Close Up and Personal (Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  “I…”

  His fingers continue to move softly against my body. The feeling is irresistible. As though every nerve ending is alive.

  “Tell me you’ll take the role,” he repeats. Beneath my dress he continues the tantalising teasing with his hand. Then he pushes three fingers deep inside me, and I almost cry aloud with pleasure.

  “Say it,” he commands.

  I feel his fingers begin to thrust, and now he’s fucking me with his hand.

  “I’ll take the role,” I gasp, “please James…”

  In the pulsing arousal he’s making inside of me I hardly know what I’m saying.

  “You have no idea how much I want to be inside you right now,” he whispers. “Or how much I need to have my mouth where my fingers are now.”

  He continues a steady and relentless thrusting as he speaks. I fade in and out of his words the ecstasy of his movement.

  A small part of my brain tries to remind me that technically, I’m in public, even though we’re hidden from view. A larger part of my all-consuming desire sweeps it to silence as James works beneath my dress, forcing deep into me.

  Then I hear laughter echo up from a group of diners downstairs, and it strengthens my resolve. My grip tightens on James’s forearm and I pull his hand away.

  He’s staring knowingly into my eyes, and as I watch, he moves him fingers to his mouth and runs them over his lips.

  “Delicious,” he says. “I wish you’d let me finish.”

  I blush deep red.

  My body is still a chaos of arousal. I try and drive the feelings into check.

  “You can’t take that agreement as binding,” I say, suddenly realising what he’s just elicited from me.

  “Oh I think I can,” he says. “A promise is a promise, Ms Green.”

  He stares at me gravely, and I laugh.

  “Send me the contracts,” I say, “and we’ll see.”

  “Oh no,” he’s shaking his head. “You just agreed to take the part. If you go back on your word now, I’m afraid I will have to discipline you. And perhaps more strongly than you’d like.”

  There is a hungry look in his eyes. I realise whatever he’s thinking about doing to me, he would greatly enjoy.

  “I haven’t agreed to anything with you,” I say, trying not to imagine what might be in his mind.

  Spanking? Worse?

  He takes hold of both of my hands, and holds them firmly, so they are pinioned against my sides.

  I can feel erection pressed against me. He must still be as turned on as I am. More, perhaps, by the feel of him. He’s rock hard, and I stifle the desire to touch him.

  “I’m not sure I need your permission,” he says, leaning closer. “I think I might already have it.”

  Oh no. My body is betraying me again. How does he do this to me?

  I try to keep my expression neutral, but his words are making a fire inside of me.

  He lowers his voice even further and leans in close to my ear.

  “I think you want to be taken in-hand, Ms Green,” he says. “I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it in your body. And make no mistake, if you disobey me by going back on your word, I will punish you.”

  He draws back, so he’s looking directly into my eyes.

  With his hands holding mine to my sides I feel myself trembling. Though with fear or lust I’m not sure.

  “Believe me Isabella,” he says, making every word count. “What I have in mind for you will be a lot worse than a spanking.”

  James releases my arms, and kisses my lips, but quickly this time. I feel him fading away from me, as he’s done in the past. The breaking of contact since he’s worked me up to this state of arousal feels almost like physical pain.

  “I will send the details,” he says. His voice is stern. Authoritative. “Make sure you read them thoroughly. You are due on set in less than a week, and I want you in perfect condition. You will be expected to work hard.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but he places a finger over my lips.

  “I will also be visiting my father’s estate in a few weeks,” he says, his voice gentler now. “I would like you to consider joining me.”

  And then with another quick kiss, he is gone, and I am left reeling in the sweet aftershock of James Berkeley.

  Chapter 23

  The rest of lunch passes in a whirl, and I wonder that my relatives can’t see the lust still evident on my face. Certainly James managed to leave his mark. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to pass the rest of the day without seeing him.

  At one point my phone beeps, and I examine the screen to see a message from James.

  Can’t stop thinking about finishing what I started in the stairwell. Call you later.

  I smile at the message, and look up to see my relatives are all looking at me knowingly. I flush bright red and shove the phone back into my bag.

  Carol and Robin have explained to my mother about James’s Hollywood fame, and she is both shocked and excited. I can tell she’s not quite sure what to make of it all. But when she leaves she hugs me and says how happy she is.

  When I finally get back to my apartment after lunch I find a note from Lorna.

  “Gone out with Ben, don’t wait up!”

  It’s pinned to a bag of my favourite cookies, and I realise this is her way of apologising. We’d planned to stay in this evening and talk over a script she’d been critiquing for me. But this will have to wait I guess.

  I pick out a cookie – vanilla and choc-chip – and munch on it distractedly. I don’t mind the cancellation really. I’d rather Lorna went out and enjoyed herself. But with Ben Gracey? I ponder this, wondering how I feel.

  Every time I see Ben he seems to tell me some damning thing about James. Then again, he’s also proved to have been telling the truth. At least about the drugs. But what about the actresses signing contracts?

  I realise I haven’t got a full answer out of James on this one. He assured me that I wouldn’t be obliged to sign away any of my personal rights on his movies.

  But that doesn’t mean he’s never requested it of anyone else, does it?

  I resolve to ask him about it, wondering how he’ll respond.

  Just thinking about him makes a memory of our love-making flash back into my mind. I feel a sudden bolt of lust shudder through me, making me weak at the knees.

  How does he do this to me?

  My phone rings, and I try and shake away thoughts of James. I pick it up. My mother’s name flashes on the display.

  I click to answer.

  “Hi Mami.”

  “Carino! You will never guess what has happened?”

  “What is it?” Drama from my mother can be good or bad. I grip the phone tighter.

  “That gorgeous man of yours!” she trills happily.

  “What do you mean?”

  Is she talking about James?

  “He has arranged the legal things for me darling!”

  My head is a jumble, wondering why my mother means. She fills in the silence for me.

  “The apartment darling! The service charge! James took me aside at the lunch, you remember. He asked me what needed doing. He was concerned about you, paying that full charge.”

  “I see.” Understanding dawns. James has arranged the legal matters for my mother. I try to remember telling him about the situation with the apartment. I did, I realise, a few days ago when we first had lunch. It feels like a lifetime ago.

  I feel a flare of anger. What right did he have to get involved with my financial issues without my permission? And only after a few dates – and, ok admittedly, some very hot nights.

  But still, that doesn’t give him the right to interfere with my life.

  Then again I can’t deny he has done me a real favour. I hated the legal issue hanging over my mother. And I knew she disliked it too. She never would have dealt with the service charge, and I would have been paying it forever.

  So James has not only spared my mother a stress
ful problem, but he’s also saved me my entire rent.

  I turn this realisation over in my mind. If he really has dealt with the service charge, then me and Lorna and now officially rent free. She’ll be more thrilled than I am.

  “How did he do it?” I ask.

  “Oh it was simple in the end, darling,” says my mother, confident in her own legal knowledge now it’s no longer her responsibility. “It was a case of investments. Your father put aside a sum of money into the service charge of the building. The interest on it is enough to pay the annual charge. It should have been done years ago!” she adds brightly. “So simple. Just move the money into a different account, and poof!”

  I smile to myself as how easy she now thinks it all to be. Only a few days ago she was terrified of consulting a lawyer.

  “James had it all taken care of in a few hours,” she gushes. “Such a wonderful man. You hold onto him Isabella.”

  I smile wryly at this. If only she knew what he wanted to do to me.

  “OK Mami,” I say, “I gotta go. I want to call James.”

  “Yes, of course,” my mother breathes out at the obviousness of this action. “You phone him and thank him. Thank him from me. I don’t know if I ever can repay him,” she adds, with her usual gift for drama.

  “Bye Mami.”

  “Bye carino.”

  I hang up and hold the phone for a long moment, wondering whether I should call James this second, when I still angry at his interference, or later when I’m seeing things more rationally.

  As usual my fiery temper wins out, and I select his contact details and press to call.

  His phone goes straight through to voicemail, and I am temporarily entranced by his sexy voice telling me he can’t answer. I open my mouth to leave a message, decide against it, panic, and don’t manage to hang up before the voicemail clicks in for a few seconds.

  Great. Now when he picks up he’ll know I wimped out of leaving him a message at the last minute.

  Nice work Isabella. Sophisticated.

  I toss the phone onto my bed, idly wondering where he can be with no reception. James Berkeley doesn’t take the London Underground, after all.

  Then I notice a package has been left on the kitchen counter. It’s addressed to me. Lorna must have taken delivery before she went out on her date.

  I know even before I pick it up that it’s the movie details which James told me about. Primarily I can tell by the elegance of the box. But when I lift it from the counter I see the mark of his production company stamped in red on the package.

  At least this is something to kill the time before I can get through to James. Already my annoyance at his interfering is beginning to fade away.

  I take another bite of cookie, and carry the package into the lounge. There I demolish the rest of it in a few mouthfuls, and seat myself on the sofa.

  The package is relatively plain by James’s standards, though it still comes with an understated elegance.

  It’s slightly larger than a shoebox and wrapped in thick brown paper, the kind that old post offices used to use, and tied with a brown ribbon rather than string. But instead of a bow, the parcel has been secured with sealing wax, stamped with the company logo.

  This is a work delivery, I remind myself, thinking it looks rather corporate. The others were gifts.

  I pull at the red wax seal and it splinters into three pieces. After the ribbon and paper have been dispensed with I’m left with a large box in thick cardboard. I ease off the lid, and inside are various papers and bound booklets.

  Everything looks as though it has cost a fortune to produce. I’m guessing whoever handles Berkeley’s design and print services are handsomely paid.

  I take out the different documents and fan them out on the coffee table, wondering what to read first.

  There is a thick bound booklet titled ‘Berkeley Studios’, which I’m guessing details the layout and location of studios. And maybe the accommodation as well, if there are trailers.

  Then there is a printed script, a book embossed with my character’s name, which I assume is background on my role, and a cast list.

  A further, serious-looking book is entitled ‘rules and regulations for cast’.

  The difficult Mr Berkeley strikes again, I think.

  I let my eyes rest on the rulebook for a moment, and then I pick up the one with the studio title instead, and flip through it.

  The first page includes a pull out map, which I open with interest. The image shows the entire complex of Berkeley’s studio. It’s more like a small town, I think, trying to take it all in.

  The map shows a dizzying number of stages, mixed in with costume and prop workshops, technical stores and post-production suites. There’s a mammoth-looking tank to film water scenes, a petrol station and even stables for coach and horses. I imagine that must be for use in historical films.

  My eyes pan down to what I presume is the accommodation part of the studios. I don’t see any trailers marked, but there’s a fitness room and health farm listed, alongside a huge canteen and restaurant-bar, and even a nursery.

  I let out a low whistle. I only took one module on set management at drama school. But it’s enough to know this studio is serious luxury.

  James Berkeley certainly doesn’t do things by half.

  I feel a surge of excitement, thinking what a fun place it will be to work. Though I have no idea how I’ll avoid getting lost amongst all the studios and stages.

  I flip to the next page, and the location is listed, with various instructions on how to get helicopters, coaches and limousines to access the studio park.

  The whole complex is located in the English countryside, forty miles or so north-east of London.

  Since I don’t have a car I am wondering whether it’s even possible to access on foot when I see some text lower down.

  “Private cars will be provided unless actors specifically request their own transport deliver them.”

  Well that’s one problem dealt with then.

  The next document I pick up is the casting pages. I’m wondering who’ll be acting alongside me. Berkeley’s film sometimes use big names, but others have been shot entirely with unknowns. In fact he’s famous for making debut appearances into Oscar-winning performances.

  I flick into the pages and let my eyes scan down.

  The first name listed is mine. I feel a thrill of excitement, seeing Isabella Green, in black and white, by the leading role.

  I never wanted to be a famous actress, but I can’t deny it’s a heady feeling, being almost famous.

  I look down the list. The leading man’s role is still blank, with to be cast, inked in, instead of a name.

  I frown about this, and read on.

  Most of the names are unfamiliar, but I see at least three that make me catch my breath.

  Callum Reed. He’s an incredible actor, known as much for his diversity in roles as his colourful personal life. His last film was a comedy, but before that he’s won accolades for serious leads and supporting roles.

  No doubt Callum feels it’s time he won as Oscar, so it’s a no-brainer that he’s working with James.

  I glance at his role. He’s not a lead. But from what I’ve read of the script, his supporting role has plenty of depth. It’s a great opportunity to show of his acting talent.

  I think back to what I know of Callum. He’s in his mid-forties now, but in his youth he was well-known for having problems with drugs. I feel my fingers tense around papers. James must know this. How is he comfortable casting Callum, given his own chequered past?

  The next name I recognise comes with a little fission of shock. Natalie Ennis. I stare at it for a moment. Natalie is not so much famous as infamous. She’s known for diva tantrums and unreasonable demands. Though some feel she has sensational acting potential.

  Natalie is slated to play the prostitute I initially thought James had cast me for.

  I pause for a moment, remembering something, my eyes searching
to coffee table.

  Lying on the far end is a copy of Lorna’s Heat Magazine, detailing all the latest celebrity scandals.

  I snatch it up.

  There on the front page is Natalie. She’s stumbling out of a limo looking worse for wear, and the image is spliced with another of her, shouting at her boyfriend, and flipping him the bird.

  Her long dark hair is falling over her face, and her tiny child-like body is barely concealed by a mini-skirt and bra-top.

  I flick to the corresponding story inside the magazine.

  “Natalie Reaches Melt-Down!” screams the headline. And then, in smaller letters: “Former child-star can’t cope with adult life.”

  I let my eyes rove over the text, reading about how Natalie has a problem with drink, unsuitable men, and, occasionally, unsuitable women.

  Natalie shot to fame as a young girl, and everyone thought she’d go on to be one of the greats. But she became more famous for movie-death as she grappled with personal problems.

  So this is who I’ll be working with, I think, deciding to reserve judgement. English newspapers and magazines are notorious for making up scandals. Perhaps Natalie has just fallen prey to the worse side of the press. And Callum’s drug past was a long time ago. He’s cleaned up his act since then.

  I wonder how it works on-set - whether I will be spending any time with these famous people. Or if they will simply disappear to their own luxurious quarters the minute the director shouts ‘cut!’

  Certainly I’d be interested to meet them.

  My eyes fall on the rulebook again, and I pick it up with a sigh, realising I can’t put it off any longer.

  I open it, and begin to scan through the terms.

  Some of it I recognise as standard from drama school – theatre and movie contracts were part of the curriculum. But halfway down there is a large clause concerning drug use.

  Berkeley Studios operates a zero tolerance to the use of illegal drugs.

  Actors who feel they need support in this matter may contact the studios before filming. We operate extensive and highly effective rehabilitation services for those willing to accept. However, once filming has begun, any actor in breach of these conditions will have their contract instantly terminated.