The Ivy Lessons (12 page)

I wait until the last pupil leaves the room, and then I walk around to where Marc is putti
ng papers in his laptop case
.

He doesn’t look up, but he glances sideways at me. ‘We’ve said all we need to say to each other, Miss
Rose
.’

That throws me. To be so dismissed. It hurts. I pull out the last of my courage.

‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s something I need to say to you.’

He snaps
his laptop
case closed and looks towards the back of the class.

‘Please, Sophia, don’t make this harder than it already is.’

‘This isn’t fair,’ I say.
‘You ignored me all through
class. I’m here to take this course just like anyone else. I haven’t done anything to you -’

‘I thought it for the best,’ says Marc. ‘I thought you’d be pleased for me to act professionally. Properly.’ His v
oice falters on the last word.

‘I don’t w
ant you to ignore me,’ I say
.

‘You
don’t know
anything about me,’ says
Marc
. ‘And if you did, you’d be running out that door.’

‘Please,’ I say. ‘Even if nothing can happen between us, can’t we just try and act normally?’

‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ says
Marc
.

‘Why not?’

He looks at me then, and as usual I’m nearly knocked ove
r by his eyes
.

‘
You really want to know?’

‘Yes. After your talk
yesterday
about managing your
emotions, I’d really like to know
.’

He gives a curt laugh. ‘That’s
exactly what I
am
doing. I’m managing my emotions.’

‘By ignoring me?’

‘Yes. And if I didn’t ignore you ...’ He loo
ks out
the window.

T
he words han
g in the air
.

‘
What?’ I ask.

He looks me dead in the e
ye. ‘It’s going to be har
d to stop myself
.’

‘From what
?’

‘From crossing the line
.
From teaching you things I shouldn’t
.’

I look at him, gobsmacked. For a moment, I feel like he’s playing a part. I remember seeing him in one movie – a futuristic apocalypse type film – where he talks like that to the leading lady. But this is no movie. We’re right here in the middle of the lecture t
heatre, and this is the real Marc
Blackwell
.
Talking to me.

My heart starts hammering away, and I blush from my neck all the way to my forehead.
He’s scared he’ll cross the line
.
Is that what I want?
To cross the line with him?
I realise with a rush of fear that I do.
But another part of me objects to his arrogance. The fact that he thinks if he crossed the line, I’d automatically be a willing partner.

‘
Who says I’d agree to that?’ I say.

A pained look flashes in Marc’s eyes. He puts his hands in his pockets, and leans his head back to look at the ceili
ng. ‘I do
.’

‘
That’s pretty arrogant of you
,’ I say.
But the truth is,
I want to touch his lips. To be held in his ar
ms again. To be with him
. Every bit of me to be connected with him.
And I guess he must know that.

There’s a noise in the corridor – the squeak of shoes – and
Marc
turns to the stationary cupboard
beside the projection screen. He opens it, and I see
the shelves of scripts, paper packets and
boxes inside.

‘
In here.’
I feel h
is large hand on my wrist. ‘
Now
.’ H
e pull
s me inside the cupboard and closes the door.
‘I don’t want people gossiping.’

The cupboard is warm inside and smells
of dust.
There’s a little white desk and a chair against one of the walls.
Marc
still has his hand on my wrist. He’
s holding it so tight
.

‘Are you trying to torture me?’ he says. ‘Staying after class to talk to me, making this so much more difficult than it already is?’

‘Of course not,’ I reply.

‘You don’t know what
it means to be mixed up with me.’

‘True,’ I say
, f
eeling sick and scared and excited
all at the same time.
‘But
... maybe
I’m
willing to find out.’

‘If anything happens between us – it could damage your reputation.’

‘And yours,’ I say.

‘I couldn’t care less about me,’ says Marc, frown
ing. ‘I have enough money
to
never
work again. People – newspapers – talk about me all the time. I’m used to it. It doesn’t bother me. But you’re not part of that world and I don’t want you to
have to suffer it
s ugliness.’
He shakes his head. ‘I can’t do that to you. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘Who has to know?’ I hear myself say.
But then
I don’t have
the
words any more. I don’t know what is happening, but I know I want it to happen.
I
fall shakily
into him
.

He lifts me onto the de
sk and kisses me
, hard.

‘I’ve never lost control like this
,’ he murmurs
. ‘Never.’ He pushes my knees apart, and moves between my legs
.
I feel a hardness
. H
e undoes my jean
s and pulls them off, and I feel cool air on my bare legs.

He finds my underwear – a g-string made of thin, elastic strips – and winds his finger around
the to
p of the elastic, pulling
it tight so it cuts into my skin.

Then he
slips his hand around my neck and
pulls my hair
tight, and I
gasp.

‘Call me sir,’ he whispers into
my ear.

Chapter 27

‘
S
ir,’ I murmur, and he pushes harder against
me, pulling my underwear
to one side.

‘I know you,’ says
Marc
, winding his hand arou
nd my hair. ‘
When we were in the theatre yesterday
, I knew what you needed
. Someone to take charge of you. To dominate you. I knew how you’d like it.
And I knew
how badly I wanted you, but I thought I could resist.’

‘I don’t want you to dominate me,’ I say.

Marc
laughs. ‘You do. Let me show you how much you’ll like it.’ He leans in
closer.

‘Okay,’ I whisper.

Suddenly, Marc draws back. He pants against my neck, then lets go of my hair and steps back. ‘
No
.
Not like this.’ He looks away. ‘I
need
to
control myself.’

‘You don’t have to,’ I breathe
.

Marc
takes a step back. ‘
If we’re going to do this, it should be slower.’
He picks my jeans up off the floor and hands them to me.

I take my jeans
and swallow hard. ‘
You want me to go?’

‘No.’ Marc shakes his head. ‘I don’t want that at all.
But
I’m moving too fast.
You’re not ready yet
.
G
o.
I’ll be in touch.
’

I pull on my jeans and head to th
e door
.

‘I’m so confused
,’ I say, openin
g
the door. ‘I d
on’t know what just happened
.
But ... I guess I’d like it to happen again.
’

I walk into the lecture theatre, and see Cecile in the doorway.

Oh shit
.

‘I heard Mr
Blackwell
was in here,’ she says. ‘I wanted to talk to him.’

Marc
appears behind
me
.

‘Mr
Blackwell
,
’ says Cecile
. ‘I wanted t
o speak to you about my performance
. But I see you’re busy.’ She throws a poisonou
s glance at me, then marches off
.

T
hat afternoon in singing class, I can’t think straight
. There are so many thoug
hts running around my head
. And against all of them, there’s
Marc
’s face, and his
hands gripping my legs, pulling off my jeans ...

In the evening, I have dinner w
ith Tanya and Tom – a delicious-looking steak with chips
that I barely touch, and wander back to my room at a stupidly early hour, refusing Tanya’s kind offer to take me to the campus pub. She knows something is wrong, but I hope she doesn’t know what.

I watch TV until one in the morning
, then
make myself a hot chocolate and go sit on the balcony, with my duvet wrapped around me.
A
cold
breeze blows against my bare feet.

The campus is beautiful in darkness. Soft, yellow lights pick out shadows on the red bricks, and
the ivy looks
haunted and alive.

Everything is totally still and quiet.

I’ve been watching the campus for maybe twenty minutes or so when I hear a knock at my door. The sound takes me by surprise, and I grip my empty hot chocolate mug and look back into the bedroom. Who could be knocking at this hour? The pub closes at eleven, and I doubt Tanya would be up until one on a weekday.

There it is again – a soft knocking. I
kick off the duvet
, put down my mug
and
walk
into
the bedroom
.

The knocking is a little louder now.

I pu
t my hand to the door handle, then hesitate. It’s late at night and I’m all alone. Maybe it’s not sensible to open the door. But the college has excellent security. All the gates are locked at night and manned by security guards, and no one can enter the accommodation block without an electronic key.
So it must be one of the other students.

I open the door
, and am
totally unprep
ared for what I see.

Marc
Blackwell
is standing in the doo
rway, shadows cast over his taut
, pale face.

He has one hand against the door frame, and he’s leaning against his fo
rearm. ‘I saw your light on.’

I stare at him, open-mouthe
d.

‘I want
mo
re,’ he whispers.
‘Can I come in?’

I open the d
oor and stand back
.

A
s he walks into my bedro
om,
I remember the mess of
my clothes everywhere, and books scattered around the place. The hot chocolate carton is open, and a milky spoon sits next to it. I’m not ver
y tidy, and now
Marc
now knows it.

He
glances at my bed,
then marches through the open French windows onto
the balcony. He looks out over the campus.

‘You kept my flowers,’ he says.

‘
Yes
,’ I say, quietly
, joining him
. ‘They were beautiful.
So was the card.
’

Marc
nods, looking distracted. ‘
Something from a different time. When my i
ntentions towards you
were honourable.
Believe me, Sophia, I had no idea
when I sent those flowers ...
I hate myself for feeling this way, but ... I want more. I need more. If you’ll give it to me.’