you.’

  ‘I saw you come in earlier,’ says Bill. ‘With our Mr Blackwell. He’s been good to us over the years – don’t you go believing what the papers say.’ He glances up the street. ‘Mind you, if you need any help while you’re here, you just come to me. I’ll look after you. And if that fella of yours steps out of line ...’ He raises his arm and backhands the air. ‘You just come and find me.’

  We both laugh.

  ‘Thanks Bill.’ Maybe I should practise that backhand. It looks effective.

  I cross the road and find myself at the foot of Old Bond Street – and a different world.

  22

  Okay. So I know about Gucci and Dolce and Gabbana from Sex and the City episodes, and I know celebrities wear designer labels for important events. But I’m from a small village, near a small town, and have never seen real shops selling designer clothes. Unless you count Nike as designer.

  As I walk down Old Bond Street, I’m getting an education. For a start, I’ve never seen shops with security guards outside. This is a first. And second, I’ve never seen such amazing window displays.

  I see a giant Christmas tree in one window, all sprayed white and hung with fake diamonds. Another window has hundreds of snowflakes suspended on wire around a display of party dresses. Beautiful.

  I pass a shoe shop where a lady hands out pink cocktails to shoppers. Wow. And I see diamonds and watches and handbags on sale that cost more than my dad’s cottage.

  I think of Marc’s credit card, still resting on the bedside table. I couldn’t bring myself to take it. I’m just not the sort of girl who goes charging up money on someone else’s account. I’ve got my own credit card, and I’ll pay back the balance by working, like I’ve always done. Okay, so my credit limit is only a few hundred pounds, but that’ll be enough to get something, I’m sure.

  I walk past shop after shop. As I pass different window displays, I find reasons not to go inside.

  Too smart. Not quite me. Too fancy. Too young. Too old. But the truth is, I’m not comfortable going in these designer places. I feel like the second I step over the threshold, everyone will know I don’t belong.

  Sophia, you’re being ridiculous. Just walk into a shop. This one. This one here.

  I see a window of gold shoes, white suits and sunglasses on skinny mannequins in the window. Swallowing hard, I walk inside the store.

  Where to start?

  A shop assistant walks over. She’s wearing the exact same outfit that’s displayed in the window, right down to the sunglasses. She glances down at my jeans and shoes.

  ‘Just looking?’

  ‘Oh ... um. Yes. For the moment.’ I scan the store for sale rails. Old habits die hard. There are none. Of course there aren’t. It’s the run up to Christmas.

  I see a rail of dresses and walk over to it. The assistant follows me.

  ‘This is nice,’ I say, my hand touching a fitted grey dress with silver embroidery.

  The assistant whips off her sunglasses. Her eyes look mean. ‘Just so you know, the fitting room is only for people seriously considering buying something.’

  My hand falls away from the dress.

  ‘She is seriously considering buying something,’ says a deep voice.

  Oh my god.

  I turn to see Marc, white shirt, black suit, impossibly handsome. If he stood very still, he could easily be part of the window display.

  23

  My eyes widen. ‘What are you doing here?’

  The shop assistant’s mean little eyes practically bulge out of her head. ‘You ... You’re ... Marc Blackwell. Marc Blackwell. I ... I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t sound rude. It’s just ...’

  Marc glares at her. ‘We won’t be needing any of your assistance, thank you. You can go exercise your bad manners elsewhere.’

  The assistant blinks a few times, stumbles a little on her gold high heels, mumbles, ‘Sorry’, and scuttles away.

  ‘You forgot this,’ says Marc, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his credit card.

  I’m so happy to see him. I want to fling my arms around his shoulders, but I guess it’s a little too public.

  ‘I didn’t forget it,’ I say. ‘I just ... didn’t feel right about taking it.’

  Marc frowns. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because ...’ How can I explain what I don’t understand myself? ‘It just felt wrong. That’s all.’

  ‘It felt wrong letting me look after you?’

  ‘No ... I ... I suppose it didn’t feel like you looking after me. It felt like me not being an adult.’

  ‘It wasn’t intended that way.’

  ‘I know.’ I shake my head. ‘I know you’re coming from a good place.’

  ‘Will you just take the damn card?’

  ‘Are you asking me, Mr Blackwell, or telling me?’

  ‘Asking.’ One side of Marc’s lips quirks up. ‘But don’t get used to it. It won’t become a habit.’

  ‘Oh? You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Q
uietly confident.’

  The rest of the world disappears for a moment, and it’s just Marc and me, standing together.

  ‘How did you find me?’ I ask.

  ‘Housekeeping rang to say my credit card had been left in the bedroom. So I thought I’d better come looking.’

  ‘Didn’t you have to meet someone?’

  ‘They understood I had an urgent engagement. But I have to go back to them now.’

  ‘Right.’ Who is it, who is it, who is it?

  ‘Would you like me to send someone from the hotel to help you?’ He gives that quirky smile again, leaving me weak at the knees. ‘Act as your bodyguard?’

  ‘I already have one.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘Not you,’ I say.

  Marc’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Do I have competition?’

  ‘You certainly do. She’s very good.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Yes, she. My best friend, Jen. And you’ll have to meet her approval if the two of us are going anywhere. So I guess you should meet soon.’

  ‘Oh, I’m guessing she’ll approve of me,’ says Marc. ‘Women almost always do.’

  I laugh. I guess he’s allowed to be a little arrogant about the effect he has on women.

  He rests his forearms on my shoulders, and I smell that gorgeous, soft, musky woody smell that comes from his body. Like sweet pine after the rain. It almost makes me swoon, and I have to consciously think about my knees to keep them straight.

  ‘I have to go now,’ says Marc, his voice as deep as a well. ‘But I’ll be back before the studio session. And when I am, I’d love to meet this bodyguard of yours.’

  I inhale again, breathing him into me. ‘I’ll call her right now.’

  24

  Jen and I meet outside Vivienne Westwood on Conduit Street. She’s carrying two Starbucks in paper cups as she hurries towards me, and she’s dressed in a sharp grey trouser suit and fawn coloured coat.

  ‘I knew I should have come earlier,’ she calls, making fast clicks with her high heels. She hands me a Starbucks and pulls me into a one-armed hug. ‘Shopping fuel,’ she says, nodding at the cups. I can smell mine is hot chocolate and see cream melting through the sipping hole.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get you some shoes.’ Jen drags me into Vivienne Westwood by the elbow, and I smile at being on the familiar Jen shopping train, charging along at one hundred miles an hour.

  I’m guessing takeaway drinks aren’t technically allowed in the store, but no one would argue with Jen in bulldog mode. She steams into the shop like she owns the place and starts talking to the assistants in designer clothing speak.

  ‘What cut would you say this is? Isn’t this a lot like the summer season you did back in 1998? I’d call this nude, wouldn’t you?’

  It’s a different language, and I watch in awe as she talks about seasons, colours, 80’s comeback collections and ‘occasion’ wear.

  She packs me off to the fitting room with three stunning, amazing outfits that look like works of art, and has an assistant hold my coffee while I change.

  The third outfit I try on is the winner. It’s a bright-blue fitted dress in thick fabric with little black leather ‘Z’ shapes sewn all over it. It’s dressy but daytime dressy, and fits me like a glove. It sucks my waist in an extra inch too, and the detail around the bust makes me look bigger. All good.

  We team it with black ankle boots covered in buckles, and we’re done.

  I slip my cashmere coat over the whole outfit, and I feel good. Really good. Like I fit in on Bond Street. Or, at least, I can hold my head up high.

  ‘Marc wants to meet you,’ I tell Jen as we leave the store, arm in arm. My jeans and shoes are stuffed into a Vivienne Westwood bag, and they look marked and dirty now I’ve got my new clothes on.

  ‘I want to meet him too,’ says Jen, her voice steely. ‘After what was printed this morning, I need to have some serious words about his PR team.’

  ‘The newspapers,’ I say, stopping. ‘I haven’t even seen them yet. What did they say?’

  ‘They’re ... not too bad,’ says Jen, but I’ve known her long enough to tell when she’s doing a PR spin. ‘I have them with me. Take me back to your hotel, and you can read them yourself.’

  25

  The papers aren’t good. Actually, that’s an understatement. They’re nasty. Most of them seem to have gone for the ‘slutty student seduces her teacher’ angle, and talk about me like I’m some crazed nymphomaniac who won’t leave Marc alone.

  Jen and I are in my suite at the Carlo, sitting on the living area carpet with newspaper pages everywhere.

  When we arrived, a butler brought us up afternoon tea, ‘Courtesy of Mr Blackwell’, but we’re not paying much attention to the tiered silver tray of scones, sandwiches and pastries. The newspapers are our focus.

  As I read the Daily News story, I find myself blinking in shock.

  ‘Oh my god. Jen, have you read this? They’ve interviewed someone from my college.’

  ‘Where?’ Jen leans over my shoulder and reads the headline and the first paragraph. ‘Marc’s Sexy Student. Sultry student, Sophia Rose, has bedded one of Hollywood’s hottest bachelors.’ She gives a little laugh, but then she frowns as she reads on. ‘Who’s Cecile?’

  ‘She’s on the same course as me,’ I say.’ I can’t believe she’s saying all this rubbish.’

  Under the headline, there’s a picture of me from my audition cards looking all doe eyed. I cringe. I guess they must have got that photo from my old university website. The shot of Marc and me, to my relief, is very grainy and fuzzy.

  We both look startled, but there’s no body language between us – nothing that would suggest we’re an item. For all anyone knows, Marc could be paying an innocent visit to a student’s home. That’s if Cecile hadn’t given an interview.

  I read the article again, my teeth gritted.

  ‘Sophia was after Marc from the moment she arrived at college,’ says fellow student, Cecile Jefferson. ‘She didn’t care about the course. Only meeting the famous Marc Blackwell. She did everything she could to get his attention, hanging around after classes when everyone had left.’

  Thanks a lot, Cecile. You’ve given the gossip mill plenty to be getting on with.

  ‘I can’t believe she did that,’ I say. ‘It’s all so untrue.’

  Then I see the journalist who covered the story. Giles Getty. No wonder he was at the college gates this morning.

  ‘She’d better pray I never get a hold of her,’ says Jen, reading the paper over my shoulder. ‘Slandering my friend like that. Does she even know you? Have you ever met?’

  ‘A few times,’ I admit. ‘She fancies Marc. That’s all it is. She’s just jealous.’

  ‘Soph, you’ve got to toughen up. This isn’t campus gossip, it’s a national newspaper. She’s spreading bullshit about you to the whole of the UK.’

  I sigh. ‘But what can I do about it, Jen?’

  ‘Well, for a start, you can get a decent PR firm behind you.’

  ‘Really?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Know any decent PRs?’

  We both laugh.

  ‘But seriously, Soph.’ Jen crosses her arms. ‘They shouldn’t have let the papers print this stuff. Marc needs to find someone better. I’m not saying use me. But someone better.’

  I think about that. ‘I’ll talk to Marc.’

  ‘When do I get to meet Prince Charming, anyway?’

  ‘Any minute now.’ I glance at the carriage clock on the mantel piece. It’s dwarfed by the giant vase of roses. ‘He said he’d be here at two.’

  As if on cue, the clock chimes 2pm, and the front door opens. I know it’s Marc without looking. Trust him to arrive exactly on time.

  26

  ‘Sophia?’ he calls, and I sense an urgency in his voice.

  ‘In here,’ I reply.

  Marc strides into the living area and looks visibly relieved to see me. ‘I’m glad you got back safe.’

  He
kisses me on the forehead.

  ‘I wasn’t in the wilds of Africa,’ I say, smiling. ‘I only went across the street.’

  He notices Jen and strides forward, his hand out. ‘You must be the best friend I’ve heard so much about. Pleased to meet you. Sorry it has to be under these circumstances.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Jen, shaking his hand. ‘I read the papers this morning. Not the best of starts for you two.’

  ‘It’s being dealt with.’

  Jen and I look at each other, and I can see her trying to work out whether to bash his PR team now or later.

  ‘Did your team have a damage limitation plan in place?’ Jen asks.

  ‘Yes,’ Marc replies. ‘But they didn’t go in strong enough. I had words with them this morning. They’ll go in stronger next time.’ He pours himself black coffee from a silver flask that came with the afternoon tea.

  Jen clears her throat. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little late to go in strong? Post publication? If it had been me, I’d have pinned the papers down right away. I wouldn’t have let them get away with what happened this morning.’

  Marc turns to her and raises an eyebrow. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or not, but if he is, there’ll be fireworks. Jen isn’t one to back down.

  ‘Oh? And what would you have done to stop those stories?’

  ‘Threatened legal action. Pulled in some favours. Bargained to make the story more favourable. It looks to me like the papers ran exactly what they liked. There was no pressure on them. Nothing to stop them.’

  ‘Jen’s in PR,’ I explain.

  Marc takes a seat on an armchair opposite us and sips his coffee. He’s relaxed. In control. The suave businessman.

  ‘You’re saying my team should have blackmailed the press into running a better story?’

  Jen gives a tight smile. ‘Not blackmailed. Bargained. Offered something in return for a favourable report.’

  ‘Something?’

  ‘More photographs, but ones that show you favourably. Or an exclusive interview.’

  Marc’s lips push out into a thoughtful pout. God, he’s sexy. Even when he’s frowning, my body responds to him.