Romance: Young Adult Romance: The Perfect Game (A Highschool Football Romance) (Bad Boy Nerd New Adult Romance) (22 page)

*****

The driveway from the main road to Brunswick Hall was a mile and a half long. It was Marcella's childhood
home,
and she knew every corner of it. As she drove her battered Fiat through the enormous sandstone gateposts into the estate, it felt oddly unfamiliar. The dispute with her father had escalated to such an extent that she no longer felt welcome. But she wanted to see her mother. No, she needed to see her
mother
.

She slid to a halt in front of the
eighteenth-century
mansion and got out of the car. It was a warm
evening,
and there was a row of sparrows sitting high above her on the guttering. She walked up the steps to the front door and went inside. The entrance hall had a marble
floor,
and it echoed as she called out.

''Hello.''

An old woman came through a door at the back of the room. ''Marcella. Oh Marcella, come here and give me a hug. It's so
nice
to see you.'' Marcella hugged the small plump woman. ''You're such
a fine
lady, these days. It doesn't seem like a minute since I used to change your nappies.''

''Thank you for reminding me,'' Marcella said. Silvia had been Marcella's nanny. Now she was cook and housekeeper to the Earl and his wife. ''Is mummy at home?''

''Yes. Somewhere in the garden.''

''I'll go and find her.'' Marcella went back out of the front door and walked around the house
to
the back garden. It was a huge garden that stretched down to the river. It was her mother's pride and joy. The lawns were immaculate, and the borders at this time of year, full of colorful plants. After five minutes she saw two feet poking out from a border. ''Mummy?''

Marcella's mother was a former model and fashion designer. She never had a hair out of place, but in the
garden,
she felt free to wear what she wanted and let her hair flow in any direction it
cared
to fall. ''Marcella,'' she said enthusiastically. She stood up slowly, stretching her back. ''Damn weeds. They never seem to stop.''

''You should get a gardener. It's a lot of work for you alone.''

''Since Sylvia's husband retired I haven't bothered. As you know your father it too miserly to pay for anyone else.''

Her mother was still a stunning looking woman. She was Marcella's role model when it came to looks and fashion. Her black hair was tied up in a
bun,
and her immaculately manicured fingers
were hidden
in a pair of huge gardening gloves.

''Mummy I'm sorry. I hate asking, but I haven't got any money.''

Her mother was Marcella's last chance. She hated
asking
because she knew her mother disliked going behind her father's back. ''How much do you need?''

''A thousand.''

''When you get a job as the Queen's sculptor you can pay me back,'' she joked. ''Come with me to the house. I'll write a cheque.''

They linked arms as they
strolled
over the path between the borders and onto the
wide
lawn.

''Marcella,'' it was her father. He'd seen the two women approaching the house from his study. He was leaning out of the window. ''Don't go bothering your mother for money.'' He was much older than
her mother,
and he'd never shown Marcella much affection.

''I'm skint,'' she said honestly. ''I only have a few months of my degree left. The bank won't lend me
any more
.''

''No, no, no. I told you when you chose that ridiculous degree that we wouldn't finance you. You should have studied something proper, like law.''

She'd heard it all before. There he was, in his tweed jacket, yellow
shirt,
and red tie, one of the richest men in England denying his daughter any form of happiness.

''But it's what I want to do. It's what granny did.''

''Your grandmother was a ridiculous figure. Living on that barge, like a vagrant. She did nothing to enhance the family's reputation.''

''Granny was one of the country's leading sculptors. How can you say that?''

The Earl slammed his fist down on the windowsill. ''Sculptor? All she did was make a few strange looking articles from copper. No, Marcella, no money. And you,'' he looked at his wife, ''don't go giving her any cheques,'' he said.

''Bastard,'' Marcella shouted. She began to walk towards the window. Her father knew what her
rages
were like and he quickly shut the window. When she thumped on it, he left the room.

''I'll talk to him,'' her mother said, pulling Marcella away from the window. She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out fifty pounds. ''Here take this.''

*****

Marcella shouted down to
Joyce,
who
was making
supper on her
narrow-boat
. Joyce waved her to come on board.

''You look glum. What's the matter,'' Joyce asked, as she fished some boiled potatoes from a pan.

''My father, again.''

''Money?''

Marcella sat at the small table in the galley and looked out over the water. For a
moment
she wanted to be a duck.
They looked so carefree.
They didn't have to bother about money and careers. ''Yes. I'll
be finished
in a few months. I can get a job then
and pay
them back. He's a pig.''

''You know I would help you if I could,'' Joyce said apologetically.

''Oh no Joyce. I wasn't insinuating you should help me. I need you to talk
to;
that's all.''

''Could you get a job? A bar or cafe?”

''I've just
been given
a fantastic
opportunity,
and I think it's going to take up all of my time.''

''Really, what?''

''I'm representing the Academy in the National Sculpture Competition.''

''Wow. Congratulations,'' Joyce said as she opened the oven and peered at the chicken cooking inside. ''That's quite an honor.'' Marcella nodded. ''What will you make?''

''I don't know. I'm thinking about it,'' Marcella spun a teaspoon that was lying conveniently on the table.
''Mike wasn't so bad after all, you know.
Perhaps I should give him a call. Say sorry.''

''Why? Because you need money or because you love him?'' Joyce said in her most abrupt manner.

''You're right. I'd just be using him.

''You could sell the barge. It's worth half a million, and it's yours.'' Joyce looked apologetic when she saw the look of horror on Marcella's face. ''Sorry.''

''Granny left me that boat. I won't ever sell it.''

''Of course. It was a dumb suggestion.''

''I've got fifty pounds in my pocket, and half a tank of fuel in the car. I'm going to go to sleep early, and in the morning, I'm going to drive home again and talk to my father. I'll pack in college and study business.''

''But....after all the hard work you've put in. It would be such a shame.''

''It would. But I can sculpt in my spare time, as a hobby. Perhaps my father is correct. You can't earn money from art.''

*****

The ambulance arrived just in time to save Peter from bleeding to death.

''He's been very lucky indeed,'' the doctor said. ''Are you family?''

''Er no...I'm one of his students. I wanted to talk to him at college this morning, but they told me he was in
hospital
. What happened?''

''He was attacked. Mugged.''

''Will he be okay?''

''We hope so.''

''Hope?'' Marcella said questioningly.

''Yes he should be. He needs to rest. When he wakes up, he'll have a big headache.''

''Can I sit with him?''

''Yes. Nobody else has been to see him.''

Marcella pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. She didn't know what the machines around him
were;
they looked scary. He had a drip feed into the back of his
hand,
so
she
touched his forefinger. She stroked it gently. In bed asleep, he looked boyish, not at all like the man that lectured at the London Academy. His hair
was brushed
back from the wound on his forehead which was covered by a bandage. She felt his finger twitch as she continued
to stroke
it. Then, he opened his eyes.

Marcella was wearing a white
T-shirt
, a blue
jacket
and pair of faded jeans. He said
something,
but she didn't understand. She raised herself from her seat, closer to him.

He repeated himself. ''Venus.'' She pointed to herself. He nodded.

Marcella laughed. ''You're suggesting I'm like the Roman Goddess of love?'' He nodded again. ''I think you're delirious,'' she said.

''No. You're just like her. Apart from the black hair.''

Marcella smiled. ''I'm glad you're going to be okay.''

''Thank you for coming to see me,'' he whispered. Her
beautiful
presence had lifted his spirits.

When she arrived the next day, he was altogether more lucid. When he saw her standing in the door, talking to a nurse, his eyes looked at all the places he knew they shouldn't. She's a student,
behave;
he told himself.

''How are you today?'' she said flashing a white smile at him. She
was made
up more than he'd ever seen her before.

''Getting better. Are you going to a party?''

''No, why?'

''Because you're all made up.''

She wanted to say, ''it's for you,'' but she didn't think it was wise. ''So when are you coming back to the Academy?''

''The Doctor told me I can probably go home tomorrow, and go back to work in a week.''

''Great. Can I talk to you about something?''

''Sure.''

''I'm
leaving,
'' she said. He looked at her. If anyone had asked him how he felt right at that
moment,
he would have said, 'brokenhearted.'

''You can't. Why do you want to leave?''

''I have no more money, and my father won't help me. I'm going to do a business degree instead.''

She looked
sad
but determined. ''No. I can't allow it. You're just a few months away from graduation, and what about the competition?''

''They'll find someone else. I'm not the best.''

''You are the best. By far. No, this isn't right. No way are you leaving.''

''But I have no choice. I haven't got enough to buy the week’s groceries.''

He stared at her chest as it heaved against her blouse. ''Let me help you.''

''No, I can't accept that.''

''What are you going to make for the competition?''

''Nothing, I'm leaving.''

''Please, Marcella. Okay, let's assume you were going to do it. What would you make?''

''Something in bronze, like granny did. I
know,
I'd sculpt an owl.''

''Why an owl?''

''Because there a lots of them at my childhood home. I love the noise they make. You can lie under the covers and listen to them speaking to each other.'' Her eyes lit up as she thought of the prospect. ''You.......''she wanted to call him,  'bastard.' ''You did that on purpose, didn't you?''

''Yes.  Look with how much enthusiasm you spoke. Would you talk with so much interest about a cash flow report or a balance sheet?''

Marcella dipped her head and looked at his hand. She wanted to touch it. He was
clever
,
very clever
and
she
liked him for it. He'd just shown her how much she cared about her sculpting. ''But I can't take money from you. It wouldn't be right.''

''I haven't got a lot of money, but I can help you. Tell you what. When you've finished your owl, it will be worth a few thousand. If it makes you feel better, you can sell it and pay me back.''

She smiled. The wound on his head was going to leave a scar. ''Thank you. Okay.''

His eyes lit up. For the first time in
an age,
he felt invigorated. You know I can't help you with the design and sculpting process don't you?''

''I know.''

*****

''You're back,'' Marcella jumped off her stool and hugged Peter. He felt her breasts crushing against him. The effect her scent had on him was even stronger than the last time she'd thrust her arms around him.