Close Up and Personal (Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  “The ambulance!”

  “I don’t need an ambulance,” says Lorna, looking confused. “I’m fine now. Really.” She rubs her forehead with her hand. “I shouldn’t have had so much Champagne,” she admits.

  “It’s better she goes out to the ambulance,” says James, “just so they can check her out.”

  I nod, feeling exhausted suddenly. “I’ll go with her,” I say.

  “No,” says James, “you get her coat and purse. I’ll carry her out.”

  James leans into the booth and lifts Lorna’s long limbs with ease. I feel another stab of jealousy, seeing her in his arms.

  I busy myself collecting Lorna’s coat and purse from the cloak room. No easy task when her ticket is somewhere on her person. Likely in her bra, knowing Lorna. But the barman comes to my aid, and the reluctant cloakroom attendant relinquishes her fur coat and designer purse.

  I gather them up and turn to leave. But now James is back inside the bar.

  “She’s fine,” he says. “The ambulance crew say she doesn’t need to be admitted to hospital. They took her blood sugar levels and tested her pupil contraction and said she’s in good health. Though they said it’s better she goes home early.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Sitting outside smoking a cigarette. She came around pretty fast after the sugar.”

  I nod my thanks and turn to head outside, but James grabs my arm.

  “I can’t come outside with you,” he says, “there’s paparazzi all over the place, and I won’t risk your face in the papers again. But I’ll be waiting in here. If you’d like to come back and have a drink with me.”

  “I… I don’t know,” I say. “I think I might need to make sure Lorna gets home Ok.”

  He nods. “I understand completely. But I’ll be sat here waiting for you if you change your mind.”

  I rush outside to find Lorna is, as James said, sat on a step smoking a cigarette. Lorna doesn’t smoke, but she occasionally has a few puffs if she’s getting tired on a big night out. She looks as though nothing has happened, and gives me a wide grin as I join her.

  “Where’s the ambulance?” I say, looking about in confusion. I expected it to be chaos out here.

  “They went pretty quick,” says Lorna, blowing out a column of smoke. “I was fine really, as soon as the sugar syrup hit my mouth. But I couldn’t miss the chance to be carried out by Mr James Berkeley now, could I?”

  She gives me an impish grin, and I laugh in relief. I’m so glad she’s alright she could say almost anything right now, and I’d forgive her.

  “He’s quite a guy,” she says wistfully.

  I nod at the truth of this.

  “I wasn’t so sure about him at first,” she continues, “after that thing with the taxi and Ben. But I’ve changed my mind. He’s your regular knight in shining armour isn’t he? How did he even get here so fast?”

  “He was only a few doors down in another bar.”

  Lorna nods. “Makes sense. All the big premieres parties are in this part of town.”

  “So shall we grab a cab Lorna? I’ve got your coat and purse.” I wave away a plume of her smoke, and she respectfully drops the cigarette and grinds it out.

  “You’re not going back inside to see Berkeley?” She sounds surprised.

  I shake my head.

  “Of course not. My best friend fainted tonight. Admittedly through her own stupid actions,” I add, waggling a finger at her. “But there’s no way I’m letting you home alone.”

  “And there’s no way I’m ruining the rest of your evening,” says Lorna. “Honestly honey. I’m fine. More than fine.”

  She stands and does a little energetic dance on the spot.

  “See? I’m even thinking of heading over to Camden to party.”

  I laugh, dragging her back down to sitting. She clearly is restored to health.

  “No way,” I admonish. “You’re not going out partying Lorna Hamilton. You are going straight home to bed.”

  “Yes mum,” Lorna mock salutes, and then her face turns serious. “I would never forgive myself if I ruined any more of your night on my account. So just do me a favour, ok. Stay and have a drink with Mr Rescue. It’s the least he deserves.”

  “Lorna. I’m not sure about that.”

  “Well you might as well get sure. Cause if you don’t let me get a cab home by myself I’m not doing washing up for a month. And you know how that would bug you.”

  I mock sigh, and smile at her. Staying for a drink with James is tempting. I’d been so sure I should stay away. But seeing him in person… I’m not sure I have the strength to leave him sitting alone in the bar. Not when Lorna is clearly in such good health.

  “Ok…” I say, “maybe just one drink. But you call me when you get home to say you arrived safe.”

  “Atta girl!” Lorna slaps me on the back.

  “Promise you’ll call. And I’m seeing you directly into a cab first.”

  Lorna rolls her eyes. “Ok fine. But it’s really not necessary. And that poor hot guy is waiting in there all alone. Someone else might get to him before you do.”

  Chapter 19

  Having seen Lorna safely into a black cab, I head back into the Met Bar. The glittering décor has taken on a new look now I know Berkeley is in here. It seems more sensuous and decadent.

  But as I enter the main bar there is no sign of him.

  Lorna’s words come back to me – someone else might get to him before you do.

  I dismiss the unwelcome thought, but it still brings with it a flash of jealously. I wonder if I can get through all these emotions which this situation is causing. I feel as though my heart might explode if I’m subjected to much more, and it’s been less than a week since we met.

  Then I remember Berkeley saying that I should be taken in hand. Is that what he means? Freedom from all these thoughts? All this energy trying to work out what he wants with me? Maybe I should just trust and let go.

  I smile to myself, resolving he’ll never hear me say that out loud.

  Then I see a single rose on the table where Lorna and I were sitting. I move towards it, wondering if it was left for her by Ben.

  The bloom is orange rather than red. An unusual choice for romance. And it’s also perfect, I see, as I pick it up from the table. Every crisp petal is flawless.

  There is a cream card underneath and I flip it over.

  Isabella, says the familiar writing. My heart skips in my chest.

  Orange is for passion. Join me in room 9.

  Oh no. He got a room?

  I realise yet it’s another cryptic flower bouquet from Berkeley. The last roses he bought me signified jealously. These mean passion. So I suppose I should be grateful for the improvement.

  I call to mind the newspaper article. He has never given a red rose since the death of his mother.

  Is he making a point? That our relationship is not about love?

  I shake the thought away, returning to the situation in hand.

  Joining him a hotel room. That wasn’t part of the deal.

  My phone beeps and I look down distractedly. It’s from Lorna.

  Got home safe.

  I smile and ring her number.

  She answers immediately.

  “Get off the phone Isabella Green, and stop worrying about me.”

  I laugh.

  “Ok fine. But you really are ok? You don’t need me to come back?”

  “And tuck me into bed? Purlease Issy. I’m fine. I told you. I’ll watch a movie and go to bed. Scouts honour.”

  “Ok.”

  We both hang up, and I return to considering the perfect orange rose in my hand.

  Flipping to the message screen I begin writing a text. This time, to James Berkeley.

  Your room? That wasn’t the arrangement.

  Almost immediately the phone beeps.

  Forgive my discourtesy. We cannot be seen together in public. This is for your protection.

  So. The old i
ssue of the press, and Madison. I purse my lips. My phone beeps again.

  You can be assured that as a gentleman I will take no more freedoms than I would in an open bar.

  I smile at this. Then I text back.

  So formal Mr Berkeley. And what if I wanted to take freedoms with you?

  There. That will give him something to think about.

  There’s a pause. Then a message appears.

  I am open to negotiation.

  I toy with my phone, wondering what to do. He has, after all, changed the rules. We were supposed to be having a drink in a bar. A room in a hotel is very different. And I’m still reeling from what Ben Gracey told me. That James has a drugs problem.

  I begin tapping out a message.

  I am not sure you’re playing fair.

  “I have no intention of playing fair,” says a deep voice at my shoulder. I jump, halfway to sending the message, and see James standing right behind me.

  His cheek is almost against mine, and he wraps his arms around me from behind and eases me phone from my hand.

  “Better we do without this,” he murmurs. “It seems to make you even more rebellious than usual.”

  “We were supposed to be meeting in the bar,” I say stubbornly. But my body is pressing back into his, relaxing into the strength of his arms.

  He turns me around to face him.

  “Isabella, I have explained to you the situation. Things with Madison are currently in flux. Until then we cannot be seen together in public.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I realised that it wasn’t gentlemanly to expect you to find the room by yourself,” he concedes. “So I have come to escort you personally.”

  He takes my arm firmly in his.

  “And I don’t expect to find any resistance.”

  Before I have a chance to protest, he walks me across the bar and into the sumptuous carpeted corridors of the Metropolitan Hotel.

  “It’s not far.” He murmurs in my ear as we turn a corner. “I am always sure to get a room a convenient distance away.”

  And with the highest price tag, I think to myself, wondering what a last minute room at the Metropolitan would have cost.

  I find my legs are betraying me, and I follow him without a word to the door of his room.

  “Here we are,” he says, opening the door and gesturing I should walk in first.

  “This isn’t my usual choice of hotel,” he says, as I’m greeted by a vision in deep purple carpets, and an enormous bed decked in sumptuous deep white bed linen and designer pillows.

  “Oh?” I say, trying to keep the wonder on my face in check.

  “I like hotels with a little more boutique about them,” he explains, shutting the door behind him. “Places which feel more intimate.”

  He’s standing facing me now, his lips only inches from mine.

  “You made me a promise,” I say in a quavering voice, trying not to react to his proximity. I am determined to question him about the drugs issue.

  “Oh yes?” he leans closer.

  “That you would treat me the same here as you would in an open bar.”

  “Well I have a confession to make Isabella,” he says. “I don’t always keep my promises. At least not where you’re concerned.”

  He takes my chin softly in his hands, and begins planting gentle kisses over my face. I close my eyes as his lips brush my cheeks, my eyelids. The delicate feeling of skin on skin awakes something deep inside me.

  I swallow, and feel myself yielding to him. Even if he did have a drugs problem, what would I do about it?

  “We should talk,” I manage, my voice betraying my true feelings.

  “Oh yes?” he continues kissing me, moving his mouth down the side of my neck. The sensation is electric, as though he’s raising every hair on by body with his touch.

  His mouth moves further down, planting soft kisses across my collar bone. I feel my neck arch back, my eyes fluttering.

  “I need to know something,” I protest, as his mouth continues to work on my body. He loosens the top of my dress, and his lips begin kissing the tops of my breasts.

  “What do you want to know?” The words are partially lost.

  “I saw Ben Gracey today.”

  “Oh.”

  James’s head comes up. His green eyes still have a softness about them. But they are wary too.

  Is this confirmation that Ben was telling the truth?

  “He. Um. He said some things.” I manage.

  “He always does,” says James sardonically. He’s upright facing me now, and he sighs. “Come and sit down Isabella,” he says. “Perhaps we should have that drink after all.”

  Part of me feels as though I’ve disappointed him. But I hold firm. I am entitled to know, I think, something about him. Particularly since his behaviour is so erratic.

  I sit on a white couch, and James opens the mini bar. It is stacked full of glittering miniature versions of branded spirits, French wine and Champagne.

  “Would you like a gin and tonic?” he says, “or shall I order a drink to be delivered from the bar.”

  “Gin and tonic is fine,” I say, watching as his hands work to slice and squeeze lime, and measure gin, ice and tonic.

  “You look very professional,” I say.

  He gives a half smile. “I’ve made myself adept in most drinks services,” he says. “It helps immeasurably in having an understanding of when drinks are made well.”

  Typical, I think. He walks towards me holding two clinking glasses of ice and lime, and hands me one.

  I take a grateful sip. The gin is sour, complex, and is perfectly balanced by the fresh lime and sparkling tonic.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Now,” he sits next to me on the couch, so our knees are touching. “What is it that Ben Gracey has been telling you?”

  He says it in a world-weary kind of way, and I wonder again if I’ve misjudged him.

  “He… Um. He said you’d had a problem with drugs,” I say, raising my eyes to him in apology for even partially crediting such a silly story. But he doesn’t meet my gaze.

  “That’s true,” he says finally.

  There’s a long pause whilst we both consider this. I remember that strange look on his face earlier in the bar, when he asked me if Lorna had taken anything.

  “Do you still have a problem now?” I ask.

  “No.” He says this adamantly, meeting my gaze. “No I do not. Nor will I be anywhere near where people are taking drugs. And I have a zero tolerance for actors who indulge. They are removed from set and asked to provide a weekly urine sample until I can assure myself they are free from the habit.”

  “Ok.” That makes sense, I think. Although it’s typical controlling Berkeley.

  “Is that why… Is it…”

  The question is half-formed and James answers the unsaid words.

  “Is that why I feel the need to be in control? Yes. Partially.”

  “Is it why you want me to be obedient to you? Because you have a problem with control?” I am surprised at my courage for saying the words out loud.

  James seems surprised too. He looks down for a moment, considering, and then meets my gaze.

  “In a way. Yes.”

  He leans forward and takes my hands.

  “I have something of an addictive nature, Isabella.” He’s saying this almost apologetically. “My nature something I’ve battled with, to an extent, and overcome. I have not had the easiest of lives, and I am drawn to activities which allow me to forget. To immerse myself. At one time this was drugs.”

  Practices that allow him to forget. Like beating women?

  “So, what is it now?” I ask, my voice trembling.

  “I… I like to give pleasure to others,” he says. “But my background has drawn out my preferences in a single direction.”

  He meets my gaze, his green eyes open, and honest.

  “Creating submission,” he says, “in those who desire
it. This is what now allows me to lose myself. To forget my demons.”

  I open my mouth to say something and James places a finger over my lips.

  “I have told you all I am willing to explain,” he says. “I don’t want you to ask me anything else.”

  I take a nervous sip of my gin and tonic, wondering what to say now.

  “What if I can I help you?” I say finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if I can help you? In a different way?”

  “I don’t know Isabella.” James is shaking his head. “I think it might be too late to change me now.”

  “Then what if I were willing to try it your way?” My jaw sets slightly as I say the words. But really I’m in too deep. I’m falling hard for this complicated powerful man, and I realise that in love I am prepared to give more of myself than I thought possible.

  “You don’t know what you’re suggesting,” he says. His voice is dangerous.

  “So show me.”

  The words come out thickly, and without meaning to I find myself pouting my lips as I say them.

  “You’re sure?”

  I blink. “Yes. I want to know what you mean.”

  There is a long pause, and for a moment I think he will refuse.

  Then he nods, slowly, not taking his eyes from mine.

  “Very well,” he says.

  I stare back at him.

  “For the next hour you are mine to do as I will with, do you understand?”

  I swallow, not sure whether I can agree.

  “You will do whatever is asked of you without question. And I for my part, promise that I will not do anything you will not like.”

  That doesn’t sound so bad.

  “However,” adds James, with an unfathomable smile. “You may not realise you like some of the things I plan to do to you. Do you accept?”

  I try to imagine what he could mean by that, and find I can’t.

  It’s as though I’m at a crossroads. One way headed for the tame and empty life I’ve always known. The other branching out to something which is unknown and frightening. In my heart I already know which road I’m bound to choose.

  I find myself nodding. Mostly, I think, I just want to know. If it’s really bad then I still have an outside chance of escaping with my heart intact. But if I continue to let myself get ever more entangled in the complicated wonder of James Berkeley then I may never get out.