Devoted 2 : Where the Ivy Grows (25 page)

‘A sapling,’ I say.

‘Do you need to stay here tonight?’ says Leo, turning to stare at my cheek. ‘I’ll sleep on that couch over there. It’s just I get the feeling you don’t want to go back to your room.’

‘I don’t,’ I admit. ‘I’m too scared.’

‘Hey, it’ll be alright,’ says Leo. ‘You shouldn’t think so much. Look at you – your face is all scrunched up.’

‘Sorry.’ I roll to face him. ‘It’s been a weird night.’

‘That’s better,’ says Leo. ‘Your eyes look much prettier when your forehead isn’t all tense.’ He kisses me on the cheek, then leaps up. ‘See you in the morning, sleeping beauty. It’s a big week for us. First rehearsal back at Tottenham Theatre.’

He takes bedding from the large built-in wardrobe and throws it on the sofa.

‘Sweet dreams, Sophia.’

‘Sweet dreams, Leo.’

The next morning, I wake to hear Leo snoring. He’s lying on the couch, one large hand flung towards the ground, the other on his chest.

Soft blonde hair falls on his tanned forehead, and his pink lips are slightly open.

I feel hot and sticky, and realise I slept fully dressed in Leo’s bed. Slipping out from under the duvet, I creep to the kitchen area for a glass of water, then head to the bathroom.

There are organic grooming products around the sink and shower, most of them open and leaking on porcelain. There’s something called ‘snake peel’ that’s dripped little black granules onto the sink, and a goat’s milk moisturiser with a missing lid by the tap. I smile. Leo’s messier than I am.

I wash my face with cold water, then clean my teeth with my finger and Leo’s fennel-flavour toothpaste.

Leo’s snoring floats through from the other room and I consider waking him, but ... there’s something I need to do right now. It’s making me nervous just thinking about it. I splash more cold water on my face, then head out the door.

Cecile’s room is number 132. I know because I heard her complaining about it on my second day of college. She was waving her key at Wendy, shouting about windows that let through drafts.

As I creep along the first floor landing, I hear taps running and toilets flushing. I guess everyone must be waking up, and I’m hoping Cecile is awake too.

When I reach Cecile’s door, I hesitate. Should I be doing this? I don’t usually seek out confrontation, but sometimes needs must. And in a way, it’s not so much a confrontation. Yes, I want to find out if she let Getty in last night. But I also want to know why she was crying.

Knock, knock.

I take a step back and chew my thumb. I’m sort of regretting not going back to my room first and changing the clothes I slept in, but it’s too late now.

The door is yanked open.

Cecile stands before me, looking perfect. She’s wearing a long, billowy nightgown, and a lace-trimmed eye mask sits above shiny blonde hair in a loose bun.

Without make-up
, she looks younger and actually much prettier. But her eyes have the tired, crinkled look of someone who’s spent the night crying. They widen when she sees me.

‘Sophia!’ The word is strangled and strange.

‘We need to talk,’ I say. ‘I heard you last night. Talking to Getty.’

Cecile’s forehead creases up, and her eyes dart frantically left and right. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about -’

I hold up a hand. ‘We both know it was you. So. Can I come in?’

Cecile pokes her head out into the corridor, glancing up and down. Then she stands back.
‘I suppose you’d better.’

Cecile’s room is totally different from mine, which is funny considering all the rooms are sort of similar.

Her bed is made up with crisp white, lace-edged linen that looks incredibly hard to wash. Scattered between her white pillows are arty cushions with gold animals printed on them.

There’s a Mercedes number plate hanging on the back of her door that says ‘Cecile 1’, and art house film posters decorate the walls. Everything is pin neat, not a speck of dust to be seen, and I feel like I’ve walked into a magazine photo shoot.

I stand awkwardly by the bed, not sure what to do with myself. There’s a chaise longue near the window, but it looks far too clean and perfect to actually sit on.

‘So?’ Cecile straightens the duvet on her bed, then plumps the cushions. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

‘I know Getty was here last night.’

Cecile pauses, mid-plump, then carries on cushion bashing as if she hasn’t heard.

‘I’m guessing you let him in,’ I continue.

‘You can’t prove anything,’ says Cecile, her eyes fixed on a cushion printed with gold giraffes.

‘I don’t need to. If I tell Marc I heard you with Getty, that’s all the proof he’ll need.’

That gets her attention.

‘You wouldn’t!’ She whirls around.

‘I might,’ I say. ‘If you don’t tell me what’s going on.’ It’s hard to feel sorry for her right now, but I try to remember her crying last night and my shoulders soften a little. ‘You sounded ... so upset.’

‘It was nothing,’ says Cecile, far too quickly.

I take a step towards her. ‘Look, I know we’re not friends. I know we’ll probably never be friends. But if something’s going on with you, something bad, tell me. Because if I don’t know, the only option I have is to tell Marc that you let Getty in last night.’

Cecile goes to the window and stares out at the college grounds. She puts her hands on her tiny hips, and I see how frail she looks under her billowy nightgown. ‘So you mean to blackmail me.’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Not at all. I mean to give you a chance.’

‘You think I need chances from someone like you?’

‘Right now, yes.’ I find my hands going to my hips too. ‘Look, this is getting ridiculous. I came here to let you share your side of things. If you don’t want that, then no problem. I’ll phone Marc and tell him -’

‘No!’ Cecile turns, her eyes wet with tears. ‘
Please
.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘Don’t tell. I ... if I get thrown out of college, my life is over.’

‘So what’s going on?’ I ask. ‘Did you let Getty in last night?’

She gives the tiniest, stiffest little nod.

‘Why?’

‘Oh, you know why.’ She waves her perfect nails at me. ‘So he could get pictures of you. But you were out.’

‘Cecile, how well do you know Getty?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Exactly what it sounds like.’

‘My personal life is none of your business.’

I frown. ‘Your personal life?’

Cecile puts a hand to her forehead. ‘Forget I said that. Look, I know him pretty well, okay? Too well.’

‘Do you know ... I mean, he could be dangerous.’

‘What do you need to worry about? You have Marc Blackwell to protect you.’

‘I’m not thinking about me,’ I say. ‘I’m thinking about you. Do you know ... I mean, with women. He ... I heard that he likes seeing women get hurt.’

Cecile’s pale little lips fall apart, and I see her tiny, neat white teeth. ‘How do you know what he likes?’

‘Cecile, has he hurt you?’

Cecile’s eyes drop to her hands, and she takes one wrist between her thumb and forefinger. Around her wrist, I notice green and blue bruising.

‘Did Getty do that?’ I ask, quietly.

Cecile snatches her fingers away, like a guilty child caught in the cookie jar. Her shoulders start to shake, then her chest. She wraps her arms around herself and tears slide down her cheeks.

‘Yes,’ she whispers.

I cross the bedroom in a second and put my arms around her, letting her sobbing face rest on my shoulder. I feel the vibrations through my bones as she cries.

‘It’s okay,’ I soothe. ‘Really. It’s okay.’

‘No.’ She shakes her head, sitting on her bed and swiping at tears. ‘It’s not okay. Everything’s a mess. Such a terrible mess. You wouldn’t understand. I’m so jealous of your life.’

‘You? Jealous of me? I’d love to come from a weal
thy family. Life would be an awful lot easier.’

‘Are you kidding me?’ Cecile’s eyes widen. ‘My family ... they control everything I do. My life is all about how it reflects on them.’ She breaks into sobs again.

‘Whatever’s wrong, I’m sure it can be sorted out,’ I say, stroking her hair. ‘I’ll help you.’

‘No one can help me,’ says Cecile, her eyes wide and nervous. ‘I’m so sorry, Sophia. I never meant for things to go this far.’

‘This far?’

‘It’s just such a mess.’ Cecile buries her face in her hands.

I let her cry, knowing it’s good to get the tears out. After a few minutes, she takes deep breaths into her hands, then lifts her face.

‘So what’s going on?’ I ask softly.

‘I’m pregnant,’ says Cecile, her voice hoarse. ‘Getty’s the father.’

I don’t mean to, but my hand flies to my mouth. ‘Oh my god.’

Cecile looks at her lap. ‘I was so stupid. He’s pretty well known, so ... I was flattered when he asked me out. But all he really wanted was to get to you.’ She puts her head in her hands. ‘I can’t be a single mother. I just can’t.’

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘There’s a lot of support out there. Plenty of girls go it alone.’

‘Maybe where
you
come from, but in my family, it’s just not done. My parents will never speak to me again if I have a baby out of marriage ...’ She starts sobbing again. Deep, painful sobs that hurt me to hear.

‘Does Giles know about the baby?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘What does he think about it?’

‘He couldn’t care less.’ Cecile picks at the lace frills. ‘Except that now he has a hold over me and a way to get to you.’

‘A hold over you?’

‘He says he’ll marry me. A proper wedding. He’ll do the right thing. But of course, that comes at a price.’

‘Letting him into the college and selling stories on me,’ I finish.

Cecile bites her lip. ‘It didn’t start out that way. I mean, at first it was my choice. I wanted to sell a story on you. It wasn’t fair, the way you got Marc. I wanted to get you back. But then ... Giles and I ... he can be very charming. I had no idea what he was really like. Not at first.’

‘And now?’

‘Now I know.’ She rubs her wrist again.

‘Cecile, surely you don’t want to marry a man like that?’

‘What else can I do? If I don’t, my family will disown me.’

‘Are you completely sure about that?’

‘Oh, I’m sure.’ Cecile’s lips pucker. ‘I had a cousin once. Not anymore. She married an Indian man who the family didn’t approve of, and now no one speaks to her. It’s like she’s been wiped out of history.’ She throws her hands over her face. ‘I’m trapped. Completely trapped. If I get rid of the baby, Giles says he’ll run a newspaper story on the ‘Ivy College abortion’. I’ll be publicly shamed. My life will be over.’ Her lip begins to wobble.

‘There must be a way,’ I say, feeling pity stir in my chest. Tom was right – she's done a deal with the devil, and now she’s paying for it.

‘Trust me, there isn’t,’ says Cecile. ‘He’s a monster. Christ, how could I have been so stupid?’

‘Cecile, how are we going to work this out? You can’t keep letting him in here. It’s not safe. For either of us.
’

‘Tell security he was on campus
, and he won’t be able to get in again. But please, Sophia, don’t tell Marc it was me who let him in. I’m so sorry. For everything. I’ve been such a bitch to you. I was so jealous. Crazy jealous.’

‘I won’t tell Marc,’ I agree. ‘But he already knows Getty was on campus. So he’ll be tightening up security.’

‘Okay, good.’ Cecile nods.

We look at each other for a moment, and then Cecile does something I totally don’t expect. She reaches out and takes my hand.

‘I don’t expect you to forgive me. But for what it’s worth, I totally regret selling those stories. It was ... beneath me. And I’ve got pay back, big time.’ She squeezes my hand tighter. ‘You have to be careful, Sophia. Getty is ... he’ll stop at nothing. He’s a monster.’ Cecile hasn’t let go of my hand. ‘I
had
to let him on campus. He blackmailed me. I would never have done it otherwise, I swear. If he tells my parents ...’

‘Cecile, they’re going to find out eventually. One way or another.’

‘But if we’re married before they know -’

‘Then you’ll be married to a monster.’

Cecile closes her eyes for a long time. When she opens them, she says, ‘Perhaps that’s a sacrifice worth making.’

I feel more churned up than ever when I leave Cecile’s room. The truth is, I much preferred disliking her than feeling sorry for her. It was easier. Now I have to face up to the fact that, in her own way, she’s Getty’s victim too.

I arrive at rehearsals a little bleary eyed, thoughts of Cecile and Getty racing through my head. But I perform well. My singing is stronger and clearer, and my acting is more confident.