The Berkeley Method

by JS Taylor

  James is pouring Sipsmith gin from a hand-illustrated bottle. Two glasses are half-filled with the clearest ice I have ever seen. He adds a wedge of lemon, lime, and splashes tonic.

  Done with the preparation, he heads over to me, holding the drinks.

  “Here.” He hands me mine. The tall glass is so finely made, it feels as though too much pressure could crack it in my hand.

  “I’ve never seen such perfect ice cubes,” I say, partly to dispel the charged atmosphere.

  “The water is triple-filtered,” says James distractedly. “It makes the ice very clear.”

  I take a sip, allowing the sour and sweet flavours to marry on my tongue. After the stresses of the day, the cold gin feels incredible as it hits my mouth.

  James takes a graceful sip of his drink and slides his glass onto the table in front of us - a seamless curving piece of unvarnished ash.

  I see him hesitate.

  “It’s ok,” I say gently. “You can tell me.”

  He pauses, reaches for his drink, takes another elegant sip, and replaces it. He closes his eyes as he swallows.

  There is a long moment when he does nothing but look into my face. Then he seems to see something there, which reassures him.

  “I was just a boy when my mother died,” he begins. “We lived in Mauritius. My father, mother, and I. I was only seven. But, from what I remember, we were happy.”

  His voice is calm, and the memory brings a faint smile to his lips.

  “Then I came down with some sort of illness,” he continues. “A fever, I think, which a lot of the local children died of. I don’t remember anything about it, except my mother never left my bedside. I was told later that I owed my life to her. No one else would have nursed me so tirelessly.”

  He gives a little sigh.

  “My father tried to stop her,” he says. “She didn’t eat or sleep for two days. And although I got better, she became weak. Then she contracted the fever too. By the time I was better,” he adds, “my mother was very, very ill.”

  His expression has darkened slightly.

  “I was too young to fully understand what was happening,” he says. “But I wanted to help. We were a wealthy family, and we could afford to grow rose bushes, even though each one needed a local man’s salary in water.”

  He frowns, remembering.

  “The flowers were so beautiful. So, I brought her one every day. I knew it was wrong, really, to pick those expensive blooms. But, I had to give her something.”

  I nod, to show I’m listening.

  “I’ve seen so many psychologists,” says James thoughtfully. “And I never felt as easy talking about this as I do with you.”

  He takes another sip of his gin.

  “I poured every ounce of love I had into those roses,” he continues. “Every day, I brought her one. And it was a symbol of how much I cared. How much I wanted her to get better.”

  He waits, toying with his glass.

  “And then, she died,” he says simply. There is slight pain in his voice, but I can hear that his mother’s death is only a distant trauma for him now.

  “You blamed yourself?” I ask.

  “I was only seven,” says James. “I got it into my head that my roses had been bad for her. Because I’d broken the rules by picking them. And the emotions I put into them were so intense.”

  He gives me a wry little smile.

  “Of course, I know now,” he says, “that wasn’t the case. I’ve seen enough head doctors to sort my childish feelings from what is rational.”

  He stares up at the ceiling.

  “I know all the theories,” he continues, “enough to write a book probably. Guilt Displacement. Feelings of abandonment. Of course, it didn’t help that my father blamed me for her death.”

  “He blamed you?” I am appalled.

  “She would never have caught the fever, if not for me,” explains James.

  “But you were just a child!”

  “I didn’t have to live with it very long,” says James with a touch of bitterness. “My father remarried in under a year. A grieving widower with a landed estate has his pick of bright young gold diggers.”

  He smiles, but the warmth doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “I was sent back to the UK,” he continues, “my stepmother said I should be put into boarding school.”

  I move my hand to touch his arm.

  “How awful,” I say, my eyes welling with tears.

  “It was a long time ago,” says James.

  “But you lost your mother,” I say, my voice quavering, “how could anyone think it right to send you away from your father?”

  “It wasn’t just the stepmother,” says James. “My father comes from a long line of boarders. It’s tradition. So, the boys can man-up and learn independence.”

  “Aged seven? After the death of your mother?”

  “Seven was considered old,” says James with a rueful smile. “I found out later that my mother had delayed my enrolment. My father would have sent me aged five.”

  James shrugs. “Perhaps it would have been best if I’d gone earlier. By the time I got to school, I was very much the odd one out. I was two years newer to the system, from Mauritius, with a deep tan and a French accent.”

  As he explains his childhood, James seems to sink into a well-practised reserve. I wonder how long it took him to build this wall.

  “I had to fight, every day for a year, to stop them calling me a monkey chaser,” he adds in the same simple tone.

  The idea of all this needless cruelty is almost too much to bear. If I ever needed proof of how strong my feelings are for James, this is it. The tears are falling freely from my eyes now.

  James catches my expression and reaches up to wipe the tears away.

  “It’s not so terrible, Issy,” he says, looking at me curiously. “Much worse things happen to many other people. Better people,” he adds.

  I feel my feelings for him rear up, like a lioness.

  “But they shouldn’t,” I say fiercely, my voice coming loud. “Bad things shouldn’t happen. Not to innocent children.” I am thick with anger towards James’s father and stepmother. How could they?

  “The famous Isabella Green temper,” says James with a little smile. “Angry, rather than sad. I was the same way myself, at one time. But I’m touched that you care so much.”

  “I do,” I say, a little of my anger faltering. “I do care.” I reach out and touch his face. “Those things shouldn’t have happened to a young child,” I repeat.

  James shrugs again.

  “But they did. You of all people should know that.”

  I look away from his searching gaze. He doesn’t push the point. Instead, he sighs.

  “Since my mother died,” he says, “I’ve never given red roses. They symbolise something different to me than they do to most people.”

  “I know,” I admit. “I read it in an interview.”

  He nods at this, as if unsurprised.

  “I don’t give interviews anymore,” he says. “I remember the one you read. It was a favour to a film student. I still wish I hadn’t done it.”

  “Why?”

  “As a child, I thought holding in my feelings was the way to protect those I cared about,” he says. “No red roses, No feelings. Never let anyone in. That way, I keep those around me safe.”

  His eyes are on mine, imploring me to understand.

  “As an adult, it became even more ingrained,” he says. “I had some… some strong evidence that people I care for get hurt.” He shakes his head. “Of course, I’ve discussed it with therapists. I understand the rationale of why my thinking is awry. But, I can’t shake the belief. Because I’ve seen it come true.”

  The ex-girlfriend. The drug overdose. Is this what he means? Something tells me that now isn’t the time to ask. It’s been painful for him to open up as much as he has.

  “And now,” continues James, “you’ve got this maniac stalker on your tail. My
biggest fear is coming true.”

  “You are not to blame,” I say fiercely, “for this situation. There is nothing wrong with you. This situation is an accident. Nothing more.”

  James is shaking his head.

  “It was expected that he might target one of my pictures,” he says, softly. “The police warned me.”

  Why would the stalker target a movie directed by James? Then I realise.

  “Because of the fame thing,” I say slowly, “because you have a reputation for making actors very famous.”

  “Yes,” James admits with a sigh. “But I never thought you would be in danger.”

  It’s starting to make more sense to me now. The security. The fingerprints. I thought it seemed excessive.

  “You knew all along,” I say. “That’s what all the security was for. And you never told me.”

  James nods. “You didn’t need to know. I thought I could protect you. Now I’ve put you in harm’s way. And I only have myself to blame.”

  I shake my head slowly. How can I change his thinking?

  “This… belief of yours,” I say, thinking out loud. “Is this tied up with your need for obedience?”

  James’s lip twitches at my choice of words. He nods.

  “Tied up, yes. My past is complicated,” he says. “In fact, it’s messed up. It’s very messed up. And believe me, Issy, if you knew the half of it, I don’t think you would be sitting here.”

  Is this the problem? He thinks I’ll run away if I know the real him?

  “What do you mean by messed up?” I challenge him. “Do you mean sexual things?”

  Another little mouth twitch.

  “Amongst others.”

  “You think I couldn’t handle your… your sexual preferences?”

  “You’re pure, Issy. I’m not. I don’t want to drag you into my world.”

  “You’re overestimating my vulnerability,” I say. “I’m tougher than you think.”

  It’s the first time I’ve even partway alluded to my own childhood. I see him catch the subtle reference and assess it.

  “And I might be sexually innocent,” I add, “but I’m brave. I’d rather try something, and get hurt, than never try it.”

  This is exactly what I’m like, I realise. I have picked myself up from so much pain, it’s a wonder my legs work. But here I am. Still standing.

  I stare at him, keeping my jaw steady.

  James raises his eyebrows.

  “What are you saying?” he asks.

  “I’m saying that I want to prove to you that I wouldn’t run. I can take anything you throw at me.”

  My eyes are challenging. I lower my voice.

  “So, try me out,” I say in a whisper.

  I see James swallow. For the first time since I’ve met him, he looks visibly uncertain. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says.

  “I don’t,” I agree, “but I know I want you. I want to make this work.”

  He looks stunned by this.

  “You’ve opened up to me,” I say, trying to put how I feel into words. “I want to… to give you something back. To prove my feelings.”

  “You are offering your submission?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sexuality is not a bargaining chip, Issy.”

  “Then what is it, James?”

  He smiles at this.

  “It’s an adventure.”

  “Then take me on an adventure.”

  “Not all adventures end well,” he says, searching my face.

  “And not all adventures end badly. But whatever the outcome, you’ve had an adventure.” I stare back at him, challenging him.

  James picks up his gin and drains the last of it. He sets it down with infuriating slowness.

  “You are always a surprise, Isabella,” he says finally. “You do realise what you are offering me?”

  “No,” I admit.

  He smiles at my honesty.

  “A test then,” he says, almost to himself. “Let’s see if you really are as brave as all that.”

  He settles his eyes on me.

  “Stand up.”

  Uncertainly, I get to my feet.

  “I’m going to take you to my bedroom,” he says. “In a few minutes, I’m going to have you tied up, naked, and begging for mercy.”

  He stares straight into my eyes as he says this, as though daring me to chicken out.

  No way.

  I meet his gaze.

  “Who says I’ll beg for mercy?” I say slowly.

  James gives a low laugh. “I do.”

  Chapter 22

  “Here are the rules,” says James, guiding me into his bedroom. It’s the same stunning contemporary décor as the rest of the apartment, I notice. His bedroom looks a little like a space shuttle, all white walls and curved sixties furnishings. I feel myself mentally adding a few colourful quilts and cushions.

  The bed is slightly different, with a slatted headboard.

  All the better for tying you to, says a little voice in my head.

  “For the next two hours, you obey every command I make,” he says.

  “Like in the hotel,” I say, remembering our agreement in the Metropolitan.

  “Yes.” James is standing behind me. He brings his mouth very close to my ear. “Except that this time around, I won’t be showing any restraint.”

  I feel a little thrill of fear run though me. What does he have planned? I know the contents of my bedside drawers have been transported to his apartment. Are they here in this room?

  “If, at any time, you are uncomfortable,” continues James, “tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”

  “I won’t,” I say quietly.

  James purses his lips. He looks impressed. “Courageous girl,” he says. “But we’ll see. Get over to the bed, and take off your clothes.”

  He waits in the doorway as I walk slowly across the room. I turn to face him, a little of my bravado melting away, now that I have to strip for him.

  “You can always change your mind,” says James, catching my expression.

  In answer, I unclip the belt around my hips and drop it carefully onto the bed.

  “We can find a use for that,” murmurs James as it falls onto the white covers.

  Keeping my eyes on him, I draw off my knee-high boots. And then, taking a little breath for courage, I slide my dress up and off.

  As it momentarily covers my eyes, James disappears. When he comes into view again, his face is changed. Before his face was interested, assured. Now the expression is predatory.

  What am I getting myself into? Only one way to fine out.

  “I had forgotten,” says James, his voice coming thickly, “that I had bought you that underwear. I never realised quite how you would look in it.”

  The underwear. In all that’s going on, I had forgotten I was wearing the beautiful pink underwear he bought me.

  James cocks his head slightly to one side.

  “Turnaround,” he orders.

  Already, my body has started to respond to his command. I feel warmth drawing through my limbs, pooling in my groin.

  I hesitate for a moment, and he raises his eyebrow.

  “Rebellion already?” he says. “It will go harder on you later.”

  I swallow and turn my back on him, exposing the thin pink ribbons criss-crossing my behind.

  I hear him make a soft intake of breath.

  “It’s going to be more difficult than I thought,” he says levelly, “not to take you right now. But you needn’t worry, Ms. Green. I have a lot of practise at restraint.”

  Faced away from him, I feel intensely vulnerable. I have no idea what’s going on behind me. I move to turn my head, and feel a sudden firm slap on my behind.

  Wow. I hadn’t realised he was so close. My rear end is ringing from the slap. I feel lust surge through me.

  “Don’t turn around.” His tone is severe.

  I keep my head faced forwards. Something in his voice is so strong, so und
eniably authoritative. My body is already begging for him.

  Behind me, I hear him retrieving something from a drawer.

  What is he getting? The anticipation is delicious and a little frightening.

  Then he’s behind me again.

  “Take off your underwear,” he says. “Slowly. Make it a show for me.”

  Slowly, I reach to my bra straps, letting them fall off my shoulders. Then I unhook the back and let the bra fall away.

  “Very nice,” murmurs James. He presses closer to me. I can feel his erection against my behind. “Now the panties,” he whispers.

  Swallowing, I inch them off at the sides as best I can with him pressed against me. He draws back a little as I let them drop to the floor and step out of them.

  Then he’s pulling my arms over my head and binding them tight at the wrists.

  He throws me onto the bed, so I land on my stomach. And then he’s tying me firmly to the headboard.

  “It’s nice to have you so well restrained,” he says, bringing his body to lie on top of mine.

  I am flat on my front, with my hands raised from their restraint to the headboard.

  I feel his weight on top of me, and the hardness of him through his jeans. He runs his hands down my naked sides, and I shiver.

  Then he raises himself up. James is kneeling on either side of my legs now, pinning me to the bed. He leans right, to pick something up.

  Suddenly, I feel a new sensation trailing over my back.

  “Do you recognise this from your bedside drawer?” he asks.

  I track my mind back to the contents, trying to match the feeling with an object. Then my memory fixes on one.

  The whip. I feel a little pulse of fear.

  I mentally outline the leather handle, with multiple long fronds attached.

  “That’s right,” says James, noticing me flinch slightly. “All these little leather parts feel quite sensual, trailed over the skin.”

  He continues the tantalising soft trailing, allowing the individual fronds to slide over my skin. Used gently like this, the whip is making my skin ultrasensitive. A delicious tease, working over my back.

  I let out a little moan as he moves the whip to track over my behind.

  Then he stands up, and I realise the teasing is over.

  “It is possible to use this whip to raise sensation,” says James. “But of course, it has another use. You may have noticed that all these soft leather parts have a little hard knot on the end.”