The Ivy Lessons
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 an
d
clipped accent
had
offered to show me the w
ay. He
’d
led me off the main road and
past pretty townhouses
,
t
o 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 buil
dings 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 beca
use 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 hudd
led 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, ba
lconies 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 recog
nised 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 a
nd 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 ag
ain, 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 a
t 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 pi
ck up my B
lackberry 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, the
ir 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 G
od, 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 thumb
nail. ‘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.
