Chapter Eighteen
In the taxi on the way to Claridge’s I purposely spent the journey re-reading articles on Marcus and the many women he’d dated.
There was a tennis player he’d been photographed with several times last year, Zuzanna Kaczmerek.
She was athletic-looking, tall, and world number ten – she was gorgeous, they were both passionate about tennis, so why hadn’t it gone anywhere?
A few weeks after the last photo I could find of them together, he was photographed on a yacht in Monte Carlo with some billionaire’s daughter – she had dark hair, olive skin and was wearing a bikini that may as well not have been there.
Yes, being confronted by evidence of his womanising ways was exactly what I needed ahead of having to share a room with Marcus that night – my only hope was that Dean had booked us a twin room.
Surely he wasn’t that cruel? Anyway, it should be fine now I’d reminded myself that stepping over the line with Marcus – or worse, developing any kind of feelings for him – was an exceptionally bad idea.
Guys like him were obviously to be avoided.
And if a very pleasant but relatively ordinary-looking secondary school teacher (i.e.
Charlie) couldn’t be trusted, what man could?
No, as far as I was concerned, relationships were off-limits for the foreseeable.
That wasn’t to say I couldn’t have some fun – it just could not, under any circumstances, be with Marcus Taylor.
Marcus was already waiting for me in the lobby when I arrived at the hotel.
I had to pause for a second when I saw him, and tell myself off – there was no need to feel intimidated just because I’d never seen him in a suit before and now here he was in a dark navy one with a burgundy tie, looking like James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause.
It was just Marcus. It was just us, fake-dating away, just like we had been for the last nine weeks or so.
Nothing had changed. Other than the odd kiss for the cameras, we’d always kept it very professional and we would continue to do so tonight, I would make sure of it.
As a doorman lifted my small suitcase up the stairs, I felt a pang of something like guilt – since when did spending the night with an international tennis professional interviewee in a hotel in Mayfair become a thing?
My life had always been small and quiet, the way I’d convinced myself I wanted it.
As a kid, I’d never been able to stand out because most (all) of the attention had been on Cassie and I’d given up trying to make my parents notice me.
I supposed some children would have gone the other way and become loud and boisterous and demanding, but I retreated into myself, losing myself in the world of books and school and the creative writing I’d loved.
This – Claridge’s, the epitome of London’s five-star luxury hotel scene – felt like the kind of thing the other version of me would have done.
I took a deep breath, taking in my surroundings.
It was just as spectacular as I’d imagined, all thick cream carpets and uniformed staff and chandeliers, and the sort of subdued hubbub you got in places like this because everyone felt as though they had to talk in hushed tones.
Marcus was sitting in an armchair next to the restaurant, his Lacoste overnight bag by his feet, a disgruntled expression on his face as he flicked through his phone.
My heart leapt a little bit, but I put it down to having to now face the inevitable – checking in to our room.
‘Our’ room. What a strange situation I’d found myself in.
‘Hi,’ I said, approaching him.
When he looked up at me, there was none of the usual smiling or teasing, it was like we’d reverted to the first time we met.
‘Hello, Ava,’ he said.
‘Everything okay?’ I asked, a bit needily.
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ he said, standing up and picking up his bag. ‘Shall we check in?’
I followed him down an exquisite corridor with secret rooms housing goodness knows what leading off from both sides.
If I had the opportunity, I wanted to take some time to wander around the hotel on my own, peeking into rooms that maybe I shouldn’t be in, getting a sense of what really went on behind these walls.
Marcus took charge, checking us in, paying for the room (did I really hear the receptionist say it was costing ￡1,200 for one night?
!), grabbing the key card. I was starting to feel slightly nauseous, not just because of Marcus’s weird behaviour, but because this felt a little bit sordid, if I was honest. And I thought it might make me feel better to pay my way for the room.
‘We’re on the third floor,’ said Marcus tersely, striding towards the lifts.
I fell into step beside him. ‘I’d like to give you some money towards the room,’ I told him. I would have offered half, but I did not have a spare ￡600 hanging around. ‘So if you can ping me your bank details, that would be great.’
‘There’s no need, it’s already covered,’ he said.
‘I know it’s already covered because I saw you handing your card over, but it doesn’t feel right. I’d like to pay my way.’
‘Are you going to write it off as an expense or something?’ asked Marcus. ‘How would you explain a hotel room in Mayfair – research for your article?’
We stepped inside the lift, even though part of me wanted to turn around and march in the other direction, far away from him.
So much for me daydreaming about romantic nights in hotels rooms on the way over here (yes, okay, I admit it, I’d allowed myself to fantasise about it just once before seeing sense and shutting the whole thing down) – he could hardly bear to look at me.
‘If I’ve done something to upset you, I’d prefer it if you told me rather than doing this passive-aggressive silent treatment thing. Because I don’t know about you but I’m not going to be able to fake anything tonight if we continue in this vein.’
As we stepped out of the lift on the third floor, Marcus turned to face me, his face devoid of any emotion, although perhaps I should have been thankful he wasn’t angry, since that seemed to be his default in most situations.
‘You’re right. May as well get this over with. I read your notebook,’ he said, crossing his arms defensively.
I frowned. Why was that such a bad thing? I mean, I was surprised he’d been able to decipher my handwriting at all.
‘Right. And I’m guessing you read something you didn’t like? Because it’s just a rough draft at this stage, Marcus – if you don’t like the direction I’m going in with the piece, then you can just say and we’ll have a discussion about it.’
‘Is that really what you think of me?’ he asked, looking confused and, if I didn’t know better, I’d say a little hurt.
‘Um, yes? I don’t understand what’s so wrong? Is there a specific bit you don’t like?’
‘How about the entire opener?’ he said, shaking his head in frustration. ‘Ignorant? An absolute tool? Toddler tantrums?’
‘Oh my God . . .’ I said quietly, the words I’d written all those weeks ago coming flooding back to me in a horrifying wave. Shit. Why the hell had I left that stupid page in my book? And for him, of all people, to find?
‘Why, Ava? I know we didn’t get off to the best of starts, but I honestly thought you had a higher opinion of me than that. Perhaps you’ve been faking that, too?’ he said.
‘I haven’t been faking anything except the thing that we both agreed to fake,’ I insisted, mortified. I didn’t blame him for being upset – what a horrible thing to read about yourself.
‘I can’t work out why you’d even agree to any of that when you clearly despise me,’ he said.
‘I don’t, of course I don’t. That was just me venting,’ I said.
‘That first day of training in Monte Carlo. You’d told me off for my timekeeping and other than our conversation on the plane, if you can call it that, I only had what I’d seen on TV to go by.
Toddler tantrums probably was a bit harsh . . .’
‘You think?’ he said.
‘I don’t feel that way about you now, obviously. I get how hard it is for you out there. Most people would lose it in that situation. I definitely would.’
‘I just . . . it was disappointing to read, that was all. I don’t open up to just anyone like that, you know.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry,’ I said, lowering my voice, not allowing myself to dwell on why Marcus thinking I didn’t like him was such a big deal and had affected him this much.
‘I never meant for anyone to read it, I should really have ripped the page out and shredded it into a hundred pieces. Let me show you my actual opener. The one I wrote when I got back from Paris. It’s very different. ’
‘Do I get to read the whole article, then? Before it goes to press?’
‘If you want,’ I said.
This wasn’t usual practice, because if interviewees started wanting to take things out and put things in it could all become very difficult, and your entire piece could be skewed.
But somehow I trusted him not to do that.
And I hoped more than anything that he would love the finished piece, that he would feel seen and understood, and that I would be able to show Luxe magazine’s readers the Marcus Taylor I had started to get to know, and not just the racquet-smashing side of him, which was just one tiny little bit of his personality.
Everything else was surprisingly great. I winced.
Damn. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking good things about him tonight.
‘Shall we go to our room, or just stand out here talking in the corridor all evening?’ said Marcus.
‘I’m totally fine out here, if you are,’ I replied.
Ah, there it was. The smile was back.
‘You look lovely, by the way,’ he said, his eyes skimming my body.
I looked down at my dress self-consciously – it was nothing special, a cream satin midi dress with a side split and button detail from (you’ve guessed it) Zara.
‘You too,’ I said.