by JS Taylor
“You’re having the same as me?” I translate. I don’t speak French, but my Spanish helps me understand most French food words.
“Yes. I thought perhaps I would defer to your judgement, in this situation.”
Curiouser and curiouser. Mr. Old-Fashioned is cutting me some slack.
Then I remember that steaks are cooked to order.
“How did you decide I like my steak cooked?” I say wearily.
“Rare. The only way to eat it.”
I give a half sigh. “You are impossible, Mr. Berkeley. Will I ever train you out of your caveman ways?”
“I shouldn’t think so, Isabella. And judging from your response on the stairwell, you rather like my caveman ways.”
I feel myself flushing and take a sip of Champagne to distract myself.
“So,” I say, remembering my conversation with Callum and Camilla. “Can you tell me who the leading man is yet?”
“No,” James shakes his head and sips his Champagne. “That is a secret for the time being. You’ll find out soon.”
“Can you at least give me a clue?” I say. “Most leading ladies are supposed to know who they’ll end up kissing at the end of the movie.”
I say it in a joking tone, but his face tightens. James is obviously not happy that I’m due for a stage kiss.
“He’s a big name,” says James. “I’m just finalising his schedule, he couldn’t come this week. But if everything goes to plan, he’ll arrive when we start shooting.”
Ok. A big name. Exciting.
“So tell me about this Berkeley Method,” I say, keeping the conversation on work.
James sips his Champagne and his eyes flash.
“I’m glad you asked. It’s the method by which I extract the best from my actors.”
“How does it work?”
The conversation feels so much easier now that he’s not complimenting my looks, or threatening to spank me. How long can it last?
James places his hands on the table, as though considering how best to explain it.
“Essentially, it’s a trust exercise,” he explains. “Over the course of the movie, you’ll have opportunities to… open up. To find out more about yourself.”
I frown a little.
“What do you mean?”
A waiter arrives with a bottle of white wine and presents it to James, who nods his approval.
There’s a pause as a splash is added to James’s glass to taste. He declares it excellent, and both our glasses are filled.
“I encourage actors to truly engage with their feelings,” explains James.
“Like method acting?” I ask.
I remember this concept from drama school. Method actors completely submerse themselves in the character. Even living out their role for real, over days or weeks. I’ve often thought it a little extreme. But there’s no denying it gets good results.
But James is shaking his head.
“Not as such,” he says. “Method acting has its place. But I believe that the full range of human experiences is in all of us. My method is just a different way of accessing it.”
We’re interrupted by the arrival of the escargot. They are served in a molten-hot ceramic dish, with thumb-sized holes to fit the shelled snails. Garlic butter bubbles and sizzles as the dishes hit the table.
“Wow, that smells amazing,” I say as the hit of parsley and garlic reaches my nostrils. I pick up the tiny matching fork and pluck out the first snail.
It’s almost too hot to eat, but the fresh butter and herbs are the perfect complement to the soft meat.
“Mmmmm.” I smile appreciatively at James as he takes his first bite. He chews and swallows.
“Excellent,” he agrees. “I haven’t eaten escargot for a long time. These are particularly good.”
“So explain to me what you mean by your method,” I press, returning to the subject.
“Well.” He takes another snail and pauses a moment to savour it. “Let’s say you were acting the part of an astronaut stranded in space. You could hardly use method acting to get into character.”
I nod. It would be impossible. Unless you gained access to a real-life spacecraft.
“But let’s say that, as a small child, you were sent away from home,” James continues.
I see something in his face. A flicker. And then it’s gone. I am blinded by a sudden stab of pain, imagining James as that poor lost boy, sent away from the warmth of his family to a cold English boarding school.
“A child in a strange place, with no parents,” he continues. “That probably doesn’t feel so different to an adult astronaut away from his home planet.”
I nod again. This makes sense. I imagine the desolation of a child without his parents is strong enough to compare to being lost in space.
“Accessing that kind of feeling allows my actors to bring real depth to situations they haven’t experienced before,” he explains.
“But surely not everyone is equipped for that,” I counter. “What if someone doesn’t have a memory to fit the role required?”
“I don’t choose actors by chance,” says James. “The actors I choose have pain in them. Pain they can access to make incredible performances.”
I take a sip of white wine. I’m not sure I like where this is going.
“My method helps actors use that pain,” he says. “But it is a difficult process. Because to use pain means confronting it.”
I spear another snail and swallow.
“But in my case,” I say lightly, “I don’t have that kind of pain in my past. I wasn’t sent away from home as a child. And I’ve never been an astronaut.” I give a little laugh, but even to my ears it sounds brittle.
James places his fork down softly on the table and looks me straight in the eye.
“I see it in you,” he says simply.
For some reason, I feel tears well up.
What are you doing, Issy? You’ve nothing to feel sorry for yourself about!
“Where did your talent for Spanish dancing come from?” he asks. “How could a young girl, at a drama audition, know that kind of sadness?”
His eyes are soft, beckoning me to share with him.
Flamenco music. A red dress. Sorrow, loss, tragedy. Why did no one question it, in a child’s face?
“What about your pain?” I blurt, desperate, suddenly, to change the subject away from me. “Isn’t this method just a way for you to avoid dealing with your own issues?”
“Yes,” he says softly. “That’s exactly right. Once again, Issy, you’ve seen to the heart of me.”
A waiter begins quietly removing the escargot dishes.
“If you think I’m some tragic case with hidden depths, then you’ve chosen the wrong actress,” I mumble.
“Your father died,” says James gently.
“When I was young,” I protest. “I hardly even remember.”
That’s not true, Issy. Why are you lying?
James considers me for a moment and then steeples his fingers.
“We won’t talk about it anymore,” he says. “But I want you to think about something.”
My heart is beating hard. I take a clumsy sip of wine, but it tastes different now. Acrid.
“What?” I manage, feeling furious suddenly.
I don’t want to think about my childhood!
“Do you ever wonder why you get so angry about things?”
This is unexpected. My rage morphs into confusion.
“No… I. I have a temper. From my mother’s side. She’s Spanish.” I shrug.
This is self-evident. I’m now on more familiar territory. I take another sip of wine. It tastes better now.
“From what I can see, your mother doesn’t have much of a temper.”
I open my mouth to reply and then shut it again.
“Have you ever thought that you get angry,” asks James, “so you don’t have to feel sad?”
“I…” I feel my eyes burn. My voice is choked, silent.
<
br /> I stare down at the table, and tears splash onto the linen tablecloth. Unthinkingly, I pick up a napkin to wipe them away.
“That is so like you, Issy,” says James quietly. “Always thinking of others, even when you should be thinking of yourself.”
I swallow, not trusting myself to reply.
“Your past will come out, at some point,” says James. He leans forward and tilts his head, looking up into my tear-streaked face. “And I’ll be there to catch you. I promise.”
I feel so intensely vulnerable. As though I am standing at the edge of a precipice. And James. He’s offering to be my safety harness.
Can I trust him not to let me fall?
The pause that follows is suddenly broken by the arrival of the main course. I look up with relief to see two steaks placed in front of us.
“This looks great,” I say brightly. The break in the mood has given me the precious few seconds I needed to collect myself again.
Isabella the actress.
James looks at me for a long moment, and then picks up his knife and fork.
“I’m sorry that I upset you in the middle of dinner,” he says.
“Forget it,” I reply, cutting him off. I couldn’t bear him to talk anymore about my past. I’ve only just fought the tears back.
“Nothing to apologise for,” I add, forcing my attention to the steak on my plate. I cut out a mouthful. “Mmmmm,” I say, chewing and swallowing.
James’s eyes rest on my face, not the slightest bit convinced by my act. But he’s gentlemanly enough not to ruin the meal.
“Have some red wine,” he says. His tone is tranquil. “It goes better with steak.”
We get through the main course in virtual silence. I feel too raw and exposed to enjoy the food, though I’m aware the steak is superb.
As the main course is removed, I suddenly realise how tired I am. The long day combined with several glasses of wine is taking its toll.
James assesses my face and signals for the cheque.
“Let’s go back,” he says. “You’re exhausted.”
I nod mutely. I feel as though I’ve ridden an emotional rollercoaster today. Though why, I couldn’t exactly say.
As we take the Eurostar back to London, I fall asleep on James’s shoulder.
The train shudders a little, and I wake up to find him stroking my hair. Then the carriage shakes, and I feel his arms wrap tightly around me. As though I were the most precious thing in the world.
I drift off to sleep again, my dreams turning to dark depths and James’s green eyes.
Would he catch me if I fell? Does he realise how far the drop could be?
Chapter 15
I wake up to streaming sunlight and a pair of strong arms around me. I twist beneath the sheets in happy amazement. James is lying in bed with me. This is a first. I feel a rush of pleasure.
It takes me a moment to work out where we are. The bedspread clarifies it. My chalet. James must have taken me back here last night.
I don’t remember much, besides falling asleep on the train. He must have carried me inside.
I’m wearing my camisole top and underwear. But my denim skirt has been removed. So, at some point, I presume, James must have undressed me.
The pleasure at finding James in bed with me slides away, a little. I remember our conversation in the restaurant. The talk of accessing pain from my past.
The memory comes with a thick little rush of terror, and I force it back down.
Easy, Isabella. No one can make you do anything you don’t want to do.
I stare at James’s sleeping form. I have never seen him look so peaceful. In repose, his perfect features are free of the demons which seem to lurk behind his waking expression.
His dark eyebrows curve expressively around the closed sockets of his eyes. The tousled brown hair is adorably messy. His sculpted lips are slightly parted.
I find myself wondering how a human face can be so perfect.
Another thought strikes me. Did he stay the night with me out of pity? Because of my tears last night?
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to physically push the thought away. But the image of my tear-streaked face keeps rising up.
You idiot, Isabella, I admonish myself. What have you to feel so sorry for yourself about?
There’s a ringing sound, and James stirs beside me and opens his eyes.
He gives me a beatific smile, part tenderness, part puzzlement, before rising sleepily to sit upright.
“Hey.” He leans over to kiss my mouth. “Is that my phone?”
“Yeah. Um. I think so.” I cast around for the phone and see it on the bedside table. I hand it to him.
He stares at it for a moment, as if trying to comprehend how he came to be conscious so suddenly. Then he frowns and clicks to answer.
“Hello?” His voice is displeased.
There is a long moment while he listens to the reply. And then he’s sat bolt upright, rubbing his eyes.
“No, it’s not ideal,” he’s saying, into his phone. “Do your best to keep the photographers from setting up camp outside the studio. I’ll talk to her when she arrives.”
“What is it?” I ask as he hangs up. But I already have a sneaking suspicion of who is causing the disruption. Natalie.
James sighs. “It’s Natalie,” he says, confirming my supposition.
“She’s managed to attract the attention of the entire paparazzi when she flew in this morning. Against my express instructions.”
His mouth tightens in a thin, displeased line.
“Ms. Ennis is testing the boundaries,” he says, more to himself than me. “I think it’s time she understood how things are going to work.”
He gets out of bed, distracted. Then, almost as an afterthought, leans back and catches me in his arms.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he says. “I’m sorry, I have to go sort this out.”
He must see something in my expression, because he reaches up and strokes my cheek with his thumb.
“You are so beautiful to wake up to,” he says. “I wish we could stay in this bed all morning.”
“Me too.” I lean forward to kiss his mouth.
He pushes forward, towards me, and for a moment, we’re caught in a deep kiss.
Then he gently pulls away. I feel an almost physical pain as he draws back.
“I have to take care of this,” he says apologetically. “I hate to leave you.”
He extricates himself from the bed and throws on some clothes.
“How did we get back here last night?” I ask as he pulls on his suit pants and shirt. I’m nursing an inward hurt at him leaving, which I know I have no right to feel.
“You were fast asleep,” he says. “It was a tiring day for you, one way and another. I carried you to the car and then to bed.”
“Will I see you later?” I ask. The words come out petulant. Like a child.
James climbs back on the bed to give me a final kiss.
“Of course you will, Issy,” he says. “Now, I have to go.”
And scooping up his jacket, he heads for the door.
I watch him go, feeling a horrible sense of loss.
Would I really be able to cope in a relationship with James Berkeley? Part of me is starting to wonder if my heart could stand it.
The rest of me knows I’m already in too deep.
I sigh and get out of bed. Then I head to the wardrobe. The choice of clothes brightens my mood. I love deciding what to wear. And James has thoughtfully afforded me an enormous selection.
I let my hand run over the clothes. Probably best to start with the shoes, since there are only five pairs.
I decide on the black knee-high boots. They have a low spike heel, and the soft leather is tied with leather fronds along the top few inches at the back.
This detailing reminds me a little of the whip in the bedroom drawer. The boots are sexy and understated at the same time. They pretty much sum up how I feel around Ja
mes Berkeley.
Next, I settle on an unstructured grey dress made of cotton. It’s fairly short, with a little stitching to pull it in a flattering angle at the shoulders.
Finally, I select a medium width black belt with heavy silver metalwork. This will add some shape and interest to the dress.
I set the clothes on the bed. Then I head for the shower, taking off my camisole top and underwear along the way. I’m wondering where to put these, when I spy a laundry basket in the bathroom.
I lift the lid to find a set of instructions taped inside. They explain that laundry is taken daily. I hesitate. Can I stand for a stranger to wash my underwear?
Making a decision, I drop my bra into the laundry and head to the sink to wash my panties. It’s way too demeaning to expect some poor housekeeper to wash them. Even using a washing machine.
I rinse the panties carefully with shampoo, wring them out, and hang them over the towel rail.
Then, I step into the shower and let the warm water pour over me.
Wow. This is some shower.
The water pressure is incredible. It’s like being massaged whilst standing up. I let the shower blast away any residual sleepiness, and then wash and condition my hair.
I dry myself with a fluffy towel. I could get used to this, I think as I notice the hairdryer is ten times better than the one I have at home. I give my long hair a blast and then turn my attention to the make-up fridge behind the mirror.
I take out a few products. Face cream, mascara, a little lip-gloss.
This time, I use a very light touch with the mascara. Just enough to slightly darken my lashes. I apply lip-gloss and make a final glance of approval at my reflection.
It’s then I realise, I only have the underwear bought by James.
Twisting my mouth, I return to the bedroom and take out my favourite set. The soft pink lace with the Swarovski crystals.
It feels far too decadent to wear for the daytime, but it’s the most dressed-down of the selection. I’ll try to buy more underwear today, I decide.
I slip on the panties, feeling the thin ribbons at the back criss-cross over my buttocks.
The bareness of it feels both sophisticated and exposed. I fasten the bra, adjusting the pink ribbon band underneath my breasts. The lace falls delicately over the pale skin of my chest.