by S. Quinn
‘Well, now. That would have been a good idea. Who did you say you work for?’
Jen’s tight smile turns into her full-beam, blind you with her white teeth, megawatt smile.
‘Prometheus PR. But I’m starting my own firm soon. It’s just a matter of time.’
‘Interesting.’ Marc’s gaze flicks to me.
‘Don’t think I’m trying to sell my own services though,’ says Jen. ‘All I care about is Sophia.’
‘Then we have something in common. I’m listening to what you’re saying. It sounds like you know your line of work extremely well.’
‘Speaking of work, I’d better go,’ says Jen, leaping to her feet. ‘I told them I’d be back an hour ago.’
She kisses me on the cheek and makes a phone sign with her hand. ‘Call you later, okay babe? Nice to meet you, Marc.’ She snatches up her coat and heads out the door.
Marc sets down his coffee. ‘We should get moving too. Ready for the photo shoot?’
I nod. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
He takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. ‘New dress?’
‘You only just noticed?’
‘I rarely notice what you’re wearing. It’s you I notice, not your clothes.’
‘You noticed I wasn’t wearing a coat on campus. Remember?’
‘That was different. I didn’t notice your clothes. I noticed you were cold. Clothing aside, you look extremely desirable, Miss Rose. A little too desirable for my liking. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my hands off you during the photo shoot.’
‘I thought that was the point of the pictures,’ I say, feeling a shiver go through me at the thought of his hands. ‘For you to have your hands on me. So we look like a couple.’
Marc drops his head to my ear. ‘If that’s the case, I’m going to have a hard time restraining myself.’
Yes! I feel like singing. Little by little, I’m getting closer. I’m chipping away at that famous self-control of his.
‘Won’t the photographer tell you what to do at the shoot?’ I say with a raise of my eyebrow. ‘Do you think you can handle that?’
‘I don’t take orders well,’ says Marc, letting his hand slide onto my lower back. ‘But I think I can manage. For you. And who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to work in a few orders of my own.’
27
The photography studio isn’t what I’m expecting at all. I’d sort of pictured this huge bungalow type building with a rubber floor and tons of camera equipment and lights everywhere. But actually, the studio is just a room inside GMQ headquarters – the company that publishes Arabella’s magazine and a bunch of other gossip magazines and newspapers.
It’s completely white, with no windows, and it’s teeny tiny. Pokey, really. The floor is covered with long sheets of white paper, and there’s just one light mounted on a silver tripod.
A giant screen stands in one corner, and I see cardboard boxes of props behind it.
There are no cameras on tripods, or men skulking around setting up lights. Just one photographer – a really happy looking guy with a brown beard and Led Zeppelin T-shirt.
Marc strides towards the photographer, shakes his hand and slaps him on the shoulder. ‘Danny. How have you been?’
‘Marc, good to see you.’ The photographer clasps Marc’s hand. ‘Keeping busy. How about you?’
‘Ask me again at the end of the week.’
The photographer turns to me. ‘You must be Sophia. I’m Danny. Good to meet you.’
I smile. ‘Nice to meet you too.’
‘Well.’ Danny drops Marc’s hand. ‘You two want a tea? Coffee? Doughnut?’
He gestures to a counter of polystyrene cups, instant coffee, plastic water bottles and spilt sugar. There’s a box of doughnuts covered in pink frosting. ‘Marc, I’ve got twenty Marlboros if you fancy one later.’
Marc shakes his head.
‘Have you given up?’
‘I’ve barely smoked since I met Sophia.’
I smile. ‘Is that true?’
Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘I’ve replaced one drug with a much better one.’
‘So I’m a drug?’ I grin.
‘Yes. A very addictive, beautiful one.’
Danny clears his throat. ‘So. Sophia. Drink?’
‘Just water for me, thanks,’ I say.
‘No worries.’ Danny grabs a plastic cup and sloshes water into it. ‘How about you, Marc? You remember the coffee from last time, right? Tastes like gravy browning, but stick in enough sugar and it goes down okay.’
Marc slides his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I hadn’t forgotten. I’ve already texted the deli downstairs to bring us up some fresh ones. Latte with hazelnut syrup for you, hot chocolate for Sophia.’
Danny glances at me and gives a little wink. ‘I haven’t worked with him in months, and still he remembers how I take my coffee. Behind closed doors, he’s not half as bad as they say.’
28
‘Oh, I still have my moments behind closed doors.’ Marc’s eyes flick in my direction, and I give him a frown and a ‘not here’ glance. Oh Marc, Marc. How can you melt my insides with a few well chosen words and one look?
‘Don’t we all,’ says Danny amiably, seemingly oblivious to the simmering Marc just created inside me. ‘Are you two all costumed up?’
‘Costumed up?’ I ask.
‘Is that what you want to wear?’ He points his camera at my dress.
I look down. ‘That’s what I planned.’
‘Great. You look great. Right, I had a few props in mind.’
‘Props?’ Marc raises an eyebrow.
‘See what you think.’ Danny disappears behind the giant screen, and we hear clunks and bangs as he rummages through the prop boxes.
There’s a knock at the door, and a delivery boy leans his head into the studio. ‘Drinks for studio two?’ He has a tray of paper cups in his hand and wears a Daryl’s Deli baseball cap.
When he sees Marc, his mouth drops open, but he recovers himself, straightens his cap and holds out the cardboard tray.
‘Great timing. Thanks.’ Marc takes the tray.
‘Can I have your autograph?’ the delivery boy stammers. He must be all of seventeen and has bright red spots on his cheeks.
‘Of course.’ Marc sets down the tray on the white paper floor and pulls a parker pen from his pocket.
The boy holds out a napkin. ‘Will this do?’
‘Oh, I think we can do better than that,’ says Marc. He kneels on the floor and signs the white paper covering, then carefully tears off a corner and hands it to the boy.
The boy looks so overjoyed, I think he might faint. ‘Thank you, Mr Blackwell, thank you, thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ says Marc. ‘Here. Have this, too.’ He hands him the pen.
‘Really?’ The boy’s voice grows high pitched. He does a funny sort of bow and backs out of the room. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ says Marc, his eyes softening.
The boy grins and closes the door, and I picture him leaping into the air outside.
I smile at Marc.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘I just never thought of you as the ‘talk to fans’ type.’
‘Just because I like my privacy, doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the people who put me where I am today.’
‘Yes, but ... I didn’t realise you could be so sweet.’
‘Sweet?’
There’s that electricity again. How can he have this effect on me, from the other side of the room?
‘Yes, sweet,’ I say. ‘You were very sweet just then.’
Marc smiles one of his dangerous, curvy smiles. ‘Not a word many people use to describe me, Miss Rose. But still, I’m curious. You thought I wouldn’t speak with my fans?’
I shrug. ‘I wouldn’t have pictured you signing autographs like that. It was nice of you.’ A grin is sneaking onto my face. I know things are getting dangerous. Hot dangerous. But I ca
n’t help it. I’m loving teasing him about his softer side.
In two strides, Marc is beside me.
‘Any more of that talk, Miss Rose,’ he whispers, ‘and I’ll put you over my knee.’
My face flushes, and the grin leaves my face.
Danny appears from behind the screen, and Marc and I turn to him.
‘What do you think?’ Danny asks, holding up a huge black umbrella. ‘I thought the two of you could stand under it together. I can add a rain effect afterwards. Just the two of you together, in the storm. Very London, don’t you think?’
‘I love that idea,’ I say quietly, glancing at Marc. ‘It’s ... sweet.’
Marc frowns at me, but his eyes are smiling.
29
‘So, I’d like the two of you standing close together,’ says Danny, handing Marc the umbrella. ‘But I don’t think it should be a soppy ‘arm around the shoulder’ sort of shot. I’d just like the two of you side by side.’
I stand by Marc’s shoulder, feeling awkward, and not knowing what to do with my arms. I wish he would put his arm around my shoulder. But I think I understand what Danny is trying to do. He’s going for subtle. Elegant. Not a cheesy family portrait.
Snap, snap, snap. Danny takes shot after shot, from every different angle.
Every so often, he comes up to us and adjusts things – my hair, Marc’s jacket, the way we’re standing. But mostly he just snaps away, saying, ‘Great, you look great. Beautiful.’
It’s hard work standing in one position, and my body is soon aching from the effort. Just when I’m thinking about asking for a glass of water, the door creaks.
I see Arabella in the doorway. She’s wearing black-rimmed glasses, and her hair is tied more tightly in its ponytail, with no strands escaping around her face.
She smiles when she sees us. ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘There’s certainly chemistry between you two. I can feel it from over here.’
I look at Marc and see he’s half smiling, half frowning. ‘What brings you down here, Arabella?’
‘Not you, Marc Blackwell, if that’s what you’re asking.’ She gives him a teasing smile, which I don’t like at all. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to Sophia. There have been some developments.’
‘Developments?’ Marc snaps.
Unease stirs in my stomach.
‘What sort of developments?’ Marc’s body moves protectively against mine.
‘We’ve heard on the grapevine that Sophia’s going to be offered a part,’ says Arabella. ‘In the new Beauty and the Beast musical. In the West End.’
I stare at her.
‘Beauty and the Beast?’ says Marc, slowly. ‘At Tottenham Theatre?’
‘That’s the one,’ says Arabella.
‘Who gave you this information?’ says Marc.
‘It was leaked by the director’s assistant,’ Arabella replies. ‘No one is supposed to know yet. The leading lady had a breakdown. Personal problems. And they want an understudy who can get them a bit of press attention, and I guess Sophia will do just that.’
I think I’m about to have heart palpitations.
‘No, that can’t be right,’ I say. ‘How can that be right? I’ve never even auditioned ... no one has seen me perform ... I can’t sing.’
‘Welcome to show business,’ says Arabella. ‘They don’t care if you’re any good. Notoriety is much more valuable than talent.’
‘She is talented,’ Marc barks.
‘But I really can’t sing,’ I say. ‘A musical? I mean, that’s way out of my league.’
‘You can sing,’ says Marc. ‘But that’s irrelevant.’ He turns to Arabella. ‘When will they make her the offer?’
‘They’re making calls right now, trying to find out who her agent is. So I’d say, as soon as they can get a hold of her. It changes the interview slightly. We don’t want to look out of date, so I need to know whether Sophia will take the part.’
‘With Getty sniffing around, this is a bad time,’ says Marc. ‘It wouldn’t be clever to accept.’
I smile. ‘Marc, I can make my own decisions.’
‘I’m aware you can make your own decisions. But this is a new world you know very little about. Anyway, this part hasn’t been offered for the right reasons. And the male lead – he’s not what I would call a high calibre actor.’
‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Marc Blackwell?’ says Arabella.
‘Jealous? Of Leo Falkirk?’ Marc frowns and slips his hands into his pockets. ‘Hardly.’
‘Leo Falkirk is the male lead?’ I squeak.
Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘Please don’t tell me he was on your bedroom wall.’
‘No,’ I say. But he was on Jen’s. ‘But he’s just ... well, really famous. I’m flattered anyone would consider casting me beside him. I’m nobody.’
‘It’s all far too dangerous,’ says Marc. ‘That particular production of Beauty and the Beast only has two actors. Belle and Beast. All eyes would be on you. Lots of press attention. Including Getty. You’re not ready.’
Arabella looks from me to Marc to me again. ‘You’re sure?’ she says. ‘I mean, lots of young actresses would kill for that role. And to play beside Leo. Whatever you might think of him, it’s quite the opportunity.’
‘They’ll be others,’ says Marc.
‘Maybe you’ve forgotten, but being a young, unknown actor is no picnic,’ says Arabella. ‘Are you sure you’re not giving Sophia the wrong advice for your own purposes?’
Marc frowns. ‘My own purposes? I’m trying to keep her safe.’
‘Oh come on, Marc. She’s going to have to experience the real world soon. With all its ugliness. She’s not a bird in a cage.’
I swallow and try to stand up straighter. Arabella’s right. Most actresses would be over the moon to be offered this part. I shouldn’t turn it down just because Marc says so.
‘Well?’ Arabella asks me. ‘Will you take the part or not?’
I chew at my thumbnail. ‘I’d like to, but I need time to think.’
Beside me, I feel Marc stiffen.
‘You’re sure you don’t want to make a decision now?’ Arabella seems almost annoyed, and I can understand why. I’m holding up her article.
‘I wish I could, but I can’t make a decision like that straight away.’
‘The director will approach you soon,’ says Arabella. ‘One way or another. When she does, give me a call, okay? Tell me what you decide.’
‘Okay.’ I nod.
‘Oh, and one last thing,’ says Arabella. ‘The press know you’re at the Carlo. There’s a gang of paparazzi outside.’
‘How could they know?’ says Marc.
Arabella shrugs. ‘Someone must have told them.’
30
Marc and I leave the studio hand in hand, both thinking our own thoughts. As we weave through the corridors and downstairs towards reception, I feel Marc’s grip loosen.
‘Marc?’ I say as we walk around a half-circle staircase. ‘Are you angry at me for considering the part?’
He’s frowning and barely glances at me. ‘I couldn’t be angry at you if I tried. You should know that by now. But ... I’m concerned about you.’
‘Concerned?’
He nods. ‘Concerned that if you don’t take my advice, I won’t be able to keep you safe.’
‘I have to live my own life, Marc. I have to make my own decisions, even if I make the wrong ones.’
Marc’s hand slips from mine.
We reach the first floor, and I see a ladies room.
‘I have to use the bathroom,’ I say. It’s not true, but I need a few moments alone. And I want to phone Jen.
Marc gives a curt nod. ‘The limo is waiting out front. I’ll meet you in the back. It’s probably better we leave here separately anyway.’
So cold again.
In the bathroom, I pat my eyes and smooth my hair down. My nose and lips are red, and I know I’m on the verge of tears.
It’s okay, I tell myself.
You and Marc are just starting out. There’ll be obstacles. When you overcome them together, you’ll be stronger. That’s what my mother always used to say. But I guess she never met anyone like Marc Blackwell.
My phone has no signal to call Jen, so I just stare at myself for a moment in the mirror, thinking, thinking. Then I see someone come out of the cubicle.
I freeze.
Oh my god.
It’s Cecile.
Cecile from Ivy College.
She’s wearing very tight white jeans, high-heeled riding boots and a blue blouse tucked into her waistband. Even in jeans, she looks fancy.
I hold my head up as high as I can, and turn to her. ‘What are you doing here?’
Her eyes widen when she recognises me, but only for a second. Without saying a word, she waltzes up to the sink and turns on the taps.
‘Well?’ I ask as she washes her hands under running water.
‘The same thing as you,’ she says. ‘Doing a newspaper story.’
‘You’re here to tell more lies about me?’
Cecile flicks her fingers into the sink and reaches for a paper towel. ‘The truth is different, depending on where you’re sitting.’
Anger races around my chest. ‘You know what you said wasn’t true. Why would you want to bad mouth me like that? I’ve never done anything to you.’
‘I beg to differ,’ says Cecile, drying her hands. ‘You always knew I wanted Marc. It’s me he should be with. Who are you anyway? Some small girl from a small town. I mix with all the right people. I wouldn’t be an embarrassment to him. Some girl he has to dress up.’ She looks icily at my dress. ‘I’m guessing that outfit is Marc’s choice?’
I look down at my dress, momentarily wrong footed. It wasn’t Marc’s choice, but it wasn’t exactly mine either. I mean, yes, I picked it. But I would never have even visited that store if it wasn’t for Marc.
‘You’re just jealous,’ I mutter.
‘You didn’t play fair,’ says Cecile. ‘You pretended you didn’t want him, then snuck in when my back was turned. So now it’s my turn. I’ll do whatever it takes to win Marc. And if that means telling the world what you’re really like, then so be it. He’ll work out what you are eventually, anyway.’
