by Suzy K Quinn
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You must be close.’
‘Hold on. We’re slowing down. Is Marc’s place like four storeys high? A townhouse?’
‘Yes.’
‘The gates are opening. I’m here.’
The line begins to crackle.
‘We’re going underground,’ says Jen incredulously. ‘Wow, is this a -’
The line goes dead, and I leap off the bed and run down the big wide stairs. When I reach the hallway, I hear Jen talking to Keith through the garage door.
‘Thanks. I’m shit with steps.’
‘No problem at all. My pleasure.’
The next moment, the door opens and there’s Jen, looking magazine perfect as always, her shiny blonde hair swinging straight down her back. She’s working her casual look, which is still pretty smart – skinny black jeans, black boots and a designer off-the-shoulder sweatshirt.
‘Babes!’ She flings her arms around me, and I’m covered in kisses and perfume. ‘What a place. You could get lost in here.’
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I nearly have a few times.’
‘Where’s the kitchen? I’ll make you a coffee.’
91
When we reach the kitchen, I smell fresh coffee and see a drip filter jug filled with steaming black liquid. Two large blue and white striped mugs sit by the machine, next to a carton of cream and a bowl of brown sugar.
‘Is this house psychic?’ asks Jen.
‘In a way.’ I smile. ‘There’s a housekeeper here. Rodney. He’s got a sort of sixth sense about what you might need. And he knows when to keep out of the way. He must be around somewhere, but I guess he’s making himself scarce.’
Jen pours coffee into the two mugs and adds cream and sugar to mine. She leaves hers black, meaning she’s on yet another diet, and plonks herself on a kitchen stool.
‘Your poor dad,’ she says. ‘And more than that, poor you. It must have been so stressful.’
‘It was,’ I say. ‘The worst night of my life.’
‘I wish I’d been there.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Honestly. Marc was amazing.’
‘Makes me see him in a new light,’ says Jen. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong. I never disliked him. If he was the total heartless bastard the press make him out to be, you wouldn’t be with him. I know that. But still. He’s not exactly the warmest guy.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I felt so close to him at the hospital. And just now. But then he closed right down. He’s vanished and I feel like we’re miles apart. I have no idea where he went ...’
‘He didn’t tell you where he was going?’ Jen frowns, and I know there’s something on her mind.
‘No. Why. Do you know something?’
‘Maybe. Well. I could know something, put it that way. I spoke to Ben at my firm before I called you. There’s a rumour that Marc’s on his way to East London.’
‘East London?’
‘That’s what the paps are saying. A couple followed him earlier.’
I take a sip of sweet coffee, trying to get my head around this new development. ‘I love him, Jen.’
‘I know.’
‘There could be a chance for us. But not if he keeps closing down.’
‘Why not call him?’
I do, but the call goes straight through to an answer machine. I hold the phone to my chest. ‘I need to find him. He says there’s a chance for us, but how can there be if he’s still hiding things from me?’
Jen lays her fashionable slate grey fingernails over my hand. ‘Do you want me to phone Ben again, find out if there’s any update on Marc’s location?’
I nod.
‘I’ll say one thing for paps,’ says Jen. ‘They have their uses. They’re the best tracker dogs when it comes to celebrities.’ She opens up her diamante clamshell phone and puts it to her ear. ‘Hello? Ben? I need a favour. Marc Blackwell. Do you have his location? Really? Great.’
She digs a hand in her patent leather handbag and pulls out a tiny pink notepad. Scribbling an address, she hands me the pad. ‘Thanks, Ben. I owe you one. You too. See you soon.’ She snaps the phone closed.
I stare at the note. Jen has scribbled a street address in East London.
‘So what’s next?’ Jen says, glancing at the pad. ‘Shall we go there?’
‘I should,’ I say. ‘Alone. I’m not getting you mixed up in this.’
‘Oh no.’ Jen shakes her head. ‘You’re not going on your own. I’m coming with you.’
‘I can’t let you do that, Jen. What about work?’
‘What about it? This is a family emergency. They’ll understand.’
‘If I’m going to stand any chance of Marc opening up to me, I should go alone. Please Jen. Look. I’ll turn my phone sat nav on so you can track me.’
Jen sighs. ‘Okay.’
‘Maybe Keith is still in the garage. He can drive me there.’
‘Let’s go see.’
92
Down in the gloomy garage, Jen and I discover that Keith has left already. We stand surveying Marc’s ultra-shiny top-of-the-range cars, me biting my thumb, Jen opening and closing her clamshell phone.
Then I notice something.
‘Jen. It’s gone.’
‘What’s gone?’
‘Marc’s father’s car.’ I stare at the black parking space where the spiky yellow car sat earlier on. ‘He ... I guess he must have taken it.’
‘So?’
‘It’s not a car he ever drives.’
‘And yet he’s driving it right now.’
‘I guess he must be.’
‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘I don’t know.’
Jen surveys the rest of Marc’s vehicle collection. ‘These cars must go really fast.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Probably.’
‘Will he be mad if you take one of his cars?’
‘I don’t think so. He doesn’t care about possessions all that much. Despite appearances. But we need to find the keys.’
‘I think I know where they are,’ says Jen, going to a red metal box on the wall. ‘My dad has a box just like this.’ She opens the lid and peers inside. ‘Aston Martin, anyone?’
She holds out a fat gold key with a black fob.
I chew my thumbnail. ‘Okay. Quick, give me the key. Before I change my mind.’
93
As I climb onto the leather seat, I start to giggle.
‘What is it?’ Jen asks, leaning against the roof.
I put my hand to my mouth, but the giggling won’t stop. ‘Sorry,’ I manage to say. ‘I think I’m a bit in shock. But ... I just remembered that time we drove your dad’s car.’
Jen starts giggling too. ‘And we got lost and thought we’d have to phone him and admit we’d taken it.’
We laugh and laugh, bending over, holding our sides, tears running down our faces. ‘Why is it always the times you shouldn’t laugh that you do?’ I splutter.
‘Okay, enough of this,’ says Jen, clearing her throat. ‘Come on, Evel Knieval. You need to get going. Good luck.’ She slams the door shut.
I start up the engine, and the car shunts forward towards the wall. ‘Oh!’ I slam on the breaks and notice the car is already in gear.
I see Jen smiling and shaking her head through the windscreen. ‘Your driving,’ she mouths.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I mouth back, putting the car in reverse and gently touching the accelerator.
‘Mind the wall!’ I hear Jen shout, and I slam on the brakes again.
Whoops.
I manage to manoeuvre the car around and towards the garage door, which to my relief opens automatically as I approach. That’s one obstacle out of the way. The gate opens automatically too, and I ease the car forward onto the pavement.
As the black bonnet creeps towards the road, two paparazzi fling their cameras at the car window and start snapping away.
I’m fluste
red, but also furious. This is not the time. I swerve the car so it pushes into them, just a little. A warning. And I beep the horn for good measure. It does the trick. The paps back away, and I pull out onto the road and put my foot down.
94
I realise this is definitely not an incognito car as I power along London’s traffic-jammed streets. I’m kind of scared by the car’s speed, so I’m doing under thirty, but this seems to irritate the other motorists. I guess if you’re driving a car like this, you’re expected to go fast.
As I get nearer to the address, I start to feel more and more nervous.
I’m heading into a rough neighbourhood, I realise, as grimy tower blocks and kebab shops shoot past. The streets and buildings around here kind of remind me of that TV programme, Shameless.
Sickly nerves work their way into my stomach as I get closer. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should turn back. But curiosity gets the better of me. What is Marc doing somewhere like this? Is it to do with a woman? I have to know.
I drive on, and the nerves in my stomach start running around in circles. The streets around here look grey. Sad. And the people on the street look restless and angry. They hold Special Brew cans and inhale cigarettes like oxygen.
Red graffiti on a crumbling wall says: Skag heads forever.
I grew up poor, so I’m not scared of people with no money. But this isn’t just a place with no money. It’s a drug place, and drugs can turn the nicest people into the nastiest people.
Just as I decide I should definitely turn back, I see the bright yellow shell of Marc’s dad’s car parked with two wheels on the pavement. It’s outside a little terraced house with a stained mattress pushed up against the window.
Two paps sit on the crumbling wall out front, so this must be the place. They’re shivering like they’ve been there a while.
I pull up behind the yellow car, letting out a long breath. My fingers feel for the car door handle, and I climb out.
95
The two paps leap up when they see me.
Snap, snap, snap.
‘Can’t you guys get real jobs?’ I mutter, stalking past them.
I head towards the house. The front door is made of that pressed cardboard stuff that lets in water, and there are bubbles of damp all over it.
God, I’m nervous now. Maybe this was a bad idea. But no. No. I need to know what’s going on.
I reach up and knock loudly on the door. Behind me, the photographers go crazy.
I duck down and open the rusty letter box. The smell of mould floats out.
‘Marc?’ I call.
There’s a scuffling sound, and then the hard knock of someone jogging down wooden stairs.
Dirty trainers come into view, and I take a step back. It’s not Marc. My heart catches in my mouth.
The front door is wrenched open and a grey-haired man stands before me. I stare at him in shock.
He has dark eyes, but other than that, there’s no colour in him at all. He’s washed out grey like an old shirt.
The bones of his shoulders stick up through his loose white vest, and his dark trousers hang off him. He looks dishevelled and dirty, and shields his eyes from the winter sunshine.
‘Who the hell are you?’ The man’s eyes dart to the photographers behind us. Then he looks at me.
‘Oh. Sorry.’ I take a step back. ‘I think I’ve got the wrong place. I was looking for Marc.’
The man rubs his greasy forehead. ‘Who the fuck wants to know about Marc?’
A shadow looms at the top of the stairs.
‘Sophia?’ Marc thunders down the staircase in his black shirt and trousers. He looks paler than ever, and not at all happy to see me.
Marc shoulders past the man, who vanishes back into the house.
‘How did you get here?’ Marc asks, his eyes wide with concern.
‘What’s going on, Marc?’
Marc runs a hand through his hair. His eyes focus on the Aston Martin over my shoulder. ‘You drove here?’
I bite my lip and look sheepish. ‘Yes.’
Marc’s lips part, and I can’t work out if he’s angry or not. He stares at me for a moment, then snaps his mouth closed. ‘Sophia, this is a dangerous part of town. You need to go.’ He takes my arm and leads me down the front path. The paps have the good sense to take a step back and let us pass.
‘No.’ I shake my arm free. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
‘This is my mess. I don’t want you having anything to do with this.’ He glances back at the house. ‘I never, ever want you to see inside that house. You’d ... see me differently.’
‘I love you,’ I say. ‘Do you think that will ever change?’
‘Yes. If you saw ... look, you shouldn’t be here. I’m fixing things, so you never need to see this.’
‘You’re wrong,’ I say. ‘The more I know about you, the more I love you. Who was that man?’
Marc closes his eyes and tilts his head up to the white sky. ‘Nobody important. Sophia, this isn’t the place for you.’ His glances over my shoulder. ‘You drove the car okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then get back in it. Right now. And go back to the townhouse. I’ll meet you there.’
‘No, Marc.’
‘Sophia, I don’t want you to be any part of this mess.’
‘Marc.’ I shake my head. ‘Whatever’s going on, I want to be part of it. I want to be part of you. Of your life.’
‘No.’ Marc says the words sternly. ‘Not this part of my life.’
‘Every part of your life,’ I insist. ‘Relationships aren’t about editing out the messy parts. If you won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll find out for myself.’
I charge past him into the house.
‘Sophia!’ I hear him shout, but I’m already in the hallway, nearly losing my footing on bare, wobbly floorboards.
I charge up the stairs two at a time and see three open doors and one closed one. There’s a stained toilet in one room, and sagging double beds in two others.
I face the fourth room – the closed one – and pull the door open.
96
I don’t know what I expect to find in the room, but ... I’m just so confused.
The man who answered the door is in here, sitting on a stained mattress, his legs splayed out in front of him. But there’s no one else. I notice empty vodka bottles lined up on the window sill and a half empty one by the bed.
It’s a dirty, squalid room, and I don’t get what Marc has to do with this place.
The man’s head snaps up when I enter.
‘Sophia.’ Marc appears behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders.
The man pushes himself up on the mattress. ‘Who’s the girl?’
‘She’s none of your business,’ Marc growls, pushing me behind him.
‘That’s no way to talk to your old man.’
My mouth drops open. ‘Your ... Marc, he’s your ... he’s your father?’
Marc’s silence tells me everything I need to know.
‘You said your father was dead.’
‘I know.’
‘What’s going on, Marc?’
‘My father isn’t dead. I lied. He’s still alive and drinking himself to death. I haven’t seen him in years. But I needed to come back today.’
‘Why?’
‘To return the car. And say my goodbyes.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m making my peace. Trying to forgive. He’s just a sad old man now, and I have to let my anger go. Because otherwise, I’ll never move forward.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me your father was still alive?’
‘I never wanted you to meet him. I never wanted you to see ... who I came from.’
I slip my hand into Marc’s and feel his fingers tighten around mine.
‘This is your old family home?’ I ask, staring at the bare boards and peeling wallpaper.
‘Not anymore. Only when mum was here. There’s nothing l
eft now. Only him. After I stopped paying his bills in the States, he came back here. And ... well, you can see the sort of lifestyle. He’s all alone.’
‘Are you ashamed of your old family home?’
‘No,’ says Marc, glancing at his father. ‘I’m not ashamed of where I came from. I’m ashamed of who I came from.’
‘You shouldn’t be ashamed,’ says Marc’s father. ‘I made you who you are.’
I look at the bitter, broken figure of Marc’s father, swigging vodka on the dirty mattress. I can feel the ugliness coming from him. The hatred towards his son and the jealousy. They have the same nose, the two men, but nothing else about them is similar at all.
‘And I don’t need your forgiveness,’ Marc’s father adds.
‘Well you have it, anyway. Come on.’ Marc takes my hand. ‘I’ve done what I came here to do. For better or worse.’ He leads me into the hall.
‘You thought I’d see you differently if I met your father?’ I ask. ‘That I’d love you less?’
‘I thought ... perhaps ...’ His eyes search my face, and I see a desperate vulnerability in his eyes. They’re so clear today, it’s astounding.
‘Well, you were wrong. I love you more the more I know about you.’
'We should go.'
I feel Marc’s eyes on me all the way down the stairs. When we get to the front door, he reaches out a hand to stop me opening it.
‘Wait. Let me go out first. I want to keep the wolves at bay.’
I step aside and let him march out, glaring at photographers. Predictably, they back off.
I follow, and then Marc takes my hand and leads me to the car.
‘I’ll drive,’ he says.
‘You’re leaving your father’s car here?’ I ask.
‘Yes. It’s staying with him. He can do what he likes with it. Sell it for drink. I don’t care. I’m letting that part of my life go.’
I squeeze his hand. ‘Marc. I’m so proud of you.’
‘It’s all down to you,’ says Marc. ‘The student taught the teacher.’ He raises his eyebrow and gives me a little smile.
‘I guess she did.’