by J Lerman
7
Chapter 1
Ivy: A hardy climbing vine with evergreen leaves and black, berry-like fruits that can both damage buildings and protect them from weather damage.
You’ve been accepted ...
I stare at the letter, and can’t believe what I’m seeing. The words Ivy College glitter in gold at the top of the page.
... to study Creative Theatre at Ivy College, London.
The mug of tea in my hand is shaking, and I feel a big, silly smile on my face.
I can’t believe it. I absolutely can’t believe it. There were thousands of young actors who auditioned for Ivy College this year. I didn’t think for a moment I’d get through.
I look at the letter again, not totally sure it can be real, and think back to the day I auditioned for Ivy College.
It had been a particularly hot morning, and London’s tubes were a sticky mess of people, water bottles and fizzy drink cans.
I’d only ever been to London once before, to help my best friend, Jen, find a special pair of shoes for a wedding, and that day we hadn’t ventured past Oxford Street.
I’d never experienced the panic, aggression and heat of summer rush hour, and I’d felt like a little doll, being thrown back and forth.
I’d got lost finding the college, and when I’d asked people for help, most of them were too busy to stop.
Eventually, a man with a white beard and clipped accent had offered to show me the way. He’d led me off the main road and past pretty townhouses, to several acres of green grounds circled by fir trees and black railings.
In the grounds, I’d seen red-brick buildings covered in real ivy, silver and green. The buildings were surrounded by green grass and woodlands.
‘I love ivy,’ I’d told the man. ‘It’s one of my favourite plants.’
‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ the man had said. ‘This college is owned by a Hollywood actor. It’ll only be a matter of time before he tears the whole place down and turns it to glass and concrete.’
‘Are you talking about Marc Blackwell?’ I’d asked.
The man had nodded. ‘I’ve heard nothing but bad things about him. Extraordinarily arrogant, apparently. A very cold man.’
‘I heard that too,’ I’d said. ‘But then, I suppose he has every reason to be arrogant. He’s not much older than I am, but he’s achieved so much. Winning two Oscars, founding this college.’
The man had looked at me then, perhaps wondering what business someone in a faded t-shirt and jeans had with the college.
‘I’m applying for a place here,’ I’d explained. ‘I won’t get it. Not in a million years. I only came because my university tutor said the audition would be good experience. And it’s lovely to see the college. It’s beautiful. There are so many trees. You could get lost in those trees.’
The red-brick, ivy-covered buildings were huddled close together, I remember, like they were trying to keep warm. They looked like children lost in a forest.
‘Well. Good luck to you.’ The man had left me then, and I’d stared at the college in wonder. The buildings all had turrets, balconies and arched windows like something from a fairy tale. A princess’s castle. But I’d liked the trees better than the buildings. A little wildness in the centre of London.
I’d stared for a long time, before pushing open the wrought-iron gate and heading through the grounds. I’d felt so tiny and plain in such grand surroundings, but I hadn’t been nervous. I had nothing to lose, after all, and experience to gain. I’d had no idea that I’d be meeting Marc Blackwell himself at the audition.
Chapter 2
Somehow, I’d found the reception area amid the winding pathways, brick arches and corridors, and I’d been directed to the audition room.
When I’d walked into the room, I’d seen two people sitting behind a long desk.
The lady on the left I’d recognised as Denise Crompton, an actress famous for her musical theatre roles. She’d smiled at me, her eyes crinkling.
When I’d seen who was sitting on the right, I nearly tripped over my feet. There, real enough to touch, sat Marc Blackwell. I’d seen him in the movies many times, of course. But this was the first time I’d seen someone so famous in real life.
His light-brown hair had looked softer and cleaner than it did in the movies, but his blue eyes had been just as intense under thick, black eyebrows. He’d been wearing a black t-shirt, and I remember thinking how slim he looked. I’d read somewhere that he’d been playing a drug addict in his latest movie, and guessed he’d had to lose weight.
His cheeks, already angular, had been almost a little hollow, and there had been smudges of grey under his eyes. His skin had looked very white as usual, and he’d looked extremely handsome. His slimness had made him look more elegant, somehow, and a little bit dangerous.
I’d just stood there like an idiot, staring at Marc for the longest time. In real life, he was captivating. Absolutely captivating. But his expression confirmed what I’d already heard about him – that he was cold and superior.
Denise had smiled at me again, but Marc’s face had remained serious. He didn’t waste any time with pleasantries.
‘This is Denise Crompton,’ Marc had said, gesturing to his left. ‘She teaches singing, music and dance.’ Then he’d folded his long fingers together. ‘And if you have any sense, you know who I am. I own the college and offer students three lectures a week. And you are?’
‘Sophia Rose,’ I’d said, looking at the floor, embarrassed. I’d looked up again, and found I couldn’t take my eyes off Marc. He’d returned my stare, leaning forwards onto his elbows.
‘Well, Miss Rose,’ he’d said, his smile growing curvier, ‘nice of you to dress up for us today.’
I’d looked down at my black t-shirt and jeans.
‘My university lecturer told me to always go casual for auditions,’ I’d said. ‘Otherwise you look like you’re trying too hard.’
Marc had raised an eyebrow, and looked unimpressed. ‘Let’s see what you can do.’ He’d looked down at some paperwork on the table.
I’d played Lady Macbeth, the scene where she has blood on her hands. I read from a script that I’d altered myself, and put all my passion and spirit into the performance. Marc hadn’t bothered to look up most of the time, although sometimes I’d seen his eyebrow raise or the hollows in his cheeks ripple.
When I’d finished, Denise clapped heartily. Marc watched me, stony faced, and I guessed I’d have to do a lot more to impress an Oscar-winning Hollywood star.
I’d done a silly bow, and stumbled on my way towards the door. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘Miss Rose,’ Marc had barked.
My hand had faltered on the door handle.
‘Thank you much for your performance. I enjoyed it very much.’
Chapter 3
I think about those words, as I stare at my acceptance letter. I enjoyed it very much. I guess he must have meant it.
I pick up my Blackberry and find Jen’s number. It’s sunny in Dad’s garden, and I shade the screen as I press to connect. Jen is my best friend, and she’s always right at the top of my frequent calls.
‘Jen. It’s Soph.’
‘What happened? Are you okay? Your voice sounds funny – where are you?’
I laugh. She knows me so well. ‘It’s okay. Nothing bad. At least, not yet. I’m just at Dad’s house, taking a break from cleaning.’
‘You spend every weekend cleaning their cottage -’
‘I know, Jen, but they need my help.’ Since Dad had a baby with his new girlfriend, Genoveva, their house has been a complete mess. I used to live there before I started university, but now I just visit at weekends.
/> I take a deep breath. ‘But ... I got accepted on a post-graduate course. A good one. At a college in London.’
‘Accepted? To a college? I thought you were done with university and all of that.’
‘It’s post graduate. And it’s a really good college.’
‘Which college is it?’
‘Ivy College. London.’
‘Oh. My. God. You’re kidding me!’ Jen shrieks down the phone. ‘The Marc Blackwell college? You MUST be kidding me. You told me that course had thousands of applications. Thousands and thousands. You said you were never going to get it. You said Marc didn’t like your audition.’
‘I know. But I guess he did.’
‘I can’t believe it, Soph. I said you were good. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘Thanks Jen.’
‘Marc Blackwell,’ Jen shrieks. ‘He’ll be teaching you. You’ll be living in his college.’
I put a hand to my mouth to stifle a nervous laugh. ‘Mad, isn’t it? I mean, I can hardly believe it.’
‘Hold on.’
I hear pages rustle.
‘I’ve got Heat magazine right here,’ Jen says. ‘There’s a picture of him looking really angry. I guess he doesn’t like his photo taken. He’s not exactly the university lecturer type, is he? I mean, he’s – what – twenty seven?’
‘He’s been acting since he was a child,’ I say. ‘He’s been in more movies than most forty year olds.’
‘Oh my God, Soph. He’s so good looking. He’ll be teaching you. Talking to you.’
‘That’s if I accept the place,’ I say. ‘I met him already, remember? He was so incredibly arrogant. He didn’t even have the courtesy to look up during my performance.’
‘Have you told your dad yet?’
I bite my thumbnail. ‘No. I mean, there’s nothing to tell right now, is there? I haven’t even decided if I’m going to accept.’
‘You might not accept? Are you kidding me? That’s it.’ The phone goes dead. I know what that means. Jen is driving over here in her white, new generation Mini.
Jen and I have been friends since primary school, but we’re from totally different worlds. Her dad works for a city law firm, and her mum stays at home, ironing clothes, cleaning and generally making sure Jen and her dad are presentable.
My world is much more chaotic. When I was seven, my mother passed away, and I was raised by my father. My dad is fantastic, but he works odd hours as a taxi driver, so sometimes I go days without seeing him. I did my best to take care of the house when we lived together, but my dad is the sort of person who makes things messy just by looking at them, so it was always a struggle. I was the kid who turned up at school in a crumpled shirt with sleeves an inch too short.
A few years ago, my Dad got together with Genoveva – a woman Jen calls my wicked stepmother. I don’t see Genoveva that way. She’s not a bad person, she just doesn’t want to share my father with anyone or be reminded he had a life before she came along.
When they got together, Genoveva moved into the cottage. It was okay for a while, but then Genoveva got pregnant, and I offered to move into the annex next door so they’d have more space. I’d planned to go away to university in Scotland, but it was so obvious they needed my help that I took a place at a uni in the nearby town.
The annex is a bit rough and ready, but it means I’m close enough to help out, and Dad let me stay there rent free while I was studying.
I look at the cottage. I know what Dad will say if I tell him about Ivy College. Follow your heart, follow your dreams. But I also know he and Genoveva will struggle without my help.
I hear a screech outside, and the crackle of gravel tells me Jen’s Mini has just skidded into our driveway. I grab the acceptance letter, then run to the front of the house, waving at her.
Chapter 4
‘Soph!’ Jen waves back. She looks amazing, as always. Long, blonde hair lying straight as a ruler down her back. Designer jeans. She’s short and curvy, with a huge bust – just the opposite of me, with my willowy arms and legs, wavy brown hair and just-about B-cup.
‘You’re accepting that course,’ she says, as she crunches over gravel towards me.
‘Shush!’ I wave my hands at her. My dad, Genoveva and my baby brother, Samuel, are all inside the cottage. I can see Dad and Genoveva through the living room window and I think maybe they’re arguing, because Genoveva’s hands are flying around.
Jen takes my arm and pulls me towards the annex, which sits just a few metres away from the cottage. It’s kind-of a bungalow, with just one room inside like a bedsit. Kitchen, bedroom and living area all in the same space, but it’s okay. It’s got everything I need.
We go inside, and Jen slams the door behind us.
‘How can you stand this place?’ says Jen, going to the kettle. ‘That woman has stolen your house from you.’
‘Anything for a quiet life,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I like it. It’s all mine.’
‘Is this your acceptance letter?’ Jen asks, taking the white paper from my hand.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I still haven’t read it properly. I’m too much in shock. I don’t know, Jen. I don’t know how Dad and Genoveva will cope without me. London is a long way away.’
Jen waves a hand at me as she scans the letter. ‘London is half hour by bus, then one hour by train. You can come back every weekend if you need to. Listen – you’re my best friend. I’m not going to let you pass up this chance. I’m just not.’
‘Just because some arrogant Hollywood star is taking the course?’
‘He’s not just some Hollywood star,’ says Jen. ‘You said yourself, he’s an amazing actor.’
‘With an amazingly nasty reputation,’ I say. ‘And from what I’ve seen, that reputation is well-founded.’
‘Okay, maybe he does come across as a little bit arrogant,’ says Jen. ‘But anyway, no. Not for that reason. You should do it because you’re an amazing actress, Sophia.’
I sigh. ‘Jen, you’re biased.’
‘Hello!’ Jen waves the letter. ‘Evidently Marc Blackwell and everyone else at Ivy College agree with me.’
‘They saw one audition,’ I say. ‘An audition when I wasn’t nervous because I didn’t think for a moment I’d be accepted. They don’t really know me. When they do, they’ll realise what a nervous wreck I am and see that they’ve made a mistake. Anyway. There are practical things. How am I even going to be able to afford it? Dad’s got no money right now. He’s too busy taking care of Genoveva and Samuel. He’s already renting this annex for me – I can’t ask him for anything else.’
Jen doesn’t say anything. She’s still scanning the letter. Then she puts the page down.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Did you just say something about money?’ Jen asks.
‘Don’t you offer to lend me any. You know I won’t take it.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’
‘Good.’
‘I wasn’t going to, because your place is fully funded. Look. It says it right here. They pay for everything.’
‘What?’ I take the letter. ‘But ... how? I haven’t applied for scholarships, or anything like that.’
‘You don’t need to,’ says Jen. ‘Take a look at that.’ She points to a paragraph. ‘Your place is fully funded, which means accommodation and food are paid for, and they’ll give you a living allowance and preparatory budget.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ I read the paragraph over and over again. I feel like I’m going to faint. ‘Fully funded?’
‘Now tell me a good reason why you can’t accept.’ Jen takes the letter again, and carries on reading. She turns the page over and reads right to the end, her eyes rushing back and forth. ‘Soph, where’s the envelope?’
I shrug. ‘In the garden I think. Why?’
‘We’d better go get it.’ She hurries outside, and I follow her past the crumbling walls of the cottage, to the lawn, flowers, trees and vegetables of Dad’s garden. I say Dad’s garden, but t
ruth be told, I’m the one who takes care of it. I love growing things.
Jen picks up the brown envelope from the garden table. ‘You’re not going to believe this. Stop twiddling your hair. There’s nothing to be nervous about.’
I drop my hand. My hair is straight at the top, but goes wavy at the bottom, so I’m always twiddling the ends to try and straighten them – especially when I feel nervous. My hair makes me look ridiculously young, like a little girl with ringlets, but Jen always says she’s jealous of my Kate Moss waves. I’d prefer her straight, blonde hair any day.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘A fully funded place means your accommodation, food and living expenses are all paid for,’ said Jen. ‘And they’ll buy all your books for you, too. But that’s not all. They’re giving you a one-off payment. For clothing and university supplies.’ She picks up the envelope and feels inside. Triumphantly, she pulls out a cheque.
‘Oh my goodness.’ I take the cheque and look at the amount. It’s more money than I’ve ever owned in my life. I put my hand over my mouth.
‘Do you know what this means?’ Jen asks.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘It means,’ says Jen, ‘we’re going shopping.’
Chapter 5
Usually, going shopping with Jen is a mixed blessing. She’s great fun, always making me try on things I’d never dare to on my own, and she has endless patience. But she also has an endless credit card, whereas I’ve always had to survive on minimum wage earnings from one of my many part-time jobs.
Usually, I can only ever afford practical things, like jumpers and jeans, and only one item a month if I’m lucky. But today, I can buy whatever I want. No checking price tags. No heading for the cheapest shops. It feels great and scary at the same time.
I feel pretty faint at the thought of having all that money to spend. And a little bit sick. But luckily I’ve got Jen to help me.
We pull into the shopping centre car park, and Jen sticks a parking ticket behind the car windscreen, then links arms with me.
‘This is going to be so fantastic,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen so many things that would suit you for autumn.’