Acts of Love

by Talulah Riley

  Bernadette gulped, made her eyelashes flutter, gazed at his mouth with her very best wanton expression, and then glanced demurely up into his eyes, expecting to see him smitten. Instead, he was struggling with silent laughter.

  ‘And if you’re going to put on such a great act, then why shouldn’t I?’ he finished, removing himself to one wall of the elevator, leaning against it and laughing outright.

  Bernadette was used to having complete control in one-on-one social situations. It was quite disconcerting to be faced with Radley Blake, the genius, who seemed to have an almost omniscient understanding of her character, who had seen her at her very worst, her most vulnerable and exposed, and was choosing to use that against her. This was why she hated men – they couldn’t feel. They had no empathy. They didn’t operate on any human level.

  ‘Consider yourself privileged,’ he went on. ‘I’m never usually this cheerful. I’m quite a sombre sort of person usually. My friends wouldn’t recognise me.’

  ‘You have friends?’ she asked sweetly, as they arrived at the lobby.

  The balmy evening air was a pleasant relief from the confines of the elevator, and Bernadette studied Radley as he ambled leisurely towards the waiting sedan. He was actually quite handsome, in an enigmatic, intelligent sort of way, though she much preferred Tim’s clean-looking, fresh-faced energy. Radley looked tortured and brooding, where Tim was joyful and bright. A sigh escaped her as she thought of Tim. It was time to redouble her efforts with Blake. Despite his intentional tormenting, he was taking her to dinner, which had to mean something. A man in Radley Blake’s position couldn’t afford to waste his time being kind or sociable, and if he had chosen to spend an evening with her, it must be because he had something serious in mind.

  Mick was standing by the sedan. He opened the back door as she approached, and she slid on to the seat with a mumbled ‘Thanks, Mick.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ was his only response.

  Radley joined her in the back, and she was overtaken by an irrepressible desire to cuddle up against him. He looked so vast and comfortable, and his body was so large next to her own. She fortunately managed to restrain herself, and busied herself with looking out of the dark window, hating her feminine weakness. Despite loathing all men (except Tim), she found something in their physicality incredibly compelling. Her body wished to seek refuge in the arms of a burly male, even as her mind cried out his unworthiness.

  The restaurant was one she had never been to, a small Italian place, near the beach. They sat at an outside table in a pretty courtyard, lit only by candlelight and the glow from the moon and the city. Even Bernadette began to relax a little under its spell. The maître d’ seemed overly delighted to see Radley, and they had soon ordered a range of dishes, and an excellent wine.

  Bernadette flirted manfully, with plenty of giggling and hair-tossing, to which Radley responded elegantly. He too was clearly an accomplished flirt, and on an abstract level she admired his technique and wordplay. It was rare to be faced with such a skilled opponent.

  After a while, he fixed her with a steely gaze. ‘Enough of the pleasantries,’ he said. ‘I know you remember that I was lucky enough to get a glimpse of the real you last night, and you’re far more interesting than this insipid display would suggest. Thank God for eavesdropping!’

  ‘Are you never going to forget that?’ she asked.

  ‘Never.’ He leant back confidently in his chair, balanced in a precarious fashion, and she had the overwhelming desire to kick the legs out from under him.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘I’m intrigued to know your history. There must be a reason you’re the way you are.’

  Bernadette looked down at her hands, unnerved, and began to fiddle with her sapphire ring. It was always discomfiting to learn that people found her behaviour abnormal. She wondered what she had done to give herself away.

  ‘Is that an engagement ring?’ asked Radley, pointing to her fidgeting fingers.

  She nodded. ‘My father gave it to my mother. He left when I was nine.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Radley, softly.

  Bernadette detected too much feeling in the little word, and she looked up sharply. ‘Oh, come on, nothing dramatic about it. Everyone has daddy issues.’

  ‘No,’ said Radley, shaking his head and looking at her kindly. ‘They don’t, actually.’

  She scowled at him. ‘I don’t want to tell you about myself,’ she said. ‘I don’t like to be interrogated over dinner.’

  ‘Says the journalist!’ he laughed. ‘I don’t know about interrogation. I was just going to proceed with a loose question-and-answer format, in the style of general conversation. We don’t have to talk about anything too personal, if you’re not up for it, but it will be a dull evening if we can’t ask things of one another.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, resting her elbows on the table and her chin on her clasped hands, staring at him in what she hoped was a sexy but intimidating way. ‘I have a question.’

  She paused for dramatic effect, and he laughed again. ‘I’m breathless with anticipation.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ The words came out more serious-sounding than she had intended, with a rising inflection that was pure and unforced, and she realised that the authenticity must be due to a genuine desire to know his answer.

  ‘Ah, now we’re getting down to it.’ He righted himself in his chair and took a contemplative sip of wine. ‘Well, not a puff piece, obviously.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not suggesting that you write puff pieces, at all. In fact I know you don’t. But that’s what’s always put me off before, you know? Ideally, I would want someone who would report facts, accurately. I can’t stand creative non-fiction, this current obsession with new journalism. But failing an impartial reporter, I’d like someone who wouldn’t go with the obvious story, at least. And your perspective is always unique. I prefer negative feedback to inappropriate positive enforcement. I really want nothing other than to put myself entirely at your mercy. I like your work.’

  ‘You want me to interview you?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘You mean this isn’t – this isn’t a date?’ she asked, before having a chance to gather her thoughts.

  He looked at her, puzzled. ‘A date? No. No, I didn’t intend for this to be a date.’

  ‘Why not?’ she demanded, fiercely.

  ‘Why would I ask someone out on a date when they, ridiculously, think they’re in love with someone else? That would be foolish. And I am no fool.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ Bernadette stared at him in confusion.

  ‘Yes, but … you’re open to persuasion? Your heart could be tempted elsewhere?’ He smiled.

  ‘No!’ she said, angrily. ‘I could never be tempted by anyone. There is no one else. You couldn’t possibly begin to understand the way I feel about Tim.’

  ‘In that case,’ he said, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest, as if he had just announced checkmate, ‘if that is true, if you are so wonderfully loyal, why would you accept this “date” with me?’

  She had no answer for him and floundered, hating him and hating herself in equal measure. He wagged his finger at her, like an adult telling off a small child. ‘See this?’ he said. ‘This is the finger of disapproval. It’s pointed in your direction.’

  ‘Please don’t be so fucking condescending,’ she said.

  ‘You’re an absolute menace, woman. But I see you. Everything you think is written plainly across your face. Going to string me along and make Tim jealous, were you?’

  She reddened until she was roughly the same colour as the prosciutto. He leaned over and patted her arm. ‘It’s a fine plan,’ he conceded, ‘and usually I’d be up for it. But I’m afraid I’m helpless where Elizabeth’s concerned. You see, I promised myself a long time ago that I’d never interfere in her love life. You may think me incapable of understanding whatever it is you feel for Tim, but let me tell you: I l
ove Elizabeth. She’s my closest friend.’

  ‘Are you going to tell her?’ she asked, sulkily.

  ‘Tell her what?’

  ‘What I said. To Tim, last night.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Tell her that you’re after her man? No. Like I said, I don’t interfere. Tim should be the one to tell her, if anyone. Besides, at the moment, you don’t seem like a credible enough threat.’ He grinned, amused.

  Bernadette scowled deeply. ‘If you dislike me so much, why do you want me to interview you?’

  ‘Because I like to have the best,’ he said, throwing his hands open apologetically. ‘And you’re the best.’

  Bernadette was only twenty-two when she accompanied Carl Adams to interview President Wibawa at his tropical island home. A delegation of journalists had been chosen by the President himself, to be hosted with his blessing.

  Carl was Bloomberg’s foreign correspondent out of London, and he, along with seven equally distinguished colleagues, was to fly out and have the chance to interview the President in depth about his views on everything from human rights to nuclear disarmament.

  President Wibawa, the self-appointed political, religious and royal leader of a little-known archipelago, had found himself at the centre of a global controversy when he wrested control of the islands from the peace-loving incumbent (his uncle), proceeded to commit atrocities against his people and dictated an extreme foreign policy. This ungentlemanly behaviour, combined with a penchant for flamboyant dress and a habit of violent hyperbole targeted against the West, meant the eyes of the world were fixed firmly upon him.

  It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and Carl was nearly hysterical with excitement when he told Bernadette that he had managed to secure her a place on the trip too.

  Bernadette had been working with Carl for six months, and had already come to the conclusion that journalism was not the career for her. She had pursued the internship as a way of distracting herself from grown-up heartache. Because Bernadette had just had her heart broken thoroughly, by an incredibly charismatic scoundrel, a notorious bachelor and much-admired Conservative MP, who had made love to her for a number of months and then abandoned her with little ceremony. Instead of the romantic hero she had been expecting, her first real encounter had been with a man very like her father. A man she had, in fact, been warned to stay away from by numerous parties. This was when she made the decision to swear off men for ever, the sins of this particular gentleman casting a long shadow.

  Carl was a safe haven. He looked and acted like Tintin come to life, and was as sexually non-threatening as a sweet, single Englishman in his thirties could possibly be. Had enough time passed, Bernadette might have been able to convince herself that she was in love with him, with his gentle amiability and complete lack of resemblance to her father and the MP. But the wounds were still too fresh, and as it was, his constant boyish enthusiasm and desire for adventure only grated on her nerves.

  His reaction to the Wibawa invitation had been typical. He was so thrilled, he could barely form coherent sentences, and he was flushed pink round the face, but his most pressing concern had been to make sure that Bernadette felt included. ‘Of course,’ he had stammered apologetically, ‘you won’t have the chance to actually do much, you know – I’ve told them you’re my invaluable secretary – but just to be there! To see it all! It’s going to be awfully exciting!’

  Bernadette didn’t have the heart to refuse his kind offer there and then, but she planned to tell him tactfully in a day or two that she wouldn’t be joining him. It sounded like the stuff nightmares were made of. The political unrest, the bombings of nightclubs frequented by Western tourists, the images of young boys toting machine guns, the diabolical treatment of women. The idea of being thrust into a literal war zone absolutely terrified Bernadette. Her self-preservation instinct was more than unusually strong, and meant she did not share Carl’s enthusiasm for this particular adventure.

  That evening, over dinner, she mentioned the invitation to her mother. Bernadette planned to boast a little about how invaluable Carl found her, and how hard he had worked to secure her a place on the trip, for she had never outgrown the girlish desire to please and protect her mother.

  Rose St John was a tall, slender woman, with a long white neck that rose from perfectly squared shoulders. To Bernadette, her mother’s shoulders seemed Atlas-like, never hunched in pain or misery, for Rose faced the world with graceful equanimity and a placid detachment that nothing could excite.

  Bernadette had never seen her mother truly discomposed, never heard her utter a curse or a harsh word, and the sound of her laughter was a distant memory. The last time Bernadette remembered hearing Rose laugh was actually the day her father disappeared. It was a beautiful August day, the best kind of English summer, where the sun was warm and seemed everlasting, as though winter had been a made-up hardship. Bernadette had woken late, and when she checked the time on her bedside clock was surprised she had been allowed such a luxury. She had wandered from her bedroom, still in her nightdress, and had found the house remarkably quiet and still. Rose was in the sitting room, a flower on the chintz sofa, clutching a hand-written letter to her chest.

  ‘Mummy?’ Bernadette had enquired, cautiously.

  Rose looked up and said, ‘Your father’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ And then Rose began to laugh. At that moment, understanding flooded Bernadette, and she knew that this laughter marked a new chapter for both of them. This was the giddy thrill of emancipation, the warmth of a new era springing into being. Bernadette laughed too, and clapped her hands, and tried to show her mother how well she understood these adult emotions, but at the sight, Rose stopped laughing, gasped in fact, and her hand went to her mouth, as if something terrible had happened. She drew Bernadette close into a hug and whispered, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ and Bernadette had felt her mother’s tears in her hair.

  Bernadette loved her mother with a devotion that matched nothing else in her life but was testament to her obsessive nature. Rose was Bernadette’s heart and soul, her conscience and her lifeline. She showed her very best face to her mother, and tried always to seem sweet and temperate, hard-working and self-possessed.

  ‘Of course, the fact that I’m allowed to go at all, being – you know – a woman,’ said Bernadette, in a hushed tone, ‘is quite an honour. Carl really feels that I could bring something to the piece; he’s quite anxious that I …’ She trailed off as she looked up and saw her mother’s face.

  Rose’s cheeks were flushed and she was almost smiling, with a light in her eyes that was usually absent. ‘It’s a glorious achievement, my darling,’ she said. ‘I’m so proud of you! To think you get to be right at the heart of everything; you get to witness history first-hand, perhaps even to help shape history. It’s so wonderful.’ She reached forward and clasped Bernadette’s hand. ‘I’m very, very proud of you.’

  And so Bernadette’s fate was decided. She would have endured a far harsher nemesis than President Wibawa if it meant witnessing that warm glow in Rose’s eyes and hearing the pride in her quiet voice.

  A few weeks later, Bernadette came face to face with the controversial dictator. It was at his ocean-front palace compound, a myriad of pavilions, lush gardens and intricate temples. The humidity was almost suffocating. Armed guards surrounded the complex, and everywhere she looked, Bernadette could see men in fatigues, nursing Kalashnikovs.

  The President greeted the foreign delegation like old friends. Tables had been set out in the shade of a spectacular courtyard garden, surrounded by large palms, and a party atmosphere pervaded the little group, who sipped sweet iced tea.

  Several of the journalists had been allowed to bring assistants or secretaries, and Bernadette hung back with these lesser creatures, trying to hide her face under her headscarf. Despite the extensive security detail, she was convinced that at any second there would be gunfire, and she would be riddled with bullets and dr
op stone dead in an international diplomatic incident, along with the other fools standing around her.

  The President was not at all what she had expected. He was young and handsome, and had been educated at Eton. His crisp English accent and horsey laugh bounced off the marble and stone as he shared anecdotes with Carl and the other journalists. He made a point of greeting everyone individually, shaking hands and learning names.

  Bernadette had murderous feelings in her heart as he approached her, but they were tempered somewhat by her old-fashioned English deference to rank, for after all, despite his reputation as a ruthless tyrant, he was basically royalty – a living deity. Any man with such immense power must be a source of fascination.

  As they shook hands and he sought her eyes with his, for she had lowered her lashes in an exhibitionist show of submission, along with trembling fingers and a theatrical intake of breath, she realised that he was just like any other man, victim to the same insecurities, vulnerable to feminine wiles. He smiled broadly at her and said that her name was very pretty. She gave an awkward little bob-curtsey in response and he roared with laughter at the touching formality. ‘Are you frightened of me?’ he asked, loud enough for all to hear.

  ‘Yes,’ she declared, looking up at him for the first time, and quite taking his breath away with the innocent frankness of her gaze, and the certainty of her answer.

  ‘We can’t have that!’ he boomed, smiling round. ‘See, no one else is afraid.’

  The journalists laughed, a couple of them nervously, and the President patted Bernadette on the shoulder. ‘I predict you will not be afraid for long.’ And with that ominous remark, he moved on to the next waiting guest.

  The party of journalists and their assistants were being put up in great style at an American chain hotel in the middle of the nearby town. By the time the armoured vehicles and police convoy had taken them back to the hotel, Bernadette’s room had been filled with one thousand long-stemmed red roses. A card on her bed read, Do not fear what you do not know.