She picked out a floor-length, off-white, sleek and modern creation. Elizabeth was eager to join in the fun, and admired her prodigiously when she emerged from the changing room, but Radley had turned his back and refused to look at her.
‘It’s bad luck,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’m still holding out hopes that I might be the groom. You never know. Best that I don’t peek.’
Bernadette was secretly pleased at his theatrics. And the dress fitted her beautifully, hugging her curves and elongating her already lanky frame. It gave her a funny stirring in her breast when she looked in the mirror. The woman who stared back at her seemed serene and full of grace. Bernadette wanted to earn that reflection. She wished she were worthy of the dress, and all its imbued meaning. For the thousandth time in her life, she promised sincerely to be good.
‘Can I take you ladies to tea?’ Radley asked, once they had chosen the dress and were safely deposited on the sidewalk, seemingly at a loss to know how to give each other up.
‘Okay,’ immediately agreed Bernadette, who was hungry as usual.
‘I can’t,’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘I have to go home and get dinner ready for Tim.’
Bernadette’s face contorted with the effort of suppressing her idée fixe, and she could feel Radley watching her. Tim should be hers; she should be the one rushing home (hopelessly devoted, with a ribbon in her hair) to cook him dinner and warm his slippers by the fire. ‘Do you make him breakfast too?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth, and then laughed, mistaking Bernadette’s look of horror. ‘I’m sorry! I’m totally old-school, a disgrace to my gender and our modern times. Does that mean we can’t be friends?’ she teased, gently.
Bernadette laughed back, wordlessly. Radley gave Elizabeth a big hug.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Elizabeth, turning to Bernadette and hugging her hard. ‘It all evens out. I make breakfast, Tim gives great foot rubs.’
Bernadette laughed harder, somewhat hysterically, her mind a confusion of blonde-haired men, wedding dresses, and omelettes. Elizabeth waved to them both and walked away.
‘Do you like it?’ Bernadette called helplessly after her. ‘Do you like making him breakfast?’
Elizabeth turned and smiled. ‘Best part of my day! Don’t worry, Bernie, no man could ever make me do anything I didn’t enjoy.’ And with that gut-punch, she left.
‘Well there you have it,’ said Radley. ‘That’s why she’s getting married and you’re single. She doesn’t live a lie.’
‘You are so mean,’ cried Bernadette, giving him a shove.
‘No, I’m not. I’m actually remarkably nice. I just happen to be socially observant. Perceptive, one might say. And I’m outspoken, which seems to jar with you.’
‘It does jar with me. And I hate being observed. Stop it.’
‘I can’t. You’ve fast become my favourite thing to look at.’
‘Are you taking me to tea or not?’
‘Certainly, this way.’ He proffered his arm and squired her back up Wilshire. They walked in silence for a while.
‘Personally, I am firmly of the opinion that meal-making should be outsourced,’ he said.
‘Outsourced to whom?’
‘To a French pastry chef.’
‘You are grossly wealthy and out of touch. It’s disgusting.’
They were passing the Neiman’s window, and Radley stopped suddenly. ‘That dress would look fantastic on you,’ he said, pointing to the sapphire-blue cocktail dress Bernadette had earlier admired.
She rolled her eyes. ‘You are perceptive. But just take me to the food, please.’
He took her to the Beverly Wilshire, where they sat in the window and ordered tea, sandwiches and cake. ‘This hotel has always disappointed me,’ she said, looking round glumly at the extreme luxury.
‘Is there anything in life that hasn’t disappointed you?’
‘This is the Beverly Wilshire! It’s the Pretty Woman hotel! It’s basically the locale where the whole movie plays out. But you know what’s a travesty? This isn’t the hotel they used for filming. The interior shots were somewhere else entirely. When I first came to LA and someone took me to this impostor of a Beverly Wilshire, I nearly cried.’
‘Yes, that’s a very sad story.’
She kicked him under the table. ‘It was quite sad. I hate it when things aren’t as advertised. You know what else was disappointing? The Hollywood sign! I was expecting it to be huge, perched on the side of a mountain, glowering down over the whole city. But instead it’s just a tiny thing in the middle of nowhere, inaccessible from all but three vantage points.’
‘Didn’t you find Pretty Woman to be a tad depressing? She’s a prostitute, and he’s a nightmare businessman who treats her badly … and then all is forgiven when he brings her a bunch of flowers at the end.’
‘It doesn’t matter who they are, or what their original intentions were. What matters is that there is a happy ending. That’s all that matters.’
Radley pushed his chair back from the table, his head tilted to one side as he chewed thoughtfully on a final mouthful of cake, swallowing deliberately before pronouncing, ‘You are a study in contradictions.’
‘Why?’
‘The other evening you told me that all that matters is someone’s intention. Not how they act, or who they hurt, or what ultimately happens – none of that matters as long as their intention is good, as long as they have an honest heart.’
‘I don’t remember saying that.’
‘You certainly said something like it. You were reasoning hard, trying to defend your manic pursuit of Tim.’
‘I suggest you stop listening so carefully to what I have to say. Most stuff I just make up in the moment. I’m not wedded to any particular philosophy. I’m as changeable as the wind. Don’t believe a word that comes out of me.’ She said it blithely, in her usual insouciant manner, but looking up and catching his eye, she suddenly felt guilty of some delinquent breach. She waited, nervous as a schoolgirl, for his response.
‘I don’t know when apathy became fashionable,’ he said sadly, slowly, ‘but it certainly doesn’t suit you. For a woman as smart as you to suggest you have no opinion – it’s a crime, Bernadette. To ask me not to believe a word you say!’
‘You’re the one who called me a liar. You’re always saying I’m a liar or an actress or whatever …’
‘I would hope you’re clever enough to know the difference between teasing and genuine feeling.’
‘I really don’t know what I think,’ she said, in a small voice.
‘Then I suggest you ruminate and reach a conclusion. Don’t let a brain like yours go to rot. Pretty-girl brain atrophy is far too common an occurrence. Have a well-thought-out opinion and defend it to the death. The woman I overheard that night declaring her love for Tim – she knows how to have an opinion.’
She sulkily popped a large piece of poppy-seed cake into her mouth, not wanting to meet his eyes. He had such a dark, fascinating gaze, liable to render her silly. ‘Okay,’ she said, after quite a pause, ‘I’ve thought about it. Bad actions can be excused if a person’s intention is good, but only if that person’s intentions extend to suppose a happy conclusion. Random, unjustifiable acts are wrong. So a person should work backwards, decide their happy ending and be unrelenting in their wholehearted pursuit of that goal.’
Radley laughed loudly, his whole body rocking with movement, his face alight with mirth. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You are precious. That was extraordinary reasoning, you peculiarly prim little hedonist. I’m very happy.’
‘Well more fool you,’ she said, ungenerously, although secretly she was pleased. His laugh seemed like a reward, an honour bestowed, a medal received. ‘And on a separate note,’ she said, ‘you shouldn’t tell me to have an opinion or teach me how to express myself as a woman. That goes against the whole feminist bullshit you’re espousing. The whole you-are-smart-and-a-woman-therefore-own-it-because-a-smart-woman-is-suc
h-a-rarity thing. Ugh.’
‘I’m not espousing anything feminist,’ he said. ‘Quite the contrary. If you want to know what I’m doing, you need only ask me. I always tell the absolute truth.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m simply trying to make of you a woman I would find even more attractive than I already do. I am trying to mould you, in a most Pygmalion fashion. So you see, no feminist espousing here. It is up to you, rightfully, to be the feminist at this table. I am just a man.’
‘Oh!’ cried Bernadette, laughing despite herself. ‘That’s awful. This had better be one of those times that you’re teasing?’
‘You’re smart enough to know the difference. You’ll get no help from me.’
‘You’re as schizophrenic as I am,’ she said, shaking her long mane. ‘One minute all kind and caring and moral, the next a complete and utter pervert.’
‘I told you,’ he smiled. ‘We are the same, you and I.’
When they said goodbye in the lobby of the hotel, Bernadette felt inclined to linger and smile a lot at him. The afternoon had been thoroughly pleasant, despite every circumstance being stacked against such a possibility.
Radley was actually excellent company, she decided, for a despicable man. Bad men often were good company. ‘I guess this hotel isn’t so disappointing after all,’ she said, meaning it as a big compliment. It was rare that Bernadette paid compliments, and she felt quite pleased with herself for doing so.
‘And so it begins.’
‘What begins?’
‘You’re falling for me.’
‘I am not falling for you, you arrogant, conceited peacock. I was just trying to be nice to you. To throw you a bone – you, the undeserving!’
‘If you’re naturally this hot-headed, I can’t wait to see you on stage lecturing women on the art of … What is it exactly you’re lecturing on?’
‘Never you mind. And there is no way you’re coming to see me lecture.’
‘Oh, depend upon it,’ he said, grinning devilishly, ‘I’ll be there.’
The problem was, Bernadette herself wasn’t exactly sure what it was she was supposed to be lecturing on, and the LA tour date was looming fast. What was the Man Whisperer? What was at the heart of the concept? She had never truly understood why Tim had chosen this particular alias for her – the first time she had heard it from his lips, she was completely bedazzled, thinking he understood the darker aspect of her nature and had given it a fun, self-referential label, a cutesy derivation that masked the deviation and made her a socially acceptable creature. It was only later that she suspected the name had less to do with her own psychological failings, and more to do with a concept that could be sold: a woman in control, a woman who could beguile men into confessing secrets. Funny really, given how out-of-control Bernadette herself felt compared to all the together people that populated her existence. Funny too that she had no desire to hear the secrets of men. The less learnt about men the better, she had found.
The interesting part was that the creation, Tim’s creation, apparently held some appeal. Her articles were well received and widely quoted, and now a couple of hundred women (and some men too) had signed up to come and hear her speak at the Beverly Hilton. Tim had allowed her utter creative freedom over the content of the speech, which was to be half an hour long, followed by a question-and-answer session. She couldn’t help but acknowledge that Radley’s caution about putting her on a stage was more deserved than Tim’s rampant confidence.
She felt more of a fraud than ever; the guilt that had dogged her ever since her first article, ever since the shaming of President Wibawa, was bubbling to the fore and threatening to consume her overly introspective, neurotic self. Undeserving, untalented and bitter, wordless and poorly motivated, she fretted and fussed and panicked in the days before her speaking debut. But in quieter moments, when her troubled mind stilled, it wasn’t difficult to imagine a scenario in which she shone. At heart a self-important little person, she could very easily visualise stunning an audience of women with her right-minded rhetoric. And Tim would be in the front row, admiring, adoring and feeling legitimately responsible for the marvellous spectacle. Overcome by her sophisticated phrasing and well-thought-out argument, he would hand her from the stage, take her in his arms and confess undying love.
Bernadette believed herself absolutely entitled to such an outcome. It was right that she should be honoured and respected by the masses, and that Tim should love her. It was her birthright, a beginning and an ending entwined, a preordained and complete affair that required no impetus from her. To be loved without labour, to be enough without effort, to be praised without process: this was what she wanted. Her superiority should be endlessly evident without supporting proof. Her distinguished inner world, surely, must break free with no showy introduction.
Annoyingly, she recalled Radley’s urgings that she be a woman with an opinion. It would not be enough to stand on a stage and expect to be loved; she needed to get up there and actually say something.
The eve of her big speech had arrived, and Bernadette sat in a suite at the Beverly Hilton, feeling decidedly queasy. The suite had been kitted out as a green room, complete with coffee-making equipment, snacks, and a large TV monitor, which displayed the waiting stage and would provide a live feed of her performance to those on her team who cared. Bernadette’s eyes were glued to the screen, staring at the empty podium, the chair and the jug of water that awaited her. Her team consisted of Tim, with various assistants and up-and-comers from the management company; and David, there in both a personal and professional capacity, and failing utterly to be helpful in any way. A tattooed and muscled man with a ginormous bag arrived to do hair and make-up, and Bernadette soon found herself being cleansed and polished and breathed-upon by the guy, who was chewing gum and smelt overly minty.
David hovered like an overweight fly, zipping from person to person in a surprisingly nimble fashion, asking pointless questions about the AV set-up that no one in the room was able to answer. By contrast, the only visage of peace, the voice of calm and reason, the person whose eyes Bernadette sought with her own, was Tim. He stood tall and proud among the rabble, his blonde head luminous and lovely, his smile serene, his blue eyes piercing and direct. He was a prince, a knight, a prophet, and theirs might have been the only two bodies in the room. It was as if a light connected them, an unseen affinity that no other person could pierce. Bidden by her thoughts alone, Tim walked over and took her hand. He squeezed it.
‘How’s she doing?’ he asked the minty make-up artist.
‘She’s great,’ the guy drawled, his breath engulfing her as he leant in to colour her eyes with kohl. ‘She’s looking good to go. Fierce.’
It wasn’t long after that that she was taken from the sanctity of the green room and led down some stairs, through a maze of carpeted corridors, Tim beside her, guiding her, and David hopping along behind.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ Tim said.
‘More than fine!’ chipped in David. ‘This is a turning point! This is going to be huge. You should see how many people are out there – and they’re all waiting to hear you! I can see something big coming from this. I see—’
‘I’ve never wanted anything big,’ Bernadette said to Tim, not waiting to hear what it was that David saw.
‘I know,’ Tim assured her. ‘This isn’t that.’
‘What is it then?’ she asked, stopping so suddenly that David crashed into her. Tim turned to face her in the dark hotel corridor, their bodies aligned. ‘What is this, Tim?’ she pressed.
‘It’s what you make it,’ he said. ‘It’s whatever you want it to be.’
Waiting behind the screens that formed the backstage area, she could hear the rumblings of many women talking together. The noise was thunderous to Bernadette; it was an alien dialect, a hostile growl of anticipation that beat louder than her heart. The screens were covered in adverts for Squire magazine, and Bernadette couldn’t help but i
magine David as a true Shylock, his palms sweaty, his greedy eyes alight with desire for her, his golden hoard.
There are moments in life, acute, taxing moments, when our true selves are brought to the fore, when we revert to type and rely on instilled behaviours to guide us through certain unpleasantness. Unfortunately for Bernadette, she had spent if not a lifetime, then certainly many years mulling a toxic brew of antipathy, exemption and paranoia that would cause a scalded throat when swallowed, undiluted, to the last acerbic drop. The time had come to taste her own medicine, and she was borne to the stage not on a happy cloud of optimistic modesty, prepared to stand humbly at the altar, but on a thorny bed of doubt and defensiveness, every atom of her kicking and screaming and fighting for approval.
She vaguely heard David’s introduction; she only knew that the mass of female voices had hushed, that they were listening to him speak, and that he said her name. She walked out to tumultuous applause and was heartened by it; it allowed her to reach the podium, take a gulp of water and clear her throat. The vast function room was cold, and she felt the hairs prickle on her bare arms. The prickling sensation continued down her whole body, and she tensed, like an animal preparing for flight. There must have been hundreds of people in the room, rows and rows of them stretching back into darkness. The lights focused on her were too bright, too blinding, the stark nakedness of the beams stripping her psyche and bleaching her dress.
She cleared her throat again and looked down. Elizabeth and Radley were right in the front row, Elizabeth staring up with all the fervour of a teenage girl at her first concert. Radley’s face was blank and oddly comforting, the plain look of it easy to project upon, his coal eyes fixed on hers in challenge.
She looked up and began to speak. ‘Thank you for coming this afternoon. I’m Bernadette St John, otherwise known as the Man Whisperer, and I’m here to impart some fairly scandalous secrets. I want to tell you about some of the things I’ve learnt from interviewing the most illustrious men on the planet.’
A random woman in the audience cheered, there was an impromptu round of applause, and Bernadette sighed, feeling like a Kardashian. It was clearly easy to work an audience if you told them what they wanted to hear, but less obvious how they would react to a non-sexy message.
Acts of Love Page 11