Where the Ivy Grows (#2 Bestselling Devoted Series) Page 8

  ‘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.

  31

  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 appears 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.’

  32

  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.

  33

  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 concre
te.

  ‘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. Just 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.

  34

  ‘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.

  Her eyes are watery blue and pale, and there are worry wrinkles around her eyes.

  She starts to cry when she sees Marc – deep, wracking sobs that shake her skinny chest.

  ‘Marc. Oh Marc. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

  He goes to her, and she flings her arms around his waist. ‘I told them where you were, Marc. I didn’t mean to. They phoned. They pretended to be from the college. I told them where you were. Where you were going.’

  She looks up and notices me.

  ‘Oh! You must be Sophia.’ She tries for a smile. ‘I’m so sorry. What a mess.’

  Marc turns to me.

  ‘Sophia,’ he says gently. ‘This is my sister. Annabel.’

  I think of the family photo in Marc’s box upstairs, and the young brown-haired girl in the picture. This woman looks more than a little like that young girl. But the names on the back of that photo were Joan, Mike, Marc and Emily. No Annabel. Does Marc have another sister?

  Annabel pulls herself free and pushes hair back from her face. I see a long red and purple bruise down her left cheek, by her ear.

  Marc notices it too and crouches down, taking her chin in his hand.

  ‘If that doesn’t heal up soon, I’m calling the doctor.’

  She turns away.

  ‘You have to leave him for good this time,’ Marc says. ‘Do you understand me? You can’t go back. I don’t care if he says he’ll marry you. You have to think of your son.’

  ‘I know. I know, Marc.’

  She pulls herself from the stool.

  ‘Sophia, I’m so sorry.’ Her legs look barely able to hold her weight. ‘I so wanted to be well and healthy when I met you, but ... I’m a wreck again.’

  ‘It’s fine, really.’ She’s so frail that I want to take care of her. Wrap her in warm clothes and feed her up.

  As she walks towards me, hand out to shake mine, she stumbles a little.

  I leap forward, and Marc does too. We both grab her, me around her rib cage, Marc by the shoulders.

  ‘You need to rest,’ says Marc.

  ‘You need to eat,’ I say, helping her back onto the stool. ‘Let me make you some soup.’

  ‘No, please.’ Annabel shakes her head. ‘Honestly, what must you think of me? I so wanted to make a good impression on you.’ She glances at Marc and manages a weak smile. ‘The girl who has my brother head over heels.’

  ‘Let me fix you something,’ I say, making sure she has a firm seat on the stool. ‘Tea at least. Or hot Bovril.’

  I go to the fridge and see its chock full of gourmet stuff – potted crab, sides of ham, smoked salmon and a basket of exotic fruit tied with ribbons.

  ‘Do you have any chicken soup?’ I ask Marc.

  He comes to my shoulder and looks into the fridge. ‘Rodney stocked up in case Annabel felt like eating. I don’t know if chicken soup was on his radar.’

  ‘Do you think you could manage some soup?’ I ask Annabel.

  ‘I can try.’ Annabel gives Marc the tiniest of smiles. ‘She’s beautiful, Marc. Just like you said. Inside and out. I can see why you like her.’

  I feel a smile in my stomach and glance at Marc, but he’s giving nothing away, so I open and close cupboards, looking for hearty, warming foods – the sort you want when you’re ill and
shaky. I don’t know what’s wrong with Annabel, but chicken soup helps most things.

  There’s nothing in the cupboards but gourmet spreads, exotic spices, speciality flours and warm champagne.

  I go back to the fridge and find a packet of Harrods roasted chicken legs and some fresh tarragon. There are odd bits of vegetable in the fridge door – a bunch of carrots with big leafy stems, a Savoy cabbage and a packet of Jersey Royal potatoes.

  I rummage in the cupboard for flour, noticing Marc watching me, a half smile on his face.

  ‘Chicken soup,’ I say, taking down a knife and chopping vegetables on a marble board. ‘And I’ll bake some soda bread too.’

  35

  Thanks to Rodney’s organisation, the kitchen is easy to use, and I soon have a pan of soup boiling on the stove and soda bread baking in the oven.

  When I serve Annabel her bowl of soup, she takes a spoonful and smiles.

  ‘Mmm,’ she says. ‘I haven’t had anything like this in a long time.’ She looks at Marc. ‘I’ll bet you haven’t either. A home-cooked meal.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ says Marc. ‘Sophia cooked me a meal just the other day. At her father’s house.’

  ‘If it was as delicious as this, you were lucky,’ says Annabel.

  ‘It was sublime.’

  I blush when Marc says that. He’s probably eaten at some of the world’s best restaurants, but still he enjoyed my cooking.

  ‘Do you think you could manage some bread?’ I ask Annabel, stooping to check my little loaf in the oven.

  ‘It smells so good,’ says Annabel. ‘I’d love some.’

  I take the loaf from the oven and cut a little slice for Annabel. I don’t butter it –that might be a step too far – but she seems happy to dip it into her soup.

  There’s colour in her cheeks now, and she’s sitting up much straighter.

  ‘What must you think of me, Sophia?’ she says, scraping her spoon on the bottom of the bowl. ‘A grown woman, a wreck like this.’

  I think about what Jen told me, before I started Ivy College. About Marc’s sister being a heroin addict. I don’t care if she is. I don’t judge people. But I wonder how Giles Getty is involved in all this.