Devoted 2 : Where the Ivy Grows (9 page)

‘I knew I should have come earlier,’ she calls, making fast clicks with her high heels. She hands me a Starbucks and pulls me into a one-armed hug. ‘Shopping fuel,’ she says, nodding at the cups. I can smell mine is hot chocolate and see cream melting through the sipping hole.

‘Come on. Let’s get you some shoes.’ Jen drags me into Vivienne Westwood by the elbow, and I smile at being on the familiar Jen shopping train, charging along at one hundred miles an hour.

I’m guessing takeaway drinks aren’t technically allowed in
the store, but no one would argue with Jen in bulldog mode. She steams into the shop like she owns the place and starts talking to the assistants in designer clothing speak.

‘What cut would you say this is? Isn’t this
a lot like the summer season you did back in 1998? I’d call this nude, wouldn’t you?’

It’s a different language, and I watch in awe as she talks about seasons, colours, 80
’s comeback collections and ‘occasion’ wear.

She packs me off to the fitting room with three stunning, amazing outfits that look like works of art, and has an assistant hold my coffee while I change.

The third outfit I try on is the winner. It’s a bright-blue fitted dress in thick fabric with little black leather ‘Z’ shapes sewn all over it. It’s dressy but daytime dressy, and fits me like a glove. It sucks my waist in an extra inch too, and the detail around the bust makes me look bigger. All good.

We team it with black ankle boots covered in buckles, and we’re done.

I slip my cashmere coat over the whole outfit, and I feel good. Really good. Like I fit in on Bond Street. Or, at least, I can hold my head up high.

‘Marc wants to meet you,’ I tell Jen as we leave the store, arm in arm. My jeans and shoes are stuffed into a Vivienne Westwood bag, and they look marked and dirty now I’ve got my new clothes on.

‘I want to meet him too,’ says Jen, her voice steely. ‘After what was printed this morning, I need to have some serious words about his PR team.’

‘The
newspapers
,’ I say, stopping. ‘I haven’t even seen them yet. What did they say?’

‘They’re ... not
too
bad,’ says Jen, but I’ve known her long enough to tell when she’s doing a PR spin. ‘I have them with me. Take me back to your hotel, and you can read them yourself.’

The papers aren’t good. Actually, that’s an understatement. They’re nasty. Most of them seem to have gone for the ‘slutty student seduces her teacher’ angle, and talk about me like I’m some crazed nymphomaniac who won’t leave Marc alone.

Jen and I are in my suite at the Carlo, sitting on the living area carpet with newspaper pages everywhere.

When we arrived, a butler brought us up afternoon tea, ‘Courtesy of Mr Blackwell’, but we’re not paying much attention to the tiered silver tray of scones, sandwiches and pastries. The newspapers are our focus.

As I read the
Daily News
story, I find myself blinking in shock.

‘Oh my god. Jen, have you read this? They’ve interviewed someone from my college.’

‘Where?’ Jen leans over my shoulder and reads the headline and the first paragraph. ‘
Marc’s Sexy Student
. Sultry student, Sophia Rose, has bedded one of Hollywood’s hottest bachelors.’ She gives a little laugh, but then she frowns as she reads on. ‘Who’s Cecile?’

‘She’s on the same course as me,’ I
say.’ I can’t believe she’s saying all this rubbish.’

Under the headline, there’s a picture of me from my audition cards looking all doe eyed. I cringe. I guess they must have got that photo from my old university website. The shot of Marc and
me, to my relief, is very grainy and fuzzy.

We both look startled, but there’s no body language between us – nothing that would suggest we’re an item. For all anyone knows, Marc could be paying an innocent visit to a student’s home. That’s if Cecile hadn’t given an interview.

I read the article again, my teeth gritted.

‘Sophia was after Marc from the moment she arrived at college,’ say
s fellow student, Cecile Jefferson. ‘She didn’t care about the course. Only meeting the famous Marc Blackwell. She did everything she could to get his attention, hanging around after classes when everyone had left.’

Thanks a lot, Cecile. You’ve given the gossip mill plenty to be getting on with.

‘I can’t believe she did that,’ I say. ‘It’s all so untrue.’

Then I see the journalist who covered the story. Giles Getty. No wonder he was at the college gates this morning.

‘She’d better pray I never get a hold of her,’ says Jen, reading the paper over my shoulder. ‘Slandering my friend like that. Does she even know you? Have you ever met?’

‘A few times,’ I admit. ‘She fancies Marc. That’s all it is. She’s just jealous.’

‘Soph, you’ve got to toughen up. This isn’t campus gossip, it’s a national newspaper. She’s spreading bullshit about you to the whole of the UK.’

I sigh. ‘But what can I do about it, Jen?’

‘Well, for a start, you can get a decent PR firm behind you.’

‘Really?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Know any decent PRs?’

We both laugh.

‘But seriously, Soph.’ Jen crosses her arms. ‘They shouldn’t have let the papers print this stuff. Marc needs to find someone better. I’m not saying use me. But someone better.’

I think about that. ‘I’ll talk to Marc.’

‘When do I get to meet Prince Charming, anyway?’

‘Any minute now.’ I glance at the carriage clock on the mantel piece. It’s dwarfed by the giant vase of roses. ‘He said he’d be here at two.’

As if on cue, the clock chimes 2pm, and the front door opens. I know it’s Marc without looking. Trust him to arrive
exactly
on time.

‘Sophia?’ he calls, and I sense an urgency in his voice.

‘In here,’ I reply.

Marc strides into the living area and looks visibly relieved to see me. ‘I’m glad you got back safe.’

He kisses me on the forehead.

‘I wasn’t in the wilds of Africa,’ I say, smiling. ‘I only went across the street.’

He notices Jen and strides forward, his hand out. ‘You must be the best friend I’ve heard so much about. Pleased to meet you. Sorry it has to be under these circumstances.’

‘Yes,’ says Jen, shaking his hand. ‘I read the papers this morning. Not the best of starts for you two.’

‘It’s being dealt with.’

Jen and I look at each other, and I can see her trying to work out whether to bash his PR team now or later.

‘Did your team have a damage limitation plan in place?’ Jen asks.

‘Yes,’ Marc replies. ‘But they didn’t go in strong enough. I had words with them this morning. They’ll go in stronger next time.’ He pours himself black coffee from a silver flask that came with the afternoon tea.

Jen clears her throat. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little late to go in strong? Post publication? If it had been me, I’d have pinned the papers down right away. I wouldn’t have let them get away with what happened this morning.’

Marc turns to her and raises an eyebrow. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or not, but if he is, there’ll be fireworks. Jen isn’t one to back down.

‘Oh? And what would you have done to stop those stories?’

‘Threatened legal action. Pulled in some favours. Bargained to make the story more favourable. It looks to me like the papers ran exactly what they liked. There was no pressure on them. Nothing to stop them.’

‘Jen’s in PR,’ I explain.

Marc takes a seat on an armchair opposite us and sips his coffee. He’s relaxed. In control. The suave businessman.

‘You’re saying my team should have blackmailed the press into running a better story?’

Jen gives a tight smile. ‘Not blackmailed. Bargained. Offered something in return for a favourable report.’

‘Something?’

‘More photographs, but ones that show you favourably. Or an exclusive interview.’

Marc’s lips push out into a thoughtful pout. God
, he’s sexy. Even when he’s frowning, my body responds to him.

‘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.’

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.’