The Ivy Lessons (Devoted, Book 1) Read online

  ‘No, no, sweetheart,’ Cecile says. ‘He was only there as head of the college. Denise was the one who picked us. I have a brother who works with Denise Crompton’s husband and he gave me the inside scoop. So none of us are all that special to darling Marc. Although I’m hoping one of us will be special to him by the end of the course.’ She winks at Ryan.

  ‘It’s still a nice gesture, though,’ I say, thinking back to the card and wondering if I misread the handwriting.

  Cecile shook her head. ‘He probably got his secretary to do it. Although I’m hoping for a rather more personal card by the end of term.’

  ‘Marc Blackwell saw Soph’s audition,’ says Tanya, waving her pint so she spills it. ‘And if his card said Soph here is a great actor, I’m sure he meant it.’

  Cecile looks me up and down. ‘Why would he?’ she says, without a hint of teasing in her voice. ‘I’ve never seen or heard of you before, and I know anyone who’s any good.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ says Tanya.

  ‘Children, children.’ Tom wheels between the two girls. ‘We should be celebrating our fabulousness. We’ve all been accepted at this amazing college. Which means we’re all terrific people. So. Let’s have a drink to terrific people.’

  He raises his glass.

  ‘To terrific people,’ Tanya and I say.

  ‘And are we all excited about meeting the man himself tomorrow?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ says Tanya.

  ‘Why, yes indeed,’ says Tom. ‘He’ll be hosting our introductory seminar tomorrow.’

  ‘Will he?’ Tanya says. ‘What time?’

  ‘It was in our introductory paperwork,’ says Tom. ‘Nine o’clock in King’s lecture theatre.’

  I remember the piles of paper the college sent me when I accepted my place. I didn’t get to read all of them. I had so much to do before I left – making sure Dad and Genoveva had enough food in, and Samuel had nappies and giving the house a last thorough clean to last them until I could come back.

  ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ says Tom. ‘First thing tomorrow, we’ll be meeting the infamous Marc Blackwell.’

  Chapter 11

  When I wake up the next morning, I think maybe I dreamt Ivy College and Marc’s card and flowers. But here I am, and there the flowers are – beautiful roses, on a highly polished table near the window that overlooks the greenest of green grounds.

  I feel excited and refreshed. I did the sensible thing last night and went to bed early, even though I was having fun with Tanya and Tom.

  Before I went to bed, I checked the card again and sure enough – it was exactly as I remembered it. A very talented actress. Handwritten, and signed Marc Blackwell.

  Mr Blackwell, I reminded myself. You don’t know him. Just because you’ve seen him on the big screen, it doesn’t make you friends.

  I get up and read the card again, and as I bring it closer to my face I smell something good. Cologne, I think. I bring the card right to my nose and inhale. I catch sight of myself reflected in the French windows, and rest the card back on the flowers.

  What on earth are you doing, Sophia? I twiddle my hair and look out at the college grounds. Don’t be a silly student with a crush. He sent gifts and cards to everyone.

  I take a quick shower, smoothing serum into my hair to make it extra shiny, and deciding to let it hang loose and dry naturally. Then I dress in my new skinny jeans and high leather boots, and choose the bright green slouchy jumper that Jen said made me look beautiful. Nothing too fancy for my first day. I love performing, but off stage I don’t like to draw too much attention to myself.

  I’m too nervous for breakfast, so I take a walk around the grounds instead. It’s nerve-wracking waiting to meet Marc Blackwell again, and I know the worse thing I can do is hang around my room on my own, working myself into an anxious frenzy.

  The grounds are peaceful, and the lawns are covered in dew. It’s still sunny, but the slight coolness of autumn is already beginning to take hold, and I’m glad I wore a jumper.

  I take a walk through the woodlands, loving the bird song and the stillness. The soil is fresh and clean, and I think maybe I could ask the college for a vegetable patch out here. There’s plenty of space between the trees, and I could give what I grow to the kitchen. I don’t feel like myself unless I’m growing things.

  The screech of a car sends a squirrel scampering back up a fir tree, and I peer through the woodlands to see a black Ford Mustang drive into the college car park.

  I brush aside a sapling branch, and watch the convertible slide into a parking space reserved for college staff. It takes a moment to realise I’m not breathing. The shadow in the car is tall and broad, and as I hear the door click I dart behind a tree trunk.

  Marc Blackwell emerges from the car, and stands with his elbow on the soft bonnet, looking over the college buildings. He’s wearing a tailored black suit, and takes a cigarette from his jacket pocket, lighting it with an effortless flick of his palm.

  I’m momentarily mesmerised. The way he inhales the cigarette and blows it towards the woodlands. The way he stands, so upright, but with a sort of relaxed slouch at the same time.

  I must have stood there for a long time, barely breathing, watching him smoke and look around. Then suddenly, his cigarette is finished, and he stubs it somewhere inside the car and slams the car door.

  He strides towards the college, but before he reaches it he throws a glance towards the woodlands. He looks right at where I’m standing. He’s so far away, I can’t see clearly, but I swear he gives the hint of a smile.

  I step back, hearing leaves crunch, and pray he didn’t see me. I’d be so embarrassed. What would he think of me, sneaking around in the woods and watching him? But he’s gone now, and after a few moments, I creep out of the woods and towards King’s lecture theatre.

  I’m an actress, so I should be beautiful – right? Wrong. I’m skinny and awkward looking, with wavy hair that just won’t behave. Jen may say I’m beautiful, but she doesn’t do drama. Standing in line outside the lecture theatre reminds me that acting attracts some of the most stunning people on the planet. Compared to most people who take acting tuition, I’m incredibly plain.

  I remind myself that I was chosen to be at this college. They must think I have talent at least, if not beauty. But I’m so nervous at the thought of seeing Marc Blackwell again. I feel like he’ll see right through me this time. That he’ll decide – no, we’ve made a mistake. This girl isn’t ready to be taught by someone as amazing as me.

  Did Marc see me in the woodlands? I try not to think about it. And I try not to think of the way I felt, watching him, as he stared at the college with those intense eyes.

  I check my watch. It’s five minutes to nine, but I’ve been waiting outside the lecture theatre for half an hour now. I stopped back at my room to pick up my course books, and now I’ve been clutching them for so long, they’re feeling extremely heavy.

  I can’t see Tom or Tanya anywhere – I guess maybe they’re nursing hangovers and will turn up as late as possible. But I see Cecile and Ryan. I smile and wave at them. Neither of them seem to notice me. By the sounds of things they’re too busy gossiping about Marc, parts they’ve seen him play and newspaper articles they’ve read about him.

  I hear clipped, measured footsteps.

  Chapter 12

  Someone whispers: Shush!

  I clutch my books closer to my chest and turn to see the man I saw in the car park – the tall, dark, blue-eyed actor who makes thousands of women weak at the knees. He looks even better up close, if that’s possible. He’s tall – taller than he looked in the audition, and well-groomed with a smooth jaw. His light-brown hair is a little long on top, so it falls slightly over his eyes.

  Those eyes. They’re a light bluey green, like sea water and I remember Tanya’s words: You can see the whole world in them.

  But he’s cold. I can tell by the way he doesn’t look any of us in the face, instead looking ove
r our heads.

  I imagine he’s used to getting his own way, and having people bow and scrape to him. He walks like a man on a mission, and his shoes smack the hard floor like gunshots.

  As he passes me I smell a light cologne and remember the card. I find myself inhaling deeply.

  He stops and turns to look at me, and I quickly breathe out. I try to keep myself steady, but I can feel my books slipping slightly in my arms.

  He puts a finger to his chin.

  ‘How did you enjoy your walk this morning?’

  I swallow. ‘Erm. My walk?’

  ‘I thought I saw you in the grounds today.’ He raises an eyebrow and smiles just a little.

  My throat has gone all tight, and the redness in my cheeks is spreading down to my neck. I feel my books slip out of my hands and hear them bump to the floor.

  You idiot.

  I crouch down, and Marc crouches down with me. ‘First day nerves?’

  His face is inches from mine. The lines of his nose and chin are so perfect, and the hollows of his cheeks so dark. He picks up the books and passes them back. His fingers touch mine, but his manner is brusque and indifferent, as if he were putting the books on a shelf. Then he turns and strides into the classroom.

  Everyone follows him into the lecture theatre, but I’m too dazed to move. I stand like a rabbit in headlights as the other pupils flood past. By the time I’ve got myself together enough to go into the theatre, the only seats left are in the front row.

  Oh holy Jesus.

  I can feel the other students watching me, but all I can focus on is Marc. He’s striding back and forth, waiting for everyone to take their seats. To put it more accurately, he’s waiting for me to take my seat – the last student who’s come into the room.

  I slide into a seat at the front of the class, noticing Cecile is also in the front row, a few seats away. She’s smoothing down her blonde hair, and has already written ‘First Marc Blackwell lecture’ on her notepad, and underlined it.

  Marc closes the lecture-theatre door. Then he goes to a projection screen with the words ‘Ivy College’ bouncing around on it.

  He is only a few feet away from me, and I feel ... I don’t know, exposed. I wish I had a mirror so I could see what my hair was doing, and check there’s nothing on my face. He could notice all my imperfections if he wanted to – my small breasts, the slight kink in my nose, the spot growing on my chin.

  ‘Well class,’ says Marc, slotting his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers. ‘I guess you’ve heard all about me, right? You think you know me. Let me put you straight. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me, despite what you read in the newspapers. But what you should know is I’m a tough teacher.’

  The lecture theatre door creaks open, and Tom wheels himself inside, followed by Tanya. They look suitably sheepish, and Tanya squeezes into the only free seat, which happens to be beside me.

  Tom wheels himself to the side of the row, and takes his rucksack off the back of his wheelchair. In the silence of the lecture theatre, the sound of him unzipping his bag is loud enough to wake the dead.

  ‘You two.’ Marc taps his Rolex. ‘I don’t tolerate lateness. Ever. Late again and you’re off the course.’

  Tanya’s eyes grow wide. ‘But we had to wash Tom’s wheelchair,’ she says. ‘The grounds were muddy, and it got all over his wheels.’

  ‘I don’t tolerate excuses, either,’ Marc snaps. ‘You.’ He turns to Tom. ‘I presume operating a wheelchair isn’t a new thing for you.’

  ‘I’ve been in a wheelchair my whole life,’ says Tom, with pride in his voice. ‘And it’s never stopped me doing what other people do.’ I notice his black hat has a peacock feather in it today.

  ‘Then you should know to leave yourself more time to get places.’

  Tom’s mouth snaps closed, and Tanya whispers to me: ‘Talk about strict.’

  ‘Let me tell you what else I won’t tolerate,’ Marc says. ‘Insubordination. You do as you’re told in my class, or when I’m directing you on stage. If I ask you to do something, it’s in your best interests. I know what’s good for you. If you can’t take instructions from me, then you’re off the course.’

  Tanya puts her hand up.

  ‘Put your hand down,’ Marc barks at her.

  She slides her hand back down.

  ‘Now,’ Marc continues. ‘I know a lot of lecturers use their first names with students, but my name is Mr Blackwell. Not Marc. Just because you’ve seen me in the movies, doesn’t mean we’re friends. You’ll call me Mr Blackwell. Any questions?’

  A few seats along from me, Cecile raises her hand. She looks flushed, and her eyes are shining.

  Another silly student with a crush.

  ‘Yes, Miss ...?’

  ‘Jefferson. Cecile Jefferson.’ She smiles at Marc, but he only frowns back.

  ‘You have a question?’ Marc asks.

  ‘I heard our first-term mark won’t count. All we have to do is pass this term, and then our marks in the second and third terms will be the ones that count towards our final grade. Is that true?’

  Marc’s lips pull tight, and the hollows in his cheeks ripple. ‘Not at my college. My students are marked at all times. Every essay and performance will count, and those not getting the grades won’t stay here for long.’

  ‘So, you’ll be marking our performances from the very first term?’ Cecile asks.

  ‘Oh yes.’ A smile plays on Marc’s lips. ‘Don’t think you’ll escape being graded, just because you’re all new. I expect the very best from all of you at all times.’

  ‘You’ll get it, Mr Blackwell,’ says Cecile.

  Marc turns to the projection screen. ‘Let me tell you about classes this year. You’ll be doing three performances, all of which be marked. I will be in charge of choosing which parts you perform. I will do this based on what I think you need the most to grow as actors.

  ‘I made notes at your auditions, and I already have parts lined up for your first performances – which will be this week. If, at the end of that performance, I don’t think you have what it takes ...’ He runs a hand across the screen. ‘You don’t go through to the second term. This is not a nursery or a school,’ Marc continues. ‘My college is like the real world. If you don’t perform well at all times, pack your bags.’

  ‘Which is why getting a certificate from this college opens so many doors,’ Cecile pipes up. ‘That’s why I’m here Mr Blackwell, to get the best drama qualification in the country.’

  ‘I don’t believe I asked for your comment, Miss Jefferson,’ says Marc. ‘And unless I ask for it, I don’t want to hear it. If you have a question, raise your hand and I’ll decide if it’s worth answering or not.’

  Cecile looks furious at being told off, but she’s clever enough not to complain.

  ‘So.’ Marc picks up a pointer and smacks it on the projection screen. ‘Your performances will prove to me you have what it takes to stay on this course. You will be performing in front of me, one-on-one. We start this week.’

  Chapter 13

  Marc picks up a remote control from the lecturer podium and clicks away the Ivy College screen. In its place are lists of names and plays. I watch his strong fingers grip the pointer, and he smacks it on the screen again.

  ‘I’ve assigned each of you a part and pages for your first performance.’

  I stare at the lists of names and realise they’re our names, followed by the name of a character, play and page numbers for the script. I scan the list for my name. Beside me, Tanya takes heavy-rimmed black glasses from her bag and slides them on.

  ‘Make a note of which part you’re playing, and start practising,’ says Marc. ‘I have a library of scripts in the stationary cupboard.’ He waves the white pointer at a door beside the projection screen. You can go get the script you need at the end of the class.’

  I squint at the screen, and finally see my name, right at the bottom. The play next to my name is: Call of the Night, a
nd my character is the lead, Jennifer Jones. I blink and stare. Oh my God. Jennifer Jones is a ballet dancer who seduces her theatre director. The part has been taken on by some amazing actresses in the past. Nicole Kidman. Meryl Streep. There’s no nudity, but the role is very femme fatale.

  Beside me, Tanya groans.

  ‘Who did you get?’ I ask.

  ‘Bianca, from Taming of the Shrew,’ she says. ‘About as different from the parts I usually play as you could possibly get.’

  ‘Quiet now,’ says Marc, silencing the grumblings in the room. ‘The point of these parts is to stretch you as actors. To take you into territories you haven’t been before. I want you to go away and practise those parts. Then, each of you will come and see me in the theatre room and perform. If you pass the performance, you get to stay on the course and try out for the next one. It’s that simple. Got it?’

  I see nervous nods around me, and feel myself nodding too.

  ‘Those of you who are performing scenes with two people, I’ll be performing the other part. Some of you just have monologues. So.’ Marc strides along the front row, and I hold my breath. ‘Any complaints about my teaching methods?’

  There is silence.

  Marc stops right in front of me. ‘Good. Because have no doubt. If you don’t like the way I do things, you’ve got one choice. Leave.’

  I grab my pen and start twiddling it. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can play the part of Jennifer Jones in front of anyone, let alone Marc Blackwell. It’s too ... I don’t know. Jennifer Jones is supposed to be really attractive and sexy, and I don’t see myself that way.

  Marc smiles that quirky, spiky smile that makes him so good at playing bad guys in action movies. He opens the cupboard beside the projection screen, and waves his hand to welcome us into it. ‘The scripts are all in here. Help yourselves. And remember. The mark of a good actor is their ability to take on any role and make it their own. I hope you’re ready to impress me.’

  We get up from our seats, and crowd towards the stationary cupboard. I hold back, waiting for everyone to get their scripts first. When the scrum is over, I go into the cupboard, and find Call of the Night beside a pile of Oscar Wilde plays.