by Suzy K Quinn
‘I was happy to do it,’ I say. ‘It helped me cope.’
‘I can understand that,’ says Marc.
‘What about your dad?’ I ask. ‘How did he take it?’
‘By bullying and controlling my sister and I,’ says Marc. He wraps the duvet around me.
‘Marc?’
‘Yes?’
I peer into the corner of the room, and see the boxes. ‘I have a confession.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I looked in your boxes.’
There’s a long silence, and for a moment I regret owning up.
‘I just wanted to know more about you. Are you angry?’
Marc lets out a long breath. ‘No. I’m not angry. I’m ... disappointed that you needed to do that. That I can’t open up to you in the way you want. Yet.’
‘I saw the pictures of your mother,’ I venture, and suddenly the whole room goes still. His breathing has stopped.
‘Why don’t you put them on the wall?’ I ask.
‘Go to sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.’
‘A big day? Marc -’
‘Go to sleep.’
Chapter 61
When I wake up the next morning, Marc is sitting on the end of the bed watching the sun rise out of the window.
He sees me stir, and turns around. ‘I wanted to make sure you didn’t sleep in. We have to leave soon.’
‘I hardly ever sleep in,’ I say, stretching my arms. ‘I love mornings.’
‘Rodney has bought some clothes for you. They’re laid out at the end of the bed. Get dressed, then come down to the garage. Breakfast will be in the limo, on the way to the airport.’
‘Airport? But what about college?’
‘Didn’t you read your introductory paperwork? Today and tomorrow are for performance practise, and believe me – you’ll be practising. Don’t ask too many questions.’ He kisses me quickly on the head, then leaves the room. ‘Dress. Meet me downstairs. No arguments. Shower. Wear what I’ve given you.’ He slams the door behind him.
I look at the end of the bed, and see a light, white summer dress lying on the duvet, with a pair of strappy cork wedges underneath them. There’s a silk strapless bra with a lace-up back and a matching g-string and navy blue cardigan.
But it’s autumn, I think, examining the skimpy clothing. The dress and cardigan are by Prada, and the shoes are Kurt Geiger. The underwear is Agent Provocateur.
I shower, towel myself dry and slip on the underwear, which feels amazing. The bra seems to structure my whole body as I pull the laces tight, and the g-string disappears under the dress, making it look like I’m wearing nothing at all underneath.
I don’t usually wear heels, and teeter a little as I try to walk. By the time I reach the garage, I’ve got the hang of them, and see the limo’s lights are on.
I jump in the back of the car, and find Marc lounging in the leather interior, wearing loose, grey cargo trousers and his usual short-sleeved black t-shirt.
The car interior is warm. Tropical, even. It smells of fresh coffee and pastries, and I see a silver cafetiere steaming above the drinks cabinet. Next to it is a basket of fresh croissants.
Marc pours me a coffee. ‘You look absolutely beautiful.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the cup. ‘Now will you tell me where we’re going? I think I’m going to freeze to death in this dress.’
‘You think I’d let you get cold?’ Marc asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t think that. I just wish I knew where you were taking me that doesn’t require warm clothing, and isn’t somewhere people are going to film and photograph us. Well. You. With me.’
‘All in good time.’
Chapter 62
We arrive at city airport, and check-in at a private desk. Then the limo drives right up to a private jet, which sits smartly on the runway.
‘What about photographers?’ I ask.
Marc shakes his head. ‘There won’t be any here. I only use companies and locations that are discreet.’
A thought occurs to me. ‘Is that why the press always say you never have girlfriends? Because you’re so discreet?’
Keith opens the car door and helps me out. Marc follows.
‘The press are right,’ he says, as we reach the aircraft steps. ‘I never do have girlfriends. You’re the closet thing I’ve had to one in a long time.’
The closest thing? What does that mean? I’m not sure whether to feel happy or offended.
I’m a little shaky in my high shoes, and Marc takes my hand.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Let me help you.’
My insides do somersaults at the gesture, and I feel giddy as I take the steps up to the plane.
Inside, the plane is all beige leather. Two frozen margaritas wait for us, decorated with lime and salt, by the luxuriously large seats.
‘It’s a little early for drinks,’ says Marc, with a frown.
‘I don’t know about that,’ I say, as Marc leads me to a seat. ‘I think I might need one.’ I take a sip of the tart drink, feeling the alcohol rush into my veins.
Marc takes the drink from my hands. ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘Too early.’ He checks his watch. ‘You can drink it in an hour. I’ll have Merile make you another one.’
‘Who’s Merile?’
‘She’ll be taking care of us while we’re on board. Serving our refreshments.’
The plane door closes and the engines start up. ‘Now will you tell me where we’re going?’ I ask. ‘And if we’re going a long way away, how am I going to survive with just one outfit?’ And one set of underwear.
‘I had Rodney buy a whole new wardrobe for you,’ says Marc. ‘A summer wardrobe. You’ll have plenty to choose from.’
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ I say.
‘While you’re with me, I’ll take care of you,’ says Marc. ‘It’s as simple as that.’
The plane jolts, and I feel it begin its drive along the runway.
‘I’m a little scared of flying,’ I admit. ‘I’ve only ever been on one plane before.’
‘Don’t worry,’ says Marc, leaning forward to do up my seat buckle. ‘It’s safer than driving.’
He pushes a button, and a flat screen and keyboard unfold in front of his seat, from some mysterious place in the beige leather. ‘I need to schedule some repairs for the college, while we’re flying. The entire east wing is weather damaged, and then there’s the roof. The college is listed, so it’s a complicated business, but it can’t wait. Don’t worry – Merile will look after you.’
‘Okay,’ I say, watching him tip tap on his computer. His brow is furrowed, and soon he’s deep in concentration.
So much for finding out more about him on this trip. Still, I have him close to me in a confined space for at least a few hours. I consider attempting to distract him, but his expression screams: leave me alone. And I’m buckled in. I don’t think he’d be too happy about me un-strapping myself.
Chapter 63
Half an hour after the plane takes off, I’m flicking through the film choices on my own flat screen computer, when a beautiful Asian lady appears from the front of the plane. She has long, black hair wound into a tight bun, and she’s dressed in a blouse and pencil skirt.
She bows and offers me a steaming towel that smells of lemon. When I reach forward, she uses the towel to massage my hands.
‘Relax,’ she says. ‘Please. Lean back.’ I do, and she lays the towel over my face, then places each hand carefully on my lap. ‘Mr Blackwell asked me to manicure your hands and feet. But first, would you like some refreshment? Something to eat or drink?’
I pause, throwing a sideways glance at Marc. ‘Do you have Coca Cola?’ I ask, feeling like he’d disapprove.
Merile bows and disappears, returning with an ice-cold bottle of coke, and a glass of ice and lemon. She pours the drink and sets it on the table next to me.
‘I’ll manicure your fingernails now.’ She pulls a black box from an overhead locker and opens it up
, revealing Neal’s Yard pampering products and twenty colours of nail polish.
‘Thanks so much,’ I say. ‘I’ve never had a manicure before.’ I look at my shabby, half bitten nails. ‘But you can probably guess that.’
Merile smiles, and begins rubbing my hands, cuticles and nails with various oils and lotions. They smell divine, and soon she’s pushing my cuticles back and snipping and filing my nails. She buffs each nail, then holds out three shades of polish – navy, dark green and silver.
‘I think these will suit you best,’ she says.
‘I like the dark green,’ I say, thinking of the ivy in Marc’s garden.
She flicks two coats over each nail, then bows at my feet and carefully takes off my new shoes. She massages each foot, then fetches a bath of steaming water and places my feet carefully in the lavender-scented liquid.
I turn and notice Marc watching me, a half smile on his face. ‘Ask Merile for whatever you need,’ he says. ‘I’ll be done by the time we land.’
‘How long until we get there?’ I ask.
‘Maybe another eight hours,’ he says. ‘The pilot will get us there as fast as he can, but ... we’ll see.’
After my nails are done, Merile fetches me a lunch of crab salad, followed by the lightest and most delicious lemon soufflé I’ve ever eaten.
I eat, dose a little, watch movies and – more often than is decent – watch Marc. We pass through night time, and then the sun comes up again, and I watch the horizon, fascinated. I’ve never seen the sun rise twice in one day before.
I have thin slices of melt-in-the-mouth steak for dinner, and poached pear for dessert.
Then the plane begins to descend, and it suddenly hits me that I’m thousands of miles away from home and have no idea where I’m going. This should be a terrible idea, and yet ... I trust Marc. Completely. Despite his need to be in control, I know he’d never let anything happen to me.
The plane begins to bump around. Turbulence, I guess.
Now I feel nervous and sick. My breathing gets quicker and quicker, until I feel like I can’t breathe.
Marc flashes me a look. ‘Sophia. Are you okay?’
I nod. ‘Just a little ... scared. And ... sick.’ I put a hand to my mouth and look out of the window. Marc unclasps himself and kneels beside me. He takes my hand.
‘Sophia – look at me.’
I do, and my breathing gets faster. Each breath doesn’t feel like enough. I have to have more air, and I begin to gasp.
‘Take deep breaths,’ Marc says. ‘Merile!’
Merile rushes out from the front of the plane. ‘Mr Blackwell. You should be buckled in.’
‘Bring the medical kit,’ says Marc, ‘then strap yourself in.’
She nods and rushes away, returning with a white box. ‘Mr Blackwell. Allow me.’
Marc shakes his head. ‘You go strap yourself in.’
Merile looks reluctant, but I guess if she’s worked with Marc before, she knows not to argue with him. She returns to the front of the plane.
‘It’s okay, Sophia,’ says Marc, opening the kit. ‘You’re just having a little panic attack. There’s oxygen in here if you need it, but I don’t think you will. Breathe. Breathe. Nice and slowly.’
I take longer breaths and Marc holds on tight to my hand. The plane bumps, and he staggers back on his haunches, then catches himself.
‘Sit down,’ I say between breaths. ‘You should be strapped in.’
‘Just keep breathing,’ he says.
I feel calmer with him holding my hand, even though the plane is both descending and bumping around. I see the sun high in the sky, and shimmering sea and white sands below.
After what feels like an eternity, the plane bumps onto a runway and I hear a rush of air as we pull to a stop.
Marc has held my hand the whole time.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper, as the plane door rolls open. ‘You really didn’t need to do that. I was having a silly panic attack.’
‘Sophia, I brought you here,’ says Marc. ‘I gave you my word I’d take care of you.’
Warm air rushes into the plane, and I stand up shakily.
‘Where are we?’
‘See for yourself.’ Marc walks me to the plane steps, and I look out past the concrete runway and flight tower, and see green trees, sand and ocean. The sky is bright blue, and the air feels like a warm bath. Birds twitter in the trees, and in the distance I see an oval-shaped building made of glass.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, breathing in the sweet scent of flowers.
‘We’re in the Caribbean,’ says Marc. ‘This place is totally secluded. No press. Nothing but us.’
‘Nothing but us,’ I breathe, feeling warm air on my skin. ‘But I still don’t know where we are.’
‘We’re on my own private island,’ says Marc.
Chapter 64
I remember reading that Marc had his own island. It was in some magazine article about celebrities who were mega-millionaires. I remember some other famous person, I forget who, had a collection of jet packs. But Marc has an island. A whole island.
‘Your own island,’ I breathe, walking down the plane steps. ‘Look at the trees. They’re amazing.’
Marc smiles. ‘There are all sorts of plants here. More than just ivy.’
I smile. ‘I’d love to go walking in that forest,’ I say, pointing to the canopy of green.
‘Later,’ says Marc. ‘First, we need to go through passport control. Then I’ll take you to my place.’
A huge Rolls Royce drives us from the airport, down secluded dirt roads to the glass oval building I saw from the plane.
We walk through a glass door, up glass steps and onto a glass balcony that looks out over the sea. Because most of the whole building is one big window, it feels like we’re floating in the forest and above the beach, part of nature.
The house is decorated with fur rugs and leather sofas, but I get that sense again that the decoration needs more personal touches. There are lots of flat screen televisions, remote controls and gadgets around, and – just like in Marc’s townhouse – a bookshelf stuffed with classics of literature, their spines crisp and un-cracked.
‘How do you like it?’ Marc asks, strolling to the window that looks over the sea.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, ‘but it reminds me of your house in London. It needs some warmth to it.’
Marc turns to me, and his lips tilt upwards. ‘Warmth?’
‘Things that make it feel like a home. Plants, maybe.’
‘You’ll have to enlighten me about that one.’
‘And these books – you can’t have read any of them. They’re too new looking.’
Marc’s face breaks into a broad grin. ‘Are you implying, Miss Rose, that I haven’t read Dickens?’
‘I’m not implying that at all,’ I say, remembering the well-read paperbacks in Marc’s bedroom. ‘I’m just saying that these books look unread. It’s like you have them here, just for show.’
‘It makes me feel secure to have them around,’ says Marc, wandering to the book case and running his hand along the covers. ‘You’re right – I don’t read these particular versions.’ His eyebrows pull together in realisation, and he turns to me. ‘I guess you’ve seen the versions I read. The paperbacks.’
He catches my eye, and I feel embarrassed. ‘Yes.’
‘You could say that what’s in those boxes is the real me. And what I put on display is ... what I feel comfortable showing.’
‘I’m sorry for prying.’
Marc shakes his head. ‘It’s okay. I’m testing your boundaries. It’s only fair that you test mine.’
‘Have you ever brought girls ... a woman, here before?’ I ask, thinking perhaps I don’t want to know the answer to that question.
‘Once,’ says Marc, looking out over the water. ‘Years ago.’
‘One of the girlfriends you don’t really have?’ I ask, with a smile.
‘She wasn’t my girlfriend,�
� says Marc, not smiling back. ‘She was a friend’s girlfriend, and it was a mistake to bring her here.’
‘Why?’
‘She had a certain fantasy she wanted fulfilling that involved both me and my friend.’
I swallow. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning she wanted to have two guys at once, and I was the lucky other guy. But my friend wasn’t all that happy about it, and I’ve never seen them since.’
‘Oh.’ I stand awkwardly, wishing I’d never started the conversation. I feel sick, actually.
Marc turns to me and smiles. ‘You didn’t like that answer, did you?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve heard about Pandora’s box?’
I nod.
‘Sometimes, it’s best not to know too much. You might not like what you find out if you ask too many questions. I’m not what you call wholesome. I have a past. Not a great past.’
He goes to the open plan kitchen and opens a silver Smeg fridge. Its door is full of champagne, and he takes out a bottle and pops the cork.
‘I think we should drink to celebrate your arrival here.’ He takes down two glasses and pours the champagne.
I take a glass. ‘This house is yours and yours alone?’ I ask.
Marc nods.
‘It doesn’t feel lived in,’ I say. ‘Nor did the townhouse. It feels ... a little empty.’
‘Well, maybe I’m empty,’ says Marc, taking a sip of champagne. ‘I’m certainly morally empty, if you look at my choice of companion on this trip.’
‘I don’t think you are,’ I say. ‘You didn’t want any of this. You would have walked away right at the start, but I didn’t let you.’
‘I’m five years older than you, Sophia,’ says Marc. ‘I should have been able to say no, regardless of my feelings for you. A good man doesn’t fuck his students. No matter how hard he falls -’
He stops himself, taking a sharp sip of champagne, and looks out at the beach. ‘Look. What I mean to say is, this isn’t a habit for me, okay? I never, ever thought something like this would happen. I’ve never done anything with any of my pupils before, and after you I never will again. But that doesn’t make me morally decent. I should have said no.’
