by JS Taylor
“Was your ex-girlfriend a difficult person?” I whisper. “The one who died of a drug overdose?”
James lips set in a tight line, and for a moment I think he won’t answer.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about that, Isabella,” he says, and the sadness in his voice is heart-breaking. “I’m not saying I’ll never be ready. You are the only person I can imagine talking to about it.”
He is still staring at the road.
“Did you love her very much?” I ask.
James blinks in surprise.
“No,” he says after a moment. “No, I wouldn’t say I loved her. But she needed me. It was a complicated situation.”
Oh. I stare ahead at the road, wondering what to make of this.
“I will say this,” adds James, turning to me for a moment before resting his attention back on the road. “I never felt for anyone what I feel is possible with you. What I do feel for you. Right now. After only a week.”
He turns again, showing me with his eyes the depth of his feelings.
“God Isabella,” he says, “if you only knew.”
And then he turns back to the road, as if resolving to say no more.
I sit in silence for a moment, letting a slow sweep of joy burst through me.
He’s never felt for anyone what he feels for me!
I hug the admission to myself, hardly knowing what to make of it.
“I feel that way about you too,” I say quietly.
At the wheel, James breaks into a wide grin. He turns to look at me, and suddenly I’m grinning too. We stare at each other for a brief happy moment, and then James returns his attention to the oncoming traffic.
We’re out of London now, and James puts his foot down. The car leaps forward into the fast lane, eating up the asphalt and sending trees and green hills zipping by.
“I think you’ll like the studio,” he says as the car sprints along. “Who knows? You might even like Natalie.”
We’re pulling off the main road now, heading into the English countryside.
I stare ahead. Will I like Natalie? Somehow I don’t think so.
“You’ll also get to meet Callum Reed,” he reminds me, “whom I know you’ll like.”
Callum Reed. How could I have forgotten?
He’s cast as male support.
“I love Callum in movies,” I say, excited at the thought. “He makes all his characters seem so warm.”
James nods, keeping his eyes forward.
“If it hadn’t been for his drug issues, Callum would have won an Oscar a long time ago,” he replies. “I hope this movie will help him shine. He’s in his forties now. It’s about time he got a break.”
“Did you know him before the movie?” I ask, wondering how this all works.
James nods. “We’re good friends.”
Oh. I ponder on this. Good friends. Both with drugs in their past.
“Did you both…” I hesitate, uncertain of how to phrase the question.
“Get high together?” fills in James, predicting my question with embarrassing ease. “No. We moved in different circles.”
“But you think I’ll like him?” I ask, moving the subject away from drug abuse.
“Oh yes,” says James. “Everybody likes Callum.”
“Even Natalie?”
James hesitates. “Natalie is not the easiest person to get along with.”
Chapter 10
The BMW approaches a set of high sturdy gates, and James tugs the steering wheel to move towards a security booth.
The large sign reads ‘Berkeley Studios’, and once again I am struck with how much James has managed to achieve at such a young age.
He stops the car and walks around to let me out.
“You’ll need to register your fingerprints,” he explains, “for security.”
I raise my eyebrows fractionally.
“It’s standard practice,” he says, leading me to a small window where a burly security guard sits.
The guard gestures to a small laser panel where I should press my fingers, and after a few seconds, informs me the prints have been taken.
“Is all this really necessary?” I ask as we walk back to the car and climb inside.
“It’s how the entire studio runs,” explains James. “It keeps things simple and safe.”
Safe. That wasn’t something I expected to be an issue on a film set.
After a moment, the heavy gate swings slowly open, and we cruise inside.
“Why the huge gates?” I ask, staring at the thick structures topped with razor wire. “It looks like we’re going into a prison.”
James gives a little laugh, but it sounds forced.
“Security has to be tight on set,” he says. “Actors and actresses are natural targets.”
“For photographers?” I ask, remembering the paparazzi shots of James and I tango dancing.
“Partly that,” he says, “partly they’re prey to stalkers.”
Stalkers. I hadn’t considered that.
“For the most part, stalkers are harmless,” continues James. “But you get the odd one which is dangerous.” His mouth is set in a hard grim line.
I feel a spasm of fear hit my belly. For some reason I think there’s something James isn’t telling me.
“Does Natalie have a stalker?” I ask, feeling an uneasy sensation creep around my hairline.
“Natalie has three very mild-mannered stalkers,” says James, his tone light again. “But they’re not dedicated or wealthy enough to fly out from LA, so she won’t be troubled by them here.”
We drive on in silence, and I have the distinct feeling that something is not quite right.
I am soon distracted by the studio itself, however. Now that we’ve passed the ominous security gates, we’ve passed into what looks like a little town. Buildings of various sizes line the main through-road, and we pass by a petrol garage and a huge gym.
“Is that for the actors?” I ask, turning back to stare out of the window.
James nods. “I’ll take you on a tour later. There’s everything a modern actor could want. The gym has a pool, sauna, hot-tubs. And there is also a spa which gets a lot of use. We even have our own hairdressers here,” he adds, “though some actors prefer to bring their own.”
No prizes for guessing which actors, I think, remembering that Natalie has a list of diva demands.
“Everything in the complex is free of charge to the actors,” adds James. “You’ll get a card which lets you use any service you like. There’s a beauty salon where you can get facials and manicures, and that kind of thing.” He turns to give me a little smile. “Girly stuff. There’s also a mall of sorts.”
“For shopping?” I’m incredulous. I had no idea a movie studio came with so many facilities.
“Don’t get your expectations up,” says James. “It’s a very small collection of shops. Most of the cast prefer to shop in London.”
Still. A mall with unlimited store credit sounds like fun.
“What else is there?” I ask, staring out of the window as more buildings pass by. We turn and pass a parking lot filled with every kind of vintage and prestige car you could think of. For use in movies, I assume.
“There’s a restaurant,” says James, “in case you get bored of the food on set, and a bar. And some good-sized gardens which are nice to walk in when they’re not being used for filming. I might take you there one evening,” he adds, throwing me a mischievous glance. I realise he’s not thinking about walking, and I turn away, blushing.
“There is also a ballroom,” he says. “You could show me the Spanish dancing which your mother tells me you are so talented at.”
I couldn’t have him see that side of me. Not all that pain and sadness.
“It’s more of a private thing,” I say, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.
He raises an eyebrow in question. “It won you a place at the best drama college in the country,” he says. “It must be quite some ability you have.”
“I just dance for myself nowadays,” I say. “I was a kid when I won my audition. It feels too self-conscious to dance like that in front of other people now. All that emotion.” I force a little laugh.
James looks like he’s understood more from this than I want him to. But he doesn’t press the subject.
“We also have a small movie theatre where you can request films,” he says. “And a stable of horses for filming, which some of the actors like to ride recreationally.”
“Anything else?” I ask mockingly. “Is there somewhere for actors to fly their private jets? Or a pampering parlour for their lapdogs?”
“We do have a small helipad,” says James, his mouth twitching. “And actors could request facilities for their pets, although it’s never been required.”
He thinks for a moment.
I shake my head at him, laughing. “Is this normal for a studio?”
He gives that little mouth twitch again. “That depends on what you mean by normal,” he says. “Certainly, my studios are well appointed compared to most.”
“Most?”
“All,” he admits. “It’s one of the ways in which I get the best from my actors. I take good care of them.”
He swings the car around a corner, and a complex of small chalets comes into view. I count around twenty – all set on a grass bank next to a gravel drive, a little like a village street.
“This is where you’ll be staying with the other actors,” he says.
“Here? They’re lovely.”
The chalets remind me of the fairy tale house in Hansel and Gretel, though they’re made of wood rather than cakes and candies.
I peer out of the window. “I thought actors had to stay in trailers.”
“Not in my studios,” says Berkeley with a touch of pride. “I won’t have anyone staying where I wouldn’t stay myself. And I’m not a fan of trailers.”
The BMW crunches onto the gravel drive leading to the chalets, and then slows and stops.
We’ve pulled up outside what I would judge to be the nicest of all the accommodation. It’s slightly larger than the rest and has a wooden balcony along the front.
James exits from his side of the car and walks around to open the door for me.
“Thank you,” I say, as he guides me out.
“This is where you’ll be staying for the duration of the movie,” he says, gesturing to the lovely wooden chalet. I gaze at it wonderingly.
“You’re in the chalet which used to be mine,” he adds.
Oh. That feels very intimate somehow.
I’m staying in James’s chalet.
“Where do you stay now?” I ask, feeling discomforted.
“Over there.” James points to a verge in the distance. I can make out an enormous apartment with a sweeping glass frontage. It’s uber-modern, with pristine white walls, wood-panelled sections, and a dramatic sweeping roof.
“I found it was better to be a little way from the actors,” he says, taking my hand. “Here, I’ll show you inside.”
It must be lonely, I think, taking a final glance at his apartment before turning my attention to the wooden chalet.
James walks me to the door and reaches in his pocket.
“Here,” he says, handing me a card. “Don’t lose this. This card lets you in and out of your chalet. You can also use it anywhere else in the studios. Like a credit card.”
The card is flat and purple, with my name embossed in gold type. I take it hesitantly, feeling dizzy with privilege. I’m not sure I’m ready for all of this. Last week, I was a drama student with a part-time waitressing job. Now, I’m an actress with free access to an entire leisure complex.
“Use it in the door lock here.” James takes the card and shows me how to swipe it slowly downwards. “And press your finger on this scanner.”
He gently takes my finger and pushes it down. I feel a wave of desire sweep through me. How does he do this with the slightest touch?
“Have they registered my fingerprints so quickly?” I ask, trying to distract myself from a sudden urge to rip his shirt off.
“It’s an instant process,” he says. “Your prints are now matched all over the studio. You can get in anywhere you want. Almost anywhere,” he adds as an afterthought.
Must be an expensive security system, I think as the door clicks unlocked.
James opens the door and gestures me inside.
I walk past him into an incredibly beautiful room. It’s double height, with huge panes of glass mounted halfway up the wall, letting in large quantities of light.
The walls are a mix of pale wood panelling and white, and a wooden stair leads from the large open room into a mezzanine level.
The whole effect is the kind of open-plan interior you might see in a décor magazine.
“It’s lovely,” I say, taking in the feature fireplace, large plasma TV, and designer furnishings. “Truly lovely.”
James smiles. “I’m so glad you like it,” he says softly. “But I’m hoping you won’t be here for too long.”
I turn to him in confusion.
He takes my hands in his.
“I had this room specially fitted out for you,” he says. “Because I didn’t want you to feel crowded by me. I wanted to make sure I didn’t frighten you off.”
Hmmm. Crowded by James Berkeley. That doesn’t sound so bad.
“But I was hoping that, at some point, you might decide to spend your nights with me,” he continues. “In my apartment.”
In his apartment?
The suggestion surprises me.
“Every night?” The words are out of my mouth before I realise.
“Not if you don’t want to,” he backtracks hastily. “I just wanted you to know that I’d like us to spend as much time together as possible.” He stares into my eyes.
Whoa. Can I handle this? It’s not like he’s asked me to live with him. But every night in his studio apartment is still a big deal.
“Of course, we’ll have to take steps to hide where you’re staying,” he adds.
I feel any enthusiasm for the suggestion vanish.
Is this all we are? I think resentfully. Some shameful thing, to be hidden?
“I’ll think about it,” I say flatly, taking in the beautiful interior of the chalet. It would be a shame not to enjoy this, in any case.
I step towards a hand-crafted bookcase and run my fingers along the titles. There are both novels and DVDs on the shelf.
“I chose them for you,” says James from the other side of the room.
I turn back to him in surprise, and then return my attention to the shelf.
He chose these titles for me.
As my eyes flick along the DVDs, I can see they are mostly romance movies. My eyes touch on Casablanca and Amelie. Is this his way of showing me he cares? I feel a lump well up in my throat.
He is by my side suddenly, leaning over my shoulder.
“I am trying to be a better man for you,” he whispers in my ear.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say, feeling tears in my eyes.
“Those movies say what I feel about you better than I could say it,” he says, moving to nuzzle my neck. “I am a damaged man, Isabella. I am broken and I am difficult. But since I met you I… It is the first time I have thought it might be possible for me to change.”
I stay rigid with his head on my shoulder, not trusting myself to speak. James kisses me lightly on the neck.
“I have work to do,” he says suddenly. I realise I might have hurt him by staying silent. But the threat of tears is still overwhelming.
“James…” I mutter weakly, “I…”
He kisses my cheek.
“I’ll come collect you later and give you a proper tour,” he says. “For now, I want you to settle in and enjoy yourself. Some of the other actors are already on set. You’ll likely find them in the coffee shop or the restaurant.”
Then he turns and walks out of the open-plan living space, lea
ving me staring at the love letter he’s written me in movies.
Oh James, I think, staring at the range of classic romances. You are a much better man than you give yourself credit for. How can I make you see it?
Chapter 11
Left alone in the room, I have free reign to be completely over-awed. And the accommodation certainly doesn’t disappoint. The beautiful open-plan living space leads to a designer kitchenette, complete with cappuccino-maker and a fridge stocked with gourmet food.
I open one of three small cupboards to find Italian coffee, loose-leaf teas, and some kind of hot chocolate from an organic plantation in Venezuela.
Just a little bit higher end than I’m used to.
I close the cupboard door softly, trying to make sense of my giant leap in circumstances.
There’s a menu on the countertop of food which can be delivered to the chalet, and at what time. Fresh pastries can be brought from 6am, and after midday there’s a selection of hand-cut sandwiches and salads.
There’s a separate form for breakfast options where I can tick what I’d like to be sent and leave for the housekeeper to manage. I can also specify food I would like the cupboard and fridge to be stocked with.
A housekeeper? I glance around the chalet distractedly. I’d better keep this place super tidy. I hate the idea of anyone having to pick up after me.
In a dreamlike state, I wander out of the kitchen and up the open wooden stair to the mezzanine level. There’s a single door up here, and I open it to reveal a large bedroom.
The walls are an elegant faun colour, and the floor is polished wood with a thick wool rug. There is a large sleigh-bed, in the style of the chalet, made up with crisp white sheets and a fur throw set in artful contrast.
Over the top is a hand-stitched bedspread which doesn’t match the rest of the décor.
I walk over and study the quilt in puzzlement.
It looks almost identical in style to the friendship blanket I have at home. Though it lacks Lorna’s rough and ready patchwork.
The realisation clicks into place. James had this bedspread put in especially for me. He must have remembered the friendship blanket from my bedroom, when he visited my apartment. So, he’s had something similar made to make me feel at home.
