The Ivy Lessons (Devoted, Book 1)

by J Lerman

  ‘Sophia.’ He notices me in the doorway. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘I told you,’ I say with a smile. ‘I always am. And I could say the same thing about you.’

  ‘I have a trip planned for you today,’ he says, throwing off his t-shirt. I notice his arms are bulking up again, and guess he must have another action movie planned. He’s so disciplined. To be able to transform his body back and forth like that.

  ‘What sort of trip?’ I ask.

  ‘A shopping trip,’ he says. ‘Merile will take you by boat to a nearby island, where there are some famous stores. There’s one I have in mind – a very famous lingerie store. I know the owner. She’s ready to fit you out in whatever you’d like.’

  Wow. ‘Aren’t you coming along?’ I ask.

  Marc shakes his head. ‘I need to train. And I don’t want to risk you being photographed with me. I’d never forgive myself if you were hounded by the press.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ I feel a sadness creeping into my chest. ‘My reputation and all of that. But maybe ... Marc, maybe I don’t care. Just like you don’t care. Maybe all I want is you.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ he says. ‘It’s hard enough being part of my world, but considering the way we met ... the press would never leave you alone.’

  ‘I can handle it,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t want you to handle it,’ says Marc. ‘I want you to be happy.’

  ‘I’m happy when I’m with you,’ I say. ‘I’m not happy sneaking around. Not knowing when I’m going to see you next.’

  Two lines appear above Marc’s nose. ‘I know. I just don’t know a way to solve that right now.’

  I put my arms around him, and he feels hot and damp and smells so good. I press my cheek to his chest and let out a deep sigh. Because honestly, I don’t know how we’re going to do this. So I may as well just enjoy it while it lasts.

  The lingerie boutique is low lit, with purple velvet couches and flickering candles everywhere. It smells like a spa, and when I arrive a lady in a purple dress escorts me to a couch and gives me a crushed cherry and brandy cocktail.

  ‘We’ve found a model who’s similar to your size and build,’ she explains, pointing towards a series of crushed velvet curtains. ‘She’ll be modelling our latest range for you, and you just choose what you like.’

  Now I’m glad Marc isn’t with me. I don’t like the idea of him watching a model dressed up in different ranges of underwear.

  The model appears from behind a curtain. She’s beautiful, with a slender waist and long, willowy legs and arms.

  ‘She’s my build and size?’ I say. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely sure,’ says the purple dress lady. ‘You’re very similar shapes.’

  The first set of underwear is white silk, sewn with dozens of glittering black stones. It’s beautiful, but not quite me. Then comes a dazzling parade of fairy-tale style green and blue pieces sewn with fairy-wing mesh and embroidered with gothic, black trees.

  ‘I love those,’ I say, and the purple dress lady signals for a set to be bagged for me.

  I see a dozen other styles and designs, including stockings and suspenders, and choose a navy blue set with frills and net, a pack of panties with frills on the rear and a black suspender belt with little crosses sewn all over it.

  When I arrive back at the glass house, Marc inspects my purchases. He chooses the fairytale set and tells me to put them on right now. Then he hands me a script.

  ‘You’re going to perform this scene in your underwear,’ he says.

  I look at the script. It’s for a play called The Sex Diaries – a play infamous for its nudity, and the fact it follows married couples on their sexual adventures around London.

  ‘You know I’d never audition for a play like this,’ I say. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Marc. ‘But I’m hoping together we might fix that little failing. I’d like you to perform the scene starting on page 52. You’re Georgia. I’ll play Harry.’

  I might have guessed. The simulated sex scene in which Georgia, a middle-aged married woman, seduces Harry, her friend’s husband, in the upstairs bedroom at a party. In the play, she ends up completely nude on stage.

  I take a deep breath, shake my arms and try to get into character. I feel myself smile at Marc. ‘You know,’ I say, my voice becoming louder and more refined, ‘if you want to have sex with me, you only have to ask.’

  Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. And may I just add, if I wanted to have sex with you, I’d be much more direct. I want you to rehearse this scene for good reason. It’s to help develop you as an actress. I’ve stolen you away from lectures today.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And since you’re in your underwear already, I thought this was a good part to stretch your boundaries and lose some of your inhibitions.’

  ‘What are left of them,’ I say.

  Marc laughs, and moves me to the window by my hips. ‘Here. You’re looking out the window.’ He hands me the script and turns to page 50. ‘Start with this line.’

  I cough, and read the line. ‘Darling, I’m just getting dressed. You don’t mind do you?’ I try to loosen my body even more.

  ‘Why should I mind?’ Marc reads Harry’s line with smarmy confidence, transforming into the married stockbroker whom Georgia has an affair with. It’s amazing. His face changes. His posture changes. He’s become a different person.

  ‘We’re all naked under our clothes at the end of the day,’ I say.

  ‘That we are,’ says Marc.

  I check the script, and nearly falter. ‘Would you help me with this?’ The stage direction says: Georgia holds the bra strap behind her back. Harry undoes it for her. She turns around, removing her bra entirely and showing her naked breasts to Harry.

  I feel Marc behind me, unhooking my bra. But he doesn’t do it in a Marc-like way. His movements are quicker and slightly fumbled. I feel like I’m in the presence of someone who doesn’t have my best intentions at heart, and it’s a little unnerving.

  I wonder how I’d ever be able to do a scene like this with someone I didn’t know very well. It’s hard enough with Marc. I take a deep breath, grasping hold of the bra. Then I slip it down and turn around.

  Chapter 67

  ‘I expect your wife’s breasts used to look like these,’ I say, trying to bring into myself the confidence and swagger of a femme fatale. ‘They’re pretty, aren’t they?’

  ‘Very pretty,’ says Marc, coming forward and taking me in his arms. Again, it’s not Marc who’s here with me, but Harry. He carries me to the sofa and throws me onto it, and the face I look up at is greedy and grasping.

  I check the script. It says: Harry picks up Georgia and puts her on the bed. They have sex, moving in time to the music. The curtain closes.

  Marc moves between my legs, and moves back and forth in a gentle rhythm. I move with him, but I can tell he’s working hard not to become aroused. He’s acting, and he’s professional as ever.

  ‘Very good,’ Marc whispers.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘You’d better get dressed,’ he says. ‘Because you’re playing that part for real this evening, in the theatre on the main island. So you’ll need to start learning your lines.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘No, I’m not kidding you. I happen to be guest-starring as Harry in this play tonight, and I’d like you to be my Georgia. She’s only a small part. I told you I’d stretch your boundaries. Challenge you. Break you out of your comfort zone and make you a better actress. Well. That’s exactly what I’m doing.’

  ‘But I can’t play that part.’ I’m on the verge of tears. ‘Not in public. I could barely play it here with you. Topless on stage. In front of a live audience -’

  ‘Some parts call for nudity,’ says Marc. ‘When I played King Lear, I was fully nude. And a theatre is nothing to a movie, where a film camera closes in on your naked body, then project
s it on a giant screen for millions of people to see.’

  ‘Maybe public nudity is a barrier I just can’t break down.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ says Marc, shaking his head. ‘It’s not about the nudity. It’s about the openness. Exposing yourself totally. Your soul. For everyone to see. Nudity is just one tenant of that openness. If you’re not open to playing a part properly, everything closes down. Your body is the vehicle for your expression. If you’re too self-conscious to show your body, then you can’t express yourself to your fullest.’

  ‘I can’t do it, Marc.’

  He tips my chin up with his fingers. ‘You can do it. Now get dressed and learn your lines. At five, a boat will take you to the main island, then a car will drive you to the theatre. I’ll meet you backstage.’

  Chapter 68

  In the car on the way to the theatre, I’m a bundle of nerves. I want to run, I want to hide, I want to scream at Marc that he’s making me do something way beyond my capabilities. But deep down, I know he’s right. I do need to practise doing these sorts of roles. Even if I never perform nude ever again, it will stretch me and help me grow as an actress.

  The car pulls behind a modern theatre which is a square, grey block of concrete. I think how lucky we are in London to have such elegant, beautiful historic buildings.

  I’m led to a dressing area, where a tiny, blonde actress helps me into Georgia’s lingerie, red dress, wig and make-up.

  Then I’m led to the side of the stage, where I see the play has already begun. I flick hurriedly through my script, trying to find out how far into the play we’ve got. Page 49. I swallow three times to stop myself being sick, and watch Marc strolling back and forth on the stage, wearing a pin-striped suit.

  He really is an amazing actor. I don’t see Marc at all, but Harry.

  The lines race along, and I put my script down by the curtains and see a stage hand running up to me.

  ‘I thought you were still in the dressing room,’ he whispers. ‘Final call. You’re on in less than a minute.’

  ‘Right.’ I wait for my entry line: I’ll see if I can find her.

  Sweat is prickling on my forehead, and my palms feel slippery.

  ‘I’ll see if I can find her,’ says Marc.

  And boom. I walk on stage, seeing hundreds of shadowy people in the audience, their faces watching me expectantly. I’m wearing nothing but underwear, and soon I’ll be wearing even less.

  God I’m nervous. But I’ve done this. Lots of times. Fully clothed, granted, but Marc’s right – it shouldn’t matter. Just become the part, I think. As long as you’re playing the part, you’re safe.

  I clear my throat, but the script goes right out of my head. I look at Marc, and start to panic. I’d be so humiliated if someone had to shout out my line.

  Marc waits for me, calmly and with a look in his eyes that tells me he knows I can do it. I decide to adlib.

  ‘What’s a nice man like you doing in a place like this?’ I say, my lips extending into a pout, hands falling onto my hips.

  ‘Looking for a not very nice girl,’ says Marc.

  I laugh, throwing my head back. ‘I think you’ve found her. Darling, I’m just getting dressed. You don’t mind do you?’ The script starts coming back to me.

  ‘Why should I mind?’

  ‘We’re all naked under our clothes at the end of the day.’ My hands begin to tremble at the thought of what’s coming next.

  ‘That we are,’ says Marc.

  ‘Would you help me with this?’ I say, turning around and holding the back of my bra strap. The words sound confident, which surprises me. The way I’m feeling inside, I expected them to come out all of a wobble.

  Marc comes and unhooks my bra, and the audience fall completely silent. They know what’s coming. Anyone who reads the newspaper knows what happens in this scene. I take a deep breath, and turn around, removing my bra and throwing it to the floor.

  Hundreds of faces stare at me. I can’t see their expressions. I look over their heads.

  ‘I expect your wife’s breasts used to look like these,’ I say. ‘They’re pretty, aren’t they?’

  ‘Very pretty,’ says Marc, lifting me into his arms. He places me on a prop bed, with a thin mattress that would leave me black and blue if I ever slept on it.

  I throw my arms behind my head, and Marc moves between my legs.

  Music starts, and I feel Marc begin to move. Unlike the last time we performed the scene, I feel him growing hard between my legs. As soon as the curtain falls, he stands back from me and pulls in deep breaths.

  ‘Okay?’ I ask.

  ‘You were excellent,’ he says, pacing back and forth. ‘But. This was a bad idea. I wanted to test myself. To prove I could control myself around you. I thought I could.’ He marches off the stage.

  I walk after him, following him down to the star dressing room, which is all thick red carpet, silver paint and white roses.

  ‘Wait,’ I say, and Marc turns at the dressing room door. ‘Is it such a bad thing?’

  ‘We shouldn’t talk out here.’ He grabs my arm. ‘In here.’ He pulls me into the dressing room.

  ‘I said, is it such a bad thing?’ I repeat. ‘I mean, we all lose control sometimes.’

  ‘Not me,’ says Marc. ‘Not on stage. Not in real life. Not ever. Not any more.’ He looks at me, and there’s a lost expression in his eyes. ‘I don’t know what’s happening. How can I look after you if I’m not in control?’

  ‘You can,’ I say, sitting on his lap. His arms come around me. ‘Because you’re even closer to me that way.’

  Marc stares at himself in the mirror. ‘The car is waiting for you outside. I’ll see you back at the house.’

  Back at the glass house, Marc is different. Younger, somehow, and his eyes look softer. He brings Thai food from the big island, and we eat on the glass balcony, overlooking the sea. Marc holds my hand under the table, and talks and talks.

  He tells me about his sister, and how he supports her and her fiancé. She had problems having children and he paid for her medical support. He tells me he doesn’t like his sister’s fiancé, but until his sister works out for herself what’s right for her, there’s nothing he can do.

  He tells me about his mother, what he remembers of her. In his head, she was a beautiful, brown-haired angel who sang to him and pretended to put magic dust on his cuts and bruises. She’d been an amateur actress herself, and got him a junior role in one of her plays. It had led to a part in a chocolate bar advert, and from there his father took over, honing him for fame and fortune.

  I tell him about my baby brother and my stepmother – how I feel they can’t survive without me. How Genoveva can’t really cope, and how my father is muddling through. He listens intently, his knuckles bent under his chin. When I tell him about my mother – how much I love her and still miss her – he squeezes my hand tightly.

  ‘It’s Saturday, tomorrow. You’ll want to see your family.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I should.’

  ‘Then we’ll fly back.’

  When the sun goes down, we go down to the dark beach and watch the silver ocean lap back and forth.

  Marc tells me about the first time he saw the ocean. It was in California, and the sand was so hot it hurt his bare feet. He discovered that no matter how long he stayed in the sun, he neither tanned nor burned. Apparently, whenever he needs to be tanned in films, it’s all done by a makeup artist.

  We talk about tomorrow, and the fact we’ll be heading back to London. Neither of us have any answers. All we know is we don’t have much time left.

  We sit on the sand, right by the warm ocean, letting the waves lap at our feet. The moon is round and silver above us.

  I turn to Marc, and see his eyes are glistening. His expression is pained.

  ‘What?’ I ask. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I love you,’ says Marc simply, staring at the ocean. ‘But this isn’t a movie. I don’t know how this w
ill end.’

  When we get back to the house, Marc sleeps beside me in the round bed.

  Chapter 69

  In the morning, the sun is brighter than I’ve ever seen it. I see Marc asleep next to me, and watch his beautiful, peaceful face. His eyelids aren’t flickering. Everything about him is still, except for his gentle breathing.

  I stroke his face, and his eyes open immediately.

  When he sees it’s me, his face relaxes. ‘Sophia,’ he whispers.

  ‘We have to go back today.’ I look at him. ‘But I want to be with you,’ I say. ‘Properly. A proper couple. I don’t care who knows. I don’t care about my reputation.’

  ‘Sophia, you don’t know what you’re saying,’ says Marc. ‘You don’t know what you’d be giving up to become part of my world. Your freedom – gone. Just like that. They’d trawl through your past, bother your family ... I won’t let you go through it. Not for me.’

  ‘What if it wasn’t your choice?’ I say. ‘What if when we go back to London, I tell the press myself?’

  Marc stares at me. ‘I’d forbid you from doing that.’

  ‘And what if I didn’t listen?’

  ‘You’d really go and do something like that? Without my permission?’

  ‘If it means being with you, out in the open, then yes.’

  Marc sits up. ‘It means that much to you, having a relationship with me? That you’d give up your privacy. Your freedom ...’

  ‘Yes.’

  Marc rubs his eyes, and stares at the sun rising above the sea. ‘No one has ever thought what I offered was worth giving anything up for. I never expected ... I don’t know how I’ve got you into this situation, and I hate myself for it.

  ‘But if you were determined to bring us out in the open, then I’d get my PR people to manage a campaign around you to mediate the damage. Make sure you were set up as the good girl. Make sure I took all the blame.’

  He gets up and begins getting dressed. ‘I’m going to strike a deal with you.’

  ‘A deal?’

  Marc nods, sliding on his boxer shorts. ‘Wait until we’ve got back to London, then go back to your family. Talk to your father. Don’t make the decision straight away. And if, after all that, you still decide you want us to come out in the open, I’ll support your decision. I’ll come meet your father and explain myself.’