Radley Blake’s new house was an impressive construction of glass and stone and steel. It sat high on a hill with views of the city and the ocean. The grounds were immaculate: terraced lawns, neat desert flowers in regimented beds, and a steamy infinity pool that fell away to nothingness. David had picked Bernadette up in his Prius, and she had been flirtatious and teasing the whole journey, questioning his choice of music and keeping up a steady stream of banter that fortunately allowed him to say very little. David had not been favoured with the gift of easy conversation. Especially when faced with bright, beautiful girls like Bernadette, he was liable to get tongue-tied and say something foolish. But she prattled so constantly that he was saved the labour of having to answer, for which blessing he seemed excessively grateful.
The cooling walk from valet stand to the large front door allowed Bernadette to pause and reflect. She had been mindlessly chattering for the past half-hour, and her cheeks felt numb from all the smiling. But David wasn’t really so bad, and she felt with some certainty that Tim would be more annoyed by her showing up with David than if she had been with Radley Blake himself. She and Radley were an altogether too believable pairing, but it would be difficult for Tim to watch her happily wasting herself on the oafish David Schmidt.
The front door was made of rough oak and looked somehow like a living tree trunk. It stood hospitably open, and guests streamed into the open-plan space beyond. There were a number of people already at the party, and to Bernadette’s horror, the majority of them were stunning young girls. The house was elegant, warm and modern, and used a lot of natural materials – slate and wood, stone and iron. A fire roared in a huge hearth, a DJ played an eclectic mix, and the beautiful people enjoyed each other and the flowing liquor.
Suddenly Radley had both her hands in his and was kissing her gently on the cheek. He smelt like strong whisky and expensive cologne. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hey,’ she said, gulping. ‘This is David Schmidt. My editor.’
David preened and held out his hand.
‘Welcome!’ said Radley. ‘I’m looking forward to being whispered to for your publication. I read Squire, actually. I like it. Good articles.’
‘You’d better watch our Man Whisperer!’ said David, his face pink with fearless joviality. ‘She’s a tricky one. She can make men do anything! Say anything!’ He looked quite overcome with the myth and grinned covetously at Bernadette as if she were once an untamed creature, and now his own particular pet in a cage.
Radley raised an eyebrow. ‘Do anything? Is that so?’
Bernadette felt colour rise to her cheeks. ‘That is not possible, for anyone,’ she said. ‘And nor should it be.’
‘But you’re a marvel!’ cried David, who had decided that Bernadette was his favourite topic of conversation. ‘You’re a vixen with a pen—’
‘David, could I have some wine, please? Red,’ asked Bernadette desperately. ‘I’m very thirsty.’
David looked aghast at his failure as a date. ‘Yes! Yes, of course. Radley, anything?’
The host shook his head to decline, and David scuttled off with all haste. Bernadette met Radley’s clear gaze with a defiant look.
‘Poor sod,’ he said, nodding after David.
‘I like David,’ she began.
‘I should hope so. He seems like a nice man.’
‘Where’s Tim?’
‘He and Elizabeth are in the garden. Elizabeth has something very special she wants to talk to you about.’
Bernadette immediately became dizzy, and clutched at Radley’s arm in fright. ‘She’s not pregnant, is she?’
He shook off her grip, annoyed. ‘Control yourself, woman. No. She’s not pregnant.’
‘You have a nice house,’ muttered Bernadette, gathering her wits and changing the subject.
‘Now I just need the right woman to make it a home,’ he laughed, mock-sentimentally, slapping his hand across his heart and smiling widely at her.
‘I’ll be sure to include that in my article,’ she said. ‘I’m taking notes, you know.’
‘Not tonight you’re not.’ He placed his heavy hands on her shoulders. ‘I’m quite serious, Bernadette. Other than our allotted interview time, I don’t want anything on the record, thank you very much. I want there to be room for you and me to develop a friendship, separate from anything else.’
‘Oh,’ she said, taken aback. She wondered if he meant a genuine, platonic friendship, or if it was clever long-game subterfuge.
‘Don’t you think we could be friends?’ he asked, peering at her oddly.
‘We could be friends,’ she responded carefully.
‘Then let’s divide our working relationship, in which you as the Man Whisperer are to give an honest but accurate account of what you find, from our personal relationship … where who knows what will happen? I want to be a friend to you.’
Bernadette didn’t like the way he looked at her, and was relieved by David’s return with the wine. ‘I want to find Tim,’ she said, and nodding politely, moved away from Radley, with David in tow. David had a jaunty spring in his step, and the alert look of a cocker spaniel on a duck hunt.
Tim and Elizabeth were in a small knot of people lounging beside the infinity pool, protected from the New Year’s chill by strategically positioned heat lamps. Bernadette wanted to cry when she spotted her love with his hand in the small of Elizabeth’s back, laughing at the centre of a happy group. He caught sight of her looking and she smiled meekly, shrugging her shoulders. As he beckoned her over, everyone in the vicinity turned to watch her approach. Elizabeth was rushing forward calling a cheery greeting, and Bernadette found herself grabbing David’s hand for support. He clutched back at her with his clammy fingers and gave her hand an exultant squeeze.
‘Bernie!’ said Elizabeth, enveloping her in a hug and standing on tiptoes to give her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘You’re here!’
‘This is my date, David,’ Bernadette said, and felt David jerk beside her, no doubt vivified by her choice of words.
Elizabeth was all politeness, and Bernadette sensed rather than heard them exchanging the relevant details. Her eyes were on Tim, who was still involved in conversation with the others. She went to him and took both his hands in hers, vaguely noting that this was the method Radley Blake had used to greet her merely minutes before. She kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Hello.’
‘Bernie! Hi!’ He didn’t linger over the greeting, as he usually would, but turned swiftly to indicate the people he was standing with. ‘These are our friends Stephanie and Mason, and Gina and Chris, and the lovely Miss Lauren Paul.’ Bernadette nodded and acquiesced as Tim put his arm around her shoulder and said, ‘This is the infamous Man Whisperer! Bernadette St John.’
She didn’t like the look of the lovely Lauren, who was eyeballing her with obvious distaste and had raised an eyebrow at Tim’s introduction. Lauren had extremely blonde hair, piled on her head in an overly complicated style that looked like it had been inexpertly copied from Pinterest. Her jaw was too square, and her eyes too close together, and her lips were thin and mean-looking. Despite these deficiencies, she was, Bernadette conceded, a fairly attractive girl. Her figure was good, her skin looked smooth and tanned, and she had a sharpness of feature that implied a quick mind.
Elizabeth and David had followed her over, and David was rocking up and down on his heels in a manner that demanded attention.
‘And this is David, my date,’ Bernadette said to them all in a dull voice.
Tim looked at her, dismayed, and she trembled with guilt. David stepped forward on cue and pumped Tim’s hand, not noticing the other man’s distraction. The only person who seemed aware of the exchange was Lauren, who squinted at Bernadette and Tim with speculative furrows creasing her forehead.
The two men knew each other through work, and they began swapping news. Bernadette desperately wanted to listen in, especially when she heard Tim probing David for details of their ‘date’, but Elizabet
h was tugging at her sleeve and pulling her away. ‘I have a favour I wanted to ask you,’ she whispered, and Bernadette’s attention was caught; she wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of such a statement. ‘I know how close you and Tim are,’ Elizabeth continued, and Bernadette held her breath, waiting for the next accusation. ‘I love how close you are, and I’m dying to know you better. I kind of feel like I know you already. I’ve heard so many stories from Tim, and I’ve read all your columns. And I wanted – I’d love it if you could be one of my bridesmaids.’
Bernadette gave no answer, and made no movement, and Elizabeth hurried on. ‘I don’t want it to be too much of an imposition. I’ve got three other bridesmaids and we all know how busy you are. You wouldn’t have to be that involved, only as involved as you’d like to be. I’d just love to include you in the ceremony. Radley is my best friend in the whole world, and Tim is having him as one of the groomsmen. It would mean a lot to me. A real lot.’
Bernadette stared down at the older woman, wondering how deep the layers of denial must run. Elizabeth couldn’t possibly believe, in her heart of hearts, that her fiancé had a purely disinterested female friend.
‘I’ll be your bridesmaid,’ said Bernadette, thinking of all the inevitable extra time she would get to spend with Tim. ‘I’ve never been a bridesmaid before.’
Elizabeth hugged her again, and for the first time Bernadette deigned to return the hug with feeling. It was brave of Elizabeth to open the field, and there was something quite pathetic about having to have one of Tim’s friends as a bridesmaid. The combination of foolhardiness and loneliness was finally something Bernadette could relate to.
‘David is cool,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Did I push too hard with you and Radley? Tim said I was being overbearing at our Christmas party! But you know when you get the feeling that two people would really get on? I had that with you and Rad. But … but David is great.’
‘The thing with David is kind of new. But he’s more my type than Radley,’ Bernadette fibbed gleefully.
Most women would find it difficult to swallow that David Schmidt could be more of any woman’s type than Radley Blake, but not Elizabeth. Elizabeth nodded and smiled with sincere acknowledgement.
At that moment, David interrupted, boldly grabbing Bernadette’s hand and clasping it like a baby with a pacifier. ‘Tim has come up with the most incredible idea for you!’ he squeaked. ‘It’s extremely interesting. The magazine will definitely support it!’
Bernadette turned her almond-shaped eyes on Tim, who was quick to dampen the announcement. ‘We’ll talk about it, Bernie,’ he said softly, as if he was asking her to dance. ‘But not now.’
She didn’t care to talk of work anyway, but turned and kissed David showily, purring, ‘I can’t wait to hear what you boys have come up with.’
David flushed pink, and beads of sweat, already in existence from the torture of the heat lamps, quivered on his forehead and threatened to roll down into his eyes. He looked like a lobster about to be dropped into a pot of boiling water, with no idea of the fate awaiting him. Tim glanced at him with understanding, and with pity.
‘Come meet your fellow bridesmaids!’ Elizabeth said to Bernadette.
‘Hi again,’ said Bernadette, as she was duly re-paraded in front of Lauren and the others. She waved her hand once through the air in greeting, which she meant as a friendly thing but which came across as a gesture of jaded indifference.
‘Welcome on board,’ smiled Lauren icily.
Bernadette absolutely didn’t care about the women, or their relationship to Elizabeth, or what they did for a living. But she tried to look as though she did. She tried to behave as a friendly and interested person might. She asked questions, she laughed when they laughed, she kept her eyes focused on whoever was speaking, and she didn’t look round to Tim once.
The husbands had melted away at the start of the bridesmaid talk, and were now in loud and animated debate with Tim and David. Bernadette wished she could join them. Her misandry did not extend to segregation, and in fact she preferred the company of men. Better to be the judge than the judged. Women were too smart.
She bore the farce as long as humanly possible, but ducked away with a mumbled excuse just as Gina began a lengthy exposition on the pros and cons of colonic irrigation.
Relieved that David was occupied, Bernadette slunk quietly off by herself, the vague thrill of emancipation fighting feebly against her generally depressed spirits. She wondered how many of the people at the party were sad, hiding lovelorn sighs behind affected smiles, disguising a yearning touch as a handshake, experiencing the present as a form of purgatory.
It was in this maudlin fashion that she entered the house, collected another glass of wine and propped herself against an interior wall to philosophise in peace. She spotted Radley at the centre of a group of admiring women, who were hunched and stretched and practically exploding with the effort of keeping his attention. Primped and plucked and waxed and stuffed, they laughed in chorus while trying to distinguish themselves one from another. It was to squeals and protests that he extracted himself, and made his way over to Bernadette.
‘Where’s the very likeable David?’ he asked.
‘Talking to Tim.’
‘Awkward.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘This is precisely why I asked you to bring a date. It doesn’t suit you, this woebegone solitary loitering. Stop chilling my house-warming with your sulky face.’
‘Your house seems well warmed already,’ she said, staring darkly at his group of female admirers. ‘What are you, the Girl Whisperer?’
‘Oh-ho! Those beautiful eyes of yours are green for a reason!’ he laughed.
‘You’ll never find a wife if you carry on like that,’ she sniffed, tossing her head in the direction of the other women.
‘A wife? Who on earth said I wanted a wife?’
‘You did. You said you were looking for a woman to make this house a home.’
‘I said that for comic effect. And a woman is not a wife, you know. There is a difference.’
She rolled her eyes at him before he added, ‘I’m not a one-woman kind of man. I’m certainly not the marrying type.’
The puritanical old-school romantic in Bernadette died a small death as she spat back, ‘Well I’m certainly not the give-a-fuck type.’
She was disappointed in Radley Blake. He had been beginning to map himself on her consciousness as an interesting and almost decent male human, but now – alas! – he had proved to be as dull and wrong-headed as all the others.
Bernadette was a girl who believed in defined gender roles and Regency literature. In her mind, a real man did not flirt indiscriminately, and declare himself anti-marriage and anti-monogamy, whilst purporting to be the perfect bachelor. A real man chose a sensible, good wife and married her, and loved her with every ounce of his being until the day he died. Unwittingly, she glanced outside to the infinity pool, but the friends gathered there seemed to have dispersed.
‘I’m not going to be put off by your prickly exterior,’ Radley declared. ‘I know there’s a warm and fuzzy girl in there somewhere.’
‘You’re wrong,’ she said, matter-of-fact. ‘Deep in my heart there is nothing but ice. It’s a cold and barren interior, just glaciers, and icebergs, and a polar bear named Borghild. Borghild likes to eat men for fun.’
‘Borg-hild?’
‘Borghild,’ she nodded.
‘I think Borghild is a social animal. She just needs to find the right society.’
‘Well this isn’t it,’ said Bernadette. He took the insult with temperance and merely smirked his omniscient smirk. ‘You’re a bad man,’ she continued, with a slug of wine. ‘I’m on to you. You’re a bad, caddish man who pretends to be a knight in shining armour. All those poor girls over there truly think they have a chance of becoming Mrs Blake. And you bring them here, and show off your giant house-made-for-a-wife, and act all obliging and sexy and available. You have no
integrity.’
‘Oh yes, please do lecture me on integrity … Where’s David again?’ She didn’t answer him, but instead busied herself with drinking the remaining wine from her glass in several connected gulps, as he continued, ‘I told you, Bernadette, I told you the night we first met: we are the same, you and I.’
‘No, we’re really not.’
‘No? I’m able to flirt with pleasant women I have no intention of marrying, and I present to them the best possible version of myself. Sound familiar? You make yourself irresistible to any man that crosses your path, while actively despising them, it seems. Which of us is worse? Which of us contributes most heavily to a greater evil?’
‘There is a difference,’ Bernadette insisted, stepping close to him, half because she didn’t want to be overheard, and half because he was so handsome. ‘You are laying a false foundation that might hurt others but will certainly damage you. Play the part for long enough, and trust me, you’ll wish you could be the man you’ve pretended to be. But you’ll know you can’t be that man, because that man was created – and no man can inhabit his creation without first cutting out the part of himself that did the creating. And that part is the hardest to cut away.’
He took a moment to process her words, and smiled patiently. ‘Well, aren’t we bitter and world-weary?’
She shook her head in frustration. ‘This isn’t about me. By closing yourself off to the idea of one woman, and behaving as you do, you’re writing a story that can have no satisfying end, you’re playing a game you’ve declared you’ll never win, you’ve asked a rhetorical question … and how sad to be doomed to the same behaviours for ever. To never progress beyond what you currently are.’
Radley had stopped smiling and was instead studying her face intently, his dark eyes seeming to cover every part of her. With one hand he pulled her to him, his arm encircling her waist; with his other, he pushed her hair back from her forehead. She could feel his fingers tracing over her scalp and tugging through the strands from root to end as he systematically pulled it all back over her shoulders. She found it almost unbearably erotic, but he was doing it in a methodical, contemplative fashion, and being no more seductive than usual. While he worked, he spoke to her softly, slowly, almost whispering. ‘So you’re worried that I’ll end up a lonely old bachelor, bored and boring, regretting past transgressions for the rest of my days, longing for one companion in the winter of my life? I thank you for your compassion, I do … but you still haven’t answered my question: how are we different? We who seduce the masses.’
Acts of Love Page 8