Close Up and Personal (Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  “And you want to act to understand this all better?”

  “Yes.” I am surprised at how well he summarises me.

  “Then there is no better place for you,” he says, his voice dipping low, “than with me.”

  I feel my eyes open wide. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? His face looks suddenly charged with lust, and I feel my body responding.

  A waiter leans in and removes the scallop plates and another replaces them with empty plates and a rack of lamb in the middle of the table.

  The smell of the food is amazing. I hope the waiter can’t see my flame red face.

  James stands and takes the carving knife, nodding that the waiter can depart.

  “Rare or well done?” he asks, severing a piece of lamb with expert strokes.

  “Medium, please,” I mutter. He steers two pieces onto my plate and then serves himself. Then he takes a deep sip of red wine.

  “Would I have to sign a contract?” I say, as much to break the unbearable silence of him watching me as anything else.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Of course. All movies come with contracts.”

  “I don’t mean that,” I say. “I mean a contract for the things you mentioned. The giving up of personal control.”

  James takes a slice of lamb, chews and swallows.

  “No, of course not,” he says, sounding bemused. “It is a personal matter between myself and my performers. I have never had anyone break their word,” he adds. “We would make an agreement on trust.”

  This is new information. So Ben Gracey had it wrong. Or Berkeley is lying.

  I look at his face, trying to detect signs of dishonestly, and finding none.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  He nods, but looks displeased. I feel deflated.

  “How about a screen test?” he says suddenly.

  I look up from my plate.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You agree to come to my studio, tomorrow,” he says. “Take a screen test, find out my working style for yourself. See how you look on screen. If you don’t like the experience then we’ll part ways, not hard feelings. If you do then we might agree to work together.”

  I stare at him warily. That doesn’t sound too bad. Good, in fact. And in my own way I feel as though I’ve scored a minor victory over Mr-Control-Freak-Berkeley. He’s agreed to audition me on my own terms. Ha.

  “Alright,” I say, swallowing the last piece of lamb on my plate and setting my knife and fork back. “That sounds do-able.”

  “Do-able?”

  “Do-able,” I repeat, “It’s a word.” I pretend to narrow my eyes at him. His face breaks into a delighted smile. He looks his true age, suddenly, a young man of thirty rather than forty.

  Then his phone beeps and he removes it from his suit jacket and frowns.

  “Eva,” he says, and I remember the name of the casting director from the theatre. The one who had to step aside for personal reasons.

  He is shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, signalling for the cheque, “I have to deal with this.”

  I lower my eyes. Of course he has more important engagements than me. I pick up the new Marc Jacobs bag feeling strangely at limbo. Part of me wants to stay in this glamorous world with this intriguing man. But I have to return to reality.

  Until tomorrow. I remind myself gleefully. Tomorrow is the screen test. The nerves in the pit of my stomach blend with delicious excitement at the thought.

  We step outside the restaurant and his car pulls up. “My car will take you anywhere you need to go,” he says hailing a taxi.

  The black cab slows, and James turns to face me. “Until tomorrow?” he says, and his voice sounds urgent.

  I nod, confused yet again by his intentions.

  He takes my shoulders and leans in to cheek-kiss me, brushing his lips with deliberate slowness against my right cheekbone, and then my left.

  “Until tomorrow,” he murmurs, his breath stroking through my hair. He waits there for a second, holding me pinned inside his arms, and then he steps back and stares into my eyes.

  For a moment I think he’s about to say something else. And then he gives a quick little nod, and he’s gone.

  I feel every muscle of my body sigh out after him as he slides into the cab.

  I get into his car, and ask the driver to take me back to Chelsea.

  As I sink back into the leather seats I realise I can smell him on the interior.

  James Berkeley, I think, inhaling his fragrance deep into my lungs, what have you done to me?

  Chapter 8

  Late as ever I wrestle into my Kingley’s uniform. The black and white waitress outfit was bought out of my own wages and is the cheapest I could get away with.

  My friend Jerome has already clocked in for me and is waiting outside with the other milling staff when I emerge form the dressing room.

  Jerome is my kind-of-ex-boyfriend. He took a course in theatre production in the same college as me, and we became good friends in the first year. He’s blonde, good-looking, always smells great and gives the world’s best hugs.

  He’s usually employed to put up lighting rigs in London theatres, but he also waiters with me on the side. A choice I often fear, due to him wanting us to get together again, rather than a real need for spare cash.

  “Hey Issy,” he says, “there’s been a change of plan for tonight. We’re being taken by coach to another part of the city.”

  I stare back at him in confusion. “A change of plan?”

  “Maybe someone messed up,” he says. “In any case, our shift are being driven over to Claridges to fill in for some private party there. Perhaps some other agency let them down,” he adds. “In any case, we get a shift at London’s fanciest hotel. Probably they’ll feed us well at the end of it.”

  We clamber into the coach and Jerome as usual, sits a little too close. My fault, really. A long time ago at college I decided I had waited long enough for Mr Right. So on my mother’s advice I tried dating a good friend – Jerome. We had fun going out, and kissing him wasn’t bad. Nice, really. But no feelings came with it.

  After a few drinks at a party I even got brave enough to try and lose my virginity to him. And then I got freaked and confessed that I only saw him as a friend.

  Poor Jerome has been hoping ever since that I’ll give him another chance.

  “You been to Claridges before Issy?”

  I think for a moment. “Yeah. I think one of my first shifts was at Claridges. They don’t let you too near the guests. They have their own trained staff for that.”

  “Just put the food down and get out of there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Great. If we’re lucky and their in-house team has shined all the silverware we might get out early.”

  We filter off the coach into the car-park that Claridges reserve for their staff. Guests come in the front and the ambassadors and royalty have a red carpet rolled out. Round the back it’s plain, functional and decidedly unglamorous.

  We move into the kitchen and the general manager comes down to brief us. It’s a straight-forward private party, serving canapés, topping up drinks. There’s no food for us at the end, but as Jerome predicted we might get out early if the guests don’t stay late.

  I load up with my first tray of canapés – quails eggs topped with an artful smear of caviar – and follow the rest of the team into the room. Jerome is ahead carrying two trays. He’s always been a show-off.

  Claridges wide ballroom swings into view, and as always I’m struck by the contrast between the incredible gold and blue décor with the plain staff quarters below stairs.

  My eyes sweep the room, searching for a route where other waiters have not yet been. And then I nearly drop my tray.

  James Berkeley is standing talking with another female guest.

  My legs almost propel me straight back out of the room. But I’m at work. I’m holding a tray of food. Somehow I have to get
through this without him seeing me. It’s not just the embarrassment of serving him. Waitress-chic I am not. My thoughts flick to my hair, scraped back into a functional bun, and my face, completely devoid of make-up. I look terrible.

  Why should I care if I look terrible?

  But I know the truth. I’m falling for him. And it’s important he doesn’t see me looking plain and awful. I’ll analyse that later. Right not I need to keep out of his way. Keeping my eyes front I head for the opposite side of the room.

  My tray lightens as I whirl through the guests, waiting for them to take food from the tray. And I turn to head back to the kitchen.

  Maybe I can get away with this after all. He might not stay long.

  “Isabella.”

  I turn. It’s him, looking immaculate in a grey suit and tie.

  “Oh,” I swallow. “Hello Mr Berkeley.”

  He smiles. “Back to Mr Berkeley?”

  “James,” I correct myself. The weight of the tray in my hand suddenly feels unbearable, and I realise the heat of serving the room has left a sheen of sweat on my face.

  He lowers his voice. “I like the way you look in your waitress’s uniform.”

  Oh.

  “I obviously chose the right catering company.”

  The penny drops.

  “You?” I say, “You booked my catering company for this event?”

  “I assumed since you worked for them they must be the best.”

  I look down at the tray in my hand. A real part of me wants to hit him over the head with it.

  My voice comes out as a hiss. “You hired my catering company? So I would come and wait on you? What kind of twisted thing is that to pull?”

  His face shows hurt, but I’m far beyond sympathy.

  I look left and right to check no-one can see us.

  “I cannot believe you would do this!”

  James takes my arm. Much to my own annoyance the hold sends a thrill coursing through me.

  “So you have a temper,” he says, “that’s good to see in an actress. But this isn’t what you think.”

  Isn’t it? Confusion sets in. Surely this is another one of his bizarre controlling mind games? Like sending clothes for a lunch date.

  “Then what is it?” I manage, the anger in my voice lessening slightly. His hand on my arm is confusing.

  “Come with me.” Still gripping my upper arm he begins leading me from the room.

  “I’m working,” I protest.

  James makes a quick sweep of the room, signals with his hand, and in an instant the general manager is with us.

  “Is there a problem Mr Berkeley?” he asks, looking to me and to James.

  “Not at all,” says James. “But I am looking to cast a waitress as an extra in a film, and I think this young lady would be perfect. Would you mind if I took her away for a few moments to discuss the role?”

  The manager’s eyes bulge slightly. “Of course,” he says. “She has my permission to be away from the shift for as long as you need her.”

  James nods a ‘thank you’ and drops his hand to propel me forward out of the ballroom by the small of my back. As we reach the entrance he seamlessly takes the tray from my hand and hands it to a waiter travelling in the opposite direction.

  “My suite is just along here,” he says, pointing down the corridor, and manoeuvring me forward.

  “What makes me think I’m going to go in your suite with you?” I say, wondering where this is going.

  He stops and turns, so we are facing each other in the corridor.

  “Isabella,” he says, “I’m sorry if I offended you by bringing you here. Although you really do look lovely in that uniform.”

  I scowl, and the corners of his mouth lift devilishly for a moment. Then his face turns serious.

  “I wanted to see you,” he says, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Whoa! What?

  “Follow me,” and he’s propelling me down the corridor again.

  We arrive at an enormous door, and James slips a keycard into the holder. The suite opens up and I’m greeted with the lavish view of Claridges priceless antique furniture and enormous four-poster bed.

  “I don’t have the strength,” he says as we walk in the room, “to stay away from you anymore.”

  I’m still taking in the unexpected words when James shuts the door behind us and sweeps me suddenly into his arms, forcing me back against the door.

  Then his lips are on mine and the hardness of his body is on me.

  I feel an electric current surge through me. He has me pressed against the door, with one hand pinning my shoulder. My lips respond to his moving in mirror image as his tongue flicks over my mouth. And I am sinking, sinking into him…

  I force a hand between us, pushing him away.

  “Wait,” I say. “I can’t do this.”

  He steps towards me again, but I keep my hand held up in warning.

  “Everything with you,” I gasp, “It’s just so confusing. You tell me nothing can happen between us, and then you book my entire catering team just to get me alone in your suite.”

  He nods. He is breathing heavily.

  “I have never been involved with an actress Isabella. But you…”

  “Me what?”

  “I have never met anyone like you,” he says. “As a director I can’t let your talent go to waste. But as a man…”

  He leaves the sentence hanging.

  “As a man you want us to have sex?” I fill in.

  “I want to do so much more to you than have sex with you,” he says, and his eyes are roaming my body, hungrily.

  I take a deep breath.

  “James. Mr Berkeley. I have agreed to a screen test with you, and I will keep my word. But I also agreed that nothing would happen between us. If we are to work together I don’t want there to be any…” I search for the word, romantic? “Sexual involvement,” I decide.

  What am I saying? This is the hottest man you’ve ever met, and you’re talking yourself out of fucking him right here, right now, in this room.

  My body is virtually screaming in protest.

  But that’s not what I want. Not this way. And he needs to know it.

  “Isabella, wait.”

  I turn to pull open the door, and he takes hold of my arm. I turn to him, my eyes challenging. Is he going to try and stop me leaving?

  “If you agree to the screen test tomorrow, I agree to your terms,” he says. The light has gone out of his eyes. “I think you’ve misjudged me,” he continues, “but a gentleman does not argue with a lady.”

  And with a little nod of his head he opens the door for me, and lets me leave.

  I half stumble down the corridor, thick with the emotion of what has just happened.

  That kiss.

  Half of me wants so badly to run back to the room. The other, more sensible half, walks my legs back down to the kitchen.

  To my great relief I almost crash straight into Jerome, who’s sizing up which tray he can pick off canapés from to snack on.

  “Hey,” he says, seeing the upset in my face. “What’s up? Issy? What’s up?”

  I fall gratefully into his arms, and he gives me one of his world-beating hugs.

  “Hey,” he says, “did someone out there upset you.”

  I nod into his shoulder. Why can’t I bring myself to feel something for Jerome? He’s such a lovely uncomplicated person.

  For some reason I feel overwhelmed with emotions, and tears well up in my eyes.

  What is wrong with me? A few meetings with James Berkeley and I’m a wreck. No-one has ever had this effect on me.

  I draw back and wipe a few tears from my cheek.

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “Just rejecting the advances of James Berkeley.”

  His face does a comedy double-take.

  I laugh, feeling better.

  “Remember that audition Lorna got me?” I say. “It was at his theatre, and I met him then.”

  “Di
d he try to hit on you?”

  “Not exactly. I think I like him. I don’t know. He wants us to work together, and I don’t want to complicate things. I’m fine, really.”

  Jerome holds my shoulders, checking in face that I mean it.”

  “Well if he bothers you, just let me know,” he says, looking back out in the direction I’ve just come from.

  I smile in thanks. Jerome is built like a quarter-back. But having just been pressed up against the wall by James I think they’d be evenly matched.

  “Thanks, it’s fine, really.”

  “Ok,” Jerome looks doubtful. “Well let’s just finish this shift, ok? Then I’ll take you for a drink. Soft drink,” he adds quickly, remembering.

  I smile. “A soft drink sounds great.”

  Chapter 9

  The next morning I’m half expecting the screen test to be cancelled. Or for word never to arrive. But at 9am sharp a hand-delivered parcel and a card in a crisp cream envelope arrives at my apartment.

  A card – what’s with that? If he knows my address he must also know my mobile number.

  I open it, and the same beautiful curved writing announces the screen test will be held at 4pm. A car will come to pick me up.

  I unwrap the parcel. It’s not tied with bows like the last package, and if I’m being truly honest with myself I’m disappointed. Obviously he’s accepted that this is a business arrangement.

  That’s what you wanted, I remind myself, pulling off the brown paper.

  Inside is an iPad. It’s ready charged, and I flick it on to see a script has been preloaded onto the screen.

  Hmmm. So I guess he wants me to learn my lines.

  Suddenly my mobile rings from an unfamiliar number and I click to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “I take it you received my card?”

  Oh. So he can use a telephone after-all. His voice gives me goose-bumps.

  “Um. Yes.”

  “And you’ll attend?” There’s a note in his voice I haven’t heard before. As though a lot rests on my reply.

  I pause for a moment. “Yes,” I say finally.

  Is it my imagination I do I hear a sigh of relief?

  “But the conditions still I apply,” I continue. “I’m coming to see how you work. And to see if I can actually act this role you’ve got in mind. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.”