Acts of Love

by Talulah Riley

  Bernadette washed her face, carefully reapplied make-up, practised her breathing, and then made her way back down to the conference room. She walked stealthily, half afraid that audience members would be lying in wait and ready to attack, but no one was around, and it wasn’t until she pushed open the double doors that led to the backstage area that she heard voices. She moved as quietly as a cat, keeping behind the Squire-covered screens, peeking through a partition into the largely empty auditorium. Radley and Tim were standing on the other side of the screen chatting with the runner and a couple of sound guys.

  ‘She’s just got to be tamed,’ Radley was saying. All the men laughed, except Tim.

  ‘Dude, she is a piece of work!’ laughed the runner.

  ‘I like a challenge.’

  ‘But she was, like, seriously lesbian up there. She’s loco.’

  ‘She is.’ Radley grinned. ‘She’s bat-shit crazy and confused, and—’

  ‘And your future wife, man!’ They all laughed again, but Tim looked intensely uncomfortable.

  ‘I said that for comic effect,’ Radley smirked, waving his hand through the air in a dismissive and lordly gesture. ‘She may not be my future wife, but let me tell you, I am going to have her if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘Have her?’ the runner guffawed. ‘I hope you mean you’re going to bang her? She looked like she could do with a good—’

  Radley opened his mouth to say something, but Tim cut him off. ‘Bernadette is my friend and my client. For the record, she’s not crazy. And I think, given the point she was trying to make up there, we should stop objectifying and demeaning her.’

  The other men laughed at him. Radley shrugged. ‘Just being honest.’

  Bernadette was shaking behind the screen, her teeth chattering with rage. Tim’s defence was so wonderful and so like him, and she loved him even more than before – but the betrayal she felt from Radley was a pain she couldn’t take. A blinding migraine of hatred and shame engulfed her.

  ‘I’m just joking around, man,’ the runner was saying, appeasing. ‘And I never said she wasn’t hot.’

  At that moment Bernadette emerged from behind the screen like an avenging fury, bearing down upon the small group of men, evoking the image of a living Medusa.

  ‘Holy shit!’ said the runner. He scarpered, the sound guys hot on his heels.

  ‘Well if it isn’t Charlie Sheen,’ grinned Radley pleasantly. ‘Seminal speech, my dear, but entirely the wrong crowd. You need to know your audience.’

  ‘I hate you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m guessing it’s a resounding no to my proposal then?’

  ‘How could you talk about me like that?’

  ‘Eavesdroppers really should be careful what they listen to.’

  ‘Don’t talk as if we’re friends. I just heard everything you said.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So? It was disgusting.’

  Tim looked intensely uncomfortable; he had his head down and his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  ‘What about it was disgusting?’ smiled Radley. ‘I didn’t say anything I wouldn’t say to your face. What part offended you?’

  ‘You said I was crazy!’

  ‘You are crazy. You are a manipulative, perturbed little madam. You are a minx and a menace and a madwoman … I could go on. Shall I go on?’

  ‘Me mad? You just proposed to a crazy woman!’

  ‘I’m good at making quick decisions.’

  Tim cleared his throat and stepped towards Bernadette. ‘Bernie, we should go,’ he said.

  But Bernadette was too busy looking daggers at Radley to heed Tim properly. ‘What you said about “having” me. That was … that was wrong. So gross and backward and—’

  Radley covered the space between them before she realised he had moved at all. He enveloped her in his arms and shifted so his mouth was pressed up against her ear. ‘I will have you,’ he hissed, so low that Tim couldn’t hear. ‘And I want you to know it. I want it to be the only thing you think about.’

  His lips tickled her as he spoke, and an awful thrill ran through her body, the same kind of spooky anticipation that she felt when she had heard ghost stories as a child. She looked up at him and thought about kissing him right there, but Tim had had enough of their display. He took Bernadette gently by the arm and frowned at Radley. ‘Given her speech, Rad, I doubt she likes being grabbed like that.’

  ‘I wasn’t going for a grab so much as a tender embrace,’ said Radley, backing off with both hands in the air. ‘And given her speech, I doubt she likes you intervening on her behalf, and I doubt she likes being spoken of in the third person when she’s right here.’

  ‘I think you need a drink, Bern,’ Tim said, ignoring Radley and moving her towards the exit. He was acting the part of reasonable mediator, wearing his sanity like a scarlet sash of honour, but Bernadette could tell he was annoyed. He didn’t like the tempestuous vortex that existed between her and Radley. He didn’t like being the odd one out, the obtruding stranger.

  Bernadette turned to look back at Radley as Tim led her, like she was an invalid, away from the stage. ‘The next time I see you,’ she called back to him, ‘it will be in a professional capacity.’

  He nodded and bowed in agreement and waved a jaunty wave. She couldn’t help but smile at him a little, even though she was still angry. He returned her smile wholeheartedly, flashing his brilliant teeth in a quick spark of goodwill. ‘Bernadette, you may not have accepted my proposal, you may have found it confusing and possibly insulting – but I think you will come to appreciate it sooner or later. In one way or another.’

  The way he said it, like a magician with one final, peerless trick, made her wonder about his motive. It seemed like he was trying to include her in some wider secret.

  It wasn’t until the next day that she realised what he meant, and what exactly he had sacrificed by proposing in such a public way. For a man who shunned publicity, there was suddenly a whole lot of press about Radley Blake. Anything that might have been written about her cringeworthy speaking appearance was totally overshadowed by the fact that one of the most influential men in the country had made such a ‘romantic’ gesture. Gossip columns and business pages alike reported that Radley Blake, the elusive entrepreneur, had blatantly declared his love for Bernadette St John, the Man Whisperer. The Twitterverse was buzzing; Bernadette had been approached by every morning talk show to comment; pictures of her and Radley graced countless blogs, and video footage stormed Snapchat and YouTube.

  Bernadette had mixed feelings, but the fact was, Radley’s gesture had saved her from a lot of bad press. The numerous articles barely mentioned her talk, and if they did, it was simply to say that Radley had interrupted a ‘heated girl-on-girl debate’ or a ‘spirited rant on the unresolved sex wars’. The fact that a man – a young, intelligent, good-looking, enormously wealthy man – had proposed during a talk entitled ‘The Man Whisperer Speaks!’ led most people to assume that Bernadette had been divulging siren secrets. Advance ticket sales for the New York event increased so dramatically they had to switch to a bigger venue. David was obnoxiously overjoyed, Tim was saved from a PR nightmare, and Bernadette found herself once again lauded for no reason. As grateful as she was for the miraculous turn of events, she couldn’t help but feel a nagging disappointment in the pit of her stomach. Radley’s proposal had been nothing but a trick, a very kind trick. He had obviously been fully aware of the outcome of his gesture when he stood up to ask the crazy question. He had pre-empted and prevented her career catastrophe, and had sacrificed himself to do so. As lovely as that was, it was not a genuine marriage proposal.

  She approached the Radley Blake interview a fortnight later humbled and a little shy. It was discomfiting to be in a man’s debt, especially a predatory scoundrel of a man like Blake.

  It was a Friday morning, and she had dressed in her very best journalistic attire: a black pencil skirt, nude suede pumps with a sensible two-inch heel, and a ca
ramel collared silk shirt that was provocative in all the right ways. It was a classic look that made her feel braver and appear deadly efficient.

  She arrived at Radley’s glass-and-metal mansion at exactly 7 a.m., as appointed, her Dictaphone fully charged and loaded. She gave her name at the gate, which swung silently open to allow her to drive up to the main house.

  It was interesting to see the place in daylight. The grounds were meticulously maintained, and she noticed a large vegetable garden, and a gleaming array of solar panels, which she had not been able to see at night. The solar panels were placed in regimented rows, like sowed plants, and looked more like a modern art installation than a utility. There were panels on the roof of the house too.

  She stopped at the top of the driveway and Mick materialised to open her door. She leapt out, grabbing her bag of equipment and smiling widely at her old friend. ‘Good morning! Thank you, Mick!’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ was all she got for her efforts, as usual.

  Radley stepped from the house, dressed in nothing but a pair of navy pyjama bottoms. His chest and stomach were as well defined as an athlete’s, and Bernadette quivered at the sight of him. He really was spectacular. She had forgotten what a toned man looked like, let alone a muscular man, having been presented so often recently with David’s pudgy nakedness.

  She pulled out her Dictaphone and spoke into it as she approached. ‘He appears in nothing but dark blue pyjama bottoms. Poser.’

  Radley heard her and laughed, holding up his iPhone and speaking into it. ‘She appears dressed like Catherine Deneuve. Tease.’

  ‘Well, Mr Blake,’ she said, holding out her hand for him to shake. ‘Here we are: a day in the life of …’

  ‘And right on time.’

  ‘Perfect. What are we doing first?’

  ‘First up, breakfast,’ he said, turning and loping back into the house.

  ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.’

  She followed him into the large open-plan living area, which looked quite spectacular in daylight. Morning sun streamed through the glass walls, displaying a hazy cityscape and a shining ocean view. A large table, a single piece of rough oak, was laid with two place settings and a simple arrangement of white tea roses.

  ‘This is very civilised,’ she said.

  He held out a chair for her to sit on, and she approached it as one might a crumbling cliff edge. ‘Okay,’ she said, dropping into the chair, ‘I see what this is going to be. You’re going to pretend to be Mr Perfect for two days. But I’m still angry with you, you know.’

  He laughed and seated himself. ‘I wondered how long your professional demeanour was going to last. And I was so enjoying it. I can see why it works, this sexy, dominating persona of yours – I was very willing to confess my innermost secrets, darkest childhood memories, and then beg for forgiveness with my cheek resting against that soft silk blouse of yours. You look like the perfect mix of schoolteacher, mother and—’

  ‘You are endlessly provoking. Please stop sexualising me.’

  ‘Can you please stop sexualising you?

  She almost growled at him, and he laughed again before continuing. ‘Well, you needn’t worry that you’re not getting a genuine slice of life. I am prepared to bare my soul and share my daily routine. Unlike some, I do not dissemble.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘So you always have breakfast like this? At a table set with silverware and cloth napkins and cream roses?’

  ‘But of course. The only difference is, there’s usually only one place setting – I eat breakfast alone – and I eat at seven a.m. on the dot. I am a creature of habit.’

  ‘Okay then,’ she said sceptically, arranging her napkin over her knee, as a tall, thin man in a white chef’s coat placed plates in front of them.

  ‘I thought you could eat what I eat. But Alexi can make you something else if you’d prefer?’ Radley offered.

  Bernadette looked down at the perfectly shaped half-moon omelette on her plate, garnished with a sprig of coriander and halved cherry tomatoes. It was somewhat different from her own amateur attempts. Fresh orange juice was being poured into her glass. ‘This looks fine,’ she said.

  ‘So how does this work? This two-day interview thing?’ asked Radley.

  ‘Well, most of the time I want you to pretend I’m not here. I’m going to observe you, make notes, record you, if that’s okay?’ she said, waving the Dictaphone. He nodded his assent. ‘And I might have to ask you questions about what you’re doing.’

  ‘What if I’m in the middle of doing something really important and don’t want to be disturbed?’

  ‘I’m not stupid. I won’t interrupt you if you’re doing something important.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Then we’ll need a good couple of hours – tomorrow, maybe – where we can sit down and I can ask you about what I’ve observed. I’m trying to give readers an insight into what makes a man like you tick.’

  ‘A man like me?’

  ‘A successful man.’

  ‘Successful? Ugh. How diminishing.’

  ‘And then at a later date, I want to interview some of your friends, employees, relatives. You don’t have to be there for that – in fact, I’d rather you weren’t – but I’ll need you to provide me with some names.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Great. Okay. So just … go about your business.’ She placed the Dictaphone prominently on the table, angled towards him. He shrugged and set to work on his omelette, eating one-handed with a fork while checking emails on his iPhone.

  ‘What are you reading?’ she asked, after a short pause.

  He held up one long, silencing finger. ‘You said you wouldn’t disturb me when I was doing anything important. This is extremely important.’

  She rolled her eyes and drank some juice. His face was a study in concentration, his attention thoroughly absorbed by the tiny screen in front of him. His expression would change quite dramatically as he worked his way through his emails, and Bernadette tried to guess from the appreciative chuckles, or horrified stares, what he could possibly be reading that moved him so much.

  She pulled out two extra Dictaphones, and her iPhone with its special microphone attachment, and arranged them on the table with the first device, angling them carefully so that they might pick up any sound from Radley. He looked up in surprise, staring at the array of equipment with some astonishment.

  ‘That’s my back-up arsenal,’ she explained, helpfully.

  ‘How many back-ups do you need?’

  ‘Well, sometimes they break, or I haven’t timed them properly, or I’ve forgotten to put the tape in …’

  ‘That sounds like an awful lot of human error. Can’t you just learn to use one of the damn things properly?’

  ‘You’d be surprised at how often they go wrong. And there’s varying sound quality. I like to be prepared.’

  ‘But I’m not even saying anything right now,’ he muttered, returning to his screen.

  Bernadette realised it was the first time in their acquaintance that she had not had Radley’s full and undivided attention. His iPhone was a goddess more divine, and he worshipped with no half-hearted posturing but with the complete adoration of the devout. His fingers tapped and jabbed and stroked the screen with such skill that the phone almost seemed to be an extension of his body.

  Eventually he looked up. ‘I was answering email.’

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’

  ‘Enjoy it?’ he asked, knitting his brows to suggest she was mad. ‘No, it’s necessary. It’s how I run my company. At this point, I’m basically an email processing machine.’

  ‘Do you find that makes you very antisocial? At … meals and so forth?’

  He looked at her, exasperated. ‘You just told me to pretend that you’re not here and go about my business. I usually answer emails at breakfast.’

  ‘I’m not offended. I was just asking generally.’

 
‘You are offended. You can’t bear the fact that I’m not mooning all over you.’

  ‘What would you have done,’ she said, unable to help herself suddenly, ‘when you asked me to marry you. What would you have done if I’d said yes?’

  ‘I’d have married you,’ he said casually, rising and tossing his napkin on the table in a debonair fashion. ‘Have you had enough to eat?’ She nodded, dumbfounded, and stood up too. ‘Excellent. Now I’m going to get dressed … Coming?’ he asked, a cheeky glint in his eye.

  ‘I’ll wait here.’

  ‘Are you sure? What if I say something really profound in my closet? Don’t you need to keep an army of recording devices on me at all times?’

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ she said, firmly.

  ‘Okay. Next on the schedule is yoga. Do you want to join the class? You won’t be able to do it in that’ – he pointed at her skirt – ‘but I could probably fashion something to fit you.’

  ‘I’ll just watch, thanks.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  He wandered off upstairs, and Bernadette rather regretted not following him. It would be interesting to see his bedroom. She worked her way towards the large sitting area, a square of squishy couches around a low bronze-and-glass coffee table. There was a beautiful orchid arrangement on the table, a small glass bowl of mints and a selection of magazines. Bernadette picked up the copy of Squire and was pleased to find it well thumbed. It fell open to her pages.

  Radley came back downstairs looking like a fitness model, dressed in a grey T-shirt and simple black sweatpants. He beckoned to her with one hand while checking email with the other. Bernadette, having diligently collected her Dictaphones, followed him obediently outside, past the lovely swimming pool, across a stretch of lawn and into an airy studio. It was as bright and light-filled as the rest of his home; a sprung wooden floor stretched from two mirrored walls to two walls of glass. One section was full of high-tech gym equipment and Pilates reformers; the other half of the room was left clear, like a dance studio.