Close Up and Personal (Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  But today I’m too distracted by the audition to do much more than say hello, and take the hundred-year old elevator to my floor.

  As soon as my key hits the door I hear Lorna open it from the other side, and I’m greeted by her brightly-lit features.

  “Soooo…. How’d it go?” She is beyond excited. I manage a weak smile.

  “James Berkeley was filling in for the casting director.”

  Her face makes a comical round of confusion until she finally figures I’m not joking.

  “Seriously?” she manages. Her voice comes out as a squeak. She’s lusted after James Berkeley since forever.

  “Yes.” I give her a rueful smile and walk through the hallway into the lounge. Lorna follows after and I flop onto the sofa.

  “It was kinda off putting.” I say.

  Lorna laughs. “I bet! What was he like? Up close? Was he a handsome as he looks in the pictures?”

  I smile. “More,” I say. “Much more.”

  Lorna gasps suddenly and claps her hands over her mouth.

  “Oh my God!” she screams. “Isabella Green! You’re hot for him! I can see it!”

  I feel my features start to burn.

  “Don’t be stupid Lorna,” I mutter. “He’s a married man.”

  “Since when did marriage matter to lust?” She’s peering at me intently, as though trying to figure something out.

  “Did he make a pass at you?”

  “Of course not!”

  Lorna shrugs. “Wouldn’t surprise me. It would be him and every other man on the planet.”

  I shake my head. For Lorna my love life is complicated by its non-existence. I’ve had a few experiences at college, and I’m no virgin at least. But I’ve never really found anyone who I felt anything much for than friendship.

  With a sudden jolt of shock I remember the chemistry I felt on stage with Berkeley.

  Maybe that’s what it’s all about.

  I quickly dismiss the thought.

  “Well anyway,” Lorna is saying, as I try to school my unruly mind, “you might see him again tonight.”

  “What?”

  What!

  “Ha,” says Lorna, “that got your attention.”

  She’s totally right.

  See him again tonight? How? I am horrified to realise I am excited about the idea. What happened to morality Green? He’s married.

  “From a distance anyway,” concedes Lorna.

  Oh. My heartbeat returns to something fractionally more like normal.

  “Because…” Lorna pauses, ever the drama queen, to make the big reveal. “I’ve got us invites to the launch tonight at Mahiki!”

  “Mahiki?” I say the word uncertainly. London’s most famous club is the favourite late night hang-out of the two royal princes, as well as London’s richest and most famous people.

  Even I have heard about the launch there tonight. It’s for a new film which is already building huge critical acclaim. It makes sense that James Berkeley would attend, since he’s in London. But he’ll be sectioned off in a VIP area like all the other super-celebrities. Whilst wannabes like me and Lorna are squished in with the B list – not at unpleasant though for someone like Lorna. But I’ve never been a huge fan of loud nights out on the celebrity circuit.

  Lorna senses my uncertainty.

  “Oh there is NO way you’re not going,” she announces. “I need your pretty face to get us to the front of the queue. The two of us will be impossible to refuse.”

  She grins. “Come on Isabella. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of staying home.”

  I am. Staying home and trying to sort out the mess of thoughts and feelings caused by today’s audition.

  But Lorna got me the audition and she’s my best friend besides.

  I sigh. “Ok fine.”

  Lorna bounces on the couch.

  “Ok!” she checks her watch. “Then we’d better start getting ready. Only a few hours until the doors open and we need to look our best.”

  Chapter 5

  Lorna insists I dial-up my usual vintage look to something sexier. So we both arrive at Mahiki’s glittering doors clad in the latest fashion.

  She’s dug me out a dress which was gifted her by a designer. It’s silver, with geometric slashes of lime and purple at the hips and shoulder straps.

  The dress only comes to mid-thigh, which is higher than I’m used to. Particularly since my feet are clad in a pair of fake Jimmy Choo copies which are three inches higher than my usual heel height.

  Lorna wears skin-tight jeans and cowboy boots teamed with a top which barely covers her nipples. It’s held in place with artfully placed tape and shows off flashes of her glowing coffee-coloured back and stomach.

  “Better than mortal man deserves,” Lorna grins at me, as we head arm in arm for the entrance.

  Like most of the exclusive London clubs, the doorway is tiny, understated, with only a small gold sign announcing this is the legendary Mahiki.

  But the club doesn’t need a sign with people stretched around the block to get in.

  “Come on,” says Lorna, heading for the front. I tug against her arm.

  “Lorna,” I hiss, “there’s a line!”

  “Not for us,” she says, and heads straight for the doorman.

  I’m hoping the ground will open up and swallow us as she drags past the evil glares of the queue.

  The doorman recognises her instantly, and the expression on his face changes from hostile to a broad smile.

  “Hello pretty lady,” he says.

  Lorna returns the smile. I wonder how they know each other. You’d swear they were best friends.

  “Go right in,” the doorman adds, letting us ease past the tight queue of people.

  “That’s not fair Lorna,” I protest, as we follow the soft red carpet along the entrance hall. “All those people have to wait in the cold!”

  Lorna shrugs. “Their choice,” she says unrepentantly. “If they want to come to this club they have to wait. If they don’t want to wait they should be younger, prettier or richer.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Come on,” says Lorna, let’s get to the bar.

  It’s the first time I’ve been inside Mahiki, and the experience is like an explosion of gold and red. It reminds me of an Aladdin’s caves teamed with a pirate ship. The bar is decked out to look like the world’s most glamorous beach bar, with wicker chairs and bamboo pillars.

  Gorgeous barmen whisk up cocktails at lightening speed, with champagne and spirits and all the drinkers are young and beautiful.

  “Look!” I squeak, pointing to a familiar face, “is that who I think it is?”

  Lorna nods, looking towards the supermodel. “She doesn’t come here very often anymore. She prefers the Met Bar. But I guess she’s made an exception for the launch. Come on,” she adds, scouting the bar area, “let’s find a good place to stand.”

  But as we head for the bar we’re interrupted.

  “Can I buy you ladies a drink?” asks a handsome brown-haired man, gazing first at me and then at Lorna. He’s in his mid-twenties, and dressed in the kind of clothes that appear artfully casual, but cost more than a Saville Row suit.

  Lorna is at her charming best. She bats her long false lashes and gives him a killer smile.

  “That depends who’s asking,” she says.

  He smiles back and puts his hand out.

  “Ben Gracey,” he says.

  Lorna’s eyes widen. “As in the Ben Gracey?”

  “My father is the Gracey,” he says modestly, “I’m only due to inherit. Does that mean I get to buy you a drink?” he adds, looking at both of us.

  “Hell yes,” says Lorna. “Landed gentry passes the test. I’ll have a champagne cocktail.”

  “Lorna!” I say, thinking of her diabetes.

  “I’ll be fine,” she dismisses my concern with a hand-wave. “It’s only one drink.”

  “And for you,” Ben is looking intently into my face.

&nbs
p; “Nothing for me,” I say.

  “Are you sure,” Ben insists, “It’s no trouble.”

  “Um. Ok I’ll have a lime and soda,” I say, feeling a little guilty. Usually I prefer to buy my own drinks, but my monthly wage doesn’t stretch to Mahiki prices. I was planning on sticking to water.

  He frowns. “Wouldn’t you rather something stronger? I’m buying.”

  I shake my head. “No thanks.”

  “Are you sure?” he presses, “maybe a little vodka with the soda?”

  I shake my head again, and Lorna, ever my saviour, steps in.

  “She doesn’t drink. Don’t make a big deal of it,” she says. “She had a bad experience in a bar a few years ago.”

  It was more than bad. I remember the hands gripping at me and shake the memory away.

  “Oh,” Ben looks embarrassed. “Ok, well, Champagne cocktail. Lime soda. I’ll be right back.”

  “Lorna!” I hiss as he heads to the bar. “You don’t have to tell everyone my life story.

  “What?” Lorna is staring distractedly after Ben. “Oh, I’m sorry honey. It just slipped out. In future I’ll tell everyone you’re a model and you’re watching your skin, ok?”

  “Just say I don’t drink,” I mutter, thinking that would be worse. I pray that Ben won’t remember and start asking me about the “bad experience”. I hate having to avoid questions.

  “He’s got access to the VIP area,” observes Lorna, watching Ben move across the crowded bar. I look to see him enter a zone of low-lit tables where the clientele are invisible. They are surrounded by burly-looking men who I assume must be bodyguards.

  “But not the super VIP,” she observes, as he avoids a huddle of low-lit banquets guarded by immaculate club-hired bouncers.

  “Super VIP?” This is news to me.

  “Sure,” confirms Lorna with a nod. “On big nights like this Mahiki put on another tier of importance. Even the regular celebs can’t get into the Gold Zone. That’s strictly for Hollywood Royalty.”

  She stares at the area longingly. “What I would give to take a peak in there,” she says wistfully.

  Ben returns, handing Lorna a crystal flute filled with glittering Champagne and topped with gold leaf.

  His drink is a dark red cocktail in a long glass and in his other hand is a straight glass of lime-soda, which he hands to me.

  “Thanks,” I take a grateful sip. The sparkling lime is super-refreshing.

  “So what brings you ladies to Mahiki?” asks Ben, raising his glass in a toast. For some reason there is something in his eyes I don’t quite trust. I tug my skirt down and I see his gaze flick down to follow the gesture.

  “Gorgeous men,” says Lorna, meeting his eyes. He laughs, not unnerved by Lorna’s no-nonsense approach.

  “I’m a model,” she adds, by way of explanation, and my friend is an actress. We went to drama school together.”

  “An actress?” he turns to me in interest. “Were you in the film?”

  I blush, realising he’s talking about the film this launch party is all about.

  “No. I’m only just starting out,” I say. “I’m not much of an actress.”

  “She aced the graduation play, and a critic from The Times said she was the best new talent he’d ever seen,” interrupted Lorna, ever eager to show off my attributes. “And she had an audition today with James Berkeley.”

  Ben’s eyes widen. He gives a whistle of admiration.

  “James Berkeley? You must be some actress. Isn’t your agent worried about working with him?”

  “I don’t have an agent,” I say. “And why should I be worried?” My curiosity makes me momentarily forget that I haven’t a hope in hell of ever working with James Berkeley.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Ben waves his whisky tumbler in explanation. “Berkeley is a crazy control freak. He dictates everything his actors and actresses do. And I mean everything.” He emphasises the last word meaningfully. “His last film, he had a contract made up. It stated that he choose who his leading lady dated.”

  “What?” Lorna is horrified. She’s always had a crush on Berkeley.

  Ben nods. “I heard it though a friend of hers. He made her sign, insisting she only date men he had pre-approved, or he wouldn’t work with her.”

  The shock of all this is weaving through me.

  “He sounds insane,” I say finally, trying to remember the serious man I met earlier.

  Ben nods. “Insane, and insanely talented. All his leads get Oscars. I guess if you’re an actress you have to make the call. Is an Oscar worth a few months of hell?”

  I nod slowly, acknowledging the truth of this. Most of the students I went to drama school with would accept a lot worse than dating restrictions to be guaranteed an Oscar.

  We’re interrupted by a waiter, who moves discreetly beside me.

  “Excuse me madam. Are you Isabella Green?”

  “Yes.” I feel my stomach lurch, wondering what I’ve done wrong.

  “The gentleman over there has asked that I serve you and your friends a glass of Dom Perignon and request that you might join him by yourself.”

  “Gentleman? Which gentleman?” I ask, staring over to where he’s pointing. There’s nothing in that direction but the low-lights of the Super VIP booths.

  “The gentleman in the booth nearest the window,” he points to the largest booth. “Mr James Berkeley.”

  Chapter 6

  “Oh my God!” Lorna’s voice nearly takes the roof of the club off. She’s eyeing me suspiciously. “I knew he must have liked you, the way you were acting.”

  “Shhh,” I mutter, alive with embarrassment as people look over to us.

  “Go! Go!” shouts Lorna, pushing me towards the VIP area. “Before the waiter forgets you were the one he asked.”

  I stumble forward, feeling like Cinderella in her glass slippers as I totter after the waiter in my fake-designer shoes.

  I try not to stare into the booths as I pass the stern-looking body-guards, but I’m sure I catch a glimpse of at least three Hollywood actors and several famous models as I walk past.

  The final booth is the largest and it’s also the emptiest.

  Sat inside is Berkeley, alone, but somehow managing to fill the entire area. He is dark, brooding and looks serious. For a moment the nerves threaten to overwhelm me. This must be what it feels like to be summoned to the headmaster’s office, I think.

  “Miss Green.” His voice is both a greeting and a reprimand. “Take a seat.”

  I slide into the booth, my heart pounding. What could he possibly want?

  He sits a few feet away, but, just like in the theatre, he feels so much closer.

  Just the thought of our proximity is enough to start the heat rising in my cheeks.

  “That’s a lovely dress,” he says. “Guishem if I’m not mistaken.”

  There’s that accent again. That English aristocracy accent which is so sure about everything.

  “It’s borrowed,” I admit, wondering how he can radar in on my inadequacies with such accuracy. He makes a quiet glance at my shoes but says nothing.

  I assume since he can name the designer who made my dress, he knows instantly they’re fake.

  “I notice you were talking with Ben Gracey,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  He is silent for a moment.

  “You should be careful around him,” he says.

  I raise my eyebrows in disbelief, remembering Ben’s comment, that Berkeley is a control freak.

  “What exactly do you mean?” I say stiffly.

  “Exactly that.” His voice is clipped.

  “Are you trying to tell me who I should associate with?”

  My voice has raised an octave in affront. Ok, so I was a little wary of Ben Gracey myself. But it’s certainly none of Berkeley’s business.

  “No,” he says. His eyes look tired suddenly. “I wouldn’t dream of telling you what to do Isabella.”

  “Then why have you called me over he
re?” I demand.

  His expression changes back to amusement.

  “I enjoyed your audition today Isabella, but I’m still baffled by you. I thought we might have a conversation which would help me learn more about you as an actress.”

  Nothing to know. I think, recalling my lack of experience.

  “You grew up in England?” he asks, cocking his head slightly.

  “Yes.”

  “As did I,” he looks thoughtful. “For a time at least.”

  In the pause that follows I notice that he’s ditched the director’s blacks in favour of jeans, a vintage T-shirt, and a suit jacket which fits his broad shoulders and muscular chest to the millimetre.

  I find myself imagining what it would be like to run my hands inside the jacket.

  “Do you like wine?” he says. His voice is less stern.

  “I… I don’t drink,” I manage to stutter. To my relief he accepts this without question.

  “A soft drink? Water?”

  “Yes. Yes please. Water.”

  He gestures to the waiter, and issues instructions with the graceful simplicity of someone used to being served.

  In the booth next to us is a sudden explosion of noise. The group has ordered a treasure chest – a hewn out trunk into which is poured bottle after bottle of champagne and spirits, and set off with sparklers.

  I’ve never seen this particular drink order up close, but Lorna has described in detail how they cost £1000 each and are the flashiest item at the bar.

  Berkeley frowns slightly.

  “A waste of good Champagne,” he mutters.

  Another cork pops and the table of people whoop and cheer.

  Our drinks arrive. His is a whisky tumbler with a few perfectly square cubes of clinking ice in a dash of golden liquid. He waits for me to pick mine up before raising his to his lips. His lips. I am staring again.

  “I wanted to dig a little deeper into your character Isabella,” he says, back in stern mode again.

  “Yes?” I take a little sip of iced water.

  “I was interested to see you act.” That word again. Interested. Hardly the greatest compliment of my acting career.