Devoted 2 : Where the Ivy Grows (8 page)

He picks up his cargo trousers and reaches into a
pocket. Taking out a burgundy leather wallet, he unrolls it and hands me a gold credit card.

‘Take this,’ he says. ‘The pin number is 1966. Old and New Bond Street are just around the corner. Designer clothing shops galore. Go buy yourself whatever you think you need.’

He hesitates as he places the card on the bedside table. ‘And Sophia?’ I hear his uncertainty.

‘Yes?’ I sit taller.

He shakes his head. ‘We’ll talk later, okay?’

I nod dumbly, feeling him draw away from me and into himself.

‘
Who
are you meeting?’ I hear myself ask again, hating how desperate the words sound.

‘Someone from my past,’ says Marc. ‘Who I’m hoping might help me straighten out my future.’

I wish I could capture the look on his face when he says those words. Capture it, bottle it, hold it close to my heart forever. Because when he says
my future
, I see in his eyes what I mean to him. Just for a second. And then the light goes out, and I lose Marc to coldness once again.

‘I’ll have someone drive you to the studio, okay?’ he says. ‘Be in the room at two thirty. Until then, have fun. Buy whatever you like.’

He throws the room key on the bedside table. And then he’s gone.

Who is he meeting?
Who?
Oh, I’m driving myself crazy, especially as my brain gnaws at the thought of the woman in his house. I pace the suite, walking around the hallway, through the living area and master bedroom in a circle until I make myself dizzy.

After too ma
ny circuits, I slump onto the couch in the living area and decide to call Jen.

When I pull out my
iPhone, I notice I have thirty-seven missed calls. I’ve never had more than three missed calls in my whole life.  I scroll through the numbers. Most of them are London numbers I don’t recognise, but plenty are from Jen, Tom, Tanya and my dad.

Jen picks up on the first ring.

‘Soph? Oh my god, I’ve been calling and calling. Where are you?’

‘The
Carlo,’ I say.

‘The
Carlo
? As in, the Carlo Hotel London? As in, by royal appointment to the Queen, the Carlo?’

‘Um ... yeah.’

‘Holy Jesus fuck! What are you doing there? Oh wait. Stupid question. You’re with Marc Blackwell. So I’m guessing you’re messing up the sheets.’

‘
Was
with Marc Blackwell,’ I say. ‘He’s gone. To meet someone. I don’t know who. We just had an interview with
Gossip
magazine.’

‘
Gossip
magazine?’ Jen practically screeches the words. ‘Oh my god. You’ve just become media royalty. Did you do a photo shoot?’

‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘We’re supposed to do one this afternoon.’

‘What are you going to wear?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. Marc gave me his credit card to go shopping. He sort of suggested Old and New Bond Street, so I guess he wants me in designer things.’

‘OH MY GOD!’ Jen screeches. ‘What are you doing on the phone to me? You’re wasting time! Go spend, spend, spend.’

‘Do you think it’s going to last? Him and me?’

There’s a pause. ‘You
are
from two different worlds.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Two very different worlds. Jen, I don’t fit in here. This isn’t me. Shopping for designer clothes isn’t me.’

‘Did he say you
had
to get something designer?’

‘No. He just mentioned that the shops are near here.’

‘Did he say it like he
wanted
you to go to those shops?’

I think for a moment. ‘No. But maybe he meant ... I felt like that’s what he wanted.’

‘Do you love him?’ Jen asks, serious now.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Or at least ...’ I think about what he said earlier. About being careful what I wish for and getting to know him be
tter, and the woman at his house. ‘What I know of him. But perhaps there are things I don’ know.’

‘That’s a good start,’ says Jen. ‘Hey – do you want me to come help you find something to wear? It’s no trouble
; I’m in London today anyway.’

‘No, no, you’re working. I’ll be fine.’

I know it sounds pathetic, but I have to really work up courage to leave the hotel room. Marc speaks the language here, but I’m a foreigner and I feel out of place.

Staff nod at me as I head through the lobby, and I slap on a smile and murmur, ‘
Hello’ as I pass them. I notice all the other guests ignore the staff, but that just feels rude to me. I may not have been brought up with much money, but I was always taught manners cost nothing.

As I hop down the steps outside, I realise I don’t have a clue where I’m going. There’s a grey-haired doorman by the revolving door, so I ask him where Old Bond Street is.

‘Just over the road,’ he says, dimples appearing in his weathered cheeks. ‘Can’t miss it.’ His accent reminds me of my Grandpa Jack, and I smile.

‘Do you come from East London?’ I ask.

His face breaks open into a grin. ‘Highbury. Why ... do you know the area?’

‘Know it?’ I smile back. ‘I used to visit Walthamstow every Christmas. My
grandparents live there. We’d watch the football at Highbury.’

‘Oh right? Football lass, are you?’

‘Not really, but I used to love watching live games.’

‘We’ve got something in common there, then. I can’t stand the game usually, but seeing it live is different. A world away from this place, eh? The old football matches. Pie and Bovril and all the singing.’

‘You can say that again,’ I say.

He reaches out a white-gloved hand. ‘Bill.’

‘Sophia.’ I shake his warm glove and feel at home for the first time today. ‘Really good to meet you.’

‘I saw you come in earlier,’ says Bill. ‘With our Mr Blackwell. He’s been good to us over the years – don’t you go believing what the papers say.’ He glances up the street. ‘Mind you, if you need any help while you’re here, you just come to me. I’ll look after you. And if that
fella of yours steps out of line ...’ He raises his arm and backhands the air. ‘You just come and find me.’

We both laugh.

‘Thanks Bill.’ Maybe I should practise that backhand. It looks effective.

I cross the road and find myself at the foot of Old Bond Street – and a different world.

Okay. So I know about Gucci and Dolce and Gabbana from
Sex and the City
episodes, and I know celebrities wear designer labels for important events. But I’m from a small village, near a small town, and have never seen
real
shops selling designer clothes. Unless you count Nike as designer.

As I walk down Old Bond Street, I’m getting an education. For a start, I’ve never seen shops with security guards outside. This is a first. And second, I’ve never seen such amazing window displays.

I see a giant Christmas tree in one window, all sprayed white and hung with fake diamonds. Another window has hundreds of snowflakes suspended on wire around a display of party dresses. Beautiful.

I pass a shoe shop where a lady hands out pink cocktails to shoppers. Wow. And I see diamonds and watches and handbags on sale that cost more than my dad’s cottage.

I think of Marc’s credit card, still resting on the bedside table. I couldn’t bring myself to take it. I’m just not the sort of girl who goes charging up money on someone else’s account. I’ve got my own credit card, and I’ll pay back the balance by working, like I’ve always done. Okay, so my credit limit is only a few hundred pounds, but that’ll be enough to get something, I’m sure.

I walk past shop after shop. As I pass different window displays, I find reasons not to go inside.

Too smart. Not quite me. Too fancy. Too young. Too old. But the truth is, I’m not comfortable going in these designer places. I feel like the second I step over the threshold, everyone will know I don’t belong.

Sophia, you’re being ridiculous. Just walk into a shop. This one. This one here.

I see a window of gold shoes, white suits and sunglasses on skinny mannequins in the window. Swallowing hard, I walk inside the store.

Where to start?

A shop assistant walks over. She’s wearing the exact same outfit that’s displayed in the window, right down to the sunglasses. She glances down at my jeans and shoes.

‘Just looking?’

‘Oh ... um. Yes. For the moment.’ I scan the store for sale rails. Old habits die hard. There are none. Of course there aren’t. It’s the run up to Christmas.

I see a rail of dresses and walk over to it. The assistant follows me.

‘This is nice,’ I say, my hand touching a fitted grey dress with silver embroidery.

The assistant whips off her sunglasses. Her eyes look mean. ‘Just so you know, the fitting room is only for people
seriously
considering buying something.’

My hand falls away from the dress.

‘She
is
seriously considering buying something,’ says a deep voice.

Oh my god.

I turn to see Marc, white shirt, black suit, impossibly handsome. If he stood very still, he could easily be part of the window display.

My eyes widen. ‘What are you doing here?’

The shop assistant’s mean little eyes practically bulge out of her head. ‘You ... You’re ... Marc Blackwell.
Marc
Blackwell. I ... I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t sound rude. It’s just ...’

Marc glares at her. ‘We won’t be needing any of your assistance, thank you. You can go exercise your bad manners elsewhere.’

The assistant blinks a few times, stumbles a little on her gold high heels, mumbles, ‘Sorry’, and scuttles away.

‘You forgot this,’ says Marc, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his credit card.

I’m so happy to see him. I want to fling my arms around his shoulders, but I guess it’s a little too public.

‘I didn’t forget it,’ I say. ‘I just ... didn’t feel right about taking it.’

Marc frowns. ‘Why not?’

‘Because ...’ How can I explain what I don’t understand myself? ‘It just felt wrong. That’s all.’

‘It felt wrong letting me look after you?’

‘No ... I ... I suppose it didn’t feel like you looking after me. It felt like me not being an adult.’

‘It wasn’t intended that way.’

‘I know.’ I shake my head. ‘I know you’re coming from a good place.’

‘Will you just take the damn card?’

‘Are you asking me
, Mr Blackwell, or telling me?’

‘Asking.’ One side of Marc’s lips quirks up. ‘But don’t get used to it. It won’t become a habit.’

‘Oh? You’re sure about that?’

‘Quietly confident.’

The rest of the world disappears for a moment, and it’s just Marc and me, standing together.

‘How did you find me?’ I ask.

‘Housekeeping rang to say my credit card had been left in the bedroom. So I thought I’d better come looking.’

‘Didn’t you have to meet someone?’

‘They understood I had an urgent engagement. But I have to go back to them now.’

‘Right.’
Who is it, who is it, who is it?

‘Would you like me to send someone from the hotel to help you?’ He gives that quirky smile again, leaving me weak at the knees. ‘Act as your bodyguard?’

‘I already have one.’

‘Yes
, you do.’

‘No
t you,’ I say.

Marc’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Do I have competition?’

‘You certainly do. She’s very good.’

‘She?’

‘Yes,
she
. My best friend, Jen. And you’ll have to meet her approval if the two of us are going anywhere. So I guess you should meet soon.’

‘Oh, I’m guessing she’ll approve of me,’ says Marc. ‘Women almost always do.’

I laugh. I guess he’s allowed to be a little arrogant about the effect he has on women.

He rests his forearms on my shoulders, and I smell that gorgeous, soft, musky woody smell that comes from his body. Like sweet pine after the rain. It almost makes me swoon, and I have to consciously think about my knees to keep them straight.

‘I have to go now,’ says Marc, his voice as deep as a well. ‘But I’ll be back before the studio session. And when I am, I’d love to meet this bodyguard of yours.’

I inhale again, breathing him into me. ‘I’ll call her right now.’

Jen and I meet outside Vivienne Westwood on Conduit Street. She’s carrying two Starbucks in paper cups as she hurries towards me, and she’s dressed in a sharp grey trouser suit and fawn coloured coat.