by JS Taylor
There’s a small card and I slide it out of the heavy cream paper envelope.
“Read it!” demands Lorna.
I lower my eyes to the curving inked writing and read the words.
“I thought you might appreciate an outfit you didn’t have to borrow. This will ensure you don’t worry about the dress code. I’ve booked a table at The Ivy for 1pm. I’ll send a car to your apartment. Don’t be late.”
I drop the card and stare at Lorna.
“It’s from Berkeley. He’s sent me clothes and booked a table at the Ivy for lunch today.”
“The Ivy!” she says. “It takes three months to get a table there, even if you know someone.”
I nod. Of course I know this. The Ivy is the favourite lunch location of celebrities all over the world. The average person doesn’t stand a hope of getting a table, and even those with contacts usually have to wait. How did he get a table so quickly?
“Perhaps he booked it months ago,” I say, knowing the reasonableness of this, but feeling a little depressed by it. Most likely James Berkeley planned to take another date and has filled me in last minute.
But Lorna is shaking her head.
“You have to say who is coming to make the booking,” she says. “It’s restaurant policy. They like to welcome each guest by name.”
Oh.
“So…” says Lorna. “He must have spent this morning arranging the booking and buying you gifts.” She looks at her watch. “And it’s only 10.30am so he’s been hard at it. Open them!” she adds, seeing me hesitate before the sumptuous packages.
I open the Chanel box. Inside is a beautiful dark grey suit, and a cream Miss Moneypenny-style blouse.
I look up at Lorna. “A Chanel suit,” I say, as I draw out the perfectly-cut wool jacket. “Does he expect me to wear this?” The skirt is the same soft grey wool as the jacket, and the blouse is light silk with long ties falling from the neck, and slightly transparent. It’s much more formal than anything I’d usually wear.
“Looks like it,” says Lorna. She picks up a bagel and takes a bite.
I open the next box, labelled Jimmy Choo, embarrassed to think he recognised my fakes and bought me a replacement.
Inside are a pair of high-heeled peephole shoes in patent black leather.
Lorna raises her eyebrows. “Sexy,” she says. “Are you sure he wants to talk about work?”
I let out a puff of air in answer and move on to the third package.
Marc Jacobs. It’s a bag made of butter-soft leather, fixed with an array of perfectly-placed buckles. The colour is not what I would have chosen – a subtle green – but I can see instantly it’s the perfect match for the suit and my light grey eyes.
I sit for a moment staring at the array of gifts. I know without even adding up the cost that it’s more than I’ve been given in my whole life.
“I can’t accept this,” I decide. “It’s too much. And besides, who does that Lorna? Who dictates what someone wears to a lunch appointment?”
I remember his reputation as a control freak.
I shake my head. “I’m going to tell him to stuff his lunch appointment and his dress code.”
It’s then I realise I don’t have his number. Damn.
Wait. How did he know where I live?
He must have taken the information from the theatre, I realise. Surely that’s against data protection? Then again I did leave details so I could be contacted about the audition. And this is about work. Right?
“I’ll ignore the car,” I decide. “Arrogant idiot. Who does he think he is, sending clothes and arranging lunch without asking me?”
“Perhaps it’s another audition,” says Lorna, “a test?”
My curiosity is piqued. “What kind of test?”
“Well, you know. You said he wouldn’t tell you the role. What if he wants to play it out over lunch? And the clothes are so you can get into character?”
I consider this. It doesn’t sound too crazy. But do I want all this? This strange world of gifts and rules I don’t understand?
“Go,” says Lorna. “What’s the worst that could happen? You get a free outfit.”
I bristle. “I don’t want his clothes Lorna.”
“An experience then. You’ve missed out on so much Issy, since, you know, the thing in that bar.”
The thing in the bar. The reason I don’t drink alcohol. We hardly ever talk about it, but Lorna knows how much it affects me.
“Be brave,” she says, “try something different. And besides honey, it’s the Ivy! Most of us will never get to go. At least go along and tell me what the food’s like.”
Chapter 8
Against my own best advice, I am readying myself for the car when it pulls up outside my flat.
A black BMW. Typical.
Damn. I check my watch. Ten minutes earlier than I expected. And I’m still cramming my change purse and phone and make-up into the unfamiliar designer bag.
It’s another five minutes before I make it out to the car. The driver opens the door and I slide in gratefully.
“You’re late.” The deep voice makes me start, and I turn to see James Berkeley only a few feet away.
Jeez.
“I… I thought I was meeting you at the restaurant,” I say, marvelling at how thoroughly this man always manages to wrong-foot me.
He raises his eyebrows. “And leave a lady to arrive at a restaurant alone? I’m a gentleman Isabella. Of course I would personally escort you. Who knows who might run off with you between the car and restaurant?” he adds, with a roguish grin.
I smile despite myself. He’s joking.
The driver slides the car into gear and pulls out onto the Chelsea streets.
“Nice location for an apartment,” he says, looking admiringly at the classic façade of my building.
“My father left it to me,” I say. “But the service charge is the same as rent.” I give a rueful shrug. “So it’s not helped my graduate cash-flow.” He looks thoughtful.
“Surely someone can negotiate you out of that contract?” he says.
“They could, but my mother has the legal papers,” I say, “legality isn’t her thing.”
“Do you work?” he asks.
What a question. Of course I work. But Berkeley was sent to boarding school in England, so he’s probably used to people with trust funds.
“Yes,” I reply, “I work as a waitress for Kinglys. We cater to silver service events.”
The car pulls through Chelsea, past the boutique clothing stores and restaurants, and swings onto the road which passes Buckingham Palace.
“Look,” I say, feeling suddenly more brave in his company. “What did you mean by the suit?”
“The suit?” he makes a comedy assessment of his own perfect suit jacket.
“This suit,” I say, pulling meaningfully at my tailored wool lapel. “And the shoes, and the bag?”
“You don’t like them?”
“No.. I. It’s not that. They’re lovely,” I admit. “And I have no idea how you got the perfect fit.”
His mouth twitches. “I am observant,” he says, “of beautiful things.”
Does he mean the suit?
“But what do you mean by them?” I press. “Is this some weird audition thing?”
“Some weird audition thing?” he looks genuinely hurt. “Of course not. I’m not interested in dressing you. I simply assumed you would be more comfortable, since our appointment was such short notice, if I took out the effort of the dress code. And I couldn’t be sure the friend who had so generously lent you that beautiful dress would be so accommodating this morning.”
“Oh.” This sounds very gentlemanly, but I am still suspicious.
“And do you always supply you lunch appointments with outfits?”
“I have never made a lunch appointment at this short notice,” he says. “A table of recently-signed musicians have been very disappointed today.”
I gape at him. “But that’s…
It’s not fair,” I protest. “We can’t take someone else’s table.”
He smiles. “Just a little joke Isabella. The Ivy always keeps back a table for me should I require it.”
“Oh,” I am a little thrown. Berkeley doesn’t seem like the kind of man who makes jokes. “Why is that?”
“I was one of the founders of the restaurant,” he says, leaning forward in the car. “You really do look very beautiful in that suit,” he adds, lowering his voice. “Very sophisticated. Perfect for lunch. Perhaps one day I will be fortunate enough to see you dressed for dinner.”
Whoa. Is he asking me out to dinner? This is confusing.
One minute he’s saying nothing can happen between us. Now he seems to be flirting. Does he mean it? Or is he joking again.
“I can’t keep the clothes and the bag,” I say, determined to bring the conversation back to within the realms of my control. “It was lovely of you to think of them, but I wouldn’t feel right.”
Berkeley shrugs. “All those designers have a strict policy on seconds,” he says. “If they are returned then they will be destroyed. It would seem a shame to cause the destruction of such well-made objects.”
He lets the sentence hang in the air, but I refuse to be drawn.
“You should have thought about that before you bought them,” I say.
His face shifts as though he’s trying to supress a smile.
“Keep them for today,” he says. “See how you feel tomorrow.”
The car winds silently towards the curb and I realise we’ve reached our destination.
The Ivy’s white and black entrance looms. I’ve seen it before, walking around London, but I never imagined I would get to go inside.
“Wait here,” says Berkeley. For a moment I think he’s getting out to pay the driver. But of course, this is his own member of staff.
Then I realise he has darted round to the far side of the car to open the door for me.
Is this a date?
The thought slides into my head as he offers his hand to help me out. I twist my legs out of the car, keeping my knees together and use his strong arm to right myself.
For a split second we stand facing each other, and then he positions my arm carefully alongside his to guide us both inside.
The warmth of his body close to mine makes butterflies in my stomach.
“After you, Miss Green,” he says, pushing the door, and giving me my first sight of the Ivy’s art fabulous nouveau interior.
There is glass everywhere, and the walls are decked in paintings and screen-prints I recognise to be by Damien Hirst and Lucien Freud.
I stand lost for a moment as the maître de approaches. And then he recognises Berkeley and the two shake hands.
We are shown to a table at the back of the restaurant, a distance from the other diners.
“Please,” Berkeley pulls my chair, and I sit.
“Thanks,” I say as he seats himself opposite.
“You look quite at home here,” he says with a slight smile. “Have you been before?”
Quite at home? I’m so out of place even the waiters must notice.
“Of course not,” I mutter, looking up at him. “Mr Berkeley, are you mocking me?”
He looks surprised. “Isabella I am not. You appear at exclusive launch parties in designer dresses. And you reside in a Chelsea flat. I assume you are au fait with London’s better dining establishments.”
He hasn’t asked me to call him by his first name, I notice. Not a date then. The thought disappoints me, although he’s already explained he’s not interested in me.
And then he said he wanted to have you on the stage, whispers a dangerous voice in my head. I shake it away.
“The dress was borrowed,” I say, “and the apartment was inherited with an enormous service charge and nothing else.”
A waiter appears at Berkley’s side and presents him with a wine list. His eyes flick down to it and then back up at me.
“Would you like wine with your lunch? They have an excellent Chablis which is an ideal accompaniment to the scallops.”
“No thank you,” I say.
He pauses for a second as if to disagree, and then he hands the menu back the waiter.
“Something to discuss later perhaps,” he says, almost to himself.
The waiter makes to hand him the food menu but he waves it politely away.
“I already know the menu,” he says. “We’ll have the scallops to start with and then the lamb to follow.” He thinks for a moment. “And a glass of the Haut Medoc Grand Cru with the lamb,” he adds, pronouncing the French words with fluent flair.
The waiter vanishes and I scowl at him.
“You do know what year it is?” I say. “Women order their own food nowadays.”
He smiles. “But you’ve never been here Isabella. And I know what is best to eat. So in this instance you’ll defer to my judgement.”
He sits back and folds his hand.
“Have you thought about my proposition?”
The way he says it sounds like a marriage proposal.
“Between 11pm last night and when a package of clothes arrived this morning? I’ve not had a great deal of time,” I say.
He smiles. “A very reasonable answer.”
“And,” I take a breath, “I don’t think I can agree.”
His face falls. “Oh?”
“I’m very new to all this Mr Berkeley.” I spread my hands out on the table. “I don’t have any idea what’s normal and what’s not. But I don’t think this is a usual way to cast actresses.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“I’d be a fool not to be interested,” I continue. “I’ve seen your films and I know the kind of critical acclaim they generate.” I sigh. “You must be an interesting person to work with, and I would like to see how you make a movie.”
“But?” He leans forward.
“But. I can’t agree to your terms. I can’t take a role on trust, not knowing what it is. I’m not experienced enough to take that risk. I might let you down. And I hardly know anything about you,” I add.
And what I do know isn’t good.
I sit back, having said my piece, and almost as soon as I do two waiters arrive and place a plate of scallops in front of each of us.
They smell delicious, and I hesitate for a moment before Berkeley nods I should pick up my fork. I spear a mouthful and take a nervous bite of the first scallop, conscious he is watching me. It is predictably delicious, with a firm flesh texture and a ginger-butter sauce.
“You like them?”
“They’re delicious.”
Berkeley nods approving, then picks up his fork and spears the white flesh of the first morsel. He waits a moment, the fork poised, and then speaks.
“You say you don’t know anything about me. What would you like to know?” he says evenly.
This throws me completely.
“How do you know Ben Gracey?” I say, speaking the first thing which comes into my head. His expression darkens a little.
“He’s a relative,” he says. “On my father’s side. A cousin.”
That makes sense. The English aristocracy are all interrelated. Judging from his accent Berkeley is probably a distant relative of every noble-born person in England.
“Where are you from? Why do you work in Hollywood?” I ask, opting for my most pressing questions.
“I was born in Mauritius,” he says, taking a sip of wine, “and I went to boarding school in England from the age of four until I was fourteen.”
“And then?”
“Then I was removed to a boarding school in Hong Kong where I became interested in theatre and movies. I made prudent movie investments in several different countries and then I moved to LA to direct and produce.”
“What do you mean by removed?” I ask, surprised at my own daring.
Berkeley smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Expelled,” he says shortly. “Isabella I don’t talk about m
y past a great deal. For you I have made this small exception. Don’t push me.”
The words come out pure cut-glass English aristocracy. He strikes his fork at the plate in a manner which suggests the conversation is over. I twist my mouth, upset that I’ve offended him.
“I’m sorry for asking Mr Berkeley,” I say. I sound like a schoolgirl.
He looks at me in surprise, assessing for a moment. He’s deciding whether or not I’m teasing him.
“I like that you call me Mr Berkeley,” he says, grinning as he puts a scallop into his mouth.
For some reason the comment makes me furious. I pick up my fork and another scallop.
“So James,” I say pointedly, “I know a little more about you, but I still can’t agree to commit to a role I know nothing about.”
I spear another scallop and ease it into my mouth.
Berkeley cocks his head a little to one side.
“Well then, Miss Green,” he says. “Let’s see if we might not come to some arrangement. How about I tell you the role I have in mind for you, and you agree to my other conditions on trust?”
This is unexpected.
“What’s your working style?” I hedge, hoping to draw more out about what’s expected of his actors and actresses.
“My working style?” He picks up a spotless napkin and dabs his mouth. “My working style, Miss Green, is all about discipline.” He fixes me with a steely gaze.
I swallow my last bite of scallop.
“Discipline?”
He nods. “Discipline, Isabella, is vital to drawing the best performance from a production. I need to know that my performers are willing to give up everything, every little last decision if it comes to it, over their personal lives. This is how I extract Oscar performances from very lead I have ever worked with, and a great deal supporting roles.
Arrogant. I think, to credit himself with an actor’s Oscar. Although I can’t help but think there is some truth to his self-grandeur. He is known as the best director, after all.
“I don’t care about an Oscar,” I say.
“Then what do you care about?”
I think about this. “I care about the art of it all. I care about the script and the words and how it all goes together.”
His haughty expression softens.