by JS Taylor
“Isabella!” she says accusingly, “why did you not say you had a boyfriend! And so handsome and charming! You know I would be thrilled, why did you not tell me?”
“It’s complicated Mami,” I sigh. “I’m not even sure he is my boyfriend.”
She slaps my wrist.
“Ay! Isabella. If he is not your boyfriend then you must make it so.”
She peers in the direction which James vanished in.
“Such a handsome man. You mark my words Isabella. I am a good judge of men. He is worth keeping,”
She says this with a decisive nod.
James reappears with a young woman at his side.
She looks around my age, but is dressed, in the aristocratic fashion, far older than her years. She has medium-length brown hair, brushed straight down, and wears a twinset of a baby-pink cashmere sweater with a matching cardigan. Her pencil skirt inadvertently highlights long slim legs, and a set of expensive looking pearls completes the look of solid, landed wealth.
I feel a sudden wave of depression. This is the kind of girl James belongs with. Not me.
She was probably ‘presented’ to English society at a traditional debutante ball, aged sixteen. My sixteenth birthday was a cake with my uncle and aunty, and a few other friends in a London suburb.
“You must be Isabella? And Mrs Green?” Her accent is pure cut-glass aristocracy and her smile is warm.
She shakes each of our hands in her cool, confident grasp.
“I’m Serena. James tells me you’d like to see behind the scenes?”
My mother’s eyes widen. “I would love to,” she says. “I am big fan of the Gallery. I come here at least three times a year. The light here. The colours. There really is no match for this collection anywhere in the world.”
My mother’s passion for the National Gallery was obviously the right thing to share with Serena. Her face breaks into a broad smile, and she begins chatting excitedly about the latest vision for the Collection.
James moves in beside me and takes my arm.
“Looks like this was a good chance to win around your mother,” he whispers in my ear.”
I smile back.
“If that was your intention, then it’s worked very well. How do you know Serena?” I try and fail to keep my tone casual.
“Oh Isabella. Do I detect a note of jealously?”
He seems charmed and delighted.
“No,” I lie, annoyed that he finds this funny. “It’s just that. I’m so different to the people you must have been brought up with. How can you even be contemplating… Us… As a couple? You must know I’d never fit in.”
“Isabella I have never seen you look out of place anywhere, and I imagine you will rise to meet the challenge of my upbringing.”
His grip on my arm tightens reassuringly.
“She’s a cousin,” he says, “on my father’s side. You really have nothing to worry about.”
Another cousin. I think, remembering Ben Gracey. I wonder how many influential cousins he has?
Serena guides us through a private door and along a corridor into a large room.
It looks very similar to other rooms in the Gallery, with one exception. I’ve never seen it before, or the art on the walls. Though I can readily see the paintings are similar to those exhibited outside.
My mother’s face is a picture.
“That’s a Constable!” she announces, turning to Serena for confirmation. Serena nods.
“The National Gallery also acts as a vault, of sorts, for great works of art,” she explains. “We can’t put everything on display all at once, and some painting are too delicate to be displayed at all.”
My mother is open mouthed, staring at the paintings.
“Esa luz. Tal belleza. Este tipo de trabajo,” she murmurs.
Serena looks confused.
“Such light, such beauty, such work,” translates James, surprising me with his fluency.
My mother is also impressed, and turns from where she’s drinking in the art with her eyes.
“You speak Spanish?” She is, naturally, delighted.
“Sólo hablo, un poco y mal,” says James modestly.
I translate in my head.
Only a little, and that badly.
“Do you speak to Isabella in Spanish?” asks my mother. She is preparing to launch herself into a further stratosphere of joy. All my childhood she tried to have me speak Spanish.
“I didn’t know Isabella could speak it,” says James, looking at me.
“I don’t,” I mumble.
My mother waves her hands dismissively.
“Of course she does.” She catches James’s eye. “Growing up she spoke Spanish. Then she becomes a teenager. She gets embarrassed. You know how it is. Speak English Mami! You embarrass me with my friends!”
She laughs at the recollection. I feel myself blushing, and look to see that James seems to find this memory of my upbringing amusing.
“I can imagine that,” he says, not taking his eyes from mine. Then he turns to my mother. “We have not spoken in Spanish to one another Mrs Green. Although I knew, of course, that she won a scholarship for her Spanish dancing.”
“Yes, yes,” my mother’s eyes light up. “My daughter was my best pupil. Have you seen her dance?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.” Again his eyes are on mine, searching. Damn my mother for bringing this up.
“You must ask her to show you,” insists my mother. “She really is incredible. I have never seen better. Not in Spain or anywhere. The way she dances brings tears to my eyes every time. You really would imagine her to be broken-hearted.”
I can see where this is going. In a moment she’ll be reeling off sad memories of my father’s death and how it scarred us both.
“Enough Mami,” I interrupt quickly. “James doesn’t need to hear any more childhood memories.”
“As you wish,” says my mother, with a wink at James. He supresses a smile, and then reverts his features to an innocent blank as I catch his eye, glowering at him.
I have to admit that James is getting on with my mother better than I could have hoped. Not everyone responds well to her effusive Spanish warmth and larger than life personality. But they seem to be the best of friends already.
Chapter 22
My mother insists that James join us for lunch, and before I know it we’re all packed into her favourite Spanish restaurant, hidden away down some steps, off Tottenham Court Road.
Inside the cavern walls is cosy, and decorated in the warm yellows and oranges of my mother’s native country. And with the English streets up above hidden from view, it’s easy to forget you’re not in Spain.
“Did you come here before?” my mother asks James, delighted to share her secret Spanish communities with an Englishman.
“I haven’t,” says James, taking in the colourful décor and Spanish staff appreciatively. “It is wonderful Mrs Green.”
The complement is enough to bring a Cheshire cat smile to my mother’s face.
“Please. Call me Maria,” she says, making a little playful strike of his arm. “We are practically family now,” she adds, with a teasing glance at me.
I signal her with my eyes. Mami! Enough.
She understands the gesture and opens her eyes wide, in feigned innocence.
We sit on little Andalucía-style wooden chairs, and the manager and waiting staff descend in force, chatting to Mami in Spanish and welcoming her back.
“The manager is an old friend,” she explains to James as the staff depart to bring wine and appetisers. “Oh!” she stands suddenly, and turn to see my Uncle Robin and Aunt Carol and descending the steps into the warm cavern of the restaurant.
“Robin! Carol!” my mother rushes towards them and embraces them warmly. I wait until they approach the table and then stand to hug them both, hard. I realise how long it’s been since I’ve seen them last, and I’ve missed them.
They look, as usual, like the perfect Lond
on media couple.
Robin wears his usual jeans, tongue-in-cheek arty T-shirt, and converse trainers. He used to have an unkempt mop of brown hair, but since a little bald spot appeared a year ago he reluctantly cut it all off, and now wears it short. Aunt Carol loves to tease that her Peter Pan husband has grown up into a media executive.
My aunt has immaculate blonde-highlights in her shoulder-length hair. She is dressed in knee-high boots and tight dark-blue jeans, with a seventies style blouse. They’re both in their forties, but look about ten years younger. Though I often think is a touch of sadness about them from not having children of their own.
It’s wonderful to see them, though I see them both do a double-take when they lay eyes on James.
At first I think this is because they haven’t seen me with a boyfriend since Jerome. Then I realise they both recognise him.
How could I forget? James is famous. Perhaps not to my mother – the creative hermit. But certainly to Robin and Carol, who are firmly in the media scene. My aunt and uncle both run successful media businesses in the City. He owns a design studio, and she works in marketing. It goes without saying they know exactly who James Berkeley is.
I feel a wave of uncertainly. How do you introduce someone who is already known? I see Robin and Carol pause, doubtless thinking the same.
Luckily, James fields the introductions expertly, stepping in with a firm handshake and kissing Carol on both cheeks.
The appetisers arrive in whirl, and the table is suddenly festooned with green olives, fresh bread, and dark olive oil which my mother swears is the best in the world.
Soon we are all eating and enjoying ourselves, and I marvel at how James gets into the swing of things. You would imagine he’d known my relatives for years, rather than having just met them.
At one point, James asks my mother aside for a private conversation, and I wonder what on earth could be going on. But it gives my aunt and uncle a chance to nestle forward and quiz me.
“So Issy,” says my uncle. “No boyfriends for years and then you find yourself a famous film director.”
I laugh, not knowing what to say.
“You look great together,” says Carol, nodding and smiling. “How did you meet?”
“At an audition,” I say, realising I’m not yet totally prepared to answer questions about James.
“Well he obviously likes you,” says Robin. “I’ve never seen a man look so much in love.”
I flush with pleasure, but it is dawning on me that there are so many things I haven’t thought out. This has all happened so fast.
Can I really expect to have a relationship with James Berkeley?
Seeing my relatives’ reactions has brought it home to me. He’s a famous man. I’m a normal girl. Could that ever work?
“Good for your acting career too,” adds Robin, ever career-oriented.
I begin shaking my head, but then James and my mother return. What could they have possibly been talking about? I search my mother’s face for clues, but she gives nothing away.
“Issy, I have to go,” says James, “I’m so sorry. I had work today which I rescheduled, but I can’t put it off any longer.”
I nod in understanding. I didn’t expect him to come meet my mother today, let alone stay for a long lunch. I check my watch. It’s already 3pm.
He makes his apologies to the rest of the table, shaking hands, and kissing cheeks as he eases himself out of the tightly packed group.
“Come with me to the door,” he murmurs in my ear, as he bends down to kiss me lightly on the mouth.
I put down my napkin and follow him, a slightly questioning look on my face.
My mother gives me a knowing glance which I ignore.
When we’re out of view of the table, just before we reach the stairs, James beckons a waiter, and requests the cheque in perfect Spanish.
“You’re paying the bill?” I ask. “My uncle will be offended.”
James waves away my concerns. “Your uncle will understand. It is my first meeting with your family. It is my pleasure to pay.”
I decide not to argue as he picks up the tab for the entire meal and leaves a generous tip. My mother will be even more delighted with him than she already is. I wonder if Carol and Robin will fill her in on his fame and hope they don’t.
He takes my hand and guide me up the narrow staircase that leads from this underground slice of Spain to the English streets above.
“What were you and my mother talking about?” I ask, now we’re comfortably out of earshot of the restaurant.
“Nothing you need to know about just yet,” he says, with a twinkle in his eye. He’s obviously enjoying teasing me, so I decide not to give him the satisfaction of continuing to ask.
“Why did you want me to come with you to the door?” I ask.
“To say goodbye properly of course.” He smiles, sweeping me close against his body, and I breathe in the smell of him.
“I couldn’t kiss you as I wanted to in front of your relatives,” he adds. “It might give your aunt and uncle a heart-attack.”
“What about my mother,” I joke weakly, as he tilts my chin up so I’m looking directly into his green eyes.
“Your mother is a woman of the world,” he says, and before I can answer he catches me in a deep kiss.
I feel myself surrendering to it, letting his mouth draw me into him.
“Issy,” he says, between long kisses, “you have no idea how hard it is to leave you today. All I want to do is carry you to the nearest hotel and have my way with you.”
I smile through the kisses at his choice of phrase. Sometimes he really does sound like a knight of olde.
“But that will come later,” he says, kissing my more firmly now, as though steeling himself to go.
“Ok,” I say, as he pulls away. I feel the same way, I realise. I don’t want him to leave.
“You never answered my question,” he adds, looking intently at me for a moment.
“What question?” I’m looking at him in confusion.
“The most important question of all, of course,” he says with a slight smile. “Will you be my leading lady?”
For a moment I’m confused by the question, and then I realise he’s talking about the movie. I let out a breath.
“I… I want to,” I staring up at him. It’s true. I want more than anything to work with him. To find out every little bit about him. And I loved what I read of the script.
“I’m scared I’ll let you down,” I admit.
His eyes widen.
“That’s what you’re worried about?”
“I’ve never acted in a movie before,” I say, “I’ve never played a lead role before. How can you possibly have so much faith in me? What if I screw up? What if I’m terrible?”
To my amazement he throws back his head and lets out a deep laugh.
“Oh Isabella Green,” he says, “your humility is very becoming. But it is misplaced.”
He plants a kiss on my forehead.
“Who is the director here? Me or you?”
“You,” I mutter, wondering where this conversation is going.
“And how many actresses who have stared in my movies have been slated for bad performances?”
I scowl at him, not liking to have answers drawn from me.
“None,” I admit.
“Don’t scowl,” he whispers, “it could become a disciplinary matter.”
His hand slides to my behind, and I swallow, letting the scowl drop from my features.
“I am the director and you are my actress,” he says. “My job is to guide you into your best performance. I wouldn’t have cast you if I didn’t know I couldn’t get something incredible out of you.”
He’s staring at me now, as though his words have a double meaning.
“What about your working style?” I press. “You said yourself you are difficult.”
“It is nothing you can’t handle, I promise you that,” there is a glint in his ey
es. “I will have my secretary send you all the movie terms and information this afternoon. You will find out more detail about your character, who you will be cast alongside, your working hours, where you will sleep. Everything.”
Where I’ll sleep? Was it my imagination or did I see something flash in his expression as he said that.
James pulls me close again, and this time his hand strays to my breast. I feel my body pushing forward, closer into him.
He kisses me again, and this time he is rougher, more urgent. I know what he wants by the way his mouth moves on mine, and I can’t help but respond. A sudden lust for him arcs up in me like a storm.
His fingers close on my nipple, tweaking it hard. I gasp, pushing deeper into the kiss.
I feel his other hand slide down my body. His fingers pick up the hem of my dress, working underneath between my legs.
We’re standing in a narrow hallway near the entrance with no one to see or hear. But still my hand automatically grabs his wrist.
“Wait,” I whisper, my voice tight with lust, “not here.”
He kisses me deeply, and his hand continues to slide up under my dress, prying apart my legs. The feeling of his fingers as they glide over the skin between my upper thighs is almost too much to bear. I feel my grip on his wrist weaken. His hand is stronger, pushing further up.
“Wait,” I say again, but it comes out more feebly this time. The tips of his fingers gently stoke further upwards. They slide up my inner thigh, and I feel my breath grow shorter and my body tighten as desire floods through me.
The fingers slide upwards, silky on my skin, questing towards where my warmth is growing.
Then the very edges of his fingertips flick softly over where I am wet. They move lightly, teasing me.
I feel as if I’m going to explode. The feeling of his touch is too much, too good, and I don’t want him to stop. I need more. This must be what addiction feels like. My body is begging for him.
His fingers begin to circle deeper, as if he can read my thoughts.
“Tell me you’ll take the role,” he whispers in my ear, “tell me you’ll act for me.”
The tip of his finger meets my clitoris, and he strokes at me expertly. I feel the edges of my body begin to melt into his touch.