by S. Quinn
‘You want to be stronger. A better actress.’
‘Yes, but -’
‘So tonight, that’s what you’re going to learn. Look at me.’ He clicks his fingers – a powerful snap right in front of my eyes – and I look up before I can stop myself.
He’s frowning. Serious. ‘You can do this, Sophia.’
‘I ...’
‘Yes.’ The word broaches no argument. ‘You can. Come inside. Before you catch your death out here. Come on. No more of this nonsense.’
I close my eyes for a moment. He’s right. It would be pathetic to walk away now. ‘Fine. Okay.’
63
‘After you.’ Marc holds the theatre door open.
‘Thank you.’ I pass through the door, not looking at him, and head inside. The lights are low. Intimate and shadowy. I walk towards the stage and climb the steps.
Behind me, the door creaks closed. The creaking echoes around the empty theatre, and I hear Marc’s footsteps click along the dusty floor.
Once on stage, I turn to see Marc in the aisle, hands on his hips.
‘Eager to get on stage, Miss Rose?’
Even in the shadowy light, there’s no mistaking how attractive he is. He moves so easily, head held high, cheekbones catching the low light. I want to run my fingers through his thick hair. I want to feel him, all of him, everywhere.
No.
I need to get a hold of myself.
‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘I just ... I guess I wanted to get up on stage before I talked myself out of this.’
‘It’s hard for me too,’ says Marc. He’s closer now, his face washed in white light from the stage. Sharp cheekbones, beautifully straight nose and the tiny shades of hollows in his cheeks. ‘But I promised myself I’d be strong. And you can be strong too. I know you can.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘No.’ Marc is right by the stage now, fierce eyes locked on mine. ‘You won’t try. You’ll do. You will succeed. Is that clear? There’s no room for failure in my classes. If a student fails, I fail. And I have no intention of failing.’
I’d forgotten how strict he could be. How stern. And what a good teacher. His words inspire something in me – a strength in my chest. Yes. I will succeed. I can do this. We both can.
‘I read the Beauty and the Beast script,’ says Marc, taking a seat in the front row, crossed legs straight out in front. ‘Memorised it. I liked it. There’s more to it than I realised. And I know exactly the scene I’d like you to rehearse. Scene fifty, where Beauty tells Beast she’s fallen in love with him.’
‘You’re kidding me.’ I shake my head. ‘Are you trying to make this harder than it already is?’
‘Believe me, Sophia, this is the best scene for you right now. Let’s hear the line.’
I let my arms drop down and turn a circle on stage, pulling the lines into my head. ‘Okay. Yes, okay, I’m ready.’
‘Go.’
I let the frown fade from my face and clear my throat. ‘You’re beautiful,’ I say, waving my hands at an invisible Beast. ‘So kind and thoughtful. I didn’t see it at first, but now it’s clear. I see the person inside, and he’s a prince.’
I read the rest of the scene, surprised that it flows more easily than it ever has with Davina. When I’m finished, I feel a little glow in my chest. I’d almost forgotten how good it feels to perform.
‘Okay.’ Marc leaps to his feet. ‘Good. Sophia. Plenty of emotion. Sincere. If I were your director, I’d be happy.’
‘But ... Davina isn’t happy with me at all. Do I need to be more ... sensual, or something? Like you said when you were teaching me?’
Marc shakes his head. ‘This isn’t a sensual part. It’s more subtle. You’re perfect for it, in many ways.’
‘I was better just now. Better than I’ve been with Davina. I don’t know why.’
‘Because you felt more confident.’
‘So what’s going wrong? Why can’t I be confident with Davina?’
‘Because you’re inexperienced.’
‘That’s what Leo said.’
‘What Leo said?’ Marc’s blue eyes narrow.
‘Marc ... just so you know, there’s nothing between Leo and I -’
‘Your personal life doesn’t interest me right now,’ Marc interrupts. ‘On with the next scene. Let’s try fifteen.’
I deliver my next lines more confidently, Marc’s words of approval ringing in my ears.
‘Good,’ says Marc when the scene is finished. He watches me for a moment, and I get that ‘rabbit caught in headlights’ feeling.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Just thinking. About how my experiences might help you.’ Marc runs his fingers back and forth along the velvet arm of the chair, and I find myself watching them.
No! Keep it together, Sophia.
‘Your experiences?’ I ask, hoping my thoughts haven’t shown on my face.
‘Yes,’ says Marc, still trailing his fingers back and forth. ‘The first big movie I did, I was self-conscious. Like you are with Davina, I’m guessing. It was a tough part, and I knew I was punching above my weight. My father lied about my experience, and as usual it was down to me not to show him up.’
My chest feels soft. It’s so strange to think of Marc as a boy. Especially a boy who was vulnerable. It breaks my heart.
‘You must have hated your father,’ I whisper.
‘I wasn’t sad when he died. Put it that way. But ... let’s get back to you.’ Marc stands suddenly, and heads towards the stage. ‘I was telling you about one of my experiences. The more nervous I felt, the poorer my performance. Is that how you feel with Davina? Self-conscious? Nervous?’ He climbs the stage steps.
I nod, feeling anxiety churn around my chest as he gets closer.
64
No. Please. No closer. I can’t bear it.
‘You’re inexperienced, Sophia.’ He circles me, forcing me to turn and watch him. ‘So you’re not taking charge. You need to take charge. Do you see what I’m doing now?’
‘Apart from making me dizzy?’
Marc’s lips flick into a spiky smile, and my stomach turns to mush.
‘Am I?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say, still turning.
‘And yet you’re still watching me.’
My eyes drift to my feet. ‘It’s ... sort of automatic.’
‘Exactly right. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t even think about what you were doing. I took charge. And you followed my lead. I made you look where I wanted you to look. But that kind of power only comes when you stop worrying about what people think, and start telling them what to think.’
‘But how did you learn that?’ I ask, risking looking up. Marc has stopped circling me now, and stands with his hands slipped in pockets.
‘I got lucky,’ says Marc. ‘I had a good mentor.’
He pulls a sleek, black leather wallet from his pocket and unfolds it, sliding out a scuffed business card with blue biro scrawled on it. ‘I still keep the card he gave me.’ He reads from it. ‘Show ‘em who’s boss and knock ‘em dead kid, Baz.’
‘Who’s Baz?’
Marc smiles. ‘Baz Smith.’
‘Baz Smith? As in the gangster actor?’
Marc nods.
‘He was your mentor? He helped you?’
‘More than anyone will ever know.’ Marc slides the card back into his wallet. ‘He saw a struggling young boy and made him into a man.’
‘How?’
‘Oh – plenty of ways. The most memorable being throwing me in a street fight with some punk kind from Manchester who beat the daylights out of me.’
‘He did what?’
‘Baz is into no holds barred stuff. Proper bare knuckle fighting. One day, he took me along to a fight and threw me in the ring. I was beaten black and blue before I started fighting back. That day changed me. After that fight, everything was different.’
‘Different, how?’
‘I realised I had it in me to t
ake charge of a situation. And that I could either let life, and my father, beat me down. Or I could fight back.’
I so badly want to throw my arms around him, but I stand firm. ‘You never told me this before.’
‘There’s plenty you don’t know about me.’
‘Like about your sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘How is she?’
‘She’s doing okay. She’s checked into a place that will help her psychological rehabilitation. Here in London. It’s a good sign. The counselling is going well.’
‘Good. I’m glad. I’d like to see her again. I’d like to help her if I can. I wish you’d told me about her before.’
Marc smiles. ‘Trust you to be thinking of my sister at a time like this. Let’s get back to you.’
‘Marc -’
‘Right now.’
There’s no arguing with him, and we both know it.
‘Are you going to throw me in a boxing ring?’ I joke, but the look on Marc’s face makes me nervous. ‘Marc?’
He checks his watch. ‘Time’s up for today. We’ll start again early tomorrow. I’ll have Keith collect you. 6.30am. We’ll be done in time for your rehearsal.’
‘Collect me? We’re not rehearsing here?’
‘No. See you tomorrow.’
And with that, Marc stalks out of the theatre.
65
‘Please tell me where we’re going,’ I ask Keith as the car whizzes through central London. It’s 6.40am and pitch black. I’m nervous.
‘I’m under strict instructions not to say,’ says Keith. ‘But I think you’re going to have fun.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ I say, thinking about Marc’s boxing ring story. I’m gripping my knees so hard that my knuckles have turned white.
I watch the shadowy city of London fade to countryside and see wooden fences and bare fields.
The car slows by a collection of red brick buildings, and I press my face to the window. There’s a large country house with Georgian windows and what looks like a barn and stables.
Pinkish yellow light flows along the horizon, throwing the most beautiful coloured shadows over the buildings.
‘Is this a farm?’ I ask.
‘Indeed it is,’ says Keith. ‘Marc’s farm. One of his many land investments.’
The car turns on to a path of bumpy, hard mud and bounces along, past the house, until we reach the stables.
We turn a corner, and I see Marc by the stable doors. My heart catches in my mouth, but I swallow it down again.
Remember, Sophia, he’s your teacher today.
Still, I can’t help noticing how handsome he is in the morning light. He’s wearing black cargo trousers and a grey V-necked sweatshirt. There’s a large brown paper bag by his feet with a boutique clothing store logo on it.
‘Here we are,’ says Keith, pulling the car to a stop.
‘Thanks,’ I say, wrapping my coat around me and climbing out of the car. I march towards Marc, my thin trainers feeling hard rocks on the ground.
‘Good morning, Miss Rose.’
‘Good morning, Mr Blackwell. So.’
‘So?’
‘What are we doing out here in the countryside?’
‘I’m about to show you. Come with me.’ He picks up the brown bag by its rope handles.
‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Patience, Miss Rose.’
The stable has a huge metal door, and Marc unbolts it. There’s a deathly creaking sound as metal grates along brick.
I hear a noise. Bang, bang. Like someone punching metal. And smell straw and horse manure.
BANG, BANG! Louder this time.
‘What’s that noise?’ I ask, taking a step back.
‘See for yourself.’ Marc strides into the stable, his trainers crunching stones on concrete. It’s cold inside, and I see puffs of mist up ahead.
66
Cautiously, I creep after him, seeing straw bales and empty enclosures where I’m guessing horses are usually kept.
Marc stops by an enclosure, and the huge black nose of a horse appears over the half-door. Marc lifts his hand to the horse’s mouth and strokes its jaw.
The horse jerks left and right, but after a minute or two, Marc’s stroking calms him down.
‘He’s beautiful,’ I whisper, coming closer – but not too close. Big horses scare me. ‘My mother used to take me horse riding.’
Marc runs a firm hand down the horse’s nose, and it whinnies in approval. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘How?’
‘I saw a photo of you riding. At your father’s house.’ Marc unbolts the enclosure, holding up a steadying hand to keep the horse from charging forward.
I can tell this horse is fiery by the way he smacks his hooves and shakes his mane.
Marc picks up the brown paper bag and holds it out to me. ‘For you,’ he says. ‘Riding gear.’
‘Oh no. You’re kidding me. You want me to ride this horse? This horse? He’s huge. And he looks like he has a temper.’
‘Whoever said this horse was a he?’
‘It’s a girl horse?’
Marc smiles. ‘No. A male. He’s called Taranu. It’s a Welsh word. It means thunder. And he’s extremely strong and wilful, like his namesake.’
‘Marc – I can’t ride him.’
‘You can and you will. And he’ll teach you a lot.’ Marc slaps his shiny, black flank. ‘With Taranu, you’ll have to be strong. Control him or you’ll be thrown.’
I think of my mother and the times we went riding together. I rode a pony called Daisy, and it was the gentlest creature you could ever hope to meet. Mum and I would trot together through the woodlands and along country paths. They were magical, those Saturday mornings.
‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea,’ I say.
‘You don’t have a choice,’ says Marc, resting his hand on Taranu’s rear. ‘When I’m teaching you, you do as I say. You’re riding him, and that’s final. So let’s get you dressed.’
67
Taranu snorts and kicks his feet against the hard concrete behind the stables, and I watch him warily, thinking now would be a good time to change my mind.
Marc has fitted Taranu with a shiny brown saddle.
I’m wearing the beige riding trousers, fitted black polo neck and black boots from the boutique clothing store bag.
I’m shivering, both with cold and fear.
Come on, Sophia. Come on, you can do this.
‘Ready?’ Marc asks, holding the reins.
I nod, putting my foot in the metal stirrup before I have too much time to think about it. I put my hands on Taranu’s soft coat, and he gives a little twitch that knocks me off balance.
I nearly fall, but Marc catches me. I try to ignore the electricity that zips through my body at Marc’s touch, and plant my feet firmly on the ground.
‘Easy. Easy, boy,’ says Marc, giving Taranu’s flank a pat. I notice Marc isn’t looking at me and guess he feels the electricity too.
Sophia ... you’ve got to stop thinking like that.
‘Okay.’ I put my foot in the stirrup again, grab the glossy brown saddle and heave myself up and over.
Whoa.
I’m about five feet in the air. It’s a long way to the ground.
I take the reins, trying to be cool and confident, but in truth, I’m sick with nerves.
Taranu takes a step forward, and I jolt back, then to the front.
‘Oh! Wait. No. Stand still,’ I say.
My nervous words aren’t calming Taranu, and he trots a fast little circle on the concrete.
I freeze, holding tight to the reins, my whole body rigid. Every jolt sends my stiff body flying the wrong way, and I throw myself down against the saddle, clinging to Taranu with both hands.
‘Sit up,’ says Marc. ‘Now. Take charge of him. Or he’ll run away with you. Now Sophia. This isn’t a game.’
Oh my god, he really is serious. ‘Okay.’ I struggle uprigh
t and pull the reins tighter.
Taranu responds by walking forward.
‘Marc! Where’s he going?’
‘Wherever he likes right now. You’d better take charge of him.’
Oh my god.
Taranu heads towards an open field. He trots at first, but as soon as there’s grass beneath his hooves, he begins to canter.
I’m still completely tense, my body bouncing up, down, up, down as Taranu goes from a canter to a gallop.
Oh my god.
I pull the reins tight, but it makes no difference. Wind pushes at my cheeks, and my eyes water. We’re galloping now. Properly galloping, and I’m bouncing all over the place.
I can’t hold on. Any minute now, I’m going to go flying off. I look down at the soft grass and see Taranu’s thick hooves pounding into it. There’s no way I want to fall at this speed.
I pull the reins again.
‘Stop, Taranu. No.’
He doesn’t slow at all, even though I’m tugging as hard as I can. I’m growing more and more terrified now. There’s a fence up ahead, and if he tries to jump it, I’ll fall. And he’ll be loose in a neighbour’s field.
Bump, bump, bump – I’m bouncing so hard that I’m flying up and down in the saddle. The fence is only metres away, and part of me wants to throw my hands to my face and brace myself for impact.
‘Stop. Stop.’ I pull at the reins with all my might, hearing Taranu snort and feeling him alter his footing, ready to jump the fence.
‘Turn. NOW.’ I’ve never heard that voice before, but it came from me alright – deep and guttural and from my very core. My hands slide further up the reins and tug. Not desperately. Not fearfully. But forcefully.
‘TURN. No, you will not throw me. You will turn. You will turn.’
I pull the reins with all my might, pulling Taranu’s neck to the side and ...
He turns.
Just in time.
I keep the reins completely taut in my hands, not letting them slip even a centimetre, although the leather is cutting me. We gallop back towards the stables, but this time at a slower pace. I pull tighter and tighter until he slows to a canter, then a trot.
68
‘Easy boy.’ I lean forward and stroke his strong neck, hearing him snort in approval. It’s only when I see Marc by the stables that I realise how shaken I am.
