Acts of Love

by Talulah Riley

  ‘Normal?’

  ‘Well, not on vacation, for example, or doing things that you wouldn’t normally do. I like to write slice-of-life articles, as close to your everyday experience as possible. Of course, a lot of the people I interview have an incredibly warped perception of what normal is, and I’m sure you’re no exception. But normal for you is what I’m trying to achieve. Whatever is normal for you, I want to see it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And I usually like to interview over the end of the week: Thursday, Friday, Saturday. That way, I see you at work and at play. Fine?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And I’d like to interview people close to you – family, friends, girlfriends, co-workers, employees, et cetera.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘And you’re really not expecting a puff piece? Because you should know, I speak as I find. I’m not going to write exclusively about your genius. If I think you’d make a lousy lover, then I’ll put that in my article. If I think you treat your staff like shit, then I’ll write about that too. The Man Whisperer is an entity of her own, you know; she has a voice.’

  ‘I’ve already told you, I don’t want a puff piece. You may speak as you find, but I say what I mean. If I’ve said I don’t want a puff piece, then you can take it as truth.’ He leant over and refilled her wine glass.

  ‘Do you not think that I say what I mean?’ she demanded, downing the wine indignantly. ‘The way you said that, it sounded as though you don’t.’

  Radley laughed. Not in his usual sardonic way, but a proper full-blown laugh. The strength of the hearty peal startled Bernadette, and made her think that below Radley’s acerbic exterior there might lurk an actual human being.

  ‘My dear, I’ve never known anyone more deceptive than you. You hardly ever say what you mean, and you certainly never say what you think. You’re an actress.’

  ‘I’m not an actress, I’m a journalist,’ mumbled Bernadette, stunned into stupidity.

  ‘Ah, but you are an actress. What is acting? Nuanced mimicry. And you have it down to a fine art. You listen and repeat, like a parrot, trying to sound like the rest of us, but you don’t believe in what you’re saying. Your heart and your mind are elsewhere.’

  Bernadette took several more large gulps of wine. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said.

  3

  Rose was going to join Bernadette in Los Angeles for Christmas. It was with some trepidation that Bernadette waited for her mother in the soulless environs of the LAX International Arrivals terminal, two days after her non-date with Radley Blake. She stood nursing her Starbucks cappuccino, shifting from foot to foot like an annoyed llama, worrying that she hadn’t brought a welcoming bunch of flowers. It seemed wrong to wait for someone at an airport gate without some sort of offering, and she glanced pettishly at two small children who proudly held up a big home-made banner that read, Welcome Home Dad!

  With unaccountable tears in her eyes, she fiddled with her sapphire ring, whilst clutching at a small bag containing a pink-sprinkles-covered doughnut, which she had bought at the same time as the coffee and was to serve as a last-minute ‘Welcome to America!’ gift. The grease was forming dark patches on the brown paper it was wrapped in.

  Bernadette hated waiting; it was a habit that went entirely against everything she believed in. She watched incredulously as person after person streamed from the arrivals gate, and none of them was Rose. As if drawn by the spectacle that awaited him, the father of the small children was one of the first passengers to make it out through the gate, and Bernadette watched with a lump in her throat as the children leapt on him, squealing in delight, effusive in their kisses and exclamations of love.

  She peeked in the paper bag to check on the sorry little doughnut, which surely had no magic attractive quality, and as the smell of the warm dough hit her, it was all she could do to stop herself from eating it.

  When Rose finally emerged, looking immaculate, considering she had just stepped off a long-haul flight, Bernadette actually squeaked in excitement. She was embarrassingly fond of her mother.

  Growing up, Bernadette had had a hard time reconciling her father’s oxymoronic statements about her mother – such as ‘frigid whore’ and ‘cheap dependant’ – with the day-to-day reality of the kind and patient woman who was so good to her. The fact that Rose never fought back was maddening to Bernadette, but reinforced the idea that her mother was a creature who must be protected.

  Now she wanted to run to Rose and throw her arms around her, but there was something so delicate about her mother that she worried a fierce hug would crush her. So instead, she approached carefully. ‘This is for you,’ she said, awkwardly thrusting the paper bag at Rose.

  ‘A doughnut! How beautifully American! Thank you, darling,’ Rose murmured, putting her arm around Bernadette’s shoulders and grasping the bag as though it contained rare treasure.

  The drive to her apartment seemed unusually long, hampered by rush-hour traffic and the usual shyness that she always experienced when face to face with Rose again after some absence. But they managed to maintain a steady stream of conversation, politely exchanging news, and planning their menu for Christmas lunch.

  ‘Tim got engaged,’ Bernadette said lightly, glancing at her mother out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘Tim your manager?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  Bernadette noted afresh how miraculous it was the way Rose’s dignity lent everything perspective. There were no catastrophes in Rose’s world, no all-consuming passions, no dire misfortunes. The way she had said, ‘That’s nice,’ as though talking about the sunshine, or a non-remarkable pair of shoes, made Bernadette feel that a lukewarm reaction was the pinnacle of human understanding when dealing with affairs of the heart.

  Bernadette enjoyed the Christmas preparations with her mother present. Living alone, there was little incentive to partake in the celebration of a season that everyone else seemed unnecessarily bound to, and Bernadette rather prided herself on her lack of consumer support for an antiquated religious festival. But Rose insisted on a Christmas tree. In fact, she seemed somewhat disappointed to arrive at her daughter’s bare apartment and find no jolly red-and-green welcome; not reproachful, never reproachful, just a little dispirited at the lack of effort, so much so that Bernadette hasted to assure her that she had been overly busy with work, and had been waiting for Rose’s arrival.

  The tree, of course, spawned lights, and tinsel, and other bits of material happiness that littered the otherwise muted bachelorette pad. And then there were the mince pies that Rose set to baking, which filled the place with the most delicious spiced scent, and the angelic choral music that she liked to listen to whilst wrapping enticing book-shaped gifts.

  They had turkey on Christmas Day, and opened their presents, and watched old movies, and Bernadette spent the day in a new pair of red tartan pyjamas. On Boxing Day, still eating turkey and still in her tartan pyjamas, her cell phone buzzed with a message from Radley Blake.

  Are you at home?

  Yes, she texted back.

  Good. Over in ten with a bottle.

  His presumptuousness actually excited her, the thought of an unexpected visitor made her unaccountably happy, and she jumped up to dress without responding to his text. Rose was bemused by the suddenness of the arrangement on such a day.

  ‘But is he a good friend?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not exactly. I wouldn’t really call him a friend. I don’t actually like him that much, truth be told.‘

  ‘Why are you having him over if you don’t like him?’

  ‘He’s a sort of … a business friend. I’m going to interview him, have to be polite, you know?’ She couldn’t resist adding a boast. ‘And he’s hardly ever given interviews before. He hates the press. He’ll only speak to me. It’s sort of an honour.’

  Bernadette absent-mindedly straightened decorations and poured dry shampoo over her hair. It
would be fun to have someone smart and relatively young to spar with for the afternoon.

  Radley rapped loudly on the door when he arrived, and Bernadette waited a good few moments before heading to open it. Rose gave an enigmatic smile.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ said Radley, stooping to kiss Bernadette’s cheek.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said cheerfully, stepping aside to let him enter. He stopped when he encountered Rose, who stood waiting to receive him with her usual look of patient beauty.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, glancing back at Bernadette. ‘I didn’t realise you had company. I won’t disturb you for long. I just wanted to bring you this.’ He handed her a bottle of red wine. ‘And these,’ he added, depositing a box of English Christmas crackers in her arms. ‘To remind you of home.’ He moved to Rose with his hand outstretched. ‘Radley Blake.’

  ‘I’m Rose St John, Bernadette’s mother,’ she said. They shook hands solemnly, like a picture from an etiquette textbook, a quiet reflection of one another, and Bernadette knew with unusual foresight that Radley would appeal to Rose, and vice versa. He had a new air of solicitousness, and a tone in his voice that she had only heard him use with Elizabeth. She was relieved; she didn’t like to expose Rose to the company of loud, forceful men.

  ‘I was worried you were alone,’ he said apologetically to Bernadette.

  ‘Why would you think that?’ she demanded.

  He shrugged, helplessly. ‘It was, I see now, grossly impertinent of me – but people living alone often make plans for Christmas lunch, Christmas Day, but then forget to make plans for the days that follow, and there’s an inevitable anticlimax, the Christmas come-down … or maybe that’s just me?’ he said, grinning ruefully.

  ‘I hope you’ll stay and have a drink with us,’ said Rose, sitting down and gesturing for him to do likewise.

  ‘I don’t want to impose,’ he offered delicately.

  ‘Too late,’ scoffed Bernadette, ‘so you might as well have a drink. Sit down … Please,’ she added, after a glance from Rose.

  Whilst she uncorked the wine and heated some of Rose’s delicious mince pies, she could hear her mother chatting pleasantly to Radley about her visit. Rose’s voice had a stronger note than usual and the sound of conversation carried well enough that Bernadette could tell there was a pattern of equal contribution, no awkward pauses, and both parties sounded amused and interested.

  She set the snacks in front of them on the low coffee table, and sat back, determined to be entertained rather than entertaining. Radley proceeded to open the box of Christmas crackers. Taking one out, he offered the other end of it to Rose, with a droll look. Bernadette first laughed at them, and then squealed, as the cracker popped and the little gift went flying into her lap. ‘Whose is it?’ she demanded, holding up the tiny bundle.

  ‘Mine!’ claimed Rose almost triumphantly. She was practically smiling as she held up the larger end of the cracker as evidence.

  The prize was a small set of silver manicure implements, with the obligatory paper hat and riddle. ‘You must wear the hat,’ insisted Radley. ‘I would take it as a slight if you didn’t.’

  So Rose obediently wore the purple crown, which dented her decorous image only slightly, and seemed, if anything, to add a regal touch to her greying head. Bernadette was secretly thrilled by her mother’s relatively clownish behaviour.

  The three of them shared the bottle of wine and polished off the mince pies. They pulled all the crackers, wore a hat apiece and laughed. Even Rose was laughing. Radley looked at Bernadette fondly and said, ‘I don’t know why I find you so amusing,’ and Rose urged earnestly, but with a tipsy lilt, ‘Oh, Bernadette is really very, very funny!’ and then they all laughed again, and couldn’t stop for quite some time.

  ‘One of the main reasons I wanted to see you,’ Radley said as he was preparing to leave, ‘was because I wanted to personally invite you to my house-warming party. And now you too, Rose, of course.’

  ‘When is it?’ asked Bernadette.

  ‘On the twelfth.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be back in England,’ said Rose. ‘Bernadette, you’ll have to tell me all about it.’

  Bernadette hesitated. She had enjoyed the past few hours with Radley more than she had anticipated, but attributed most of that to gratitude – she was grateful that Radley had been able to entertain Rose, that he had understood immediately the type of woman that her mother was, and had been able to reach her with chivalry and humour.

  ‘Tim will be there,’ said Radley, with forced casualness. ‘And Elizabeth.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bernadette, recognising the lure with a roll of her eyes. ‘Of course I’d like to come. It sounds lovely. Thank you for inviting me.’

  Radley inclined his head in his usual formal manner. ‘Feel free to bring a date.’

  David Schmidt was a middle-aged, unusually short Democrat who wore an almost permanently startled expression on his soft face, and blinked a lot. He reminded Bernadette of some small woodland creature that had accidentally wandered on to the freeway, blinded by the lights of an oncoming truck. Wiry tufts of dark hair declared war on the circumference of his shiny domed head, and seemed determined to deafen him by growing thickly in his ears. He was the West Coast editor of Squire magazine, and had a literary-minded ex-wife whose sole pleasure in life derived from sending him abusive emails interspersed with loving ones.

  He had seemed extremely pleased when Bernadette had told him about her exclusive interview with Radley Blake. A beatific smile replaced the startled-rabbit look, and he blinked a furious approval. Bernadette was mildly fond of David, mostly because he was entirely harmless, too absorbed in his own particular affairs (he was a fusspot) to look at her cleavage or make her feel objectified. He beamed a scholarly friendship, and allowed Bernadette to have her own way in everything, which suited them both perfectly.

  The idea of asking David as her date to Radley’s house-warming had occurred to her almost immediately. There would be something about turning up on the arm of a plain poor innocent that would lend a certain gravitas to her case. No one could accuse her of frivolity, or believe her to be lacking in substance, if she was with someone like David. David was practically a male Elizabeth, so straightforward and decent did he seem – his conversation intelligent and inoffensive, his manner diffident and unobtrusive, and his physical appearance so utterly charmless. Bernadette warmed to the idea so much that she began to think it might not be a bad thing if she and David were to become a semi-permanent item. Dating David, even for a short while, might be enough to force Tim into action. And she really was very keen on David; there was something extremely comforting about him – he would always be kind, never unfaithful, and he wouldn’t want much from her other than the obvious.

  Once Rose was safely back in the UK, after a non-tearful but extremely fraught goodbye at LAX, Bernadette was free to carry out her plan. She sashayed into the offices of Squire magazine like a Japanese schoolgirl, flaunting her sexuality in a blatant and generic way, dressed in an outfit that bordered on being a costume. Her theme was ‘naughty secretary’, complete with black stockings and wire-rimmed glasses. She had a desk at Squire that she rarely used, but today she set up her laptop and worked diligently, tapping away at the keys and ignoring the baleful looks of other staff members. David wandered by her desk, eating a sandwich and reading from a competitor’s magazine, dripping mayonnaise down his tie. He was entirely oblivious to her presence.

  ‘David!’ she trilled in a sing-song voice, smiling up at him.

  He started, and dropped an extra big glob of mayonnaise down himself. ‘Bernadette. Hi, hi. Didn’t see you there. How are you?’

  He seemed unaffected by her dress, and blinked at her in his usual cordial way. She sighed and surreptitiously hiked her skirt up a few inches to reveal lace stocking tops.

  ‘Oh, David! I’m good. I’m really good, thank you!’

  ‘What can we do for you?’

  Bernadette blushed pretti
ly. ‘I was wondering if I could speak to you? It’s … it’s sort of a silly thing.’ She looked at him with an expression of such helplessness that his chest perceptibly puffed with protectiveness.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not silly. Not from you.’

  She leant forward with a confiding air. ‘It’s just … You know Radley Blake?’

  He nodded. ‘Has he cancelled the interview?’

  ‘Oh no!’ she gasped. ‘Nothing like that. No, that’s all fine. But you see, the thing is, he’s having a house-warming party in a couple of days. And I was wondering if … if you would come with me?’

  David blinked once, and then blinked again. He looked painfully confused.

  ‘As a sort of … date,’ she clarified.

  Clearly David had never entertained the slightest possibility that Bernadette would ever see him as anything other than a colleague. Bernadette didn’t make fun of him and laugh behind his back, the way the other women in the office did. Of course, David didn’t know that she was not on speaking terms with any of the women in the office, but for this charity alone he should be grateful.

  ‘Would that be wrong?’ she asked, innocently, with just a hint of perversion, letting her tongue roll over the final word. ‘I mean, would the magazine mind?’

  David gulped and found his voice. ‘No, no. I think. I don’t think. That would be fine!’

  ‘So will you come with me?’

  ‘Yes!’ he cried, emboldened. It was a dream moment for David, a once-in-a-lifetime moment.

  ‘Oh, good! It should be fun. I’ll email you the details,’ and Lady Bountiful bestowed upon him her most generous smile, a tinkling laugh and rosy cheeks.

  He stumbled away on his short legs, trying to make sense of it, looking as though, at last, the fates were rewarding him for a thus far fairly miserable life.

  As she watched him move away, Bernadette thought he looked like a wind-up toy whose key had just been turned tight enough to send him off at a rollicking pace, and his jerky, robot-like movements made her want to laugh out loud. David’s ardour had rather revolted her, and he had fallen far in her estimation. How easily he had given in to the fantasy, after years of lukewarm friendship. Any sensible man would have questioned her sudden change of heart, and been more prudent in his response.