‘How can you prefer her to me?’ she demanded angrily. ‘Tell me how! I’m younger and better-looking! I have more wit!’
The look on Tim’s face would haunt her until the day she died. He was as blank as a piece of white paper, the emotion suddenly drained from his face. She had repulsed him, frightened him, shocked him, and he was gone from her for ever.
‘Don’t speak like that,’ he said.
‘You have no right to tell me what to do!’ she exclaimed, and before she could think, she had raised her right hand to slap him across the cheek. She caught herself halfway, and managed to hold back from hitting him with full force, but still followed through with a half-hearted gesture. The pathetic action was worse, even, than a full-on slap, but it still sounded horribly loud in the otherwise empty room. Bernadette winced on contact, while Tim remained impassive. She withdrew her fingers as though she had been burnt, and her rage collapsed immediately into quiet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
Tim held her by the shoulders. His grip was firm, but his eyes were still blank and emotionless. ‘No, Bernie, I’m sorry.’ He sighed, removed his glasses and rubbed at his cheek. He looked so cute and boyish that she wanted to cry; she felt weak with guilt and shame. ‘I’m going to go back to Elizabeth and tell her that you had too much to drink. Please, let’s pretend this never happened. I value our working relationship. And I really do care about you.’
Before she could reply, he hugged her to him, kissed the top of her head firmly and left the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
She collapsed on the bed, her mind in a whirl. The shame was too much to bear, to be passed over for Elizabeth, the most boring and unattractive woman on the planet. Bernadette squeezed her eyes tight shut, clenched her fists, curled her toes and prayed with every ounce of her being for the wretched feeling to go away. Nothing could be worse than this.
‘It’s true,’ said a voice from the garden. ‘You would be bored with him after a week.’
She started upright, her eyes springing open in fear. There, framed in the open French doorway, the dark mass of him flanked by the billowing white linen drapes, stood Radley Blake.
‘How … how long have you been there?’ she asked, her mouth dry.
He gave a sharp laugh. ‘Long enough. I was out here exploring the garden and saw you come in. I initially thought you’d come to find me. But alas!’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘And miss all the fun? Tell me, do you know what melodrama means?’
She could feel the bile rising in her throat. All excess emotion – and Bernadette had an abundance of emotion – now focused on the man standing taunting her.
‘How dare you …’ she began.
‘Now, now, don’t get me wrong. I admire you, I do. Tim should thank his lucky stars for a girl with your – what was it? – youth, and vitality, and beauty.’
‘Fuck you!’
‘Ah, none of that! What happened to the eloquent vixen of a moment ago? I should like to see if you can find the negative of the pretty drivel you just spouted. Come at me with that tongue and see how I take it. I’ll be much more receptive than the last fellow, I assure you.’ Unlike his former lazy drawl, his words were now spitfire quick and made her head hurt. He held out his hands in cruel parody, opening his arms wide in the way she had first motioned for Tim to join her on the bed.
‘You’re not real,’ she said firmly, standing up. ‘You’re a figment of my imagination. This is all a dream.’
‘I promise you, I’m as real as you are, and equally human. We are the same, you and I.’
He confused her. She couldn’t read him at all. She had to escape this silver-tongued phantasm. She was in an agony of humiliation, but at least she never had to see him again. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said wearily, making for the bedroom door. ‘If you ever mention this to anyone, I’ll curse you for a thousand years.’
‘I believe in the power of your witchcraft,’ he said, swiftly crossing the room and blocking her planned exit.
‘Let me pass. If you don’t move, I’ll scream.’
He gently placed his massive palm over her mouth and planted a kiss on the back of his own hand, so that she could feel his warm breath on her face. ‘Go ahead and scream.’ It was carefully played as a non-threatening antic, but was still too bold for her taste. The man was somewhat polarising, although his breath had stilled her. The intimate warmth on her cheek felt like a colt puffing sweet, molasses-scented air through its nostrils, a friendly and innocent gesture.
‘Let me take you home,’ he said.
‘No way,’ she shuddered, shaking her head. ‘You’ve got the wrong idea about me. I don’t just throw myself at any man …’ Here a little sob escaped her, and entirely overcome, she began to cry.
‘What makes you think I’d want you? I’m trying to be a Good Samaritan. What was it you called me – your unwelcome saviour? Besides, do you really want to head out of here alone, and risk running into Tim or Elizabeth? Much better that you’re too ill to be seen. Let me carry you out, and spirit you away in my car.’
His words were creepy, but his eyes seemed kind. ‘I don’t need to be rescued,’ she said, through her tears.
He rolled his eyes and scooped her easily into his arms. Evidently he was as strong as his muscled frame suggested. ‘Come along, young lady,’ he smiled. ‘Shut your eyes and pretend to be in an alcohol-induced coma.’
‘I’m not drunk.’
‘Of course you’re not.’
‘And don’t call me “young lady”. That’s so condescending.’
‘And here I was, being polite. I can think of much worse names for you, I assure you.’
She glared at him, prepared to retaliate, but something in the twitch of his mouth stopped her. She chose the only sensible course of action. She shut her eyes, and leant her head against his ridiculously broad shoulder.
2
The following morning, Bernadette awoke from the bliss of her dead slumber to a raging headache and a nagging guilt. Self-reproach was unusual, and she spent a moment trying to frame the feeling, taking into account the fact that her body was heavy with sadness, her eyes stinging and puffy, her limbs listless and her mind slow.
Then she remembered that Tim was engaged. A moment later, she remembered her manic confession, and several moments after that, she remembered Radley Blake. She sat up slowly, straight-backed, like a beautiful zombie rising from a shallow grave. With horror, she remembered everything.
He had carried her swiftly from the guest room, whilst she had kept her eyes shut tight, hoping against hope that they wouldn’t run into anyone.
‘Elizabeth!’ Radley hissed a warning, and she felt him come to a stop, and Elizabeth’s voice near her head.
‘Is she okay?’
‘She’s passed out drunk,’ Radley replied. ‘She mustn’t drive. I’m going to drop her home.’
‘Can’t she stay here? I can take care of her!’ Elizabeth’s gentle fingers brushed a strand of hair back from Bernadette’s face. Bernadette hated women who played to men. She heard Tim’s voice join the group, and her heart leapt as her stomach lurched.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I found her in the guest bathroom, passed out,’ Radley said, with full conviction. Bernadette started working frantically backwards in her head, wondering if it was believable that such a short time after her passionate dalliance with Tim, she should be found senseless on the floor of the WC. Luckily, Tim seemed to buy it. He agreed with Radley that it would be better if she were delivered home, rather than spending the night in Elizabeth’s care.
‘Don’t you just love her, Rad?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘She’s so cute! And such a good heart.’
Bernadette could feel them all staring at her face. She was terrified that they would discover that she was, in fact, not unconscious, but wide awake and fuming. She considered adding in a little snore for dramatic effect, but doubted her ability to pull it off convincingly.
>
‘She’s a delicate china doll,’ said Radley. Bernadette wanted to kick him, but that too would have given the game away.
‘I could never think of a match for you,’ Elizabeth went on. ‘But when I met her, I just knew! She has the same feel as you – absolutely honest, with no side to her. A kind of raw honesty, and so smart.’
Bernadette wondered what Tim was doing during this exchange. Was he wishing he had kissed her? Was he jealous to see her in Radley’s arms?
‘Well, you know me better than anyone, Lizzie,’ Radley said, in an unnecessarily soppy voice.
Bernadette thought of his remark from earlier in the evening, how a woman like Elizabeth would never choose to be with a man like him. She felt a grudging respect for Radley Blake. She could never admire a man that someone like Elizabeth would actively choose to be with – no man other than Tim.
They managed to make it out to the valet stand without any further incident. ‘Keep your eyes shut,’ he instructed. Happy now to be directed, Bernadette did what she was told, and felt the unusual and dizzying sensation of being placed in the back of a large sedan by a stranger with an unknown motive. He managed to lay her across the back seat, her head by the far-side door, her feet near the open passenger door.
‘Nice shoes,’ he said provocatively, flicking her left heel.
She opened her eyes to glare at him, just in time to see him apparently climbing in on top of her. She struggled to sit up, but he pushed her gently back down.
‘They might be looking out the window,’ he said, clearly enjoying himself, his arms braced on either side of her body. ‘I only wanted your valet ticket. Where on your person might it be? Mick can follow us in your car.’
‘Who’s Mick?’ she demanded.
‘I’m Mick,’ said a nasal voice from the driver’s seat. She turned to see a stocky guy in a chauffeur’s uniform staring at her in resignation. He seemed unsurprised at her appearance on his back seat. Meekly she fished out the pink ticket from her evening bag, and handed it directly to him. ‘Thanks, Mick,’ she croaked.
‘Uh-huh,’ was his only response.
Radley replaced Mick in the front seat, and finally they were off. Bernadette sat up almost immediately when they were out of view of the house, her head spinning a little.
‘Where do you live?’ he asked.
She gave him her address, and he tapped it dexterously into the navigation system. His hands were large, like a manual labourer’s, but he had incongruously nimble fingers.
‘Now go to sleep,’ he said. ‘Oh, but before you do, I’m taking you to dinner tomorrow night.’
‘No way,’ she said, shaking her head vehemently.
‘Why not? Your beloved Tim isn’t going to be wining and dining you, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t have an evening of your company.’
Horror of horrors! She began to cry again, not loudly, but several tears rolled down her cheeks, and she snuffled a bit to prevent her nose from running.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, quite kindly. ‘It was wrong of me to tease you so soon. Here, let me make it up to you – I’ll take you out to dinner tomorrow night!’
‘No!’ she cried, loudly and piteously.
‘Why not?’ he asked, baffled. Clearly he was not used to being refused.
‘Because – because you’re mean!’ she wailed. And then she hiccoughed.
‘Mean?’ he said, flabbergasted, as if he didn’t grasp the concept. ‘You think I’m mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well so are you, you heartless vixen. What I witnessed tonight was hardly generous, was it?’
‘I’m in love with him. Love. You know? The only thing in life worth having, the most important part of anyone’s existence, the impossible dream?’
‘Oh, spare me.’
They drove for several miles in silence, the dead air broken only by the occasional direction from the satellite system, delivered in a computerised female voice, and the click, click, click of the indicator.
As she drifted off into sleep, drooling slightly on the comfortable leather interior, Bernadette reviewed the evening. It certainly had the outward appearance of failure. She had declared her love to Tim, only to be rejected, and had insulted Radley Blake, an excellent interview prospect. But she knew only too well that things couldn’t be judged purely by their looks, and that truth often hid in the less conspicuous detail. For example, no man would offer to drive a drunk woman home, would take the care that Radley Blake was taking with her, unless he was truly attracted to her – so all was not lost there.
Bernadette had less of a professional interest in Radley than a personal one. She always allowed her personal life to take precedence. Success at work had come easily, so she valued it little, whereas her single-minded pursuit of Tim was proving to be more challenging. Fate seemed to be signalling to her. Here was a handsome, intelligent billionaire who was obviously enamoured with her and was Elizabeth’s long-time friend. He would be the perfect vehicle for planting the seed of jealousy in Tim’s heart. Bernadette grasped just how impressive jealousy could be as a means of motivating affection; she herself suffered agonising pangs any time she witnessed Tim with Elizabeth. If Tim were to believe that she and Radley were an item, if she could flaunt another man’s good fortune and show Tim exactly what he had passed up, she could drive him crazy. It was an ancient routine, but it worked. She wanted him unsettled and green-eyed and hurt. ‘Okay,’ she mumbled out loud. ‘I’ll have dinner with you.’
She peeked at Radley’s face in the driver’s mirror. He looked a little surprised at her drastic change of heart, or perhaps he was just surprised that she was awake. She saw his eyebrows rise quickly, his eyes widen, and he opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again. He seemed pleased.
‘Dinner,’ she repeated. ‘Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock.’
Bernadette was used to dealing with hangovers. She had a robustness of constitution that belied her delicate frame. But she idled away the day in bed regardless, writing scraps of poetry, surfing the internet and eating ice cream. She lived in a spacious, high-ceilinged apartment in Santa Monica. Nearly every room had a view of the ocean, and she lived her life with the windows wide open. She lived alone, of course.
A large portion of the day was spent in researching Radley Blake. He was, by all accounts, some kind of genius, and the company he had created, Clarion Molecular, was the most advanced biotech firm in the world. There was a surprising lack of direct press coverage. It was easy to find quotes about him, but there were very few sound bites that could actually be attributed to the man himself. On YouTube she found a video of a lecture he had given at Oxford University. She admired his skill at public speaking; he was witty and concise, and delivered a vast amount of information in a palatable way. He was clearly immensely knowledgeable, yet kept his subject accessible and entertaining. He was too charming, for a scientist.
At seven o’clock, she began a careful toilette. She rubbed Moroccan oil in her hair, coconut oil on her skin, and applied her make-up with the skill of a true artisan. She opted for a smoky eye and a nude lip; a lot of men found lipstick (especially scarlet – her favourite!) to be threatening. She needed to appear ethereal and demure, to counter the impression of the night before. Dressed in soft leather trousers, with high-heeled suede boots and a grey cashmere sweater, she was artfully styled as an urban angel, an empyrean fashion plate with no high-grade thoughts in her head. The look was incredibly tactile. She had allowed her hair to dry naturally, and it framed her face in loose waves.
At eight o’clock sharp, Radley Blake was at the door of her apartment. He seemed impressed by the vision that greeted him, as she smiled a shy welcome and let him kiss her on the cheek.
‘I thought you’d have forgotten,’ he said simply. ‘I wasn’t sure you were cognisant when you agreed to this.’
She laughed a musical laugh. ‘I’m looking forward to it, actually. You know, I’m just terrible at handling alcohol. I was a beast l
ast night. This gives me a chance to show you that I’m not always that way.’ She flashed a dazzling grin, and he looked at her shrewdly, his eyes twinkling.
‘I don’t know that you’re all that different.’
She felt herself bridle testily. Everything this man said was a confrontation, designed to provoke. She laughed again, airily. ‘Well, shall we head out?’
He gestured gallantly for her to pass him. ‘Certainly, if you’re not going to invite me in.’
She grabbed her silver clutch bag from a low table and strode out into the hallway. She went to push the elevator button, but Radley leapt in front of her and made a great show of pressing it first. ‘Allow me,’ he said, with a flourish and a low bow. He put his hands to his face and pretended to curl an invisible Victorian moustache.
‘Why are you behaving like a cartoon villain?’ she asked, crossly.
He laughed, a surprisingly youthful laugh that made his eyes crease in a friendly way, so that he looked almost attractive. ‘I don’t know,’ he grinned. ‘It’s just something you bring out in me. I keep seeing you as you were last night, displayed on that bed – “I want to marry you and have a whole parcel of babies!” It was exquisite. You bring out the theatrical in me. I’m not usually like this.’
‘You know,’ she said, trying desperately to control her feelings of dislike, ‘you put on this whole gentlemanly act, but the sign of true manners is not making the other person feel uncomfortable, not highlighting the other person’s faults or … or faux pas.’
‘No one could make you feel uncomfortable,’ he said, as they entered the lift. ‘You have skin as thick as a rhinoceros’s hide. Besides …’ the doors closed and he took a step towards her, standing disconcertingly close, looking down at her from his great height, ‘you have no faults.’
Acts of Love Page 4