Close Up and Personal (Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  Chapter 10

  Total obedience? My mouth is dry, and suddenly his enormous bedroom feels unbelievably small.

  “Let me fix you dinner,” he says, and his eyes are soft, conciliatory. “And I can explain things better.”

  He offers a hand to pull me up off the bed, and I take it, feeling powerless to resist. I realise suddenly I’m sat on his bed wearing only my bra, and my face begins to burn.

  “Go out of the room,” I mumble, “and let me get dressed.”

  Berkeley gives an easy laugh.

  “Ok,” he says, getting up. “Though there’s no reason for you to be modest. There’s nothing you have to be ashamed of.”

  He gives my naked body a meaningful stare, and I squirm under his gaze, crossing my legs.

  “Fine!” he puts his hands up in the air in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll go out and work out what’s best to order for dinner.”

  I’m shaking my head. It’s all become too much suddenly. I can’t deal with all these feelings. I need to be away from him.

  “I need to go,” I say, throwing on my clothes.

  “Really?” as he says the words I realise I am only half sure of them.

  “I need to know what’s happening,” I say.

  “It’s complicated.” He looks haunted.

  I sigh, pushing my hair off my face. “I’m not sure I can do complicated,” I say. And I mean it. These last few days have been the most exciting and the most tiring of my entire life. I’m not sure I have the energy for any more James Berkeley.

  He moves towards me, and just his proximity is like fire running through my nerves. Then he gently pulls me to my feet and leads me back into his enormous lounge.

  “Please Isabella.” He tilts my chin up so my eyes meet his. “Stay with me,” he whispers. “Just for a few hours. So we can talk.”

  Talk. Right. After what just happened in the bedroom. But a man offering to talk has to be a rarity.

  I stare back at him, not sure how to answer.

  “You are mesmerising,” he says, staring into my eyes, “on and off camera.”

  I smile, blush, and tug my chin free of his hand.

  “So you’ll stay?” he asks.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  “I’ll fix us something to eat. Make yourself comfortable.”

  He gestures to the open lounge, filled with beautiful designer furniture. Night has closed on now, and the huge glass windows show a sweeping panoramic of the dramatically floodlit St Pauls Cathedral, and the Southbank.

  I eye the furniture uncertainly. It may look beautiful, but it sure as hell doesn’t look comfortable. It’s hard to pick out a single piece which even looks like it could be sat on. A woman’s touch, I think, is much needed.

  I choose a chesterfield-style chaise lounge which has been finished in thick faun covered leather and take a seat.

  James vanishes into the studio room, and I hear a muted conversation on his telephone.

  Then he returns.

  “I’ve asked my driver to pick us up a selection of food from Harrods’ Food Hall,” he says. “I trust that will meet with your tastes.”

  I nod. I’ve only ever been to Harrods once, and that was as a wide-eyed window shopper. The food hall is piled high with the most incredible fresh produce and handmade dishes prepared by London’s best chefs. I remember seeing a TV presenter buying a prepared side of beef for £200.

  “In the meantime perhaps we might have a glass of Champagne?” he adds, “to celebrate your success today?”

  “My success?”

  “Behind the camera.”

  I blush and look down.

  “Don’t be embarrassed Isabella,” he says, moving across the room, and seating himself next to me on the chaise lounge. This close I can feel his body heat.

  “It’s just that I don’t think I’m cut out for a movie role,” I say. “I was only ever considering theatre. And even that was to make me better educated as a script writer.”

  “In my experience there are two kinds of actors,” says James. “There are the actors like Marilyn Monroe who everybody recognises. They are charismatic and compelling, and they play the same character over and over. There are plenty of those actors around and they get all the major movie parts.”

  He leans in a little closer and meets me eyes.

  “Then there are the actors who really become the thing they act. Those people are team-players. They work with everybody else to bring a performance together. And they are humble. Because they don’t mind that they are not recognised when they play different parts. All they want is to make the act real.”

  I nod. That makes sense.

  “You are the second kind, Isabella, and a very rare and special kind you are.”

  I give him a shy smile. I had never thought of it that way before. But now I consider it, he’s right. Most of the students at drama school wanted to be big names. When they acted, it was all about them. I don’t act that way. But it never occurred to me that could be a good thing.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You should know that behind the camera you are the most sexy and fuckable thing I have seen in my entire life,” he says. “It’s all I can do not to rip those clothes off you again right now and have you on this couch.”

  I blush. How can he say these things?

  “Champagne.” He says, his voice changing as he stands up.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Do you have a physical difficulty with alcohol?”

  I shake my head.

  The tone in his voice changes. “Did something happen to you?”

  I nod, and for some reason tears come into my eyes. I blink them away, furious with myself.

  “What happened?” asks James. “Can you tell me?” His voice is full of concern. He sits back on the chaise lounge and takes my hand.

  For some reason this makes it easier to tell him the truth.

  “I had my drink spiked,” I say. “In a bar on Trafalgar Square. I was there at a party with my friend Lorna. Someone must have put something in my drink. I had a few sips and before I knew it I could hardly stand.”

  I close my eyes for a moment remembering the dreadful frightening feeling of my legs going out from under me.

  He nods, looking grave.

  “Then someone grabbed me,” I continue, “and tried to drag me out of the club.” The horrible mental picture flashes back. The hands under my armpits. The sense of powerlessness as my limp body offered no resistance.

  My eyes are on mine, his hand squeezes mine tight. I notice his free hand is balled into a fist and the knuckles are white.

  “What happened next?” he asks. His voice is tight.

  “He didn’t manage to get me outside,” I say. “Someone must have stopped him, or he must have got spooked. They bouncers found me in the entrance hall.”

  Berkeley lets out a breath and I realise that until that moment he had been holding every muscle in his body tense.

  “Isabella.” He stops and for a moment I think he is lost for words. “I don’t know what is happening between us,” he says. “I hope at the very least you will agree to share your talent in the role I have in mind for you.” He stops again, squeezing my hand.

  “But whatever happens I will never let any harm come to you, do you understand that?” He’s staring fiercely into my eyes, and the intensity in them is frightening. “Nothing or no one will ever hurt you Isabella, so long as it is in my power to prevent it.”

  It’s strange, but I really believe him. And it feels like a relief.

  “But you must put your faith in me and trust I have your best interests at heart,” he continues.

  I nod again, wondering what just happened. Did James Berkeley just make a pledge to always protect me? I feel like a fairy-tale heroine.

  “And today it is in your best interests to drink a glass of Champagne with me,” he says with a sudden boyish grin. His lighter mood is infectious and I grin back. He lo
oks his real youthful age suddenly, and I wonder how often this younger Berkeley has a chance to shine.

  He bounds to his feet, and in a moment is opening a large refrigerator which is tastefully secreted away behind one of the ultra-modern kitchen cabinet doors.

  “There are two ways of drinking alcohol,” he explains, as he pulls free a golden bottle of Champagne, and two iced flutes with a flourish.

  “One is to drink for the sake of getting drunk. The other is to savour only the finest available, as one of life’s pleasures. I indulge in the latter.”

  His strong fingers ease out the cork with a loud pop and he tilts the glasses and lets the golden liquid flow.

  “I think you will like working on a movie-set Isabella,” he says, returning to my side of the room and handing me a glass.

  I take a sip of the chilled liquid. The fizz is intoxicating. I smile up at him. But I am not so sure I agree about the movie-set thing.

  The doorbell sounds, and he pads over in his bare feet and jeans to answer it. I can’t hear the exchange, but he returns with two beautiful wicker hampers tied with cloth and ribbon.

  “I thought we might enjoy a little urban picnic,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

  “Sounds like a great idea,” I say, feeling suddenly hungry.

  With the views across the Thames and the lights of London I can hardly think of a more romantic evening.

  Carefully James unpacks the hampers, and lays out plates of food.

  There is fresh bread, cheeses, a whole chicken, hand-made pasta, smoked salmon and caviar.

  “That’s a lot of food,” I say, as he removes a tiny jar filled with oil.

  “Have you had white truffles before?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “They’re not to everyone’s taste, but I think you are sophisticated enough to enjoy them,” he says. He’s grinning to I have to assume he’s joking.

  “Here,” he uncorks the jar and a delicious aroma fills the air. “Can you smell that?”

  He holds the jar towards me and I nod.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes. It’s incredible,” I say.

  “Sexy isn’t it?” he says, grinning, and I grin back at him. It’s true, it is a sexy kind of smell. Powerful and intense.

  James prepares a plate with the fresh pasta and shaves truffle over the top. Then he carves up the chicken and adds that to the plate.

  “Wine,” he decides, getting to his feet again and returning to his vast kitchen space. He selects a bottle from outside the fridge this time and returns with two large crystal wine glasses.

  “White is usually the choice for pasta, but the intensity of this can take a red,” he says, uncorking and pouring. “And besides, I have this bottle I wanted to share with you, so we may cheat a little, on wine etiquette.”

  I take a forkful of pasta and the truffle explodes in my mouth.

  “Try it with some wine,” he says, smiling appreciatively at my enjoyment. I try a sip and the combination is mind-blowing.

  “This is so good,” I say, closing my eyes as the heavenly flavours combine.

  I gaze out over the river.

  “Is this your standard seduction technique?” I tease.

  To my surprise he looks thoughtful.

  “I’ve never made a woman a picnic in my apartment, no,” he says, almost regretfully.

  “But you’ve had plenty women back here, I imagine,” I say, pushing another forkful of pasta into my mouth. The taste is just amazing.

  He shakes his head. “The women that I’ve been involved with would have to pass certain tests of obedience before they would be allowed in here.”

  I almost choke on a mouthful of pasta. I stare at him, trying to work out if he’s serious.

  “Isabella, do you know why I didn’t have sex with you just now, in my bedroom?” he asks.

  I shake my head, a forkful of food halfway to my mouth, trying to work out where this is headed.

  He sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair.

  “I didn’t have sex with you because you don’t have a great deal of experience,” he says.

  I try not to look offended.

  “That’s not a bad thing,” he adds. “It’s just very different to what I’m used to.”

  He is staring steadily into my eyes.

  “I have never wanted to fuck anyone as much as I want to fuck you,” he says.

  I swallow. Oh.

  “But in my relationships I am the man, and the woman is the woman.”

  Ok. So he’s some old-fashioned guy. But I knew that. Didn’t I?

  “That means that I also wield the power to exercise discipline.”

  Discipline? I think back to the rumours about him on set. The controlling nature. Dictating who his actresses date.

  “Is this related to how you work?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “This is something different entirely. Which is why I do not form relationships with my actresses.”

  He takes a sip of wine. Something in his eyes has changed. As though he is assessing me.

  “Do you remember when you first acted Juliet for me?” he says.

  I nod, taking a sip of wine. I need it.

  “That is how I would have you in our relationship,” he says.

  My eyes widen. “You want me to plead with you? To beg you?”

  “There would be times when you would need to beg me, yes,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I more refer to the wider context of that relationship. Juliet is submissive to Lord Capulet’s will. She is his to do what he wants with.”

  What?

  “But Juliet doesn’t do exactly what Lord Capulet wants,” I counter, feeling all at sea in the conversation. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “She pleads with him, but she’s also contradicting his will.”

  “Very well-observed,” says James. “In our relationship you would be mine to do what I will with. And if you defied me I would punish you. Discipline you.”

  Discipline me?

  “What do you mean by discipline?” I whisper. My mouth is dry and my heart is beating fast. What is he suggesting?

  “Physically discipline you,” he says. “In a manner in which I see fit.”

  “What if I don’t want to be disciplined?” I say.

  “Then you have every right to refuse,” says James. His voice sounds casual, as though he’s scheduling an office meeting. “But I think a relationship between us might be difficult.”

  He looks apologetic for a moment. Then he sighs.

  “Something in you, Isabella, makes me gentle. Gentler than I have ever been. But I think it is too late to change the man I am. I don’t deny that I want you. But it must be on my terms.”

  “What do you mean by physical discipline?” I ask, wondering how deranged this conversation can get.

  “A manner in which I see fit,” he repeats.

  “Explain to me an example,” I demand flatly.

  His eyes flick to mine, assessing, testing.

  “Your lateness,” he says.

  “Yes.” I’m not sure I like how this is going.

  “Lateness is a sign of disobedience,” he says. “That first time I had come to collect you in the car. I was exercising courtesy. You were late. That was discourteous.”

  “I. I’m sorry,” I say, uncertainly. It’s true that lateness is a bad habit of mine. I’d never thought of it as impolite.

  “Do you know how much I wanted to pull down your panties and give you a good spanking in that car?” he says.

  Oh.

  I flush crimson. But there’s another feeling too. I can’t deny it. His words arouse me.

  “That,” he says, “is what I mean my discipline.” And he places a forkful of food in his mouth.

  I find myself standing up. I feel dizzy, confused. It’s all coming to me at once. I like this guy. More than I’ve ever liked anyone. And he wants to turn me into some medieval female stereotype.

  “I wouldn’t
share this with you,” adds James, “if I did not see something in you which wants to comply to my wishes.”

  Something in me? Sure I’m quiet and I let people boss me around. But do I want to be spanked for showing up a few minutes late? It’s all so confusing.

  “I… I need to think,” I say, not wanting to admit how tantalising the prospect of spending more time with him is.

  “Sit down Isabella,” he says, “and finish your wine.”

  The tone in his voice has an almost physical effect on my knee joints, and I buckle, sitting back down on the floor.

  This confuses me even more. Do I want this? This man telling me what to do?

  “I have never felt the way about anyone that I feel about you,” he says softly. “And if you decide you can’t have a relationship with me, then I understand. I will still cast you and do my best to bring out the best in you. Although,” he adds, his green eyes darkening, “it will take all my physical control to see you through that camera and not give you a hard fucking once we finish filming.”

  I flush, and force myself to stand, still holding the wine glass. I need to retain some semblance of control.

  “I need to think things over,” I say, taking a nervous sip.

  “That’s exactly what I want you to do,” he says, eyeing me from his position on the floor. Something about his stance reminds me of a tiger about to pounce.

  I let my eyes roam around the flat, anxious for some distraction from the intensity of our conversation.

  Was it English boarding school which did this to him? I wonder. It’s common knowledge that the masters still cane the boys at school.

  “I need to know more,” I decide. “I need to know more about why you want this from me.”

  His face takes on a troubled look.

  “Was it your school?” I press, “were you beaten as a boy?”

  “I was beaten as a boy,” he says, “but that is nothing to do with why I want your obedience. Almost the opposite, in fact,” he adds, more to himself than to me.

  “What do you mean?”

  His eyes lock with mine. “Isabella, my past is my business, and if you continue to press me then I really will put you over my knee and give you a spanking, whether you’ve agreed to it or not.”

  I flush.

  “Have all your other girlfriends agreed to this?” I ask.