by JS Taylor
You’ve shown me what you’re made of.
Now let’s show everyone else.
I look at him in confusion.
“I thought it was time you used your hidden talent, Issy,” he says. “Everyone knows you’re an incredible actress. But I know you’ve got even more to offer.”
“Script writing?” I ask.
He nods again.
I ponder this, turning the lovely book in my hands.
The only reason I even took the part in James’s movie was to get better at script writing.
So much has happened since I met James, that I’ve barely given my writing a thought. But he’s right. I love scripts and stories more than anything. It’s the reason I excelled at drama school. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.
“You want me to write scripts?” I ask.
“I want you to do what you love,” he answers.
I do love script writing.
I start to smile, and then it trembles into tears.
How is it that he knows me so well? Better, sometimes, than I know myself?
“What you said,” I say, the words choking in my throat, “in your last note.”
He eyes me calmly.
“About the place where your heart feels at home…” I hesitate as the tears threaten to overwhelm me.
“Mo content toi,” he says gently, looking deep into my eyes and saying the words with a lovely French lilt.
“Mo content toi.” I try the words back, manoeuvring the unfamiliar pronunciation. I swallow. “I feel the same,” I falter. “I feel… you are… where my heart feels at home. And this gift. You know me so well…”
I can’t stop the tears now, and I press myself into his chest as the wave of emotion momentarily overwhelms me.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, pulling back. “You’re right. It’s all I ever wanted to do. I love acting. But I never want to lose sight of script writing. You’ve reminded me. I could have forgotten.”
“Do you think the acting is helping?” James leans forward and pushes a lock of dark hair away from my face.
“Yes. A lot. It’s given me real insight.”
“Would you like to try to write a script together?” he asks.
Wow. Writing with James. Really?
The idea throws me. I’d never considered it. But part of me loves the idea. Not only could James’s expertise help, but I realise he’s giving me a real chance to get even closer to him.
Then again, I wouldn’t like to hold him back. He’s a lot more experienced than me.
“Are you sure you’d want to?” I ask carefully.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he looks confused.
I shrug. “Well, for one thing, you’re an experienced director. You could work with any famous scriptwriter you wanted. And probably produce something incredible.”
His eyes are sparkling mischievously.
“I’ll take my chances on an unknown,” he says with a half-smile. “Any other reasons?”
I frown. “Well. Um. For another. Most men don’t like the idea of working with their, uh, girlfriends.”
“They don’t?” He’s teasing me now.
“No,” I say. “Not usually.”
“Maybe most men aren’t so lucky with their choice of girlfriend.”
I sigh out, unable to stop myself from laughing at the same time. He really is impossible.
“Well,” I conclude. “If that’s what you want. I’d love to work on a script with you. I even have an idea of a movie we might write,” I add thoughtfully.
It’s true. Just before we met, I was working on a script which I loved but couldn’t quite get to take off. His insights might be just what the story needs.
“Of course it’s what I want, Issy.” His voice is all business now. He takes the book from my hand and closes it up. “Else I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”
He waves his hand at the scattered rose petals and the picnic.
“I don’t usually lay on a midnight picnic to close a professional arrangement,” he adds, raising an eyebrow. “But I’m confidant the effort has been worth it.”
I laugh, and he runs a hand around my waist and pulls me close against his body.
“I think things have concluded satisfactorily,” he adds, his green eyes resting wickedly on mine. “What are your thoughts?”
“My thoughts,” I say, hardly daring to speak them, “are that I’ll be very happy working with you. But I was lured here under the understanding that I’d be told your secrets.”
His arm releases me, fractionally.
Have I lost him again?
“Ah yes,” says James. His expression is unreadable. “The place to tell you all my secrets. I promised you that.”
He pauses for a moment, and the beautiful candlelit garden seems to close in on us.
“Are you sure it’s what you want?” he adds, searching my face. “There’s no way to stop knowing something once you know it.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Very well.” His eyes are filled with sorrow, and he gestures we should sit, pulling me down onto the grass.
“First, let’s have a glass of Champagne,” he says, lifting the ornate bottle from the clinking depths of the ice bucket. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the glasses. “I told myself that I would tell you everything,” he says, pouring the golden liquid. “I only hope, you’re ready to hear it.”
Chapter 8
We’re sat on the soft grass, surrounded by flickering candles, with our arms around one another. James has poured Champagne, but just for now, the glasses sit beside us.
“You’ve made me see things differently, Issy,” says James.
“I have?”
“Yes.” He nods and smiles. “I understand why it’s important to you to know about my past.”
His eyes drop down, and his smile twists a little.
“So I thought I’d better remind you of some of the good times before I hit you with my big confession.”
Oh. He means the treasure hunt.
I smile back at him. “You didn’t need to,” I say. “But I loved it.” I give him a little grin. “You could probably confess to murder right now, and I’d forgive you.”
“That was the idea.” His face is still lit with amusement, and then it drops suddenly.
His eyes close, and he takes a breath. I stroke his hand, letting him know I’m here for him.
“Of course you know that I was a drug addict,” he says. The words emerge tightly, as if they pain him. And I have a sudden insight into the deep depths of his shame.
I squeeze his hand.
“I know,” I say. “It’s part of who you are. And who you are is who I love. Very much.”
He looks up at me tentatively. A little part of the shame in his face seems less entrenched. When he next speaks, it sounds stronger.
“I was an addict in Hong Kong,” he continues. “For around two years. It was over ten years ago now.”
He lets out a breath, and then charges on.
“When I was nineteen,” he says, “I had a girlfriend who was also an addict.” His eyes lift to mine. “Her name was Samantha,” he says. “We met in the worst kind of place. A Hong Kong squat where people went to use heroin.”
He frowns at the memory.
“Samantha was…” He searches for a term. “She was like me in many ways. From a good family. English. Sent away from her parents. And very messed up. More than me. If that was possible.” He lets out a short bitter laugh. “She was already very deep into addiction when we met. And we were the worse influence on one another.”
I keep the pressure on his hand, letting him know I’m listening and not judging.
“Samantha had a tendency to attract obsessive men,” he says. “Her father and brothers were very over protective of her. And when I first met her, she had an ex-boyfriend who was finding it very hard to give her up.”
He frowns.
“Samantha was a submissiv
e,” he continues. “But I think, really, she was more a self-harmer. I think she liked pain. She felt that was what she deserved.”
James’s eyes are fixed on the floor now.
“She liked being dominated,” he says. “At first, she was my submissive in private. And then she introduced me to clubs where dominants and submissives could play out their fantasies publicly.”
I say nothing, but this is hard to hear.
“It was like another addiction for both of us,” he continues. “She liked being dominated. And I liked giving her pleasure.”
He sighs. “And the clubs too,” he adds, “were like another addiction.”
My stomach turns. Is this something he misses?
“In those S&M clubs,” he continued, “people were so accepting of one another. Everyone there was on the edge. Not quite accepted by society. To someone like me, who’d never felt part of anything, it felt a lot like a family.”
My poor James. He never had a family.
His face has turned immeasurably sad.
“I was so fucked up then,” he says. “Those were about the only places which made me feel good about myself. Like I belonged.”
He shakes his head in disgust. “I spent the best part of a year high on drugs and beating a woman I was supposed to care about.”
His jaw turns tight, and he stops talking.
I swallow. “But you did it for her,” I say. “You did it to make her happy.”
His eyes flick to mine gratefully.
“Yes. Or so I thought,” he adds. “I think… I think I may have been making her worse.”
He sounds so terribly pained at this, that I can hardly stand it.
“In any case,” he adds, “we both got worse. Much worse. We were awful, awful addicts. And we were on a downwards spiral together.”
The way he says ‘together’ pinches at my heart.
“What happened to her?” I whisper, hardly wanting to hear.
James is silent for a long moment. He’s holding my hand tightly, as if for strength.
“Samantha wanted us to make a suicide pact,” he says.
I feel a blast of shock radiate through me. A suicide pact?
James tried to kill himself? Oh no! No!
“I tried to talk her out of it,” he continues. “But it became an obsession. When you’re on heroin, it makes you depressed. Irrational. It gives you thoughts that aren’t logical.”
He closes his eyes again.
“Samantha thought it would prove our love to one another,” he adds. “That it would be romantic. It shocks me now, to think how low I’d sunk. I should have realised that she needed help. More help than I could give her.”
I say nothing. Because I too feel numb with shock.
“Samantha suddenly stopped talking about suicide,” continues James. “I stupidly thought that it was my love that had helped her through.” He shakes his head. “I was such a fool. I should have known she was planning something stupid.”
I swallow, watching his face. Where is this going?
“Samantha was clever, even on heroin,” continues James. “She knew she had to convince me she was better. Otherwise I never would have let her…” His voice constricts, and he takes a deep, steadying breath,
“Samantha secretly arranged to carry out the pact,” he says. “Her plan was that we would overdose on heroin. Painlessly. She made arrangements,” he adds with another strange little laugh. “In her own way, she was organised. She even called the police first, so we wouldn’t be… found by anyone else.”
My eyes are wide, trying to take this all in.
James’s face is twisted oddly, as though the horror of it all is coming back to him full force.
“She had drugs waiting for me,” he says. “I should have suspected. But I was too preoccupied with getting my next hit.” His head sinks in shame. “We shot it up. The next thing I remember is the cops arriving.”
Oh no.
His voice has taken on a flat tone. “At first I couldn’t see. But I could hear shouting and noise,” he says. “There was vomit in my throat. I was choking. And it was hot. So hot.”
He pauses.
“Then my vision returned.” James’s voice is like ice. “I could see they were… They were trying to resuscitate her.” His voice breaks and I can hardly bear it. But I sit mutely, letting him go on. “But they knew,” he says. “We all knew. Samantha was dead.”
He shakes his head, and tears shake from his eyes. I want to draw him in close but can sense he has more to say.
“There should have been more than enough to kill us both,” he whispers. “But she… She made up the needles and took more for herself. I guess she wanted to be sure. She left a note too,” he adds. “A sick, twisted note about how we were bound together forever in the afterlife. That’s how I found out what she’d been planning.”
I clutch his hand.
“The cops took me to hospital,” he adds, “and the medics said I should have been dead. They said there was enough junk in my system to kill five men. They still don’t know how my body had coped with it. But I guess I’d built up a tolerance.”
I sit quietly, turning over what he’s told me.
“Do you feel guilty?” I say finally. “Because she died, and you didn’t?”
James lets out a huge breath.
“I feel so guilty, I can’t even explain the weight of it,” he says. “When you’re on heroin. It’s like nothing matters. Everything is in a bubble. After Samantha died, I got thrown in jail for a few days, under suspicion of having killed her.”
Prison! No!
“Samantha’s family was wealthy,” he adds. “The Hong Kong police were sure it was some kind of plot by me to get her money. They wouldn’t believe that I was from a moneyed family myself.”
He lets out a harsh laugh.
“To look at me then, no one would. I was a classic junkie. Unwashed hair, holes in my clothes. I don’t blame my father for wanting to disinherit me.”
He shakes his head.
The Berkeley name. What a burden to bear. I consider how my mother would feel if I showed up unwashed and untidy. She’d probably be delighted that I was rejecting social conventions.
“It sounds like a lot of pressure,” I say carefully. “It’s hard enough to make your way as a teenager. Let alone have to shoulder some ancient birth right.”
James lets out air through his teeth. “It’s a privilege,” he says. But the words sound more rehearsed than any script I’ve ever heard him read.
“How long did they keep you in prison?” I ask. There are so many questions. Did his father visit him there? Does he have that shame as well?
“Only a few days,” he says. “I don’t remember exactly how many, but it felt like forever. It straightened me out,” he adds, grimly. “They put me alone in a cell. No dealers. No criminals to get me drugs. And believe me,” he says. “I would have done anything. Anything. To get my hands on heroin.”
He shakes his head at the force of the memory.
“Those few days were the worst of my entire life,” he admits. “I’d lost everything. Samantha was dead. Her family was devastated. They wouldn’t believe their daughter had committed suicide, and they had plenty of money to push a case against me. The heroin was leaving my system and taking any remaining sanity with it.”
He shudders, and I have a terrible picture of him alone and shaking with fear and pain. I tighten my arms around him.
I feel him rest against my body.
“They say that when you hit rock bottom, there’s only one way to go,” he says with a little smile. “For me, that was true. At first my father wouldn’t get involved. Then when it became clear they weren’t going to release me, he pulled some strings to get me released. He paid off Samantha’s family.” He closes his eyes again. “He was so ashamed,” he whispers. “He’s never forgiven me. But after that, I started getting therapy. I realised it wasn’t just the heroin that was my problem. It went way ba
ck. Back to feeling abandoned when my mother died.”
I pull him close.
“How do you feel about your father now?” I ask, wondering how James could ever forgive his father abandoning him.
“Lord Berkeley,” says James sadly. “I don’t hate him anymore. And as I get older, I’m more interested in him. I would say we’re friends now.”
“Did you ever speak to him about what happened?”
James shakes his head firmly. “No. Never.” He gives a humourless laugh. “That’s the Berkeley way. Pretend nothing bad ever happened. Keep your head up whilst you’re sweeping it all under the carpet.”
“Do you think you could talk to your father now?” I ask gently.
Surely, a large part of James’s shame must come from the wall of silence between him and his father?
“No,” says James. He frowns. “I couldn’t stand it, Issy. I’m so ashamed. I couldn’t bear it. It’s… cowardly, I know. But I just couldn’t stand to hear how disappointed he was in me back then.”
“Perhaps he isn’t as disappointed as you think,” I venture, remembering the two of them together. Lord Berkeley seems to love his son, even if he can’t express it.
“Perhaps,” says James. “But that’s just not how we do things, Issy. Men in the Berkeley family don’t talk about our feelings.”
I decide to let the issue drop.
“Did you make your peace with Samantha’s family?” I ask.
“In the end.” He gives a humourless smile. “Such as a thing is possible. Yes. She was their only daughter. But my father gave them money. And in the end, I think they believed I was innocent.”
He sounds utterly distraught.
“James,” I say carefully. “Did you think this would make me love you less? Knowing this about you?”
He stares into my face, assessing.
“You mean, you don’t?” he says, finally.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t.” I smile. “Of course I don’t. I think you were strong. And I think it’s no surprise you turned to drugs to try and wipe out the pain you were feeling.”
James looks down, thinking about this.
“Do you still feel you’re to blame for her death?” I ask.
He shakes his head slowly. “No. I’ve had enough therapy to deal with that.”