by Suzy K Quinn
‘That your sister was your house guest. And that she was sick.’
‘Sick? That’s one word for it.’
‘I was thinking all sorts of things.’
‘Oh?’ Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘You were jealous?’
I look at the floor. ‘Maybe. A little. My mind was playing tricks.’
Marc lets out a long, low laugh and my stomach grows soft.
‘I always thought dark feelings were for people like me.’
‘Perhaps I’m not the angel you think I am.’
‘You are. But perhaps you won’t be by the time I’ve finished with you.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I think you know exactly what I mean.’
I feel my stomach flip over, and the familiar melting, crazy-making feeling that has me falling into Marc’s arms whenever he snaps his fingers. But I resist it. There are serious things to discuss.
‘I don’t know why it had to be such a big mystery,’ I say. ‘Was she who you were talking to on the phone? When we were in the hotel?’
Marc nods slowly, watching me.
‘And the person you so badly had to meet up with? The person who could help you with your future?’
‘I need Annabel to be better. To break free of her boyfriend and move forward. Until she does, there’ll always be a part of me who’s angry. And as long as I’m angry ... there’ll be a barrier between us.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me?’
Marc opens out his hands. ‘I didn’t want you to have to deal with ... something like this ... so early on. I wanted you to meet her when she’d recovered.’
‘Recovered?’
‘From her heroin addiction.’ He rests his chin on his elbow, still watching me.
‘I heard about that,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know if it was true.’
‘It’s true. She’s going through withdrawal right now. Day four. There’s light at the end of the tunnel.’
‘How can we help her get better?’
Marc smiles and shakes his head. ‘And you wonder why I love you? She’s nothing to you, and yet you want to help her. Most people would think ‘junkie scum’ and run a mile.’
‘Of course I don’t think that. She’s a human being. We all have our problems. And I want to help, if I can. She’s your sister. Why wouldn’t I want to help?’
‘It’s going to take a bit more than a few bowls of soup, Sophia.’ He puts his head in his hands. ‘Sorry. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean ...’ He looks up. ‘I love that you did that for her. But we’ve been battling this for years. Years. She wants to stop, but something always drags her back. Not something, someone. Her boyfriend.’
‘The one you punched out?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
36
Marc’s eyes widen. ‘How did you -’
‘Jen,’ I say. ‘She works in PR, remember?’
‘Ah, yes. The PR bulldog. Of course. She certainly knows her stuff. She was my chief suspect when the press knew our location.’
‘Jen?’ I’m outraged. ‘She would never do anything like that. We’re like sisters. How could you even think that?’
Marc’s top lip curls into a sexy smile. ‘Jealous and a hot temper? I’m seeing new sides to you today, Miss Rose.’
I blow out air. ‘It’s been a difficult day.’
‘I accept that.’ He holds his hands up, still smiling. ‘Maybe I don’t trust as easily as you. But don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. It’s clear Jen means a lot to you. I take back my comment.’
‘Thank you.’ I hesitate. ‘Marc?’
‘Yes?’
‘Who’s Emily?’
Marc stares at me for a moment. ‘How do you ...’
‘I saw the name Emily on your family picture. In the box in your bedroom. Do you have another sister?’
‘No.’ Marc shakes his head. ‘Emily was the name our mother gave my sister. But when our mother died and we moved to the States, my father renamed her. Emily was too plain for him.’
‘That’s ... awful,’ I say. ‘He sounds ... a little crazy.’
‘Not crazy, just spectacularly self-centred. The worse example of a human being.’
There’s a vibrating sound, and Marc slips his phone from his trouser pocket. He frowns when he sees the number, but still takes the call.
‘Minty. Yes. Yes, I heard.’ He frowns, thick eyebrows pulling together. ‘So they thought they’d go through me? Well, as it happens, Sophia’s right here. No, that won’t be necessary. There’s no decision to make. Tell them she won’t take the part.’
He hangs up.
‘Marc?’ I feel uneasy. ‘What just happened?’
‘That was the Beauty and the Beast musical. They couldn’t get hold of you, so they phoned my publicity person instead.’
‘And you told them ... what, exactly?’
‘You heard what I told her.’
‘You told them I wouldn’t take the part? Without asking me? Am I hearing you right?’
‘Exactly right. It’s not safe.’
I step back from him, not quite knowing where to turn or what to do. ‘How could you ... you had no right.’
‘I have your best interests at heart.’
He moves towards me, but I take another step back, shaking my head. ‘I can’t believe you did that. Marc, you have to phone them back. Tell them that it’s my choice.’
‘I see no reason for doing that.’
‘You see no reason?’ I can barely get the words out, I’m so angry. ‘No reason?’ I feel like I’m falling, and the kitchen goes blurry. ‘I can’t be around you right now,’ I hear myself say. ‘I need to be alone.’
I storm out of the kitchen into the hallway, before I realise there’s nowhere to go. The paparazzi are outside.
I turn a circle in the hallway.
‘Sophia.’ Marc appears beside me.
‘Stay away from me, right now,’ I say. ‘I mean it. I’m not a child. What gave you the right ... do you have any respect for me at all?’ Today’s events are whirling round and round my head, and Giles Getty’s words keep coming back to me.
You’re just a toy to him.
‘Sophia, you need to understand -’
I put a hand up. ‘Please, don’t try to explain.’
Marc looks at me for a long time, his hands slipping into his pockets. He doesn’t look angry, just ... disappointed. Thoughtful. Like he wants to reprimand me but doesn’t know how. Little lines have appeared above his nose.
‘So you want to be by yourself?’ he says eventually.
‘I need to think ...’ But the truth is, I can’t think. Not when I’m so angry.
‘As you wish.’ Marc marches past me to the door leading to the garage. His hand falls to the door handle. ‘Rodney is upstairs. He’ll get you anything you want. You can use my bedroom if you want to be alone. You know the way.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To give you some space. I’ll call you later.’
The door bangs, and I hear the roar of a car – something sporty and fast.
I’m left alone in the hallway, startled and very, very confused. I know I said I wanted to be by myself, but for Marc to leave like that ... it makes me angrier than ever.
37
I sit on Marc’s bed like a sulky teenager, staring at my phone. In spite of myself, I’m waiting for his call. But I might have known Marc would be true to his word. He really is giving me space, at least for a while.
I text Jen:
‘Marc just decided I shouldn’t take a part in a big musical. Beauty and the Beast. He didn’t even ask me.’
Jen replies:
‘No way! That’s a big part. What a cave man. He can’t do that. Please tell me you told him where to go.’
I text back:
‘We got in a fight, and now he’s left. He didn’t seem to get why I’m angry.’
Jen replies:
‘Men. They’re all crazy. And they say women are the mad ones.’
As I read Jen’s last message, there’s a soft knock on the door.
‘Sophia? It’s Annabel. Can I come in?’
I pull myself off the bed and open the door a fraction. ‘I don’t mean to shut myself away,’ I say. ‘But I’ve got a lot to think about.’
‘Did my brother do something?’ Her eyes are big and concerned. She looks better than before. Sturdier on her feet, but still frail.
‘He made a decision for me without asking. I know he had my best interests at heart, but it was wrong.’
Annabel nods, her head all loose like a puppet. ‘Can I come in?’
I hold the door back. ‘Please.’
She takes a seat on the bed. ‘I don’t want you and Marc to fight.’
‘We’re not fighting exactly,’ I say, taking a seat beside her. ‘He left.’
‘That sounds like my brother. Checking out whenever things get too difficult. That’s just his way of coping. But think of it this way – if he wasn’t like that, he might have ended up like me.’
She glances down at her skinny hands, and I notice bruises around her fingers.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t sound like you’ve had things easy.’
‘I’ve never heard him talk about anyone like he talks about you,’ says Annabel. ‘He’s different since I last saw him. I hear it in his voice. His face is different. He looks lighter. Softer. You must be the difference.’
I shake my head. ‘I wish I could have that effect on him. But ... he found it pretty easy to leave just then.’
‘He has his issues. But the way he talks about you ... you’re an angel to him. You’re saving him.’
‘If I were an angel, I wouldn’t get jealous or angry or scared. Or confused.’
‘He’s not as complicated as he seems, you know,’ says Annabel. ‘He’s frightened too. The way he takes charge of everything – that’s just his way of coping.’
I think about that. It makes sense. I guess he’s scared of me taking this part. Scared that he’ll lose control and I’ll get hurt. But I can’t live my life that way.
‘Look, I’ll leave you to think,’ says Annabel, pulling herself up from the bed and letting out a long yawn. ‘I’m going for another sleep. Whatever happens, I’m glad Marc met you.’
She leaves the room.
I check my phone again, in case by some miracle Marc called and I didn’t hear. He hasn’t, but Annabel’s words have softened me.
I tap out a message.
‘Sorry for the fight. Can we talk?’
Immediately, a text from Marc appears.
‘On my way home.’
There are no kisses, but Marc doesn’t send kisses. I let out a long sigh. When he gets back, we’ll get everything sorted out. I’ll make him understand. I know I have to. Because if I can’t ... oh, that doesn’t bear thinking about.
38
I’m going stir crazy in Marc’s bedroom, so I head downstairs, clutching my phone.
I guess Annabel must still be sleeping, because there’s no one in the kitchen or living area.
Marc’s house is warm in temperature, but it feels a little cold. I can’t put my finger on it. The pictures of buildings don’t help, nor the lack of colour. The curtains and light shades are expensive, but plain. Unremarkable. Like the house was decorated for a business conference.
I head into the kitchen. Through the patio doors, I notice the garden is still overgrown and in sore need of love and attention. Ivy climbs up trees and creeps up walls. It’s beautiful, but it needs to be cut back a little and clipped into a better shape.
The trees are yews and holly, so they’re still green and bushy, but they’ve been left to grow completely wild, and their green leaves are blocking out the sunlight.
In my palm, my phone vibrates, and I answer straight away, thinking it will be Jen or Marc.
‘Hello.’ The voice is very posh. Plumy. And female. ‘Is this Sophia Blackwell?’
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I’m Sophia.’
‘This is Davina Merryweather.’
There’s a pause, and I’m guessing she’s waiting for me to recognise her. But I have no idea who she is.
She coughs politely. ‘I’m directing Beauty and the Beast at Tottenham Theatre.’
‘Oh.’ My hand shakes a little, and I clamp my other hand over it. ‘Right. Yes. I was told ... It’s nice to speak to you. How did you get my number?’
‘I have my ways.’ I can hear her smiling down the phone. ‘Look, I wanted to talk to you in person. I was ever so disappointed that you didn’t want the part. And I thought ...’ She gives a little laugh. ‘Maybe I could persuade you. We’re getting a little desperate, and the marketing team thinks you fit the bill.’
I clear my throat. ‘Actually, I never said I wouldn’t take the part. My ... I mean, Marc answered for me.’
‘Did he, indeed?’
‘He thought he was acting in my best interests.’
‘How very 1950’s.’
‘Yes. So. What I mean to say is, I haven’t decided one way or another about the part.’
‘So you’re interested?’
‘Interested, yes. But I’m still thinking things over. Can you give me a little time?’
‘Not much time. We’ll need to know by close of business today. 6pm.’
‘I understand.’
‘Well. My number should have come up on your phone. Call me back with your decision.’
The line goes dead.
I let the phone slide from my ear, realising that I have heard of Davina Merryweather. I saw her on a BBC documentary about musical theatre, years ago. I guess she must be pretty famous. I wonder if Denise Crompton knows her.
I wish I had more time to think. But 6pm today ... I don’t have long.
It’s late afternoon, and a pinkish light is shining over London, but in Marc’s garden, the light is lost in the overgrown trees.
I see a pair of green wellies near the patio doors and slide my feet into them. They’re four sizes too big, but they’ll do. I’m guessing they’re Rodney’s. He probably uses them to wade through wet grass and empty the bins.
Out in the garden, the air is chilly, but the sky is bright white and clear. I take a look around, breathing in the beautiful fresh smell of plants and soil.
The grass is knee height and full of dead dandelions, and the small patio near the door is green with mould. I wonder if Marc has ever even set foot out here. Probably not. Buildings are his thing. Not nature.
There’s a rickety shed in the corner with a loose door, and I see shears, a spade and trowel hanging inside.
By the time I’ve clumped over the grass to the shed, I’ve already formed a plan for tidying this space.
The ivy is staying, of course. It’s beautiful. I love that ivy can stay pretty and green and silver all year round, in the harshest of weather. But the trees need cutting back so the sunlight can get through, and the grass needs trimming so sunlight can get to the soil. I’ll also dig a little vegetable bed, if there’s time, and ask Rodney to buy seeds and bulbs.
I take out the shears and start cutting the thin tree branches and feathery leaves. Once I’ve cut enough to let some daylight through, I set to work on the grass. There’s no mower, so I use the shears again, crawling on my hands and knees.
I leave a few clumps wild, so there are some dandelions to decorate the garden. Then I use the spade to dig a neat little rectangular vegetable bed and turn over the soil so the sun can get to it. There are a good few worms crawling up, which tells me the soil is healthy.
When I stand back, cheeks flushed with the exercise, mud under my fingernails, I feel proud of what I’ve done. The garden looks so much better. Fresher. Lighter. More beautiful. Not perfect, but at least a little bit loved.
I sense someone watching and turn to see Marc through the glass. He has his hands in his pockets.
39
I smooth my hair down, suddenly self-conscious, and plod tow
ards him in the welly boots, my feet slipping and sliding out of them as I walk.
‘Maybe I should hire you full time,’ says Marc as I close the patio door and stamp the boots on the mat.
‘You should hire someone,’ I say. ‘It’s criminal to have a space like that and not use it.’
‘You want me to have someone dry clean your dress?’
‘Oh, shoot.’ I look down and see grass stains and mud on the Vivienne Westwood dress. Sometimes, I get so carried away with gardening that I forget basic things like eating, drinking and changing my clothes. The dress isn’t ruined, but it does need a clean. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Okay.’
We look at each other.
‘Have you had time to think?’ Marc says.
‘About?’
‘About taking the part. How foolish it would be.’
I’m shaking my head. ‘I don’t believe this. Marc, do you even understand why I was so angry before?’
‘You didn’t like me making a decision for you.’
‘Exactly right.’ I go to the sink and wash mud from my hands. ‘Can’t you just apologise and we’ll move on?’
‘I don’t see why I need to apologise for keeping you safe,’ says Marc, taking a stool.
‘I know you only want what’s best for me,’ I say, ‘but you’re not my teacher right now. This is real life. You have to let me make my own choices.’
‘As long as they’re the right ones.’
‘No, Marc. You have to trust me to decide what’s right and wrong. I won’t always get things right. But you have to let me make my own mistakes.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Marc. ‘You’re clearly not in the mood to have a rational conversation. And until you are, we may as well put this discussion on hold.’
Oh, I’m fuming now. How dare he?
‘I am having a rational conversation. It’s you who’s not making any sense.’
‘Sophia, there’s no point talking about this. We clearly don’t agree.’
‘Davina Merryweather phoned me while you were out,’ I say.
‘She phoned you?’ He jumps from his stool, and it tips back and forth behind him.
‘Yes, she did.’
‘And what did you tell her?’
