Bound by Ivy (10 page)

27

We spend the rest of the afternoon ice ska
ting at Marble Arch, drinking champagne cocktails at Park Lane and eating spaghetti at a quiet Italian restaurant hidden away in the narrow streets of Covent Garden.

When Marc drops me off at the theatre, I don’t want to leave him, even to perform. But I know I have to. And I also know that tomorrow I’ll get to spend all of Christmas day with him.

Wow. That’s going to feel
very
surreal. But very nice.

The performance
is fun, but it feels long, and when it’s finally over I’m hoping to see Marc waiting in the wings. But he’s not there, and I’m confused.

Didn’t he say he was going to come to the cottage with me on Christmas Eve? Did I get that wrong?

I head to my dressing room and check my phone, but there are no messages. I’m so disappointed not to see Marc that I barely hear the knock on the dressing room door.

‘Is there a leading lady in there?’ calls Leo
.

‘Coming,’ I say distractedly, pulling on my jeans and sweater. I yank the door open
.

Leo’s
elbow is resting against the door frame, one of his knees a little bent.

‘Great show ton
ight,’ he says. ‘No Marc?’

‘I thought he was coming
,’ I say. ‘But ... I don’t know where he is.’

‘I ca
me to offer season’s greetings,’ says Leo, holding up a sprig of mistletoe. ‘I’m flying out to LA in an hour’s time. I’ll be back, but I couldn’t go without saying happy Christmas.’ He leans forwards and kisses me on the check.

H
is lips remain on my skin just a little longer than they need to.

‘Happy Christmas
Leo,’ I say. ‘Love to your family.’

‘Yours too. Hey. Sophia?’

‘Yes Leo?’

‘
Have fun.’

*****

A security guard walks me to the stage door, and I find the limo waiting outside. I feel another heave of disappointment when I notice Marc isn’t by the car.

‘Hey Keith,’ I say, climbing into the passenger seat. ‘How are you?’

‘Good,’ says Keith. ‘Looking forward to Christmas tomorrow. Um. Sophia, you might want to hop in the back tonight.’

‘Why? I like
talking to you when we drive.’

‘Just ... jump out and have a look in the back of the car.’

‘O-kay,’ I say, climbing out of the vehicle. ‘What’s going on?’

Keith doesn’t answer.

*****

I go to the b
ack door, my heart beating fast. I like surprises, but where Marc Blackwell is concerned, I have no clue just what sort of surprise I might be getting.

When I open the li
mo door, I close my eyes, readying myself. When I open my eyes, I find myself letting out a long breath and an even longer, ‘Oooo.’

The back of the car is
stuffed with mistletoe. It hangs from every corner – the most beautiful icy green in colour, its round white berries glowing under the moonlight. And under all that mistletoe is the most beautiful thing of all.

Marc.

I dive into the car and throw myself into his arms. ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ I say. ‘When you weren’t waiting in the wings.’

‘I wanted to be
there,’ says Marc. ‘But I had a few last minute surprises to arrange. For tomorrow. Keith and I have only just arrived.’

‘More surprises …’

‘You’ll like them. I promise.’

28

We spend the drive to Dad’s cottage wrapped up in each other’s arms. But when we arrive at my old village, Marc becomes more upright and alert, gripping me tight and watching the streets.

When
we reach Dad’s cottage, Marc won’t let me leave the limo until he checks the surrounding area. Finally he lets me out, but insists I walk close to him all the way to the front door.

‘Do I have something to be nervous about?’ I whisper, giving the door a soft knock.

‘You have nothing to be nervous about. I’m the one who needs to be nervous. And alert.’

When Dad opens the door, he doesn’t quite manag
e to disguise his discomfort at seeing Marc. But he’s welcoming enough, calling us inside and asking Marc if he’d like a drink.

The house is still pretty tidy, and I’m guessing Sammy must be fast asleep upstairs because I can’
t hear him.

‘Is Sammy okay?’ I ask.

‘Fine,’ says Dad. He’s wearing his dressing gown and pulls the cord tighter. ‘Ate everything you left for him and went to bed nice and early.’

I go to the fireplace. ‘No carrot for Rudolph?’ I say, looking at the empty grate.

‘I didn’t do all that stuff this year,’ says Dad tiredly. ‘Sammy’s a little young and I’m a little old.’

‘That’s a shame,’ I say
.

‘
I’ll leave you two to settle in. See you in the morning.’ Dad clumps upstairs.

‘You’re going to bed already?’

‘I’m liking my early nights right now.’

‘Okay. Sleep well.’ At least he’
s not sleeping in his clothes tonight.

‘So.’
I turn to Marc, a little dizzy to see him in my family cottage again. It seems so unreal. And to have him staying over – this big Hollywood star in our little place. It’s very different from his townhouse. No en suites. No staff. ‘Here we are. At my house.’

‘I like seeing this part of you
,’ says Marc softly. ‘We should go upstairs. You need to sleep.’

‘Okay
.’ I take his hand. ‘What about you? Won’t you be sleeping?’

‘I want to stay awake for a while.
Keep guard. With the two of us here … I want to be extra safe.’

‘Marc, you’re making me nervous.’

‘Don’t be.’ Marc kisses my forehead. ‘It’s just me being ultra cautious.’

The two of us climb the stairs, and I show Marc the guest bedroom. It’s supposed to be a double room, but it’s a really small double, so the
bed is barely big enough for two. There’s a dresser in the corner and an easy chair.

I notice that Dad ha
s piled up my bags by the dresser, and I see an unfamiliar black bag, which I’m guessing must belong to Marc.

‘I can keep watch in that
chair,’ says Marc. ‘If I lie next to you … let’s just say I may get distracted.’

I sit on the be
d. ‘You’re really going to spend the night upright in that chair, rather than in the bed next to me?’

‘Yes. I need to be
alert.’

‘God Marc, now you really are making me n
ervous.’ I glance at the window and the black night sky. ‘Sammy’s in the next room. Is it safe us being here?’

‘Yes
,’ says Marc. ‘I just don’t believe in taking any chances. Get into bed Sophia. Get some rest. I want you to enjoy tomorrow.’

‘Okay,’ I say, pulling off my shoes. But inside I feel uneasy. I know Marc would never do
anything to put Sammy in danger. But why won’t he tell me what this is all about?

After Christmas. That’s what he said. Just enjoy Christmas. And trust that Marc has your best interests at heart.

29

When I wake up the next morning,
I see Marc sitting bolt upright in the chair opposite.

He smil
es as my eyes open.

‘Happy Christmas Sophia.’

I feel that stillness that always flows around on Christmas morning. The whole world feels quiet, and there’s magic in the air.

‘Happy Christmas Marc.’
I rub my eyes and sit up. ‘Did you sleep?’

‘A little. You did. Soundly. I love watching you sleep.’

I slide myself out of bed and go to sit on his lap. He wraps his arms around me. Marc being here is the best Christmas present ever.

‘
Where you in that chair all night?’

‘Yes
.’

I kiss him fully on the lips.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ I whisper. ‘It’s kind of weird, though. Waking up to see you in my old home.’

‘Good weird?’

‘Good weird.’ I stretch my arms, stand up and pull him up out of the chair. ‘Come on. Let’s get cleaned up and then I can make breakfast.’

‘You don’t want to open your present?’ says Marc, going to the black bag in the corner.

‘Oh no Mr Blackwell.’ I shake a finger at him. ‘In our family, we don’t open our presents until after the Christmas dinner. That makes the day last just a little bit longer.’

Marc smiles. ‘It’s good to know that you can
exercise that sort of patience.’

‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me Mr Bl
ackwell,’ I say, mimicking his words to me yesterday.

‘And
a lot I can’t wait to find out. Well. If I have to wait until after Christmas dinner to give you your present, it’s lucky I have a few surprises lined up before then. Let’s go downstairs. There’s a surprise waiting for you there.’

*****

With Sammy and Dad still sleep, I creep downstairs, pulling Marc behind me.

‘Slow down Sophia,’ says Ma
rc. ‘You’re going to fall down the stairs.’

‘I’m too excited to slow down,
’ I whisper back.

‘The surprise is in the
lounge,’ says Marc, squeezing my fingers.

I pull
Marc into the lounge area, and then stop dead, staring.

‘Oh,
Marc
.’

In the corner of the lounge is
the most amazing Christmas tree, with gorgeous thick feathery fir branches. It looks like it’s been plucked straight out of the forests of Norway.

The branches hang with hand-painted wooden holly leaves and delicate baubles painted with 1950s Christmas scenes.

‘How did you do this?’ I breathe, taking a step forwards and feeling the thick green branches of the tree between my fingers.

‘While you were at the theatre
. Hence my late arrival. The security team helped me decorate it.’

I give a little laugh at the idea of Marc
and his team creeping around in the dead of night, hanging Christmas decorations.

‘I can’t believe you did all this,’ I say, still staring.

‘You like it?’ Marc asks.

‘I love it. And Sammy’s going to love it too.’

As if on cue, there’s a little choked cry from upstairs.

I smile at Marc. ‘I’ll go get Sammy up. And Dad. Then I’ll make us all breakfast.’

30

For Christmas breakfast, I make pancakes wit
h winter cherries and flaming brandy sauce. I serve them with whipped cream and fresh coffee.

Dad is as surprised as I am by the tree, and I can tell he’s secretly happy.
He loves Christmas almost as much as I do.

My dad is wary of Marc
over breakfast, but the two of them manage a stilted conversation about the roads around the village, and their mutual love of cars. Dad isn’t being all that talkative, but Marc does his best.

When breakfast is finished, Dad stands up
.

‘I’ve got a big ap
ology to make to the two of you.’

‘You have?’ I sit up straighter, thinking that maybe Dad is seeing sense about Marc and I getting married.

Dad clears his throat. ‘Yes. You might be wondering why I didn’t bring any Christmas presents downstairs. Well, look I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I didn’t manage to go Christmas shopping this year. I’ve spent so much time moping that I’ve forgotten there are other people in the world apart from me. But that changes. As of now.

‘I’m going to stop thinking of myself and my heartache, and st
art thinking about everyone else again. And I just hope the two of you can forgive me for being so thoughtless.’

‘It’s okay Dad,’ I say. ‘We know you’ve had a lot on this last week. It’s been a tough time. I wasn’t expecting a present. And I’m sure Marc wasn’t either.’

‘No. Not at all,’ says Marc.

‘You’re
both very understanding,’ says Dad, taking a seat.

T
here’s an awkward silence.

‘Dad,’ I say, after a moment. ‘Had you thought any more about Marc and I getting married? Are you … still feeling the same way?’

Dad glances at Marc, then looks down at the table.

‘I still n
eed a little more time to think,’ he says. ‘But I’m happy Marc is here. It’ll be a good chance for me to get to know him. And you never know, by the end of Christmas I just might be able to give you both my support.’

‘That would be amazing
,’ I say, feeling hope warm my chest. ‘Let me get everything cleared up.’

We let Sammy open one present after breakfast. That’s another rule in our family – the children can open one gift first thing, and then they have to wait for the rest like all the adults do.

I’m not sure Sammy really gets that the day is special or anything, but he chooses Marc’s toy to o
pen first, and he smiles and smiles when we help him tear off the paper and he sees the logging truck.

‘Nice gift,
’ says Dad, getting down on his knees to help Sammy release all the logs, which go rolling around the living room rug. ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure,’ says Marc.

After breakfast, we go for our traditional Christmas walk around the country lanes, with Marc pushing Sammy fast over the bumpy mud, and Sammy whooping with delight. Then we head home and I start on the Christmas dinner. I put the turkey in before we went for our walk so, in between chopping vegetables, I baste it and add more seasoning.

Dad play
s with Sammy in the living room and, to my surprise, Marc comes and joins me in the kitchen.

‘I have a starter planned,’ he says, opening the fridge. There’s a white parcel inside that I don’t recognise.

‘Where did that come from?’ I ask, as Marc takes it out and cuts the string.

‘I had it sent over yesterday. Rodney bought these at London Bridge market.’

The white paper falls open to reveal eight fat red lobsters.

‘Wow.’ I look at the seafood. ‘They look amazing.’

Marc brushes hair out of his eyes and goes to the knife rack. He effortlessly sharpens a knife on the steel, and I watch him, surprised.

‘You look
very
at home in the kitchen, Mr Blackwell. I thought you couldn’t cook.’

Marc throws me that delicious spiky smile. ‘I don’t recall saying I couldn’t cook.’

‘But doesn’t Rodney do all your cooking for you?’

‘Yes. Mostly.
I’m sensible enough to stand back and let a master do his work. The same goes for when you’re in the kitchen.’

‘So you
can
cook?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. But I can prepare
certain things. Lobster being one of them. And I can sharpen a knife.’

‘Where
did you learn how to do that?’

‘
I toyed with the idea of opening a restaurant in LA for a while, and I thought if I was going to do that, I should learn everything there is to know about the restaurant business.’

‘A perfectionist in everyth
ing you do,’ I say, with a smile.

‘
I always give one hundred per cent,’ says Marc, his eyes fixing on mine and sending shivers down my arms.

‘A
m I one of your projects, Mr Blackwell?’ I ask. ‘Something you give one hundred percent to?’

‘
I wouldn’t call you a project.’

‘Oh? What would you call me?’

‘My soul mate. The only woman in the world who could break down my barriers.’

‘I don’t think I’ve broken down
all
your barriers,’ I say. ‘At least, not yet. But I’m working on it. Especially when it comes to trust.’

‘Trust?’

‘Leo Falkirk.’

‘I trust
you
,’ says Marc. ‘It’s him I don’t trust.’

‘I’m hoping that will change.
So. Tell me more about how you learnt to cook.’

Marc gives a half smile
. ‘I can’t cook. But I learnt everything I could about professional kitchens. The equipment. The quality of the food. How the best chefs prepare seafood and meat.’

‘You learned to prepare lobster just by watching a chef do it?’

‘Not just one chef. Lots of chefs.’

‘Impressive.’ I watch him
twist the lobster tail from its body. ‘You’re a fast learner, Mr Blackwell. I could never learn anything just by watching.’

‘Oh I don’t know about that. You pick things up pretty quickly.’

‘Why thank you.’

I
watch Marc twisting and manipulating the red lobster in his strong fingers, revealing white meat under the shell.

‘Aren’t the best lobsters still alive when you buy them?’
I say. ‘And uncooked?’

‘I bought
these pre-cooked,’ Marc tells me. ‘I didn’t think you’d appreciate me cooking a live animal in front of you.’

‘You’re right. I wouldn’t have liked it.’

I watch in fascination as Marc slices each side of the lobster tail, then peels apart the shell and artfully cuts the flesh to remove the green and black parts.

‘You’re very good at that,
’ I say.

Marc laughs. ‘Wait until you’ve eaten it before you judge.’

As Marc cracks and peels, and I prepare vegetables, there’s a knock at the front door.

Marc lifts h
is head. ‘Surprise number two.’

I grin at him, dusting my hands on a tea towel.
‘Who is it?’

‘
Go to the door and see.’