by JS Taylor
“You mentioned you had never tried for a lead role,” he continues, taking a sip of whisky. He pauses for a second savouring the drink. “Is it your ambition to have a career in theatre?”
I nod. My mouth is dry.
He looks slightly disappointed.
“A stage actress then,” he decides.
“No,” I shake my head. “Well, not really,” I clarify. “I majored in script-writing. I always wanted to write for the stage. It was only towards my final year I got pulled into more performances.”
“So you don’t want to act?” he looks genuinely baffled.
“I like to act,” I say slowly. “But I’m not sure it’s where my talent lies.” I give him an apologetic smile. “All the students I did drama with at college. They all love getting up in front of people. Being the centre of attention. I’m not like that. So I don’t think I’m the right personality,” I conclude, “to make it as a career actress. But I would like to play some parts, to understand more about writing.”
I’m thinking back to the earlier audition, knowing I’m right. The rejection was so painful. I couldn’t live like actors do. I’m not strong enough.
“I see.” Berkeley takes another sip of whisky. He looks much older for a moment, though I know he can’t be very old. The young director award he won could only have been awarded to a man under forty.
He turns to face me and I find myself caught in his green eyes.
“Have you ever considered acting in a movie?” he says.
I shake my head, mesmerised by what he might say next.
“I would like you to consider it,” he says. “I may have a part in mind for you,” he continues.
What?
The suggestion takes me completely by surprise. I sit, stunned, trying to let what’s he’s just said sink in. James Berkeley is suggesting I act in one of his movies?
For a brief moment I feel as though all my Christmases have come at once. And ashamed as I am to admit it, most of my joy comes from the idea of spending more time with him. With James Berkeley.
Then reality floods in, and I frown. This can’t be as good as it sounds. Besides, I never had any ambition to act in movies. What if I’m terrible on-screen? The thought is too awful to contemplate, and I feel my courage slipping away.
“Do you mean a part in one of your movies?” I whisper. I am still reeling with shock. Never in a million years did I imagine this happening.
He nods curtly, and I feel another surge of amazed joy rise up.
I push it down. There must be some catch. Why should he want to cast me? I’ve never acted in a movie before. I could let him down.
“But first you must understand I am not an easy man to work for.”
Right. There’s the catch.
I remember Ben’s comments, about him controlling who his actresses dated. No way, some defiant part in me hisses, I don’t want to work for someone like that.
“I am looking for a new talent,” he continues, “something fresh… and innocent. I think that could be you.” His voice is soft.
Wow. Fresh and innocent. That’s personal. How does he know I’m fresh and innocent?
“What do you mean by difficult to work with?” I manage.
He stares at me. “Difficult,” he says. “But I hope rewarding. If you decide to accept my offer I will tell you more about my conditions.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, “are you offering me a part?”
“So long as you can agree to my terms,” he says. “And I need you to trust it is the right part for you.”
What?
“I won’t tell you any more about it until you decide to accept,” he continues.
What the hell does he have in mind?
My type-casting comes back to me. Is he going to cast me in some erotic role and make me sign away my rights before I know what I’m doing?
I dismiss the thought as ridiculous, but my distrust must show in my face.
“What are your concerns?” he asks.
“Is there any nudity?” I say, and as the words come out of my mouth I flush a deep red at how stupid I sound.
He looks surprised.
“Have you seen my movies Isabella?”
Of course I’ve seen your movies.
“Yes.”
“Then why would you think nudity was involved? It’s not been a habit of mine to shoot nude sex scenes.”
His voice sounds bemused, but the expression on his face is unreadable.
I stare down at the soft leather of the booth, mortified.
“It’s just that I often get asked to do those kind of seductress roles,” I mutter.
“You do?” I look up to see his eyebrows raised. His features have shifted. He looks angry. “Who by?” His crisp English tones make the question sound dangerous.
“At college,” I sigh trying to explain. “It’s because I’m half-Spanish. I always get picked to do the femme fatales and the villainesses.”
Both of these are so far away from my real persona it’s laughable. I’ve barely even gone all the way with a guy and people think I’m a seductress. But that’s what dark hair and grey eyes gets you.
“I see,” he says. “But a femme fatale is different from being asked to act nude. Has someone ever requested you act nude?” His voice is tight.
I shake my head vehemently, shocked by the question.
“Good,” he says, and the anger in his voice has abated. “In your case it would be completely unnecessary,” he adds.
I look up at him, wondering what he means.
“I will wait until tomorrow for you to think about us working together,” he says. “I don’t wish you to rush the decision, but I am not a patient man and I have a schedule.”
Work together.
The idea brings a flash of pleasure. I shake it away. This man is a control freak who dictates his actresses’ personal lives. And it’s not like I crave an Oscar.
“There is one more thing,” he says, and the tone of his voice is almost apologetic.
I put down my glass of water, intrigued by the sudden softening.
“What?” I ask.
“If we are working together,” he says, “nothing can happen between us.”
I stare back at him in total shock. It would never have occurred to me that such a thought would have crossed his mind.
“Of course not,” I mumble, “you’re married.”
He blinks in surprise, and then breaks into a surprisingly warm smile.
“I’m not married Isabella,” he says.
I frown in confusion, and he continues.
“It’s a Hollywood marriage,” he says. “A marriage of convenience. Mainly for Madison’s convenience,” he adds, “to help her career.”
Madison Ellis. Trouble singer, actress, nearing her forties.
I suppose this makes quite a lot of sense, and I’m embarrassed at my naivety.
Berkeley raises his whisky glass and takes another sip.
“She was a good friend having a hard time, so we got together for the press,” he says. “But there was never anything romantic between us.”
I feel a whirl of emotions sweep through me. He’s just let me in on what should be a very intimate secret. How does he know I won’t blab it to anyone?
“It’s well known on the celebrity circuit,” he adds, and I feel a little stab of deflation.
“I’ll think about what you said,” I say, putting down my glass. Suddenly everything feels too much. Him telling me he’s not interested in me, then revealing he’s available after-all has come like a juggernaut. I want to crawl away and turn it all around in my mind. Although I hate to admit it, the rejection hurts.
This is the only man I’ve ever had such strong feelings for. And he’s a celebrity crush who could have any woman in the world. What does that say about me? What’s wrong with me?
“Isabella,” he says quietly. I look into his green eyes. “I didn’t tell you there could be nothing between us to h
urt you.”
“Why did you then?” I whisper, mentally planning my exit from the booth.
“Do you remember when you were acting Juliet?” he says softly. His gaze is steady, intense. I swallow and nod.
“You broke off the scene after a few lines,” I say, unable to keep the accusation from my voice. “You didn’t think I was good enough.”
He shakes his head, slowly. His expression is suddenly charged.
“I thought you were good enough,” he says, leaning back very slightly in his chair. I have the sudden sensation of being prey in the presence of a predator.
His eyes look wicked, hungry.
“I broke off the scene early because I am a professional,” he says. “I do not become involved with my actresses.”
The way he says my actresses sounds possessive. It sends a warning bolt through me.
“And I knew if we had carried out the rest of that scene, acting together,” he continues, leaning forward in the booth, “I would have taken you, right there, on the stage.”
Waves of hot shock roll through my body.
Does he mean what I think he means?
To my embarrassment my body betrays me. The words have an instant effect and I feel myself growing warm everywhere. I wonder if he knows. I blush furiously at the thought. But my mind is a sudden riot of images of just how James Berkeley might have had me on the stage.
“Think about my offer,” he says, the stern tone returning to his voice. “I will be in contact tomorrow.”
I shudder uncertainly to my feet. It feels as though I have pins and needles in my legs, and I lean for a moment on the table.
“Are you alright?” he asks, concern spiking in his voice.
“I’m fine,” I say, righting myself. “I’m not used to such high heels.”
“Just be careful around Ben Gracey,” he says. His eyes are full of feeling suddenly. “I know more about him than you.”
“Who I spend my time with is none of your business,” I say.
Yet, gloats some evil voice in my mind. I dismiss it. I don’t think I want to work for James Berkeley and that’s that.
Turning from him I stalk with as much dignity as I can manage back to where Lorna has now amassed a bevy of male admirers.
But behind me I feel a pair of green eyes boring into my back.
The evening passes in a whirl as Lorna and Ben flirt, and I brood over James Berkeley’s words. A part in a movie.
Then before I know it the lights have gone down, and we’re in the scrum of people trying to get a black cab home.
“Come on,” says Ben, tugging Lorna with him. Let’s get a mini cab. Lorna has had a few glasses of Champagne too many, and totters uncertainly behind him.
“Wait,” I say, “Isn’t it dangerous to take an unlicensed car?”
Ben gives a lopsided smile, born of plenty of whisky.
“We’ll be fine,” he says, throwing out his arm to signal a car.
A battered-looking Ford slows, and the driver winds down his window, giving us a smile filled with gold-teeth.
“I’m not sure about this,” I hiss to Ben. “We were always told to take a black cab. An unlicensed cab is like getting into a stranger’s car.”
I realise I’m quoting from the warning posters pasted all over London. I sound ridiculous. But I’m also anxious. This car doesn’t look like the kind of vehicle which we should be riding home in.
“Relax Isabella,” says Ben, and I realise from his eyes that he really has had a lot to drink. “You’re with me.”
“Wait!” I say, but he’s already moving to the cab.
“Come on Issy,” says Lorna, her eyes pleading with me not to make a fuss. She obviously likes Ben.
“Ok,” I say, taking an uncertain step towards the car. Ben mutters a few words to the driver, then opens the door and slides into the front seat. Lorna opens the back door. Then suddenly it is slammed shut by another hand.
I turn around in shock.
James Berkeley is standing by the car. His palm is flat on the battered door where he’s shut it, and I have never seen a man look so angry.
His fury is so intense that I take a step back. Even Lorna, who is un-phased by anything, and tipsy in any case, gives him a timid smile.
“Hey,” she says, “you look familiar.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” says James. His voice is tight with fury. At first I think he is angry with me. And then I see his words are directed at Ben.
In the passenger seat Ben’s drunk grin subsides a little.
“Berkeley,” he says, “long time no see.”
Long time no see. So they know each other. I log the fact against the earlier conversations.
“Do not tell me you were about to take these girls in this unlicensed death trap?” James is glowering. Ben’s smile fades completely.
“I… It’s not a big deal,” he says, “we can’t all have our own drivers,” he adds, with something like bitterness in his voice.
“These girls are not getting in that car,” says James. And without waiting for a response he steers Lorna and I to his own BMW, which I now see is pulled up behind on the street.
Before I have time to think it through he’s delivered Lorna into the backseat and steers me by the waist behind her. Inside I see that Lorna is entering the sleepy phase of drunk. I sigh. Ok. Better to get in and get her home.
Berkeley closes the door softly on the leather interior and takes a seat in the front, even though there’s plenty of room in the back.
There’s a thick glass screen of blackened glass between us, but after a moment this slides down, and James and his driver are revealed on the other side.
“I… Um. We live in Chelsea,” I manage, wondering about Ben left alone in the other cab.
“I know where you live,” growls James.
He does?
“Promise me you won’t ever consider getting in an unlicensed car again. No matter what the incentive,” he adds, with a meaningful glance at Lorna, who is now dozing gently on my shoulder. “Terrible things happen to girls who look like you,” he adds.
I nod, not knowing what else to do. And seeming satisfied with this Berkeley eases up the glass window, leaving us alone in the back.
When we pull up outside our apartment he helps us both out of the car.
“Will she be alright?” he asks, looking at Lorna, who has sobered up, but is blinking with the sleepiness of having just woken up.
“Yes,” I say, “she’ll be fine. I’ll get her straight to bed. She’s just tired.”
“And what about you?” his green eyes are resting on mine. “Doesn’t seem like much of a fun night out for you, babysitting your friend whilst she picks up unsuitable men.”
I shrug. What can I say? I’m used to it.
He seems to read my answer from my expression.
“Alright then,” he says. “If you’re sure you don’t need help getting in I won’t intrude on your time further.”
And with that, he’s back in his car, and it pulls away.
“Hey,” says Lorna, more awake now. “Didn’t he look like James Berkeley?”
Chapter 7
“Lorna wake up.” I am standing by her bed holding a plate of toasted bagel and sliced fruit.
She groans and rolls over, pulling the sheets over her head.
“Lorna Hamilton, wake up this instant!” I put on my best head-teacher voice. “You need to take your blood sugar levels.”
Lorna pulls the sheet down and claps her hand to her head. Despite crashing at 3am last night in full make-up she looks surprisingly fresh-faced.
“Here,” I hand her the bagel, and the little puncture device she uses to check her blood. Lorna takes it, looks at it accusingly, and then jabs a pin-prick of blood from her finger onto a card.
I look away. I can’t stand the sight of blood.
“Done?” I ask, my head turned from the bed.
“Yep. All fine, see?” Lorna shows me the r
eading.
“Even so,” I say. “No more alcohol Lorna. It could be dangerous.”
“Just a couple of glasses of Champagne,” protests Lorna. “It’s fine.”
She thinks for a moment. “How did I get home?”
“We got a lift back with a friend of mine,” I say. “Ben Gracey was keen to take you home though. We were halfway into an unlicensed car with him when my friend pulled up.”
“Oh,” she looks at me. “Did he get my number?”
She’s clearly too smitten with Ben to question that I had a friend who drove us home. Which suits me just fine. Right now I’m not up for answering questions about the confusing Mr Berkeley.
“I don’t know. Probably. He was into you.”
There’s a sudden ringing in the apartment. We both look at each other. The doorbell. A very unfamiliar sound, since most post is held by the concierge downstairs.
“I’ll get it.” I put the plate of bagels by Lorna’s bed and head for the door.
I pull it back to see a delivery man holding a huge box, and figure Ben must have tracked down Lorna’s address and sent flowers. That kind of thing often happens to her.
“Package for Isabella Green?” says the delivery man.
“That’s me,” I say in surprise.
“Here,” he says, handing me the box. It’s enormous and I need both hands to hold it. I sign and take the mysterious package back into Lorna’s bedroom.
“What is it?” she says, sitting up in bed.
“I don’t know.” I set the package down on the floor. It’s large and light turquoise, with a huge white bow wrapped around.
“Open it! Open it!” Lorna is sat up in bed.
Very slowly I tug off the big bow, eliciting a groan of frustration from Lorna.
“How can you stand to do it so slowly?” she complains. I smile and ease off the top of the huge box.
Inside are three more boxes. I stare at the familiar names. The largest one is a black Chanel box. The second is smaller and soft grey, embossed with the words ‘Jimmy Choo”.
Lorna claps her hands to her mouth.
“Oh my God!” she whispers. “They’re from him aren’t they? James Berkeley?”
I’m shaking my head. But I can’t think where else they might be from.