by Suzy K Quinn
‘I want you to press your breasts against the window,’ says Marc.
‘What?’
‘Do as you’re told, Sophia.’
‘But everyone will see -’
‘No one can see a thing. It just feels that way.’
Reluctantly, I lean forwards and press my chest against the cold glass. It’s freezing, and goose bumps instantly cover my breasts and arms.
I feel Marc part my legs, and see a condom packet fall onto the couch.
‘What are you doing?’ I whisper.
I hear him unfasten his trousers, and feel his long fingers on the insides of my thighs, pushing my legs even further apart.
He edges forward, and I feel him against me.
He slides a little inside of me, and I moan as I feel his fullness.
A little at a time he inches in, until I’m trapped by him, squashed firmly against the glass.
He begins to move back and forth.
‘Don’t stop,’ I hear myself say, and his strokes go further and further inside
Marc reaches around and begins to stroke, slow at first, and then faster.
‘Oh,’ I moan, as the car reaches the end of Oxford Street.
‘Do you want me to stop?’
‘No,’ I say.
He moves harder against me, pressing me up against the cold glass. He’s merciless, holding me tight, thrusting deeper and deeper until I’m only dimly aware of all the shoppers outside the car window.
Just as I’m about to come, Marc whispers, ‘What if I told you everyone out there could see you?’
‘I don’t care,’ I hear myself say. ‘I don’t care if they can see me. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.’
Marc wraps his arm around my stomach and pulls himself further inside.
I cry out with pleasure, and come just as we drive past Marble Arch. Waves of pleasure run all over me, and over where Marc is inside of me, still hard. He pulls himself free, and I collapse onto the leather sofa.
Marc pulls his trousers back on, then rubs at my cold breasts until the circulation comes back. He helps me into my clothes.
When I’m fully dressed, I sit on the couch, looking out of the window. Eventually, I say, ‘You lied to me.’
Marc shakes his head. ‘I didn’t lie to you.’
‘You did. You told me no one could see. Then you made me feel like they could. Just asI was at my most vulnerable. Stop the car. I want to get out.’
‘If you want to get out, at least let me drive you back to the college. But listen to me. No one could see you, Sophia. I told you that from the start.’
‘You made me feel like maybe they could. Just when I was about to come.’
‘It was good for you. Believe me. Imagine how you’ll feel about playing a seductive role now.’
I think about it. Compared to thinking the whole of Oxford Street could see me just now, playing someone like Jennifer feels like far less of a problem.
‘I still didn’t like you doing that,’ I say. ‘I felt tricked. You manipulated me. Telling me that when I was so vulnerable.’
‘Vulnerable?’ Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that what you call it?’
‘When I couldn’t say no.’
‘You could have said no,’ says Marc. ‘At any time. But you didn’t want to. If you don’t have any self control, perhaps we need another lesson in that area.’
I think of the ropes and the stationery cupboard, and shiver. At the time, it was torturous, but now every time I think about it, I feel hot and cold all over.
I wish he would put his arm around me or hold my hand. Or kiss me. I want to sit beside him, but some instinct tells me not to. I take a long drink of gin and tonic.
‘What’s wrong?’ Marc asks, stretching out his long arms along the leather couch.
Chapter 47
‘Maybe I want to go back to the college,’ I say, still angry with him for humiliating me.
‘Fine,’ says Marc. ‘Say the word, and I’ll turn the car around and take you back to the college. Or if you’d prefer, I’ll have a taxi called out for you. Whatever you want.’
‘You hurt me,’ I say, feeling tears under my eyes.
Lines of concern appear above Marc’s nose. He leans forward. ‘I hurt you just then? In a way you didn’t like?’
I think about it. ‘I feel humiliated,’ I say. ‘So, on an emotional level, yes. You did hurt me.’
‘Embarrassment isn’t the same as hurt,’ says Marc, and his voice is almost gentle. ‘Embarrassment is a block. It stops you from truly letting go. Look. We’ll have dinner. That’s all, okay? Until you’re ready for more. I give you my word, that’s all we’ll do tonight.’
I think about that for a moment. ‘Okay.’ I can manage dinner, although I’m still feeling vulnerable and raw.
‘Will you hurt me, though?’ I ask, looking right at him. ‘Eventually?’
‘No,’ says Marc.
‘I think you might,’ I say, looking out of the window.
‘Oh, Sophia, how wrong you are,’ says Marc. ‘It’s me who’ll get hurt. I’ve known that all along.’
We sit in silence as the limo drives down long, wide streets of three-storey town houses. There are large oak trees lining the pavements.
‘Do you know where we are?’ Marc asks.
I shake my head.
‘Richmond,’ he says. ‘My favourite part of London.’
I see the steel gates on one of the houses swing open, and the limo drives down a slope and into a huge garage under the house.
I hear the scuffle of feet on concrete, and then the driver opens the door nearest me.
‘After you,’ says Marc, helping me out of the limo.
I can’t bear to look at the driver. Does he know what just happened in the back of the car? I don’t even want to think about it.
Fortunately, the driver doesn’t hang around. He says a quick word to Marc about coming back later, then disappears through a back door.
Marc leads me past five extremely shiny cars, all of them probably very expensive. I know nothing about cars, but I notice one is wasp yellow and open-topped, with square corners that look like they could cut someone. The car doesn’t suit Marc at all, and I wonder if it belongs to him.
‘Is that car yours?’ I ask.
Marc stops walking and looks at me. ‘No,’ he says slowly. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘It doesn’t feel like you,’ I say.
‘Feel like me?’
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘That car over there -’ I point to a beige Rolls Royce. ‘That feels like you. So does that one.’ I point to a black Jaguar. ‘So who does this yellow car belong to?’
‘It was my father’s,’ says Marc, mounting a set of stone steps and opening a creaking wooden door.
‘Your father’s? I thought ... I thought you and your father didn’t get along.’
‘We don’t.’
‘So why -’
‘Keep your enemies close, isn’t that what they say?’ Marc doesn’t look at me when he says that, and I get the feeling there’s more to that car than he’s letting on. ‘Follow me.’
I follow him, and find myself in the entrance hall of his town house. The floor is white marble, and the staircase is fitted with deep, red carpet.
It’s grand, but it feels a little empty. There are no plants. I always think plants bring a place to life. Along the wall are pictures of historic London buildings – Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, St Paul’s Cathedral and of course, Ivy College.
‘You like London,’ I say.
‘I love London,’ he replies. ‘I feel at home here. The buildings, the history. It’s astonishing to me, after spending so much time in LA, that buildings can stay in one place for hundreds of years. I love to look at them.’ He pauses by the picture of Ivy College. ‘Rooted to the spot. For so long. I imagine that’s why you like plants so much.’
I smile. ‘I like plants because they’re alive, and they respond to you. You can care for them, nurt
ure them. How often do you stay here?’
‘Whenever I’m in London,’ says Marc.
‘It’s beautiful, but it doesn’t feel lived in,’ I say. ‘I guess you must be out a lot.’
‘Actually, since I formed the college, I’d say quite the contrary,’ says Marc. ‘Especially this year.’ He looks at me. ‘I’ve had a lot to think about, and I’d rather do that alone.’
‘Mr Blackwell, is that you?’ I hear footsteps on marble. A slim man in a pink jumper, white trousers and flowery apron comes into the entrance hall. He has short red hair and is my father’s age.
‘Ah. Rodney. Please meet my guest, Miss Rose. Miss Rose, this is Rodney, my house manager.’
‘I heard the car,’ says Rodney. ‘I’ve got your meal all laid out on the roof terrace. You go on up.’ He looks at me. ‘Don’t worry.’ He winks. ‘His bark’s worse than his bite. He scared the life out of me when I first started working for him, but he’s a big softy at heart.’
To my amazement, he gives Marc an affectionate slap on the shoulder.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow to clean everything up. You two have a nice evening.’
Rodney disappears through the huge front door, which takes him some effort to open and close.
‘We’ll take the elevator,’ says Marc, leading me to a set of gold doors by the staircase.
‘But I’d like to see your house,’ I say.
‘Maybe another time,’ says Marc. ‘Right now, dinner.’
Chapter 48
We take the elevator up four floors, and it opens right out on the roof terrace.
‘Wow,’ I say, seeing the bright lights of London spread below us. There are so many pretty slate roof tops and chimneys, I feel like I’m in Mary Poppins.
The view is amazing, but the roof terrace has no plants or life, only a smoky grey floor and gold railings. There’s a sheltered area with a sink, fridge and barbeque. I see lobster smoking on the grill.
There is a large wooden table laid with white plates and gleaming gold cutlery. The chairs are wooden too, but topped with plump red cushions. Champagne sits in a gold ice bucket on the table. Two tall, red candles flicker in the breeze.
‘Everything’s gold and red,’ I say.
‘I like red,’ says Marc, leading me to the table. ‘It’s strong. Gold – that was my house manager’s idea. Apparently it goes with red. Personally, I like black better. Take a seat.’
I sit down and look over the rooftops. It’s chilly, and I shiver.
‘I thought you might be cold up here,’ says Marc. ‘So I asked Rodney to buy you a coat. I never noticed you wearing one on campus.’
‘I haven’t had a chance to buy a winter coat yet,’ I admit.
‘Well, maybe you’ll like this one,’ says Marc, going to the sheltered area, and retrieving a large square parcel wrapped in tissue paper and pink ribbon.
‘I ... thank you,’ I say. ‘That’s very kind of you. Aren’t you cold?’ I look at his bare, muscular arms in his black t-shirt. They’re pale in the crisp autumn air.
‘I don’t feel the cold.’
I carefully tear open the tissue, and find a black, cashmere coat inside. I don’t recognise where it’s from. I hold it up. It’s fitted at the waist, with slim, yet structured, shoulders that I know will fit me perfectly. It flares out a little at the bottom.
‘I love it,’ I say, truthfully. ‘It’s beautiful.’
I think I see the flicker of a smile on Marc’s face, although I can’t be sure.
I slip on the coat, and Marc pops the champagne and pours me a glass.
‘It’s beautiful up here,’ I say.
‘To you, everything is beautiful,’ says Marc, filling his own champagne glass.
I smile.
Marc goes to the sheltered area and opens the fridge. ‘Foie gras to start,’ he says, bringing two dishes to the table and placing one in front of me.
It’s full of ice chips, and at its centre sits a glass bowl of liver-coloured paste. On the other dish sits thin crisps of toast and what looks like little pancakes.
‘Blinis,’ say Marc. ‘Russian pancakes. Delicious with foie gras.’
I stare at the foie gras. I know how it’s made – they force feed ducks to make their livers extra fat, and then tie ropes around their necks to stop them vomiting.
Marc pauses, about to serve me blinis. ‘Sophia, what’s wrong?’ His voice is anxious.
I shake my head. ‘I can’t eat that. And you shouldn’t either.’ I rarely get angry, but the thought of what they do to those ducks makes me feel sick. ‘Get rid of it,’ I say. ‘The foie gras. Get rid of it. Don’t you know how it’s made?’
Lines appear around Marc’s mouth as he fights back a smile. ‘I’m aware of how foie gras is made.’
I fight to slow my breathing. ‘I don’t even want it on the same table as me.’
‘Sophia.’ Marc takes my hand. ‘This isn’t French foie gras. The ducks haven’t been force fed.’
My breathing slows, and I look at him. His eyes are bright with amusement.
‘I still don’t like it,’ I say. ‘Even the idea of it. What it represents.’
Marc scoops up the dish, heads to the barbeque area and drops the whole thing into a bin, dusting his hands. ‘There. Better?’
I nod. ‘Thank you.’
‘Three hundred pounds worth of cruelty free foie gras, in the trash, at your command Miss Rose.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I just hate the idea of it.’
‘You don’t need to be sorry.’ Marc crouches down to the fridge, his long legs jutting up towards his chin. ‘Now. I have some caviar in here. Would that work for you? Any objections to fish produce?’
I give a little laugh. ‘No. That sounds nice.’
Marc returns to the table, and spoons caviar onto my plate. I wait for him to sit down and serve his own caviar. Then I spoon caviar onto a little pancake.
I take a bite. It’s delicious. ‘I didn’t expect caviar to taste this way,’ I say.
The next course is grilled lobster with champagne sauce, and it’s equally delicious. Dessert is a thin slice of dark chocolate torte with a drizzle of vanilla cream on top.
‘So you like architecture?’ I ask, taking a bite of chocolate torte, and looking out over the rooftops.
‘I love anything that stays in one place for a long time,’ says Marc. ‘Trees, mountains, lakes. I had a lot of inconsistency growing up. Wherever my father could find work for me, we went.’
‘How did you manage with school?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t go. Except when I was with Denise.’
‘Really? But you’re so ... educated. At least you seem that way.’
‘Self educated.’ Marc follows my gaze over the rooftops. ‘I read a lot as a boy. The classics, mainly. Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Hemingway. Dickens especially.’
‘It sounds like you had a rough upbringing,’ I venture.
‘No rougher than many,’ says Marc, but his eyes cloud over. I sense he wants to change the subject.
We eat and talk about plays and movies we’ve seen, what we think about London, my life at college ... normal things. And for a moment, it feels like we’re just two people, enjoying a dinner date, getting to know each other.
Marc, unsurprisingly, likes darker movies than I do. Apocalypse Now, the Godfather and Citizen Kane. I admit my guilty pleasure of Disney, and he rolls his eyes, and tells me he might have guessed, but he’s smiling as he says it.
I tell him about my family, and how I feel guilty for not seeing them last weekend. I explain how my dad and Genoveva need my help, with housework and Samuel.
After dessert, my second glass of champagne makes me bold. ‘Tell me about your father,’ I say. ‘Why do you still keep his car?’
Marc’s jaw ripples. ‘I don’t keep it. It was given to me when he passed away, and I haven’t got round to selling it yet.’
‘He passed away? I’m so sorry.’
Marc nods. ‘Fo
ur years ago. I didn’t go to the funeral.’
‘You didn’t?’ Part of me feels like I’m entering dangerous territory, but I can’t help pressing on. ‘Why not?’
Marc stands up, taking his glass of champagne. He downs it in one gulp. ‘I saw no reason to. Funerals are about saying goodbye to loved ones. He wasn’t a loved one.’
I nod. ‘I heard you didn’t have the best of relationships.’
Marc puts down his glass and hooks both thumbs into his jean pockets. ‘I hated him,’ he says simply.
Chapter 49
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say.
‘He was a tyrant and a bully and I’m not sorry he’s gone. Have I opened up enough for you?’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, standing and putting my arms around him. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything. I was just asking. I wanted to be closer to you.’
He looks down at me, confused. Then he puts his arms around me. ‘Why did you have to be my pupil? Why did it have to happen that way?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, ‘and I don’t know about completely accepting everything on your terms.’
Marc pulls me tighter into him, and I feel his heart beat. ‘You should walk away from me, Sophia. If you’ve got any sense, you’d run. I shouldn’t have started anything with you, but ... there’s something about you that’s irresistible. Completely irresistible.’
‘Is it because I’m your pupil?’ I ask, wincing inside. ‘A sort of sex thing? Because you like being in charge?’ I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
‘No,’ says Marc. ‘It was in spite of you being my pupil. I wish you weren’t. In fact, I fell for you before you became my pupil. At your audition. If it was down to me, I wouldn’t have chosen you for the course. Too dangerous. But I do like being in charge, and I can’t pretend the dynamic doesn’t work for me. Do you like me being in charge?’
I nod. ‘But ... I don’t feel like I should like it.’
‘I would never do anything you didn’t truly like.’
‘But in the limo ...’
‘You didn’t like it?’
