by S. Quinn
I pull Taranu to a stop, then slide free of the saddle. My knees nearly give way as I hit the ground, and I have to lean against Taranu for support. My arms are shaking too, now they’re not taut and tense.
‘Good ride?’ Marc takes Taranu’s reins. The horse bows its head to him, nuzzling its nose against Marc’s long fingers.
I glare at him, flinging my shaking arms to my hips. ‘Are you crazy?’ I shout. ‘What on earth ... that horse was out of control. You let me ride a horse like that?’
‘Out of control?’ Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘He was anything but. Because you took charge of him.’
‘And what if I hadn’t?’ I say, angry tears in my eyes.
‘I would have used this.’ Marc slides a black whistle from his pocket.
‘What’s that?’
‘A stop whistle. He’s trained to come to a careful stop when he hears it.’
‘But ... he was heading towards the fence ...’
‘And he would have turned at this whistle and stopped. He’s a well-trained horse. Despite appearances.’
‘It didn’t feel like he was about to turn.’
‘Trust me. He would have done. But you turned him yourself. I was watching you. Extremely carefully. At the tiniest hint that you were losing your seat, I would have blown the whistle.’
I’m still glaring at him, my heart pounding, but my hands slide down from my hips. ‘You mean ... I wasn’t in charge of him at all?’
‘You were in charge,’ says Marc. ‘But you had a safety net. You just didn’t know it. How are you feeling?’
‘Angry.’
‘You look exhilarated.’
‘Perhaps a little.’ I put a hand to my pounding chest.
‘You did well,’ says Marc, cocking his head. ‘Extremely well. Now. You have rehearsals to attend. Do you understand what that little exercise was all about?’
‘I ... yes. I think so. I mean ... I see what you’re doing. You forced me to take control. It’s made me feel more confident. Like I can take charge of a situation that seems impossible.’
Marc drops the whistle in his pocket. ‘I think it would do you good to attend Denise’s lessons, too.’
‘There’s no time,’ I say. ‘My rehearsals last all day.’
‘You didn’t let me finish,’ says Marc, frowning. ‘I know how long your rehearsals last. So I’ve booked you some evening lectures with Denise.’
I look down at the concrete. ‘I know I should train with Denise. But Marc ... when it comes to singing, maybe I’m just not good enough.’
‘Utter nonsense,’ Marc snaps. ‘Believe you’re not good enough, and you won’t be. You’ll attend evening lectures with Denise.’
‘Marc -’
‘No arguments. If you want my tuition, you follow my rules.’
I let Taranu’s reins slip around in my fingers. ‘Are we back here again?’ I say. ‘You instruct, I obey?’
‘You said you wanted me to teach you.’ Marc takes a step closer, his blue eyes clouded.
Oh good God. How can he still have this effect on me? I’d only just calmed down, and now once again my heart is pounding.
‘Show me your hands.’
‘My ...’
‘Your hands. Now.’ Marc lifts my hands from the reins, and turns them so he can see the palms. Red burn marks run across my left hand where the reins tore at my skin.
‘You’re hurt.’ He frowns. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I ... they ... it’s only a few little marks.’
‘Those need to be cleaned up.’
‘But Marc ... my rehearsals.’
‘Wait in the back of the limo. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.’
69
I’m barely in the car a minute when the door clicks open and Marc climbs in. He has bandages and antiseptic burn cream, and he’s still frowning.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Really. You don’t need to be worried.’
Marc squeezes a dab of antiseptic cream on cotton wool, then very carefully takes my left hand in his.
‘This might sting a little,’ he says, patting at the red lines on my palm. He’s like an artist, painting something really delicate. He frowns. ‘I never wanted you to get hurt.’
‘It’s fine. Really.’ I watch him clean the wound. ‘Marc. Can I ask you something?’
Marc keeps dabbing, concentration making cute little lines appear above his nose. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘When we were ... together. Did you like hurting me?’
Marc pauses, the cotton wool hovering near my fingers. ‘I can’t abide the thought of hurting you.’
‘But ...’
‘No.’ Marc shakes his head. ‘I was teaching you something pleasurable. Pain and pleasure are very closely linked. It happened to work for me because I need to be in charge.’
‘You need to be in charge,’ I say slowly. ‘Not like. Need?’
‘And you found it pleasurable,’ says Marc, gently wrapping a bandage around my hand.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘The times we had ... they were ... I’ll never forget a moment of it. They were the most amazing times ever. Do we ... is there any chance for us?’
Marc ties the bandage tight, then holds my hand gently in his. ‘I still want you,’ he says. ‘This is torture for me. You do realise that, don’t you? But my main priority is keeping you safe. And right now that means being apart.’
‘I miss you, Marc. I wish we could still be together.’
Marc is still holding my hand, and I feel the electricity that comes from him, running up and down my arm. We’re like two magnets fighting the current.
‘You’re the first woman who ever, ever got so close,’ Marc says. ‘Don’t you know how much it hurts being apart from you? Do you think I’d do that without good reason? I want to protect you.’
‘But don’t you see?’ I say, feeling the car begin to move. ‘You’re hurting me right now by staying away. I guess I always knew I’d get hurt. I should have known by our sex life.’
Marc’s grip tightens on my hand. ‘Did you ... think I was hurting you?’ His forehead creases up. ‘You thought I liked seeing you in pain?’
‘Didn’t you?’
Marc leans back. ‘No. That wasn’t what I liked. I liked taking charge of you. Of you yielding to me. Of dominating you and being in control of your pleasure. And showing you things you’d never experienced before.’
‘Do you ... is that how it’s always been with you? With women?’
‘Are you saying I’m interested in men?’ Marc’s lips quirk up.
‘I’m guessing no.’
Marc laughs. ‘Good guess. And no ... that’s not how it’s always been. I used to be different. Younger, more afraid. Out of control.’
‘You’ve been with women and not had to take charge?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘But I wasn’t the first. Right? The first woman you ... took charge of.’
‘Before you, there were others. Women who ... I had that dynamic with. But things didn’t start out that way. I wasn’t always in charge.’ Marc puts his hand to his forehead. ‘Something ... someone happened.’
There’s a long pause.
‘Oh,’ I say, to fill the silence. And then I can’t help asking, ‘Did you love her?’
Marc laughs. ‘Him. He was nothing more than a friend, and he showed me the way, in a manner of speaking.’ Marc’s watching me now, one eyebrow slightly raised, those amazing lips tilted up just a little. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
‘Know what?’
‘He didn’t tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’ I’m confused.
‘The friend. The friend who showed me the way, for better or worse. You can’t guess who he is?’
I stare at him, bewildered. ‘I have no idea,’ I say.
‘The friend was Giles Getty.’
70
‘Giles Getty?’ I practically spit the words out.
Ma
rc nods. ‘He introduced me to the scene. A scene where women liked men to take charge.’
I feel sick. ‘You’re kidding me. Giles Getty?’ Just saying his name makes my tongue feel slimy. ‘He ... he said you were friends, but I thought ...’
‘That he was exaggerating?’ Marc’s blue eyes are wider and clearer than I’ve ever seen them. ‘No.’
Green turns to grey as we enter the outskirts of London.
‘How?’ I say, hearing utter confusion in my voice. ‘When?’
‘A long time ago. He wasn’t quite the evil bastard he is now, but he was on his way. But I didn’t see it. Until it was too late.’
Marc puts his head in his hands, and I see his pale fingers slip through his thick brown hair. I want to touch him. To hold him. To tell him it’s all okay. But ... I don’t know if everything is okay.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
Marc sighs into his hands.
‘I was young and stupid and didn’t realise what I was getting into until it was too late. When Getty introduced me to his scene ... the world he showed me, it awakened something. Who I really am, I guess you could say. Or at least, who I wanted to be. In charge. Cool and in control. And the pleasure I could bring by being that way. I guess Getty saw something in me that was ... similar to him.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re not similar.’
‘We are,’ says Marc. ‘More than you know. Getty got me into ... domination, shall we call it. Taking charge, sexually. He brought me to the clubs, introduced me to the women.’
I feel sick. Partly about the thought of him with other women, but mainly because Getty was involved in such an intimate part of Marc’s life.
‘When I hooked into that scene,’ says Marc, ‘all the bad feelings I carried around ... those worthless, frightened feelings that came from a life with my father ... they left. Just like that. The power I felt was tremendous.’
Somehow, our bodies have moved apart.
‘The first night I was with a woman from one of Getty’s clubs,’ Marc continues, ‘she asked me to tie her up. The more I restrained her and took charge, the more she liked it. And I felt alive. I felt like me. The real me.’
‘So you and the woman ...’
Marc waves a dismissive hand. ‘I have no idea what happened to her. She’s not important. It wasn’t about her. It was about me. I met many more women like her. I got good at reading the signs.’
‘Did you read the signs in me?’
Marc doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes.’
‘You knew I’d enjoy you hurting me?’
‘Not hurting you. Taking charge of you. It’s what you needed. It’s what you still need.’
Marc stretches his legs out and puts an arm on the edge of the window.
‘Getty was clever. He didn’t show me exactly who he was at first. We visited clubs where women wanted men to be in charge, and I thought that was Getty’s thing too. But Getty wanted more. He liked watching women get hurt. Women who weren’t necessarily enjoying themselves. It excited him. And there are specialist places where you can watch that sort of thing. And take part.’
I swallow thickly, feeling sick.
‘And ... did you take part in that?’
Marc shakes his head sharply. ‘I already told you. It’s not about pain for me. It’s about bringing pleasure through taking control. Sometimes that control means pain. But I can’t abide the thought of a woman getting hurt against her will. My mother and sister were both beaten by a man who was supposed to be taking care of them. The thought of hurting a woman who isn’t consensual sickens me.’
‘So what happened?’ I ask. ‘With you and Getty?’
‘When I found out what he was in to, I told him that was the end of our acquaintance. And I reported his activities to the police. He responded by hounding my sister, and selling story after story on her.’
‘Your poor sister.’ I swallow, nausea stirring my stomach.
‘It ruined her life,’ Marc says, matter-of-factly.
The car is slowing now as it meets London traffic, and Marc turns to gaze out of the window. ‘If it wasn’t for those press stories, she could have turned her life around before now. But she never had a chance.’
The car drives on, and we sit in silence for a while. Then I say, ‘Thank you. For telling me. I wish you’d told me sooner. Not that it matters now, I guess. But I’m glad I know.’
‘I’m glad you know the truth, too. At least, part of it.’ Marc’s jaw becomes firmer, and he takes his Blackberry from his pocket, flicking his thumb over it. ‘Back to business. You’ll be seeing Denise tonight. And after your rehearsals for the rest of the week. Then we’ll meet again. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I say, my head in a whirl. I don’t know what to think or what to feel.
71
I’m on time for the rehearsal, and predictably I perform better than I have in a long time. I don’t know if it was riding the horse, Marc’s praise or just being with Marc that made me more confident, but I waltz into the theatre like I own the place and act my heart out.
Davina’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but it seems she can’t think of much to criticise me about today.
I’m positively glowing when we finish that evening, and I trek across the college for my lesson with Denise.
I’ve been thinking about Marc all day, of course, and even more so now the rehearsals are finished. As I walk across the cold grounds, I think about all the pain Marc’s had to deal with. How difficult his life has been. I understand that after a life like his, you could become a little addicted to being in charge.
It’s bitterly cold now, and light puffs of snow swirl and flick around. The college looks so beautiful with snow floating around, especially now all the Christmas decorations have been hung. Fairy lights decorate the trees, making the college look even more magical and mysterious, and nets of twinkling stars have been thrown over the college roof tops.
When I reach Denise’s classroom, I see candles flickering in the window and hear low, soft music. There are fake blue snowflakes stuck all over the windows, and I see Denise inside, sitting on a beanbag, flicking through Stage magazine.
I knock on the door.
‘Sophia?’ Denise calls.
‘Hi.’ I creak the door open, and dust snow from my arms and hair.
Denise gets to her feet. ‘Well, look at you. More beautiful than ever. And performing in the West End, no less. But ...’ She puts a finger to her lips. ‘What’s on your mind, my love? Or should I say, who?’
I smile. ‘The usual who.’
‘Oh? Our Mr Blackwell?’
‘Who else?’
‘I’ve missed you in my classes,’ says Denise.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I hang my coat over a plastic chair. ‘I’ve missed you too. But the rehearsals are taking up so much time.’
‘And how are they going?’ Denise asks, bustling over to her kettle. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ I put my cold fingers against a radiator. ‘They’re ... going okay. Today they were okay. Before today, it’s been awful.’
‘Awful?’
I nod. ‘Marc was right. I never should have taken this part. It was offered to me for all the wrong reasons, and now it’s too late to back out.’
‘Ah, the lovely Marc,’ says Denise, pouring hot water into cups. ‘I hear the two of you went horse riding this morning.’
‘I did. He stood and watched.’
‘How are the two of you? Still struggling?’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘So no hope for the star-crossed lovers?’
I sit heavily in an orange plastic chair. ‘I don’t think so. I wish there was. Marc’s pretty determined.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Denise hands me a tea, and I smell cinnamon. ‘Do you want a drop of brandy in it?’ she asks. ‘Christmas time, and all that?’
‘Yes, please,’ I say. ‘I could use a drink right now.’
Denise takes a lit
tle bottle of toffee-coloured brandy from a cupboard and sloshes a good measure into my tea.
I take a sip. ‘Mmm, delicious.’ I taste cherry, spices and brown sugar.
‘So you and Marc ... he’s tutoring you again, is that the story?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And it’s helping. Just being around him ... it helped today.’
‘I can imagine,’ says Denise. ‘He really is an excellent teacher. Very strict, but he has such faith in his pupils. Such trust. It carries. When we feel someone’s faith in us, we believe in ourselves.’
‘Maybe that’s why I have such a hard time with Davina,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t have any faith in me.’
‘Diva Davina? Don’t let her get to you. She’s well known in musical circles, and from what I’ve heard, she’s nothing but a bully. A great director in some ways, but she takes her moods out on her performers.’
‘She’s fine with Leo.’
‘Well, she would be. He’s a Hollywood star. She knows what side her bread is buttered. She’s going to keep him as sweet as possible. Connections.’ Denise taps her nose.
‘She has a point, though,’ I say. ‘I’m nowhere near as good as Leo. I’m an amateur.’
‘An incredibly gifted amateur. Don’t you forget that. Leo may have had years of practise, but he doesn’t have your talent. You just need a little refining, that’s all.’
I laugh. ‘That’s what Leo said.’
‘And what does Marc say?’
‘He says I need to take charge more.’
‘A good point. Well, my dear. Shall we get started? Get you warmed up, and then get you belting out those Beauty and the Beast numbers?’
‘Okay.’
72
The singing lesson with Denise is exactly what I need, and I leave her studio feeling lighter than I have done since Marc and I broke up.
It’s late, but I’m liking being out in the dark, under swirling snow, lost in my thoughts.
There are no students around, and I half remember Tanya saying something about a test tomorrow. I guess everyone must be inside studying. But as I near the accommodation block, I hear a man’s voice.
