The Berkeley Method

by JS Taylor

  For some reason this act of consideration prompts tears to rise up. I brush them away hastily.

  Stop it, Isabella, I admonish myself. You can’t cry over every little act of kindness.

  The bedspread makes me wonder what other little touches he might have added for my benefit. There’s an antique bedside table with three drawers, and I pull open the first.

  As my eyes fall on the contents, I gasp and shut it quickly. Then I force myself to open it again.

  Certainly, James has ensured I am well-stocked. Though I can’t say this is quite as considerate as the bedspread or the romance movies.

  Inside the drawer is an array of sex toys. Some I understand immediately, and others are more mysterious. I recognise the branding though. It’s the same make James made me familiar with in the Met Hotel - Kiki de Montparnasse.

  Since the kit in the hotel cost over £200 for panties and a vibrator, I can only assume this selection has cost thousands.

  Carefully, I take out the largest item in the drawer. It’s a sleek wave of black silicone over steel, and I’m guessing by the shape it’s a vibrator.

  I’ve seen vibrators before and thought they looked a little smutty. But this is so elegant. I turn it carefully in my hands. It’s wide at one end, and the length is pushing towards what I’d call intimidating. I see a tiny discrete switch, and when I flick it on, the vibe pulses noiselessly.

  Wow.

  From the effect it’s having on my hand, I can only imagine what it might do in more intimate areas. I turn it off and return it to the drawer.

  The next item I remove is a black leather-bound rod with a puff of fine white marabou feathers on the end. I touch them, marvelling at their softness, and then run them experimentally along the inside of my forearm.

  Hmmm. That tickles.

  I place the rod back in the drawer. Next I take out two more vibrators of different sizes. One is shaped like a flat round pebble and made from cream-coloured silicone. The other is short and wide, fashioned out of shining black plastic.

  Where are these for? I wonder.

  Finally, I pull out what looks to be a string of freshwater pearls. On closer inspection, the string is attached to a light silk material. I turn it in my hands. It’s a G-string, I realise. The pearls are designed to sit inside the buttocks.

  Okaay.

  I wonder how comfortable that would be. I place the G-string back in the drawer, letting the pearls drop heavily back, one by one, through my fingers.

  I close the first drawer and open the second.

  Underwear. This is less intimidating.

  I take out three bra and panty sets, two black and one soft pink.

  I lay them out on the bed, trying to decide how I feel about them. They’re certainly far sexier than anything I would ordinarily choose. My eyes rest on the most audacious set. The top half is a balcony bra cut very low, at a height I judge will put my nipples on display. Eyelash lace peaks over the top of the cups, but offers barely any coverage. Straps of wide black satin come over the top, as though representing where a normal bra would end, but only serve to highlight the absence of material at the top of the cups.

  The accompanying panties are a black G-string satin with more panels of eyelash lace, and wide black ribbons which tie at the sides. The set is beautiful, decadent and shocking all at once.

  I move my attention to the next set of black underwear.

  The bra looks revealing, but more ordinary and is made out of sheer black material. The accompanying panties are made of satin but have a heart-shaped viewing panel of sheer fabric at the rear.

  I pick them up, realising my entire behind would be showcased in the heart-shaped rear of these panties. Overall they’re kind of fun. I like the frivolity of the heart-shape. This set I wouldn’t mind wearing at all, I decide.

  The third set is a lovely soft pink, made from the most delicate handmade vintage lace. A pink ribbon forms the bottom of the tiny bra cups, and tiny Swarovski crystals are stitched throughout the lace.

  Oh. I love it!

  The panties are similarly delicate and beautiful. At the back they offer not much coverage at all, being made almost solely of thin straps of pink ribbon.

  Hmmmm. I’m detecting a theme here. Mr. Berkeley has a thing about rear ends.

  There are still a few items left in the underwear drawer. I pull out a boned waspie in purple and black satin, finished with strings of diamante and pearl. It reminds me of something a burlesque performer might wear.

  There are also two suspender belts – one lacy and revealing, and the other a barely-there strip of perfectly cut satin.

  Silk and fishnet stockings finish the collection.

  I stare back at the lingerie on the bed, and then, on a whim, scoop up the first, most revealing set.

  I slip out of my denim skirt and cream camisole top and remove my underwear.

  Then I slide into the silken panties, tying the ribbons at the side where I think they should finish. Next I slip my arms through the satin straps of the half-cup bra and secure the fastening.

  Everything about this underwear feels decadent and shocking. The quality of the cut and finish makes it like a satin skin on my body. The shape of the fit sets my shoulder back, pushing my breasts firmly forward.

  There’s a full length mirror in the room, and I turn to survey myself in the underwear. I’ve never minded how I look in bra and panties. I have an old-fashioned kind of shape – more fifties pin-up than fashion model – and my slender curves sit nicely in matching sets.

  Nevertheless, I stifle a little gasp of shock to see my reflection. There is no denying this is the sexiest I have ever looked. My naked nipples jut forward provocatively from the black cups, and the G-string panties frame my naked buttocks suggestively.

  I stare at the image, trying to mesh my super sexy reflection with the Issy that I know. Could she be this scandalous woman?

  I find myself standing a little straighter to match the brazen underwear.

  In the mirror, my long dark hair looks more sultry than usual, and my grey eyes seem darker, more knowing. Even my pale pink lips seem to have flushed a deeper shade.

  I imagine myself dressed in this wanton attire and holding the feathery tickling rod I found in the top drawer a moment ago. A little smile comes to my mouth.

  Maybe James Berkeley should be careful how he dresses me. He might just get a taste of his own medicine.

  I slip out of the underwear, feeling a little regretful to return to my ordinary persona.

  The bra and panties I had been wearing were one of my favourite sets. But they look rather plain in contrast to the decadent lingerie I’ve just taken off. I put them back on and regard normal Issy in the mirror for a moment. Then I carefully return the lovely underwear to the second drawer.

  There’s still a third drawer left, and I tug it open, uncertain of what I might find.

  As the contents are revealed, I sit heavily back on the bed, caught between a variety of emotions. After a moment, I reach forward and pull out the nearest item. It’s a whip made of hundreds of swishing fibres bound in a heavy leather handle.

  I let the thin leather fronds dangle over my arm, wondering what effect this might have if used forcefully.

  Everything else in the drawer follows a similar theme. There are leather hand-cuffs, a length of soft nylon rope, a silk blindfold and a roll of black tape.

  A clear message then, of what James would like to do to me.

  I stare into the drawer for a moment, trying to decide how I feel about this intimate selection being placed in my bedroom drawers.

  Certainly, I am not repulsed by these items. There is nothing cheap or seedy about them. In fact, they have all been made to a beautiful quality.

  I take out a soft leather paddle and let it fall experimentally against my hand. Would this hurt? Is it designed to hurt? None of these things look like they are made to induce pain.

  The final item is two clamp-like devices, attached to a st
ring of tiny pearls.

  He likes pearls. I smile to myself, remembering the G-string and the waspie.

  I don’t know what this last find is for, so after a moment of toying with it, I place it back, shut the final drawer, and resolve to explore the rest of my chalet.

  [1]

  I’ll think about you later, I tell the bedside drawers as I move to open the wardrobe. The doors are a contemporary sliding design, and they whir open at a light touch.

  Inside, as promised, is a large selection of clothes. I run my hand along an array of designer dresses, jeans, skirts and tops.

  At first glance, they’re less formal than I might have imagined James would pick for me. In fact, he seems to have stocked a good selection of dress-down vintage which I might have even chosen myself. Presumably, James has some assistant to do all this for him, but he must have briefed them well.

  I pull out a pair of jeans and read the label. Diesel. He’s even got the long leg length right.

  There are shoes too. I stifle a little smile. Now I know it must have been James who picked out the wardrobe. Only a man would buy so many clothes and so few shoes.

  I count six pairs in total. A pair of ballet pumps similar to those I wore to the first audition, a pair of burgundy designer sneakers, grey suede ankle boots, a pair of sexy knee-highs, and two pairs of sexy Jimmy Choo heels.

  I resolve to pick myself up some more footwear when I get the chance. It would be a shame not to do all these beautiful clothes justice. But I’m touched that he’s paid such close attention to my taste in shoes. James must have remembered my footwear from the first time we met, I think, looking with a flush of pleasure at the ballet pumps.

  My next exploration is of the bathroom. It’s a spotless wet-room with a huge claw-footed bath and separate shower finished in grey tiles.

  There are wood-lined cubbyholes filled with toiletries, which I approach with interest and pick through what’s been laid out.

  Inside are shampoo, conditioner, hand-cream, face-cream, and an array of bathing products and scrubs. A mix of Hermes and Molten Brown make up the array.

  I can’t see any toothpaste, and I approach the square sink to see if I’ve missed anything. The bathroom mirror slides back, I discover, revealing hidden shelves behind.

  A waft of cool air informs me that the hidden shelves are, in fact, a tiny refrigerator. It has been filled with a mix of cosmetics from Clarins and Clinique. A make-up fridge. I remember this from the information pack I received last week. There’s toothpaste in here too, and an electric toothbrush set into a purpose built charge point.

  I stare at it for a moment, taking stock.

  So, this is what it means to be a leading lady. I can’t argue with the perks.

  I take out a mascara and study the packaging. Clinique. Hmmmm. I’ve never used expensive make-up.

  I unscrew the wand and make a few experimental strokes through my eyelashes. Then I blink my grey eyes in the mirror, assessing the result.

  Whoa. I wasn’t expecting the effect to be quite so dramatic. My eyes have turned pure sex kitten.

  I glance around for make-up remover and carefully wipe the mascara off, resolving to save the look for an evening occasion.

  Do all the actresses get this treatment? I know James said he took care of his actors, but I can’t help but wonder if he’s made an extra effort for me.

  As I’m puzzling over this, there’s a sudden crackle, and all at once the lights go out.

  I take a quick intake of breath. I can’t see a thing.

  Calm down, Issy. It’s just a power cut.

  I grope my way out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, which is also pitch black.

  I take careful steps forward in the dark, trying to remember the lay out of the room, with my hands ranging out in front of me.

  “Arrgh.” I muffle a cry of pain as my shin strikes the bed.

  And then I hear a sound in the dark.

  Like soft laughter.

  I freeze, every hair on my body standing on end. Someone is with me in the bedroom. In the dark.

  “James?” I call uncertainly, although I know without a doubt that strange laugh didn’t come from him.

  Silence.

  I move softly around the bed, the floorboards creaking underfoot.

  Every cell in my body is on high alert. My imagination has gone into overdrive, wondering who could be in here with me.

  My feet sense the soft rug now, and I try desperately to picture how things were laid out.

  I want, more than anything, to get to the bedroom door. And my overriding terror is that whoever made that sound is standing in front of it.

  I stand stock still for a moment. I am so frightened, I can hardly think straight.

  I think I can make out another person breathing, but I’m too terrified to be certain.

  “Hello?” I call again, “is anyone there?”

  Silence.

  My eyes have adjusted to the gloom now, enough to see that the bedroom door isn’t fully shut. There’s a slice of grey against the black of everywhere else.

  I peer towards it. Is that a human shape nearby?

  I drop my hand to feel for the outline of the bed. And then slowly, step by frightened step, I shuffle forwards.

  As I reach the edge of the bed, my courage deserts me, and I bolt full-force to the bedroom door.

  My fingers touch wood and close on the door handle. Then I’m out in the bright light of the hallway, breathing huge panic-wracked breaths.

  My gaze takes in the open-plan living area and kitchen. There’s no one here. I turn uneasily around to survey the bedroom door.

  Was it my imagination? I was so sure I heard that eerie laughter.

  There’s a snapping sound, and all the lights pop on again, as quickly as they went off.

  The bedroom is now fully lit, though half concealed behind the partially shut door.

  Did my ears deceive me in the dark? I try to make sense of what just happened. I must have misheard.

  Nothing to be frightened about.

  Steeling my courage, I extend my leg and kick open the bedroom door, my breath bound up tight in my body.

  As it rolls slowly open, I breathe a sigh of relief.

  The bedroom is empty.

  Jeez, Issy. I lean my weight on the mezzanine balcony, catching my breath and allowing the fear to subside.

  That’s some imagination you have, Isabella Green, I admonish myself.

  I make my way back down the stairs, still feeling a little uneasy. The beautiful apartment seems less secure now, less homely.

  I make a mental note to stop being so ridiculous.

  I owe James a huge debt of gratitude for setting me up somewhere so perfect. It wouldn’t do to start rambling about ghosts and spooks and creepy laughter.

  I give a little shudder. The laughter had sounded so real.

  Shaking myself out of my stupidity, I head for the door. There’s a map of the complex on the designer coffee table, and I grab it gratefully.

  Time to find my way around this place and meet some of the crew.

  Chapter 12

  I’ve walked for the sixth time past the parking lot of vintage cars when a warm New York accent interrupts my thoughts.

  “Hello, young lady, are you lost?”

  I start slightly. I’m still wound a little tight, since the power cut.

  But it’s such a kind voice, and it also sounds strangely familiar.

  “Um, yeah,” I admit, turning to locate the source of the question.

  I find myself face to face with Callum Reed.

  Oh. Wow.

  I stand with my mouth slightly open, not sure of what to say. Callum’s face is gentle rather than handsome, with huge brown eyes and soft features. But his roguish personality imbues him with a definite sex appeal.

  Callum gives me the slightly crooked smile, which makes housewives all over America melt. He’s not the tallest of men – he’s around the same height as me, and I
’m a good few inches under model height. But his charisma more than makes up for it.

  “Hello,” he says. Callum takes my hand and drops his head to kiss it. “I’m Callum. And you must be Isabella Green. I recognise your picture, from the casting list.”

  He is still holding my hand, keeping his brown eyes tilted up to my face, a mischievous smile on his lips.

  “I…” I’m in danger of swooning from his charming offensive. Not to mention I have no idea how to greet Hollywood royalty. Do you admit you’ve seen their face a thousand times before? Or play along with the charade that you’re strangers meeting for the first time?

  “I know who you are,” I admit, opting for honesty, “I’ve seen all your movies.”

  I’ve seen all your movies? Oh Isabella! Why not just tell him you carried a watermelon?

  I wince at my star-struck cliché, but Callum doesn’t seem to mind. He straightens up and gives me a broad grin. He’s wearing a grey sweatshirt with skulls on it, matching sweat pants, and sneakers, so I’m guessing he just got off an LA flight.

  On TV, he’s usually dressed in suits. This dress-down outfit adds to his persona of mischievous school-boy.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. His voice is grave, but that wicked smile is still on his face, as though he’s on the brink of making a joke.

  If my heart hadn’t been blown out of the water by James Berkeley, I could see myself having a little crush on Callum. He is too cute.

  “May I accompany you to the restaurant?” He adds, “I assume that’s where you were headed?”

  “I… I was.” Speak properly, Isabella! Get a full sentence out!

  “Yes, that’s where I was headed,” I clarify. “I’d love for you to show me the way.”

  I smile at him. “How long have you been in the studio?”

  He’s about to reply when another voice interrupts us.

  “Callum! The car’s parked round the back.”

  I turn to see a huge muscular man striding towards us. He’s impeccably dressed in a sharp suit, with shoes buffed to a high shine. His skin is jet black, and he wears his hair in neat cornrows. He’s wearing wrap-around sunglasses and an earpiece. As he reaches us, he removes the glasses, revealing honey-coloured eyes.