by S. Quinn
I suck in a breath. ‘Things like this, can we talk them over first?’
‘You don’t like what I’ve planned?’
‘I don’t like not being asked.’
Marc pulls me too his chest, and black cotton rubs my cheek.
‘Oh, Sophia, Sophia. I promise I will do my very best to stop being a controlling monster. For you, anything is possible.’ His tone is light, but I can tell he’s serious.
‘It’s okay,’ I whisper, taking his hands.
‘Come on.’ He squeezes my fingers. ‘I want to find out what’s waiting out there. The sooner I know what we’re dealing with, the better.’
We hold hands, walking along the path. As we turn a corner, I see the college gates up ahead, and my heart catches in my throat.
There, behind the wrought-iron, is a black swarm of photographers, jostling and fighting each other to get close to the bars.
Some have climbed up the gates and are pushing their cameras over the metal spikes. Others are pushing against the black railings, their jackets squashed, arms and legs spilling through.
Oh my god.
There’s a flash. Then another. Then dozens, snap, snap, snap, like a pan of popcorn.
I put my hand to my eyes.
‘Marc -’
‘Stay close to me.’ His voice is cold. Angry. ‘We have good security here. They won’t get over the gate. Just stand close to me. God, I wish you didn’t want to do this. I wish we could fly away to my island, and you’d never have to deal with all this rubbish.’
‘We have to do this.’ I swallow, hard. ‘I don’t want to live in the shadows.’
Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘You can have a lot of fun in the shadows.’
I smile. ‘Maybe. But I like the light. Nothing grows without sunlight.’
We walk forward, and my knees feel weak. There are so many photographers. And they seem so ... violent. Grasping. Uncaring. All they want is a piece of us. They don’t care that we’re human beings.
‘Where did they all come from?’ I whisper, noticing one of the photographers is wearing a suit. The way he stands makes him look important – like a lawyer or businessman. Where the other photographers fight for a spot, he stands coolly at the front, and no one tries to jostle him out of the way.
He has a long face, neatly clipped black sideburns and choppy black hair, styled fashionably. Something about his grey eyes makes me think of a detective – there’s a cleverness about him that scares me.
I think I’ve seen him somewhere before, and then it hits me. Giles Getty. From The Daily News newspaper.
5
Marc sees Getty too, and his face darkens. ‘Some of them came straight from the gutter,’ he says, glaring. He grips my hand tighter. ‘Christ. Someone must have known ...’
‘Known?’
‘That we’d both be here today. This wasn’t supposed to be ... Christ. This is close enough.’ He pulls me to a stop. ‘If he’s here ... this is a bad idea.’
‘Who?’
‘Getty.’
The cameras are still flashing, and there are white spots floating in front of my eyes.
‘What’s so bad about him?’
‘I’ve known Giles Getty a long time,’ Marc growls. ‘An old enemy, you might say. He’s dangerous. Especially where women are concerned.’
Marc leads me away from the gate. ‘We’ll do a press interview later. For now, I need to get you somewhere safe.’
He pulls me back towards the college. We weave in and out of buildings and along gravel paths until we’re standing outside Queen’s Theatre.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, stumbling over gravel. ‘The back gate is over there.’
‘There’s another way out,’ says Marc, taking a bunch of keys from his cargo pants. ‘In here.’
He unlocks the theatre’s huge wooden doors and pulls me inside the building.
It’s cold and dark in the theatre, and everything goes pitch black when Marc slams the doors closed. I hear the key crunch in the lock.
I can still feel Marc’s hand in mine and hear his breathing – quick and shallow.
‘Marc? What’s happening?’
‘Just keep hold of my hand. It’s okay. Don’t be frightened.’
I hadn’t realised it, but I am frightened. My heart is thumping hard in my chest and my mouth is dry.
The way Marc reacted to Getty ... something’s going on. Something bad.
‘Why did Giles Getty bother you so much?’ I ask as Marc leads me through the theatre. In the darkness, with Marc holding my hand, my heart begins to slow.
‘Let’s just say I know more about him than most,’ says Marc. ‘Everyone knows he doesn’t play fair. Or nice. He’ll stop at nothing to get his story, and he doesn’t care who gets hurt along the way. But there’s more ... he’s already ruined my sister’s life.’
‘Your sister?’
Marc doesn’t answer.
‘Marc?’
‘Sophia, Getty isn’t a man I want to talk about. Especially when I’m with you.’
I swallow. ‘You know your way through here,’ I say, stumbling over a raised floor tile. ‘Even in the dark. Do you do this often?’ I hope he can hear the smile in my voice.
‘Yes.’ Even though I can’t see him, I know he’s smiling back. ‘As a matter of fact, I was in the dark for years until I met you. Totally in the dark.’
‘And now?’
‘Things are different.’ He runs his thumb back and forth over my palm.
I can feel the bulk of the stage beside us and know we’re heading backstage. We come to a stop, and I hear the clunk of metal and the rattle of keys.
6
‘A secret passage?’ I whisper.
‘You could call it that. This door leads to a space underground.’
‘Is this how you got in last night?’
‘Perhaps. But I can’t reveal all my secrets.’
There’s a flicker of orange light, and I blink as it stings my eyes. I see a long, stone staircase in front of us, and the smell of mould hits me.
Cold air floats up from the staircase.
I turn to see Marc, his handsome face shadowed in orange, and marvel at how I’m standing here beside him. It still doesn’t feel real, being with Marc. The curve of his cheekbones and the lines on either side of his mouth. His thick eyebrows and those eyes, blue as a summer sky, watching me. He’s really all here. In real life. With me. This is no movie.
He sees me looking, and smiles.
‘Don’t worry. There are no monsters down there.’
‘Oh no?’ I smile back.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Are you calling me a monster, Miss Rose?’ He places my hand on a cold, wooden handrail and helps me to the first step.
‘Well. You seem to have a secret cave. That’s a little bit monstrous, don’t you think?’
‘I did warn you that I wasn’t like other men.’
‘That’s for sure.’
Marc closes and locks the door behind us. ‘Hold on to me.’
He takes my hand and leads me down the staircase. Soon, we reach a big, flat concrete space at the bottom. In a far, dark corner is a black Aston Martin with tinted windows.
‘Yours, I take it?’ I say as we walk towards it.
‘Very astute of you, Miss Rose. How did you guess?’
I know Marc is teasing me, but I can’t resist saying, ‘It’s black. Like everything you own.’
‘Everything I own? You’re mistaken there, Sophia. I own a lot of red things too.’
‘What happened to the Ford Mustang?’
‘This car is faster.’
‘Isn’t an Aston Martin James Bond’s car?’ I ask as Marc takes out a key fob and clicks it. The car locks flick up with a space age noise I’ve never heard before.
‘James Bond has lots of cars.’
‘You turned down the role of James Bond, didn’t you?’ I ask as Marc opens the passenger door for me.
Marc nods.
‘Why?’
‘The character didn’t suit me.’
‘But you have his car.’
‘It’s not his car. It’s my car. James Bond has the DB5 and the V8. This is a bespoke Rapide S. It’s one of a kind.’
‘I stand corrected. But Marc, you’re an actor.’ I slide onto the leather seat. ‘You can play any part. How can you say a character doesn’t suit you? You could easily play James Bond.’
Marc jumps into the driver’s seat and snaps his door closed. ‘When it comes to national icons, I’m careful. I don’t want to ruin them for people.’
‘Ruin?’
The playful look leaves Marc’s face. ‘Think about it, Sophia. Think about what I’m in to.’
‘You mean ...’ I’m not quite sure how to phrase the words. ‘Needing to be in charge?’
In response, Marc starts the car, and I close my door.
I stare out of the window at the bleak, dark underground space. I feel weird about what Marc just said. The things I’m in to. It’s true. His tastes are unusual. But I sort of thought that, now we’re a couple, he’d be open to more ways of making love. That we’d be more equal.
‘Marc -’
‘Let’s change the subject.’ Marc puts the car in drive and spins the wheel. We drive towards blackness, but then a long line of white light appears, growing wider and wider until I see a road and the tall townhouses of central London.
We zoom out onto the road, and I grip the seat. The car turns corners at speed. ‘How did you learn to drive like this?’ I ask, my voice a squeak.
‘Filming Lightning Bolt,’ says Marc. ‘The stunt guy vanished, so I learned how to drive racing cars. I nearly totalled two cars, but we shot all the scenes we needed. Fear of death is a great way to learn quickly.’
He looks totally relaxed and at ease behind the wheel, one hand casually gesturing as he talks.
I, on the other hand, am extremely tense. To look at Marc and me, you’d think we were in two different vehicles. I hate going fast.
‘So where are we going?’ I say.
‘Not far. Somewhere with good security. And somewhere we can do a press interview.’
‘And that would be?’
‘The Carlo Hotel.’
7
‘The Carlo?’
Marc smiles. ‘You’ve heard of it, then?’
I burst out laughing. ‘Who hasn’t?’ I look down at my clothes. ‘But Marc ... you’re joking. I mean, look at how I’m dressed.’
Marc gives a tiny shake of his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Doesn’t matter?’
He doesn’t answer, but I’m pretty sure I know what he means. It doesn’t matter, because you’re with me.
I swallow. I’m not all that keen on fancy places. Or perhaps, fancy places aren’t all that keen on me. I always develop two left feet whenever I’m taken anywhere special. Two left feet and stains all over my clothes. And that’s just the Essex restaurants Jen likes to go to. I’ve never in my whole life been anywhere like the Carlo.
‘Why can’t we go to your townhouse?’ I say. ‘It’s safe there, isn’t it?’
‘We can’t,’ Marc says, far too quickly. ‘Not today.’
He glances at me, I guess sensing that I feel a little confused by that remark.
‘I have a visitor right now.’
‘A visitor?’
‘Correct.’
‘Who?’
‘No one you know. She needs somewhere to stay right now. That’s all. She won’t be there long.’
‘She?’
‘It’s not for long. You don’t know her. It’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘Who is she? Someone you dated?’ I hear the ugly jealousy in the words.
‘No one you need to worry about.’
I can tell by Marc’s expression that this conversation is over, but I feel sick. I chew at a thumbnail and try to shake away the bad thoughts floating into my brain. Who is this woman staying at his house, and why the hell didn’t he mention it before?
Don’t get paranoid.
We drive onto Piccadilly, taking a left turn, then a right.
Marc is so effortlessly in control. Calm. Collected. The anger from before has totally vanished, and he’s back in charge. But I don’t want him so in charge. Right now, I feel like we’re slipping apart again.
Marc pulls the car to a stop at an intersection and watches the traffic. A big red London bus lumbers past, followed by black cab after black cab.
‘Marc, are you sure about this?’ I say.
‘Sure?’
‘About ... me.’
He turns to me. Jealousy or no jealousy, I can hardly move when he looks at me like that – like he’s hungry for me. His eyes are drinking me in. ‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘But Marc ... the two of us ... you’re famous. Hugely famous. And this woman at your house ...’
‘Forget about that. You’re getting upset over nothing. And I wish I wasn’t famous, believe me. I’d trade it all in tomorrow if I could.’
‘But you’re an amazing actor. And I’m just ...’ I let my hands fall open.
‘You’re just beautiful and good and open and intoxicating, and exactly what I want,’ says Marc, holding me with his stare. ‘Am I what you want?’
‘You know you are.’
‘Then we’re perfect for each other.’
The traffic clears, and Marc pulls the car out of the intersection. We coast along the road for a few metres, and I see the blue and gold awnings of the Carlo Hotel up ahead.
Marc pulls the car to a stop, and a doorman wearing a gold-trimmed top hat rushes to open my door.
A Union flag hangs from the entrance way, and I see blue pansies and ivy growing in troughs along the hotel steps.
‘Ivy,’ I say, smiling.
I see Marc’s jaw ripple with amusement. ‘I’d love to say I had it planted especially for you, but I didn’t think that far ahead.’
I climb out the car, feeling hugely self conscious, and wrap my coat tightly around me. I wish the coat went all the way to the floor, so the doorman couldn’t see my jeans and Converse.
Marc hops out of the car, bounds around to the pavement and takes my hand. He tosses the car keys to the doorman and leads me up the steps into the hotel.
‘You’re nervous,’ he says as my fingers shake against his. ‘Don’t be. There’s nothing to be nervous about here.’
‘Easy for you to say.’
We push through a revolving glass door, which squashes us closely together, and then spill out into a bright, light reception area of cream and gold.
I stop and stare, my nerves and jealousy temporarily forgotten. The lobby. It’s so beautiful. I can hardly take it all in. It’s like the whole room has been carved out of cream marble then painted with strokes of gold. There are glass doors and mirrors, all accented with gold, and a gorgeous red rug is spread over the gleaming white floor.
A huge vase of crisp white roses stands in the centre of the lobby.
Marc strides to the reception desk, and I hear my Converse squeak on white floor tiles as I follow him.
There are guests milling about the lobby, and I blush as they turn to stare at us. Actually, they’re staring at Marc. I’m an afterthought. When they see me, their expressions tell me they’re not impressed.
‘Everyone’s staring,’ I whisper, my throat feeling tight.
‘Aren’t you used to people staring at you?’ Marc whispers back, leaning towards me so our cheeks are almost touching.
I shake my head.
‘Then you’re not very observant.’
8
The woman behind the reception desk gives Marc a dazzling smile. She doesn’t even glance at me. Is she being discreet, or am I not worth her attention?
‘Mr Blackwell. Welcome back. How may I help you?’
‘Good morning, Caroline. The King Charles Suite – is it free?’
‘Yes, Mr Blackwell.’ The woman nods. ‘Shall I have someone
show you up?’
‘That won’t be necessary. But I’ll be phoning down with a list of items that we’d like brought up to the suite.’
‘Certainly.’ The woman nods, clacks her computer keyboard, then hands Marc a key on a heavy fob. ‘Well. You know the way.’ She beams at him.
‘I do. Thank you.’ He gives her a short smile, and she gazes at him, totally star struck.
Marc leads me back across the lobby, past the roses, and I can’t help saying, ‘Wow,’ as we pass them.
The roses are frilly, like a petticoat, and perfectly coloured. It’s like someone has cut them out of white silk, and my fingertips itch to stroke them.
A man in a grey suit with white gloves flopped over his shoulder smiles at me.
‘White O’Hara roses,’ he says. ‘French. Everything here is based on French style.’
I smile back and find myself looking around again. Everywhere there is something to see – cherubs carved out of gold, delicate coving and antique furniture. ‘It’s so beautiful. You must love working here.’
‘I do.’
I feel Marc’s eyes on me and see he’s smiling.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ he whispers, squeezing my hand.
I give a nervous smile back. ‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘The usual suite, Mr Blackwell?’ the grey-suited man asks.
Marc nods.
There are glass double doors beside the man, and he opens one for us. ‘Allow me.’
‘Thank you,’ Marc and I say together.
We enter a long, wide space with lounge chairs dotted around. A suited man plays Unforgettable on a grand piano, and I hear the rustle of newspapers and the chink of bone china teacups.
The roses forgotten, I feel out of place again, like a little girl snooping in her mother’s wardrobe. I’m not good enough for this place. Certainly not without Marc. I grip his hand tighter and try to ignore the looks we’re getting.
‘Please don’t be nervous, Sophia,’ says Marc as we walk down the long space. ‘You’ll feel at home soon. I promise.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ I say. ‘You seem to know the place pretty well.’
‘I used to stay here whenever I came to London,’ says Marc. ‘Before I bought my townhouse. I love the history here. Most of the furniture and carpets are antique. They were here when the Carlo was first built.’
