A bubbly blonde girl with fantastically long legs emerged from a bathroom at the back. ‘Hi!’ she called, bouncing towards them.
‘Janie, you remember I told you I’d have a journalist with me today? This is Bernadette St John. Bernadette, Janie is my yoga instructor. She’s originally from England, like you.’ The two girls sized each other up as Radley added, ‘I do like English people.’
Janie giggled and shook Bernadette’s hand. She had quite a strong grip, for such a delicate-looking girl. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
‘London,’ said Bernadette, non-committally. ‘I hope you don’t mind me observing your session?’
‘Not at all! Do you want to join us?’
‘No. Thank you,’ said Bernadette primly, gingerly seating herself on a recliner and taking out her beloved Dictaphones. ‘Is it all right if I record you?’
Janie looked at the array in interest. ‘Am I going to be in your article?’
‘Probably not.’
‘What magazine do you write for?’
‘Squire.’
Radley had pulled two yoga mats to the centre of the room and settled himself on one in a relaxed cross-legged position. Janie gave Bernadette a sweet acknowledging smile before moving to the wall and pressing a button. Calming music flooded the room.
Janie and Radley worked side by side on the yoga mats, beginning with an obviously familiar routine of stretches. Bernadette didn’t like it. Radley hadn’t struck her as a yoga fanatic, and she certainly didn’t appreciate the intimate way Janie kept touching him to adjust his position. He seemed to be quite an advanced practitioner, and she watched as the poses and stretches got more and more elaborate. She couldn’t help but notice his arm muscles, braced and bulging, as he balanced his whole body inches off the ground, just his palms touching the floor and his legs folded up over his supporting arms.
He then held a very stable headstand, Janie timing him for a minute exactly before telling him to come down. Bernadette admired the way his T-shirt succumbed to the effects of gravity, and slowly slid down his body to reveal his incredibly honed stomach muscles. She whispered into her Dictaphone, ‘Skilled at yoga. Body built and bendy. V. serious about practice. Implies extreme vanity.’ Both Janie and Radley looked up at her sharply, their faces red from the inverted pose, but Bernadette stared innocently back.
As their session began to wind down, Janie pressed another button and electronic blinds silently glided down the glass walls, submerging them in near darkness. Radley came out of Child’s Pose and turned to lie on his stomach. Janie massaged him for a couple of minutes, working the knots out of his shoulders and lower back. Bernadette thought it entirely unnecessary that she chose to straddle him in order to perform this service.
After the blinds had gone up and the music was turned off, Janie turned to Bernadette, smiling in an annoying way. ‘Did you record us all that time?’ she asked, pointing at the range of Dictaphones. ‘We didn’t say anything! You’ve just recorded an hour of meditation music!’
Bernadette crossly gathered up her little machines and shoved them in her bag. ‘Yes, well, it was doubtful you were going to talk during yoga, but you never know. I once interviewed a very famous director who muttered details of his childhood abuse during pauses in the Mass at his local church, so you see, I always like to be ready.’
Janie looked at her in wide-eyed silence. Radley headed for the sliding door. ‘Come on, Bernadette,’ he said with a grin. ‘Shower time. Bring your Dictaphones.’
Bernadette smiled a sweet farewell at the horrified Janie and headed out after him.
‘Thanks, Janie,’ he called back.
‘Thanks, Rad!’ she squeaked, finding her voice. ‘See you on Monday.’
Bernadette took two strides for every one of Radley’s, which caused her heart rate to rise a little as she tagged behind him on a weaving path through the garden and into the kitchen, where Mick was eating a muffin. They went on through the main living area, where no trace remained of their earlier repast, and Radley headed upstairs without saying a word. Bernadette followed, also silent.
She remembered the soft carpet, and the choice of three corridors at the top of the stairs. Radley took the corridor to the right, and she followed him past the bathroom where they had listened in to the other bridesmaids, down to the doorway she had seen him emerge from that particular evening.
His bedroom looked out over the pool and garden, and the valley beyond. It had a very masculine energy, as she had expected. The bed was low, with a dark wood frame, crisp white sheets and the minimal number of pillows. It was quite a stark room, the only decoration a selection of old family prints arranged neatly on an antique sideboard.
She realised that he was watching her scope out his most intimate possessions. He smiled at her kindly. ‘Do you approve?’
‘Your home is fantastic. Obviously.’
‘It’s not to everybody’s taste. I sometimes worry that it’s too stark. Not homey enough.’
‘Only stupid people could dislike it here.’
He smiled wider. ‘Well, I’m glad I fall on the right side of your black-and-white judgement.’ He stripped off his T-shirt and Bernadette gulped. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he said, indicating that she should sit on the bed. She plopped herself down where he pointed. ‘I’m going through here to shower and change.’ He strolled into a large walk-in closet that led to a modern bathroom, but reappeared moments later, poking his head round the door frame. ‘Just think, that could have been our marital bed.’ With that he left her properly, and she heard the sound of a shower running.
Bernadette felt somewhat unbalanced. Radley Blake had an unsettling effect on her, because despite the fact that he looked and sounded exactly like the type of man she most despised – arrogant, powerful and assertive – she actually found him worryingly attractive. She tried to remind herself of the pain that could be the only outcome of indulging in this attraction, the despair of being badly treated and abandoned. But Radley was managing to break through her misandrous mantle, and he had one very strong advocate: Elizabeth.
Bernadette’s subconscious mind allowed that Elizabeth was a good person, in the same way that Tim was a good person; they were both better than she would ever be. And Elizabeth valued Radley as a true friend.
She stood to look at the framed pictures. There was a large one of Elizabeth and Radley, both looking significantly younger, both grinning to camera. Bernadette was pleased to note that Elizabeth was not particularly attractive even with youth on her side. She picked it up for a closer examination. It was odd to see a youthful Radley; he was so completely at ease as an adult man that it seemed almost as though he had come to life fully formed, in need of no growth or incubation period. Yet here he was, younger and leaner. The rest were family photos, including several of an elderly couple Bernadette assumed to be Radley’s parents. They looked sophisticated and a little intimidating. There was also a photo of Radley holding a puppy, a black-and-white bundle of fluff, nestled happily in his powerful arms. She snorted at the ridiculous appeal of the picture. The shower water cut off, and she hastily went to sit back down on the bed, careful to replace the frame in the exact position she had found it.
When Radley re-emerged, he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and the damp, fragrant scent of shampoo clung to him. He crossed to the other side of the bed and lay down, plumping a pillow behind his head.
‘What now?’ asked Bernadette, wanting to lie down too, but worrying about the inevitable consequence.
‘Now, we head into the office.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing you at work. I suspect that will be the real meat of my article, unless you have something spectacular planned for tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow? No. You just want to see me in my normal routine, right? On Saturday I usually just hang out, maybe do some work, watch some television …’
‘Really?’ she asked, incredulous.
‘Er, yes. Is there something wrong wit
h that?’
‘It’s just that usually … usually if a person knows I’m profiling them, they tend to do something impressive when I’m around, like skydiving, or reading to blind orphans or something. I’ve never shadowed anyone where they just sit around and watch TV.’
‘But you said normal routine.’
‘I know – but nobody actually does their normal routine! They have an agenda. The actor who wants to look intelligent goes to a reading of contemporary philosophy at MOMA. The politician who wants to come across as sincere takes me along on his visit downtown to the women’s shelter.’ She had turned her body to face his so that she was practically lying next to him, propped up on her elbows.
‘I don’t have any agenda,’ he said. ‘But if you’d like to add a little colour to your article, other than my charming self, I’m happy to do anything you suggest.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You’re already going to frame any answers I might happen to give you into the body of a pre-written article. You’ve decided who I am, so go ahead and match up a weekend activity with your chosen angle and I’ll oblige. What is your angle, incidentally?’
‘I was going for pig-headed narcissist.’
‘And what does a pig-headed narcissist do on a Saturday?’
‘I wouldn’t know. But I was imagining some kind of extreme gesture. Something that would highlight an expertise of yours, allowing you to shine. A situation that you could dominate.’
‘Well, I should let you know that I am an excellent watcher of television. I own that shit.’
The mattress was the perfect tension, not too soft and not too hard. The sheets were so smooth and inviting, Bernadette would have been happy to settle down there for the day and conduct the interview from Radley’s bed. She wondered if that would add an interesting ‘between the sheets’ slant to her piece. Her readers would already be speculating, given the famed marriage proposal. Perhaps the ultimate gimmick here would be to ham up the sexual chemistry and go for broke.
‘I have to ask …’ she said, turning on her back and lying down flat next to him, staring up into his dark eyes. She licked her lips, and batted her lashes, allowing her gaze to linger and the faintest smile to play at the corners of her mouth. ‘People will want to know, given the fact that I’m writing about you … why did you propose marriage on my lecture tour?’
‘I’d hardly call it a tour. It’s only two speaking engagements.’
‘Oh, just tell me why!’ she demanded, nasally persistent, her seductive mask slipping like the strap of a cheap satin negligee.
‘I don’t want to talk about my personal life.’
‘What?’ she said, sitting up so quickly she almost cracked him under the chin, ‘What do you mean, you don’t want to talk about your personal life?’
‘Just that. I’m happy to bare my soul to you in many ways. I’ll open up my home and work to you – and you should know that the company I’ve created is a big part of my soul. But I’m not going to talk about my family, nor girlfriends past or present. Nothing that involves a third party; it’s not my place.’
‘But I am the third party in this case!’
‘And you have the right to say whatever you like publicly. I’m sure you’ll find some special, clever way to work it into your writing. But I won’t comment.’
‘So it was personal?’ Bernadette asked, in a small voice.
A frown darted across his face, knitting his brows like thunderclouds. ‘Are you quite mad?’ he said. ‘I asked you to marry me. That’s as personal as it gets.’
‘I thought it was a joke … a trick – a sort of jokey trick,’ she finished lamely.
He stood up, still scowling, took both her hands in his and pulled her up to a standing position. ‘Don’t get too comfortable in my bed,’ he growled.
She followed him back downstairs as meek as a kitten, into an office at the back of the house. It was a high-ceilinged room with tall bookcases on every wall save one, crammed full and overflowing. The remaining wall was a sheet of clear glass that allowed yet another spectacular city view. Books seemed to cover every available surface and there was no order to it. It was similar to the rest of the house in its design, but quite different in feel. This room was warm and well used, and seemed the perfect place to settle with a novel, curled up on one of the ample couches.
‘Is this where you work?’ Bernadette asked, uncomfortable despite the serenity offered by the surroundings. It was the type of room she had dreamed of as a child, a luxurious literary escape, a gentleman’s study, the perfect book nook.
‘I work everywhere. But this is not where I spend the working day. I came to pick up my bag.’
Radley collected a laptop from a large mahogany desk that was a jumble of papers, cables and books. He carefully placed it in a soft leather satchel, and slung the bag over his broad shoulder like a cowboy catching a calf by its hind legs, then, still glowering, and without a word to her, strode from the room. She followed him through the house and out to the drive, where Mick and the gleaming sedan were already waiting.
The three of them travelled in silence. Bernadette was a vexed mess. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fathom Radley’s motivation. He was attracted to her, of course – but the attraction was of the superficial kind, based purely on her youth and good looks. She preferred it when men were drawn by a combination of her physicality and the unthreatening persona she preferred to project. But Radley had never been fooled. He could read her mind and predict her every move in a Gandalf-like fashion. He knew and he ridiculed, hiding his disgust behind a thin veil of flirtatious raillery.
When they turned down a road running parallel to large aircraft hangars and a private runway, Bernadette remembered that Radley’s company was based up in Silicon Valley. ‘How often do you fly to work?’ she asked him.
‘Twice a week,’ he replied, somewhat gruffly.
The car stopped at a large metal gate, which slid silently aside to let them pass, before heading towards a brilliant-white Falcon 7X that rested birdlike on the black tarmac, its three engines stirring the hot air, creating an aura of energetic expectation. As they exited the car, the noise and the heat made the breath catch in Bernadette’s chest, and filled her with a powerful desire to match the kinetic force of the plane – she wanted to scream and run and cartwheel and jump. Instead she followed Radley up the extended staircase, calling out to him, ‘How do you justify flying private?’
‘I don’t,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘If you don’t understand the math, that’s your problem.’
Mick followed them on to the plane but stopped short of the main cabin, seating himself in the jump seat by the pilots. Radley led Bernadette into a cream suite and pointed to the chair she should take.
She desperately wanted to engage him in conversation, but he was still in a foul mood with her, no doubt insulted that she hadn’t realised his proposal was a serious one. But just because it had been genuine didn’t give him the moral high ground. She knew that his motivation was corrupt, and his heart was not truly in it. Just like a man. She scowled slightly as she sat opposite him, watching as he fiddled with his precious cell phone. He looked up, saw her expression and promptly laughed.
‘What?’ she asked, surprised at his sudden mirth.
‘Are you feeling hard done by?’ he asked.
‘A little.’
‘You are funny,’ he said appreciatively. ‘You might be the most selfish creature I’ve ever met.’
She opened her mouth indignantly. ‘I’m not selfish.’
‘You are a passionate soul, impulse-driven and pleasure-seeking and thoroughly self-serving. The only true hedonist I’ve ever met.’
‘I don’t know where you get all this codswallop from,’ she said, her throat dry. He thought her selfish, and it stung. But in a world rife with self-interest, one had to be selfish so as not to be made a fool of.
The plane was taxiing down the runway, jolting slightly over bum
ps, the lithe machine tripping and shimmying like an excitable colt. Bernadette fastened her seat belt. ‘Why did you move to LA if your company is based in Silicon Valley?’ she asked.
‘For a change in scene and society.’
She looked at him doubtfully. ‘You came to LA for the society?’
The plane rose from the ground in a simple joyful leap, and Bernadette turned involuntarily to look out of the oval window by her chair, watching the ground recede with giddying pace. The network of roads and houses and the LA grid system below looked so peaceful and complete, a well-ordered testament to human triumph.
‘Do you really think I’m selfish?’ she asked softly.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re probably right.’
They both gazed out of their respective windows, Bernadette careful to blink away the salty tears that were forming at the corners of her eyes.
The seat-belt sign darkened and Mick appeared from the front of the plane to stand deferentially by Radley.
‘I’ll have a ginger ale, please,’ Radley said.
Mick turned to Bernadette. ‘Water, please,’ she said, in response to his carefully raised eyebrow.
Once they had been furnished with beverages and Mick had disappeared to the front again, closing the pocket door carefully behind him, Bernadette felt the need to come clean. ‘I used to be kind, you know,’ she faltered, somewhat desperate. ‘I used to be very kind. Truly I did. I mean, I think I was kind, when I was a child.’
Radley glanced up at her, his eyes as soft as she had ever seen them. He hastened to reassure her, speaking quietly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know it. I can tell.’
‘I think I was hurt. And it was the kind of hurt that deadens one.’
‘Yes?’ He looked at her with compassion as she stumbled over her words, making little sense, fiddling with her sapphire ring all the while.
‘When someone you love – someone you’re supposed to be able to trust! – tells you things about yourself and about the world that seem wrong, it’s a strange feeling,’ she began.
Acts of Love Page 14