Close Up and Personal (Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  “Of course you are.” Lorna picks up the remote and flicks the channel. “I’m going to try find something more interesting than your life to watch on TV, but I think I’m out of luck.”

  I leave the room, heading for my bedroom, and collapse on the bed, clicking on my phone.

  It takes five minutes to inform me of all the missed calls, voicemails and messages. Then finally my phone is functional and I press the contact. James Berkeley. I take a deep breath as it rings.

  For a terrible second I think he’s not going to pick up. Then his voice is loud and relieved over the phone.

  “Isabella.”

  “James.”

  I wonder if he can hear the embarrassment in my voice. “You didn’t have to send Madison over,” I mumble, part shame, part amusement.

  “When you have an important person to win over you pull out all the stops,” he says. “That’s my attitude to business. It’s not different in my personal life.”

  “And I’m an important person?” I tease, delighted to have drawn this confession out of him.

  He sighs down the phone, and I can almost here his eyes close.

  “You have no idea how important,” he says. “Can I come up?”

  “Come up?”

  “I’m outside,” he says.

  “You’re outside?”

  “If you’re going to keep repeating everything I say then this relationship is never going to work.”

  Relationship? He wants a relationship?

  I stop myself from repeating him again.

  “Why are you outside?” I manage.

  “I’ve been here all day,” he says. “I was hoping, since you’re not answering your phone you might venture out. But I was disappointed.”

  “Sure,” I manage, not sure what to make of that. “Come up.”

  He’s at my door in moments, and this time I answer it instead of Lorna. She sits grinning from the couch, rolling her eyes at my sudden dramatic romantic life.

  “Hi,” I say shyly, as I open the door.

  “Hi.” He takes my chin in his hands and stares into my eyes.

  I am conscious that Lorna is only a few metres away in the next room, and take his hand.

  “Come through.” I lead him to my bedroom.

  “The second time I’ve been in here,” he murmurs, seating himself on my bed and drawing me down next to him. “And yet it feels like we’ve known each other so long.”

  The truth of it surprises me. I realise we’ve been dating each other – if you could call it that - only a matter of days.

  His proximity comes with the familiar allure. I can smell him, feel his warmth.

  James leans towards me, catching me in his arms.

  We kiss and I feel the world melt away. My body is writhing with the familiar electric current which he manages to spark in me. Our lips are hot, fervent, and his hands slide around my waist, pulling me closer.

  “God Issy,” he says, “what have you done to me?”

  “I could ask you the same,” I breathe.

  In answer he slides his hands up my body, caressing my breasts and pressing his thumbs gently into my nipples.

  I push forward into his hands, moaning at his touch.

  Then he reaches a hand up under my skirt and tugs down my panties.

  It feels too sudden, too intimate, but at the same time incredibly hot. I haven’t the force of will to stop him. I don’t want to.

  He pulls off my panties, leaving my lower half naked beneath my dress.

  Then he’s pushing me back, and he’s rested on top of me.

  “I. Want. You. So Badly.” He’s kissing me hard between each word, and then I hear a foil packet tear as he frees his erection from his jeans and rolls a condom onto himself.

  I tear at his shirt, ripping it open and exposing the taut muscles of his chest.

  He waits for a moment, poised between my legs, and it’s agonising. Every part of me is screaming for him. Then he plunges in, taking my mouth in a deep kiss and he thrusts inside.

  This time it’s hard, fast. But I want it. I want him to take me roughly.

  I moan as he moves faster, pushing strongly against me, his hardness penetrating deep and then deeper. I claw at the strong muscles of his arms as they circle around and under me.

  This time the feelings of fear and pain have gone. There’s nothing by the smell of him, his mouth on mine, and him, pounding inside me.

  I feel myself letting go, opening myself completely to his strength.

  Then I feel the orgasm begin to build. He moves harder, and then repositions himself so he’s hitting a new place on intense pleasure deep within.

  It’s so intense, this sudden physical reunion after a day of trying to push him from my mind. The feelings of relief mingle with my desire for him.

  I moan again, and he thrusts hard. It’s too much, and I gasp as the feeling grows to the inescapable climax of pleasure.

  I cry out, shattering into the warmth of my orgasm. He groans and makes two more deep hard thrusts. The sensation raises me into another exquisite spasm and he groans as he comes inside of me.

  He lies on top of me, both of us still half-dressed, taking in the sudden pulse of lust which brought us together. James pulls out of me, rolling to one side, and wraps his arms around me.

  He pushes his mouth against my ear.

  “I take it you’ve forgiven me,” he says.

  I laugh. “For the time being,” I say.

  He sits up, looking troubled for a moment, drawing me upright with him.

  “I owe you an apology,” he says. His face looks chastised. Sad.

  I look at his features in puzzlement, trying to work out what he needs to be sorry for.

  “I was so angry when I saw those pictures in the newspaper,” he says. “I… I failed to protect you Issy. I know this industry. You don’t. It’s my duty to protect you from those vultures. I thought I’d done that, but I hadn’t. I let your picture make it to press. It’s unforgivable.”

  He looks so sad, and I put my arm around him. His words have taken me completely by surprise. He was worried about protecting me?

  “What are you protecting me from?” I say, trying to understand.

  He turns to me. “The paparazzi, of course. There’s no way I’m going to let you become fodder for their newspapers.”

  “I… I don’t mind if a few pictures appear.” I say. From what I remember they were nice pictures.

  James is shaking his head.

  “You are new to this,” he repeats, “and trust me Issy, if you let me direct you in this movie, you’ll be a big star. Soon. But you have to keep out of the press. They only want to run bad news.”

  Ok, so all the news stories I read on celebrities in the English press tend to be about scandal. I think about this.

  “I’ve got my best lawyers on this,” he says. “I’ve got every one of those paps scared for their jobs. You’re protected, for a time at least.”

  “Are you ashamed of me?” I ask. I can’t help myself.

  He smiles. “Of course I’m not. But my life is complicated. Madison and I have an arrangement. Believe me if I hadn’t taken strong action today, tomorrow’s papers would be running stories of you as a marriage wrecker. That’s why Madison has flown in. We’ve worked out a story to limit the damage and keep you safe.”

  My mind is wheeling.

  “What story?” I manage.

  “That you’re a dance teacher, and I’m learning tango for a vowel renewal which Madison and I are planning.”

  Oh. This hurts me more deeply than I would have thought.

  He sees my expression.

  “It’s for the best Issy,” he murmurs. “Nothing is more important than keeping you safe. My lawyers have informed all the papers than any more pursuit of the dance teacher will be dealt with under the utmost power of my legal team.”

  “So I’m just a dance teacher,” I mumble. All my earlier feelings are starting to return. I’m nothing to hi
m. His image is more important.

  “Oh Issy,” he says. “You’re so much more than that.”

  “Then what am I?” I demand, angry again suddenly.

  He gives me an impish grin.

  “You’re the girl who ran barefoot out of my house rather than wear a pair of shoes I bought you. You certainly have a lot of spirit.”

  I flush at the memory.

  “Did you think that I’d lied to you?” he asks gently. “About Madison?”

  This is too embarrassing. I did, but not the facts are in front of me I have to admit I had no reason to think it.

  “Yes, “ I admit, looking embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry I took her call, when I should have been explaining things to you,” he says. “But I was so frantic to protect you. It had to be done quickly.”

  He’s staring intently into my face.

  “I admire your spirit Issy, but this tendency to over-react might need to be managed.”

  I stare back at him, not knowing what he means. He sighs.

  “Have you thought about my suggestion Issy?” he says. “Wouldn’t you like me to take that tempestuous nature in hand? It would be so much easier for both of us.”

  “I… I don’t know.” It is true that my temper has gotten me into scrapes in the past. But that doesn’t mean I want to be led by a man.

  “Think about it,” he says. “I think that being ruled by me would do you more good than you know. That and a well-timed beating now and again.”

  I take a breath.

  He gives a roguish smile.

  Is he serious? I can’t tell.

  “Are you really saying that you want to beat me?” I ask, swallowing at the thought.

  “I want you to submit to my authority,” he says. “And when you over-react as you did today, a punishment would be needed to keep you in line.”

  “What sort of punishment?” I am curious despite myself.

  His eyes flash. “Something pre-agreed by both of us.”

  James lowers his voice, and takes my chin in his hand.

  “I think that a part of you wants very badly to be taken in hand,” he says, fixing me with a steely gaze. “Your rebellious nature wants to be subdued.”

  He releases my chin, and I feel strangely disappointed.

  “Only time will tell,” he says. “And as you know Isabella, I would never do anything you hadn’t agreed to.”

  “So what will you do now?” I ask, changing the subject.

  He seems amused.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You and Madison. I suppose you have some public engagements. So you can reassure the world you’re happily married?” The last words come out bitterly. I can’t help myself.

  “Yes,” he says. “We have a premier tonight which we will both attend. Our PRs have already explained the tango situation to the press.”

  The tango situation. My eyes fill with tears.

  “Issy,” he says gently. All the fire has left his face, and he sweeps my wet cheek with his thumb. “You have no idea what you mean to me. Today when I thought I might have lost you…” he lets the words hang.

  “I’ve spoken to Madison,” he continues. “We’ve agreed that the marriage has done all it can to help her career. She’s back in the A-list now. She’s happy. As soon as it’s appropriate we’ll begin making it obvious we’re leading separate lives. It won’t happen overnight. But it is happening.”

  He’s leaving Madison?

  “Is Madison happy with that?” I ask. I am in shock.

  “Madison and I are very good friends,” he says carefully. “She wants me to be happy and she knows this is what I want.”

  “Are you doing this for me?” The thought is too preposterous.

  “Who else would I be doing it for?”

  I frown, confused.

  “It’s all so much,” I admit. “Everything has happened so quickly. Part of me has strong feelings for you. Part of me is unsure.”

  Like the fact that you want to subdue me.

  He nods, looking sad.

  “I couldn’t ever expect that a girl like you would consider me,” he says. “I’m not a walk in the park Issy. But I want to make the situation right, so you can at least decide with everything clear.”

  “And that includes divorcing your wife?” as I say the words they sound ridiculous.

  “Stage wife,” he says. “Not my real wife. Our relationship has come to a natural end. This way you can decide for yourself. But I warn you,” he voice turns dark, “you may still decide you can’t have a relationship with me. I’m not even sure I’d want you too.”

  “This is the obedience thing,” I say slowly.

  “Yes.”

  I nod, assessing this.

  “I’m not an old-fashioned girl,” I say, thinking of my upbringing. “My parents ran puppet-shows. It was all very bohemian.”

  He laughs at this admission.

  “It sounds charming. When am I going to meet your mother?”

  “My mother?”

  “You told me your family had passed away. Otherwise, naturally I would want to be introduced to him as well.”

  “Yes. Um. Well. My mother. She lives out in the countryside.”

  I remember suddenly that my mother is planning to come to London soon. Though I can’t recall which day we arranged. I’ll have to check my diary. I try to picture my mother meeting Berkeley, but the image doesn’t come.

  “She’s coming to London soon, but I think it might be too soon for you to meet her,” I explain.

  “I see. “ His eyes are questioning me.

  “She’s a little unusual,” I manage.

  “With a daughter like you I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

  “Well perhaps I can meet her when you decide you’re ready,” he concludes.

  “What about your parents?” I say, to change the subject.

  “What about them?”

  “What are they like?”

  “There’s only one remaining,” he says. “My mother died when I was a very young boy, in Mauritius.”

  I piece this together with what I know of him. So he was brought up with his mother in Mauritius and then packed off the boarding school in England.

  “Did you get sent to boarding school when she died?” I ask tentatively.

  “Yes.” He is terse, making it clear no more questions are to be asked.

  “What about your father?” I ask, steering the conversation over to something else.

  James gives a cold laugh. “My father. Well. There’s a story.” He pauses for a moment. “I guess you’ll get the chance to find out. Would you like to meet him?”

  Would I? I’m not sure.

  “When?”

  “In a few weeks,” he says, “I’ve made arrangements to visit the estate. You could come with me.”

  The estate?

  “Where exactly does your father live?” I ask, hedging for an answer.

  He laughs again, obviously aware that I’m delaying my answer.

  “In the countryside,” he says. “I think you’ll like it.”

  His phone beeps and he frowns.

  “Think about it,” he says, “we’d only be there one night.” He stands, and leans down to kiss my forehead.

  “I have to go and play the dutiful husband,” he says. And my heart twists in my chest.

  Chapter 18

  Whilst James plays the husband figure, Lorna has dragged me out for yet another party night. She’s sure it will take my mind off the situation, and maybe she’s right. Though I hate to admit it, the thought of James leading Madison up the red carpet makes me feel sick with jealously.

  Lorna’s pulled some strings to arrange an evening with two of her modelling friends at the Met Bar, and all three of them are getting into the swing of things.

  I’m wearing a orange and black retro-print dress which is the best I could do from my wardrobe to keep up with the models. On the London streets I could usually be consider
ed fashionable. My wardrobe is full of vintage buys and clever second-hand finds, and I can always pull an interesting outfit together. But alongside Lorna and her model friends, and their access to the latest designer releases, I don’t have a hope.

  “Tell me again why we’re drinking here?” I say, taking in the designer lighting concept which casts the sixties-style tables into things of glamorous beauty.

  “The agency have an arrangement with the bar,” says Alex, looking at me mock-serious over his horn-rimmed glasses. “We supply the eye candy, they supply the drinks.”

  “Which means we get to drink at the Met Bar,” says Lorna, “when all the other people our age are searching out the pint-pitcher deals in Trafalgar Square.”

  We’re sitting on a black vinyl table with a jug of pre-mixed cocktail. Sandy, a blonde Claudia Schiffer lookalike from Houston, wrinkles her nose as she sips her drink.

  “Sweet,” she says, swallowing the sticky liquid, and tugging her low-cut white dress down a little further.

  Sandy schooled at Yale, and managed to ditch her Southern accent along the way. But that doesn’t stop most English people thinking she’s a dumb model. It used to drive her crazy, but she’s learned to play up to it.

  “That’s what you get when the drinks are free,” says Alex, a skinny male-model with oversized retro glasses, and artistic tattoos covering his arms.

  “God bless Select Modelling agency for supplying us with low-quality drinks in such an upmarket establishment.” Alex is technically an artist, but his quirky looks got him spotted last year, and now he fronts major designer campaigns.

  “Bottoms up!” says Lorna, raising her mineral water in a mock toast. She’s sensibly sticking to sugar-free soft drinks tonight, filling me with relief. It’s one of my real fears that Lorna will get carried away drinking and have a diabetic episode.

  I chink my own glass – a mix of water with a splash of cocktail in it. Since Berkeley I have found myself brave enough to drink alcohol again, but I’m not about to get drunk.

  The Met Bar is attached to one of London’s most glamorous hotels, and has a notoriously difficult entry policy. I was amazed to get in, until Lorna talked me through the deal with her agency.

  “I think the choice of bar might also have something to do with a certain gentleman,” adds Sandy, raising her glass and eyebrows at Lorna.