by Suzy K Quinn
‘No.’
‘So where are you going to live? Your university doesn’t have any accommodation for postgraduate students, does it?’
‘The place isn’t at my university,’ I say. ‘It’s at a college in London.’ I look into my tea, and see a grey teabag bobbing in brown water. ‘I just applied on a whim, actually. It was my tutor’s idea. I didn’t take it seriously at all. I never thought for a moment I’d be accepted.’
Dad nods sadly. ‘London’s a little too far for you to come back at weekends, isn’t it?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s only a few hours away. I can come back all the time.’
‘It sounds like you’ve already decided to accept, then,’ says Dad, with a gentle smile.
‘I have. It’s an amazing opportunity. Thousands of people applied. And I’m pretty sure Jen will kill me if I don’t take it.’ I smile.
‘She’s a good friend to you, that Jen.’ Dad takes a sip of tea. ‘Don’t worry about me, Soph. I don’t want you worrying about me at all. You go and enjoy yourself. Tell me about this college.’
‘It’s called Ivy College,’ I say. ‘It’s owned by a famous actor. Marc Blackwell. He teaches some of the classes.’
‘I’ve heard of him.’ Dad clicks his fingers. ‘From that film ... what was it ... the wheelchair one. He plays a basketball player in a wheelchair.’
‘The Windmills of Your Mind,’ I fill in. ‘He won an Oscar for that part.’
‘So is he in a wheelchair, then?’
I smile. ‘No, Dad, he’s an actor. He was just playing the role. He’s able bodied. So able bodied, in fact, that they wanted him to play James Bond a few years back, but he turned it down.’
‘James Bond!’ Dad’s eyes light up. ‘You’re going to be taught by James Bond?’
‘He turned the part down.’
‘Why on earth would he do that?’
I shrug. ‘I guess he thought the role wasn’t right for him. He doesn’t do much mainstream stuff.’
Dad puts his tea down and throws his arms around me. ‘I’m so proud of you, petal. Truly. You’re the best daughter any dad could hope for. You go knock ‘em dead at this place.’
Chapter 8
It’s the night before I’m due to head to London, and Jen has invited me round for what she’s calling ‘the last supper’. She has some news for me, apparently. Some good news. And also hot chocolate, brandy, marshmallows and popcorn. Hopefully she’ll serve the popcorn separately, but with Jen you never know.
I buzz her intercom three times – our secret signal – and she releases the door mechanism to her apartment block. I call her apartment the big brother house, because there are cameras everywhere. She lives in one of those brand new glass and metal blocks that are built like fortresses.
When Jen left sixth form, she didn’t bother with university. Instead, she got a well-paying job in PR, and moved into this place. Her dad was furious, but Jen is always her own person. Her plan is to have her own PR agency one day.
I tried to grow some things on Jen’s glass balcony so she’d have something of a garden, but they all died. Jen has many talents, but she’s not green fingered.
I’m a little sad as I reach Jen’s blonde-wood front door. The thought of leaving her makes me feel homesick. We’ve known each other long enough to practically be sisters, and shared everything. First sips of cider in the park, first crushes, first kisses, first boyfriends ... everything.
Before I can knock on the door, she pulls it open.
‘Soph! Have I got news for you.’ She drags me inside. ‘Oh! You brought wine. Goody. Shall we have it as our starter?’
We both giggle.
Her apartment is huge, with a breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the lounge. Big glass windows look out over our local park, and Jen says that’s better than having a real garden. If it’s not hers, she can’t kill it.
Jen opens the wine with a pop, and nods towards the coffee table, where there is a pile of DVDs. ‘Can you guess what my news is?’
‘Something about Marc Blackwell,’ I say slowly.
I pick up the first DVD. It’s Through a Stranger’s Eyes, an arty film that never quite made it mainstream, but received plenty of critical acclaim. I turn it over, and see the handsome, teenage face of Marc Blackwell on the back. ‘He looks so young,’ I say. ‘This must have been the first film he ever starred in.’
‘Actually not the first film he starred in,’ says Jen, pouring wine into shiny crystal glasses. ‘He starred in some as a child. He was in adverts too. He had a very pushy dad who decided from a young age that Marc was going to be a star.’
‘A pushy Dad?’ I say.
Jen nods. ‘Wait until you hear what else I found out about him.’
‘What?’
‘I got my firm to do a little digging,’ says Jen. ‘And apparently, he’s very protective of the people he cares about – the few of them there are.’
‘Oh?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘And who are they?’
‘He doesn’t get on with his father, and his mother passed away. But he has a sister, and he’s also very close to a lady called Denise Crompton.’
‘His mother passed away?’ I murmur, thinking how cold he was in the audition. ‘Maybe that’s why he isn’t the warmest of people.’
‘What rubbish.’ Jen shakes her head. ‘You lost your mum, and you’re one of the warmest people you could ever meet.’
‘It opened me up, in a way,’ I say. ‘Losing her. But I guess it can go the other way, too. It could close you down.’ I swallow. ‘Denise Crompton – she was at my audition. She works at the college, too.’ I sit on the sofa. ‘And you say he’s very protective of her?’
‘Very.’ Jen nods. ‘He’s been known to have serious words with any paparazzi that bother her. And his sister, too. She has a drug problem, apparently. And a young son. He gives her money, but it all goes on heroin. The rumour mill says he punched out her boyfriend once, but paid him off so he didn’t go to the press.’
‘It’s so weird to think I’ll be in a classroom with him.’ I sink down onto the sofa. ‘He’s so ...’
‘Hot,’ Jen finishes. ‘What did he look like when you met him?’
‘Different from on screen,’ I say. ‘I mean, on screen he’s amazing. The way he moves, the way he becomes the roles. And all the emotion that comes from him. But in real life, he’s just ... I was mesmerised. Not just because he’s handsome. Which he is. Sort of, quirky handsome. All white skin and dark shadows. But there was something about his eyes. They were so strong. Like nothing could get to him.’
‘But beautiful, right?’
I think about Marc in his crisp, black shirt, holding me with his eyes. ‘I guess that’s a fair word to use.’
‘How will you learn anything? You’ll spend the whole time just gazing at his face.’
I laugh. ‘He’s a brilliant actor. I mean, he’s just amazing. He becomes the parts.’
‘That’s because he’s messed up,’ says Jen. ‘The best actors always are.’ She raises her eyebrow at me. ‘Maybe all actors are.’ We both laugh.
‘Maybe he’s not so messed up,’ I say, feeling chills go up my arms. ‘I mean, being protective of his sister, and Denise. That sounds nice.’
‘You always try to see the good in everyone,’ says Jen, with a smile. ‘Save your opinion until I tell you what else I found out.’
‘Which is?’
‘He’s never publically had a relationship for more than a few weeks. And no girl he’s been with ever goes to the press, which is strange. He’s been pictured with plenty of girls. Plenty. But none of them last long.’
‘Maybe he treats them well, and they have no reason to sell a story on him.’ I pick up the next film. ‘I love this one. Vietnam Bride.’
Jen hands me a glass of wine. ‘Let’s watch it.’
When Jen and I watch DVDs, we hardly ever really watch them. We talk the whole way through. But this time, we’re both silent as Marc Blac
kwell’s face appears on screen, tanned, sweaty and dirt-marked.
He’s only sixteen in the movie, and his blue eyes are just as emotionally intense, but ... different. There’s an openness and softness to his expression that I didn’t see at the audition.
‘He looks so cute there, doesn’t he?’ says Jen.
I watch Marc struggling to load a gun on screen, his young hands dropping the bullets. His cheekbones are fatter than when I met him. Less angular.
‘Never held down a relationship for more than a few weeks,’ I repeat, watching Marc’s handsome face, brow furrowed over blue eyes, giving the most intense, amazing performance. He’s full of warmth and life, and I find my gaze drifting to the DVDs that feature Marc as an adult. I realise that, as an adult, Marc has only played cold, hard roles. Action heroes. Men with terrible pasts.
‘I wonder what happened to him,’ I say, watching the young Marc, ‘to make him so cold.’
‘Like I said,’ says Jen. ‘His childhood messed him up. His dad sounds like a monster.’
‘I guess.’
‘He’s hard to take your eyes off,’ says Jen, drinking her wine. ‘Just think, you’ll be looking into those eyes for real tomorrow.’
‘I doubt it.’ I sip my wine. ‘Tomorrow is settling-in day. It’s just a chance for us to move our things into our rooms. Classes start the day after.’ I put my head in my hands. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. It’s nerve wracking, you know? I mean – look at him.’ I gesture to the screen. ‘He’s such an amazing actor. What if I’m not good enough?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s seen you audition. He knows you can act.’
‘He’s seen me audition,’ I say, feeling the words more keenly than ever. ‘Marc Blackwell has seen me audition. That’s ... just so weird.’
‘And he liked what he saw.’
My hands are shaking as I put the wine back down on the table. ‘God, this is intense,’ I say.
‘Are you packed?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re all set. I’ll drive you down tomorrow afternoon, and help you unpack. I can’t wait to see the college. It sounds amazing.’
Chapter 9
After spending half an hour getting lost around London’s one-way system, Jen and I finally find the signs for Ivy College, and follow them until we reach the leafy grounds.
When Jen sees red bricks, curvy turrets and acres of lawn, she gives a little shriek. ‘Look at this place. It’s huge. Who’d have thought they could stuff all this into Central London? You’d think they’d have built a load of shops and apartments on this space by now.’
Jen drives through the open gates, and onto a gravel path that leads through beautiful manicured grounds. ‘I can’t believe it, Soph. This place is like a palace.’
‘A secret castle, more like,’ I say, pointing to the turrets. With mysterious woodlands, and maybe even a monster.
‘Good job you don’t have many bags with you,’ says Jen. ‘Because it looks like there are a lot of stairs.’
We follow a sign that says, ‘accommodation block’, and I see a gangly young man with bright blonde hair carrying suitcases out of a green Jaguar.
Jen pulls into a parking space, and we get out of the car.
‘This must be where my room is,’ I say, taking my rucksack from the boot and strapping it to my back. I pick up the box with my mum’s things in it, balancing a few fresh potted herbs I’ve grown from cuttings on top.
‘I can’t believe that’s all you have,’ says Jen, taking the box and herbs from me. ‘No hair dryer. No iron. Lucky you’re pretty enough to carry off the crumpled look.’
I smile at her, but inside my stomach is turning somersaults. The building is beautiful. All the windows are arched, like castle windows, and they’re mounted in handsome red brick.
The gangly man comes past us, but he doesn’t look at me or say hello. He just takes another suitcase from his car and goes back into the building.
‘I guess he must be another student,’ I say.
‘Nice he’s so friendly,’ says Jen.
‘He’s probably nervous,’ I whisper. ‘I am too.’
We walk into the building, and there’s a reception area manned by a short, plump lady. She has grey hair and a few missing teeth, but a very friendly smile.
‘Can I help you ladies?’ she asks, her voice full of warmth.
‘I’m a new student,’ I say. ‘Sophia. Really nice to meet you.’
‘Wendy.’ The woman shakes my hand. ‘I’ve got you down right here. You’re on the very top floor. The turret room. It’s the nicest, I think. Certainly the biggest.’ She hands me a big, silver key with a black fob.
She glances at Jen. ‘I’m so sorry, but your friend can’t stay. It’s one of the rules. We think it helps everyone get to know each other quicker.’
I turn to Jen. She puts the box down and we give each other the longest hug.
‘Take care, Soph. Ring me as soon as you’re unpacked.’
‘I will. Ring me to say you’re home safe.’
I watch her drive away, then pick up my box.
‘You can take the lift, if you like,’ says Wendy, pointing down a long corridor that smells of new carpet and looks light and warm.
‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but I haven’t got much to carry. I’ll let the students with lots of luggage use it. Anyway, I’ve been in the car for hours. I could do with the exercise.’
I head towards a stone archway, and follow a spiral staircase up to the first floor. I see the tall, blonde student heading back out of his room, towards the lift.
‘Hi.’ I wave. He ducks his head and hits the lift button. I walk towards him. ‘I’m Sophia.’
‘Ryan,’ says the student, and up close I see nervous lines around his eyes. He can’t quite make eye contact, but I give him a big smile anyway. I can understand him being uncertain. Perhaps he was the first one to arrive.
‘Good to meet you, Ryan.’
‘You too,’ he says. Then he scurries into the lift.
I head back to the stairs, up, up to the fourth floor. By the time I reach it, I’m out of breath.
No more doughnuts for you, Soph.
The door is arched oak, and studded with wrought iron. Pushing my box under my arm, I slot my key into the lock and open up my new room.
I can’t believe it.
The room is amazing. Huge, beautiful and amazing. There must have been a mistake. It looks like a hotel suite.
The room is round, with a huge double bed against one of the walls, and a brand new wet room en suite built into one of the curves. There’s a balcony with French windows opening out onto it, and a fireplace that looks like it might be fully functioning.
The view from the French windows is stunning. I look out over gorgeous green grounds, and see the historic buildings of London in the distance.
Wow.
I put my rucksack in the big wardrobe, and it looks lost. Mum’s box goes under the bed, as usual, but not before I’ve taken out framed photographs of her and arranged them along a window sill. I face the pictures outwards, so she can see the gardens outside.
There’s a small, neat kitchen area with a kettle and fridge, but no cooker. I’ll guess I’ll be eating in the college meal hall from now on, and other people will cook for me. Which is a weird thought.
A huge bunch of red and white roses sit on a table by the window, a card propped beside them. The card pictures the Old Vic, and when I turn it over I blink in surprise.
The card is from Marc Blackwell.
It reads:
‘Dear Sophia, you’re an extremely talented actress and I’m looking forward to working with you in the coming months.’
I put the card down. He seemed so cold at the audition, but this is such a thoughtful gesture. So considerate.
Excitement rushes through my body as I remember he’ll be teaching me. I hadn’t really given myself a chance to think it through before, but Jen is right – I’ll be sitting
inches away from one of the best, most creative actors I’ve ever seen on screen.
I see more cars pull into the car park below, and decide to head down and meet my fellow students.
As I run down the stairs, I bump into Ryan again, who’s carrying yet another suitcase.
‘Did Marc leave a gift in your room?’ Ryan asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Flowers. And a card. Really thoughtful. I thought he was sort of arrogant in the audition, but maybe I got it wrong.’
‘I got aftershave,’ says Ryan.
‘How’s your back after carrying all those suitcases?’ I joke. But Ryan doesn’t laugh.
‘What did your card say?’ Ryan’s forehead crinkles.
‘Um. Something nice about my acting. He said I was a talented actress. And that he was looking forward to working with me.’
‘What?’ He throws his suitcase onto the step with a bang. ‘Why would he say that about someone like you?’
‘Someone like me?’
‘Forget it. Never mind.’
I look at him for a long time, daring him to expand on whatever he meant. But his face clouds over, and I can see I’m getting nowhere.
‘Yes, let’s forget it,’ I say, hurrying down the stairs. I hope the rest of the students aren’t so snappy and unfriendly.
At the bottom of the steps I see a girl with glorious, long red hair, and square, black glasses on her white nose. She’s wearing a black blazer over jeans, and grins as she looks around the entranceway.
She’s standing by a man in a wheelchair who wears a black Robin Hood style hat with yellow feathers in it. The man is a little chubby, and his bright pink shirt stretches around his middle. On the back of his wheelchair is a sticker that says: ‘At least I always get a seat’.
They’re both talking to Wendy at the reception desk.
‘I’ll get your keys,’ Wendy says.
