Acts of Love

by Talulah Riley

  ‘Someone … like your father?’

  She nodded. ‘I was a millstone around his neck. A helpless dependant. I just expected him to love me! Without having done anything to earn it.’

  ‘That’s not an outrageous expectation. Parents do usually love their children.’

  Bernadette nodded absently, her mind alive with the past. ‘I was so eager for his love, so open and hopeful and … I just expected it. I thought I was beautiful, you see, and lovable, and that the world was that simple.’

  ‘You are beautiful. And lovable. Very,’ Radley said, quietly.

  Bernadette shook her head this time, with a small, tight laugh. ‘He showed me how wrong I was, and how the world would judge me.’

  ‘Judge you?’

  ‘For being a woman, for being so weak and open. The simple sin of circumstance, the stain of inferiority.’

  ‘No,’ said Radley, quiet but firm. He looked to be almost in pain. ‘You can’t really think this?’

  ‘It’s not so much how I think as how I feel. Sometimes I feel so weak and helpless, because of everything I was told. Feelings can overpower thoughts, no matter how hard you try to rationalise them.’

  ‘This weakness you talk of: it is not weak to expect and express love. It’s an incredible strength. It’s one of the most admirable things about you.’

  Bernadette looked at him, lifted suddenly. ‘Yes, I knew that love was real, even as a child. I had such a joy inside me – and ultimately, it was that hopeful expectation that he couldn’t crush.’

  ‘The very quality he was so keen to undermine.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I felt love myself, love for him, love for my mother, so I knew it was a real thing – and I read about it! I read how other people experienced love. I learnt it was something that could exist, and that it could be simple, and uncomplicated, and not greedy, or grasping, or some strange form of trickery.’

  Radley watched her silently, witnessing something that few people had a chance to see: the tender side of Bernadette’s nature.

  ‘But then the awful thing,’ she continued, ‘was that reality seemed to confirm his view of things, and not mine.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, everything he had warned me of came true. All around me men just seemed to care about the way I looked, and the way I made them feel about themselves, and what I could do for them. They degraded me, and compared me, and discarded me like an object.’

  ‘Has it really been as bad as all that?’ Radley asked, looking quite sorrowful.

  She nodded. ‘Men are bastards. All of them.’

  Radley shifted in his seat. ‘Now hang on, I know lots of wonderful men. Do you not think that these things happened to you because of the hurt your father inflicted? If you didn’t deal with his influence, it could go on affecting you in … strange ways.’

  She looked at him, her eyes like pieces of warm copper, tears brimming but not falling. ‘Possibly. There was a man … he was a bit like you, actually, except older than you, and not as good-looking … and I loved him. He was my first love. He – he wasn’t very nice. But he was smart and funny, and I didn’t care that he wasn’t good to me. I was just consumed with wanting to be with him. I suppose, with hindsight, he was similar to my father. They both had a reputation for being immoral and dangerous. But I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I thought that as long as I was with him, as long as I could keep him, earn him, be worthy of him – trick him into feeling something for me! – nothing else mattered. I compromised myself and my ideals in order to be with him. Over and over again I tried to be someone I wasn’t, just to keep up with him. And then he left me. And it seemed so wrong, because I had given everything, and he … It meant nothing to him. My soul was worthless to him, but important to me, and yet I had given it away so easily, and ultimately all for nothing …’

  Radley reached over and took her hands. ‘You were born with a great belief in romantic justice. And you were too soon disabused of your credo. I’m sorry you experienced such pain.’

  She gazed at him with something approaching surprise. She hadn’t realised he could be so nice. It was a relief to confess her weakness to someone. ‘I wish I could go back to being the person I was before. I wish I could get my soul back. But I can’t.’

  ‘You can!’ Radley urged, his voice quickening. ‘You never lost your soul, as you call it. You are still a kind person underneath it all. You are still full of love, and passion. You just need to channel that passion in a productive way, and not at Tim!’

  Bernadette recoiled, suddenly aware that Radley was too close to her. He had said the last as a half-joke, but something in his manner was off: he was holding her hands tightly and looking far too sincere. His emotion frightened her. And he had used the information she had given him to attack Tim; just like a man! His concern had been an elaborate show, when all he wanted was to make his own point.

  Suddenly Mick popped open the pocket door. He hesitated in the doorway, sensing that he might be unwelcome.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ Radley asked Bernadette, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘A snack? Some fruit? Bagels? A cookie?’ She shook her head. ‘We’re fine, thank you,’ he finished, still not looking in Mick’s direction. The door was shut with all possible haste.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Bernadette.

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ He let go of her hands and shifted back in his seat. ‘Too soon, Radley, too soon,’ he muttered.

  ‘You don’t want to know details? Of the man? He’s quite a famous British MP, you know.’

  ‘I don’t need to know details. I know he was a shit. There are any number of ways a girl like you could have been hurt by a man. They are all tragic enough. But I’ve garnered the material point: your father was the man who hurt you first. You made a bad choice in life because of that hurt, and I know this much – neither the MP nor your father is anything like Tim Bazier. And because you have decided never to be hurt by a man again, that is why you’re now so deeply “in love” with someone who’s no good for you.’

  ‘Oh, you are awful!’ she exclaimed, relieved at the rush of red-hot feeling returning, bringing much-needed vim to her weakened body.

  ‘I might be awful, but I am also right. And I suppose, by some horrible irony, there are things about me that remind you of … ugh, I hate to say it – I was already conscious of the age gap between us: I’m nearly a decade older than you – but there are things about me that must remind you of your father!’ Radley dropped his head in his hands in a gesture that would have seemed almost comical had he not been so genuinely distressed.

  Bernadette felt like herself again, no longer caught in Radley’s spell, but hard and self-contained, with a sudden rush of power. ‘You are quite old,’ she agreed, callously.

  He gave her a wry smile and her heart seemed to thump harder in her chest. She smiled back prettily and turned her head away. ‘Yes, well, I’m supposed to be interviewing you, not the other way around. I didn’t mean to impose with my sob story. It could be a lot worse.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not crying for you,’ he said in his usual playful manner.

  ‘I mean, here I sit with the genius Radley Blake. Things could be a lot worse.’

  ‘You know, I think that’s the first real compliment you’ve paid me.’

  ‘It’s not; you just haven’t been paying close enough attention.’

  ‘I’ve been paying very close attention,’ he said, simply. The cabin suddenly seemed very warm, and Bernadette rested her head against the oval window, cooling her forehead.

  ‘How long are we staying up north?’ she asked.

  He didn’t answer, and she turned to look at him with a questioning eyebrow that rivalled Mick’s in its propriety and self-assured dignity.

  ‘Well,’ he said, hesitating, ‘that depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether or not you want to get a room.’


  It took her a moment to register what he was asking. ‘A hotel room?’ she clarified.

  ‘Yes.’

  Her mind was spinning. ‘You’re suggesting that you and I get a hotel room in the Bay Area, and go back to Los Angeles tomorrow? After spending the night together? In a hotel room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t offer two rooms. They could get two rooms. It was such a bold and brazen move.

  ‘On the record or off the record?’ she asked.

  ‘Whichever you like.’

  ‘On the record.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Bernadette hesitated, giddy with the pleasure of a lust finally acknowledged. ‘Okay. On the record, Radley Blake, I accept your offer to spend the night with you.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Radley, grinning. ‘On the record, I succumb to you.’

  6

  A fresh sedan was waiting for them at the bottom of the aircraft steps. Bernadette alighted carefully, thanking the pilots as she passed, and smiling girlishly at Mick, who handed her down the stairs and into the car.

  She slid across the cold leather back seat, with Radley following close behind. As soon as the door was shut, he took her hand in his. Her breath quickened with anticipation. She had not been expecting to be propositioned so boldly. And she had accepted him – refused an offer of marriage, but jumped at the idea of sharing his bed.

  He leant across her suddenly. ‘Here, let me,’ he said, a gentleman, pulling her seat belt around her body and fastening it in place with a click, the sound like a wink of acknowledgement.

  ‘I can fasten my own seat belt,’ she said automatically, shifting uncomfortably.

  ‘I know you can.’ He gazed sympathetically at his wriggling companion. ‘We could go back to Los Angeles this afternoon if you’d prefer. You seem a bit discomposed. I didn’t mean to shock you.’

  ‘No,’ she heard herself answer, too quick. ‘I don’t take fright easily.’

  He smiled, and turned his attention to his ever-present iPhone. ‘Well, it’s never too late to change your mind.’

  How wrong he was. She was no fickle woman; she had made her bed and now she must lie in it. The space between them was unnecessary given their understanding, and she moved her legs closer to his, in silent confirmation of her choice. A small sound of mirth puffed from his lips, and he gently patted her knee, not taking his eyes from the screen.

  Bernadette’s was a confusing, fast-paced life, and she could focus only on one compelling idea at a time. Everything was currently lost behind brazen desire. She had forgotten love and revenge, integrity and pain. She had been reduced to a lust-addled fool. As long as Radley was being honest about what he wanted from her, she was happy. Better that they sleep together and get it over with, rather than keep getting entangled in unnecessary semantic tussles. He had patted her knee, but kept the gesture fast and brief, as though he could tell she would be too easily stirred. He was waiting. Waiting until they were alone in a hotel room.

  An impatient and transparent person, she turned in the seat with a longing groan, but all he did was laugh. There was more to her than this, she knew it – her brain was filled with facts. She knew all the kings of England, and the Latin dative; she knew the story of Voltaire’s mistress, and how to turn a horse chestnut into a winning conker. And her mind could take the facts she knew and find linking patterns; she could assimilate and create. But since Radley had suggested they spend the night together, nothing had ever seemed so interesting. The facts were void and her selfdom ceased to be.

  She was intrigued by the idea of being intimate with him, and her perversion was more than sexual. It was arousing to know she would be sharing personal space. She would be a witness to his nightly ablutions, see what snacks he chose from the hotel minibar, know what time he set his alarm for in the morning. Radley Blake was the kind of person who exuded such a mannered superiority, it was difficult to imagine him performing tasks essential to mere mortals. But now she would see him tie his shoelaces. It was vulnerability that she desired. It would be satisfying to see him weak and duly at her mercy. She hoped that he snored.

  ‘Do you need anything?’ Radley asked. ‘We’ll have dinner with some friends of mine. Should I send for a dress for you?’

  ‘I’ll go like this,’ Bernadette assured him. ‘Unless this isn’t formal enough?’

  Radley laughed. ‘This is Silicon Valley. A T-shirt is formal enough.’

  ‘Good. Then I’ll go as I am.’

  ‘Would you like anything at all?’ he persisted solicitously. ‘Toiletries? Hosiery? Anything?’

  ‘Hosiery is a word that went out with haberdashery. And no, I’m fine, thank you. All I need is toothpaste, and the hotel can provide that. I’m pretty low-maintenance.’

  ‘I hope not,’ he said grimly. ‘I don’t like it when women describe themselves like that. It always makes me feel like I’m being sold a pup.’

  ‘Okay, I’m hideously difficult to please and like to have my own way. Better?’

  ‘Much,’ he said, grinning delightedly. ‘Although I still hate that phrase. For the record.’

  Northern California reminded her of England. Verdant hills undulated in a most unassertive manner, large-eyed, shiny-nosed cows grazed happily behind post-and-rail fences, and there was a distinct lack of dust and palm trees. The large office building that housed Clarion Molecular sat back from the freeway in a sympathetically designed industrial block, its clean white walls and angular structure making it look like a Mormon temple, or an edifice to high-designed futures technology. The large blue-and-green Clarion sign read like a challenge to lassitude, and a call to arms for capitalist endeavour. Bernadette approved. It was bright, modern and appealed to her sense of scale.

  They walked towards the large glass entrance, past box hedges and a herb garden that looked like it had sprung from the pages of a horticulture magazine. ‘What’s with the garden?’ asked Bernadette, noting the neat rows, and the almost spooky spotless pathways between pristine beds.

  Radley shrugged. ‘We’re biologists. A lot of us here like plants. I come out and snip herbs for my sandwiches at lunch sometimes. It’s all organic.’

  ‘I’m sorry … You snip herbs for your sandwiches?’ she repeated, a note of unmistakable ridicule in her voice. He didn’t flinch, just swerved into a side path and stooped to pick a few leaves of mint. ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting them in front of her nose. ‘Eat it.’

  ‘I don’t want to eat it.’

  ‘Eat it,’ he encouraged, tickling the leaves against her lips. She chomped down, narrowly avoiding the tips of his fingers.

  ‘What other interesting features does the building have?’ she asked, with full mouth and fresh breath.

  ‘You can’t see it from here, but we have a jogging track, and a Japanese tea garden on the roof. We’re completely energy-self-sufficient with our solar-panel field out back. We have a crèche, a gym, state-of-the-art wave pool, Pilates studio—’

  ‘Are you kidding? I want to come and work here. It’s like a spa!’

  Radley shrugged with genuine modesty. ‘It’s nothing original.’

  ‘Er, a Japanese tea garden on the roof sounds pretty original to me.’

  He smiled at her. ‘I don’t know that I’ve seen you animated like this about anything other than Tim.’

  Bernadette grew grave for a moment, but was distracted quickly enough by the advanced biometric entry to the building, where a compact machine scanned Radley’s retina, and a computerised female voice said, ‘Good morning, Radley.’ Bernadette shrieked with delight.

  ‘I have a guest with me,’ he informed the surrounding air.

  ‘Welcome, visitor. Please check in at reception,’ replied the computer, and the large glass doors swept silently open.

  ‘That is extreme!’ Bernadette whispered, as they entered an immaculate lobby. ‘That is some serious James Bond shit.’

  ‘Nothing tacky,’ Radley assure
d her, smugly. ‘It’s the most up-to-date system that actually works. There are others considered more advanced, but they’re not quite there yet. They crash frequently, need a lot of babysitting, that sort of thing. Doris, as we call our access control, actually works. She’s a one-machine facilities management superstar.’

  ‘Who makes the decisions round here?’ Bernadette asked.

  ‘Well, it’s not Doris,’ he said, grinning. ‘Are you worried about a HAL-type situation?’

  ‘No, of course not. I meant, how did you end up with Doris? Who made that decision?’

  Radley looked immensely affronted. ‘Who on earth do you think?’

  ‘But decisions about security, facilities management, human resources … the tea garden on the roof? Is that you too? Do you micromanage?’

  Radley sighed as they reached the reception desk, behind which sat a very pretty girl. ‘Hi, Rachel,’ he said. ‘Do you have Bernadette’s access card?’

  Rachel, who wore a snug, low-cut cardigan and bejewelled nails, smiled pertly at Radley and pulled a card from a recess in the desk. ‘Good morning, Mr Blake,’ she said, in an excellently modulated telephone voice. Turning to Bernadette, she held out the card and glanced at her curiously. ‘Good morning, Ms St John, welcome to Clarion Molecular.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what Doris would look like, if she was embodied?’ Bernadette asked, sneaking a look back at Rachel as they walked away. Radley’s loud answering laugh echoed round the high-ceilinged lobby.

  They headed towards a bank of elevators, past a comfortable seating area and a living wall decked out with ferns and green leafy plants. It gave a fresh scent to the air, and a bright splash of colour to the otherwise stark white gleam.

  ‘More herbs?’ asked Bernadette, pointing.

  Radley shook his head. ‘For decoration only.’

  He pushed a button to call a chrome and glass elevator. ‘To get back to your ridiculous question about micromanaging – another term that I hate, by the way – I’m intimately involved in every aspect of this company. My background is biological engineering, and that is what I am at heart: a biologist. But I am also the CEO and founder of a large organisation, and I take that role very seriously. I’m perhaps not as good at managing as I am at engineering, but luckily I am a superlative engineer, so even if my management skills fall far short of my engineering skills, I must still be pretty good.’