Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Talulah Riley is an actress, writer, director, and the co-founder and COO of Forge, a mobile app for the scheduling of hourly workers in retail. As an actress she has appeared in numerous feature films and television productions, and in the West End. Acts of Love is her first novel.
Follow Talulah on Twitter @TalulahRiley
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Talulah Riley 2016
The right of Talulah Riley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 473 63789 4
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
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50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder.co.uk
For Sarah Carvosso
1
In her face, Bernadette St John had all the necessary symmetry, all the youthful indicators and hyper-feminine features so revered by the opposite sex. But these delights masked a mind riddled with a poisonous bigotry: a profound and very real contempt for men that extended beyond anything reasonable or healthy. It was a prejudice formed slowly, over years of disappointment.
This defeat was as much a part of her as her arresting face, with its pointed chin, retroussé profile, and high cheekbones. Her eyes were hazel; copper-coloured in some lights, witch-green in others, rarely just brown. No man who looked in those eyes ever guessed at the hostile feeling behind them; instead, most were left with an impression of a genial sensuality, a soft femininity, the promise of an understanding love.
She was used to arriving at parties alone, and only slightly afraid of it, but on the evening of Tim Bazier’s annual Christmas drinks, her usually stoic persona betrayed definite signs of unease. She was nauseous. The thin material of her dress, what little there was of it, clung coldly to the sweat that had formed across her back and under her arms. Most disconcertingly of all, tears were threating to form behind mascara-clad lashes.
Bernadette, unfortunately, believed herself to be in love with the host of the party, who was too diffident and unassertive for practical romancing. Her belief though was quite unshakeable, and her misandry extended to every man except this one.
Of course, Bernadette was not born into the world with a fully formed pathology; as with all deviants, there were reasons for her prejudice, a narrative that could go some way to excusing her contempt. Her father had been very handsome, tall and dark, and charming when it suited him, but equally malicious when the mood struck.
He had a habit of making profoundly unsettling and undermining remarks that could shift Bernadette’s whole reality. He would say to his wife and daughter, ‘The only reason you are emancipated as women is because men in the West have decided it should be so. But we could change our minds at any moment. Most of the world is not like this! Remember, you are dependent on the benevolence of men.’ Or he would tell Bernadette that her lovely mother was a whore, that ‘all women are whores. It just depends whether you take them on a short-term or long-term lease.’
The abuse was insidious and constant, and it would have been difficult to escape such an overbearing environment unscathed, but Bernadette was a precocious infant, with her sire’s stubbornness, and once she realised that her father’s beliefs were not absolute truths and could be questioned, she turned her back on him. She knew empirically that the words he chose to describe her mother – ‘ungrateful’, ‘demanding’, ‘complaining dependant’ – were not accurate.
‘But Daddy, I’m your dependant too,’ she pointed out, once he had explained the word to her.
Her father had laughed heartily and drawn her on to his lap. ‘You get right down to it, don’t you? You know where your bread is buttered! Worried you’re as expendable as your mother, eh? Well, don’t worry. There’s always more leniency for the pups. As long as you’re a good girl. You belong entirely to me, you see.’
As an antidote to her unfortunate beginnings, she immersed herself in fictional romance and prospered, finding friends and heroes between the covers of books. Her inner monologue was framed by Victorian fiction, and her habits and speech became a peculiar mix of the old-fashioned and poetic and the unashamedly forward-thinking, with a healthy disregard for the patriarchy. She might have been tempted to be a supporter of the archaic regime, which seemed quite benign in Arthurian legend, but she knew from real-world experience that it was a dangerous and unstable thing.
She developed a romantic ideal of what a man should be from fictional characters, which were more often than not created by women, and gave her an impractical expectation of romantic love. It was this divide between reality and fiction that contributed to her misandry as an adult; she had placed all her childhood faith in an ideal, and men continually fell short.
Bernadette had chosen to drive herself to the house party, rather than be driven, as the latter presupposed irresponsibility. She was frequently irresponsible, but always prepared for her better self to triumph. But as she pulled up to the valet stand, and gazed morosely at the large Brentwood house, which was luminous with festive cheer, intoxication seemed suddenly inevitable.
There was always the option of driving on and avoiding the evening altogether, but a number of cars had formed a line behind her, and the young Mexican valet was hovering hopefully by her door. She emerged, and flashed him a quick, apologetic grin as he handed her a pink ticket, thanking him in her most pronounced English accent. There was a definite advantage to having an English accent in Los Angeles, and Bernadette was keen to flaunt her distinction. It added at least twenty points to her perceived IQ, and she could relax in conversation, knowing that her imperious tone was tantamount to actual knowledge and experience in the ears of her listeners. Unless they were wise enough to know better (and few people were), at first glance it was easy to mistake Bernadette for a young trustafarian, a struggling actress or, worst of all, a model. She moved with a Saturnian grace, startled as easily as a colt, and her wide eyes, which slanted slightly at the corners, looked as clear and trusting as a child’s. It was a constant battle to be taken seriously, but the accent helped a little.
Tripping slightly on the uneven tarmac (damn LA and its poorly maintained surface structures!), and disguising the stumble as a jaunty hop, she passed in front of her car and smiled quite flirtatiously at the line of uniformed valets. This, to Bernadette, practically equated to a good deed, and she strode onwards with new purpose, buoyed by the happy knowledge of having done a selfless thing.
The house was large and beautiful in the dark, set back from the road behind high hedges. It was exactly the sort of place Bernadette w
ould like to call home. New England in style, kitsch and pretty, with a well-planted garden and welcoming porch, it appeared to be a beacon of domestic felicity, and signalled everything she equated with a well-lived life. Tim Bazier was no less attractive than his house, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, straightforward man, lean and tall. Bernadette had wanted him instantly, from the first moment of their acquaintance. Before he spoke, she had correctly divined his superior nature, and her thieving, broken heart hungered for his subjection.
He was, in fact, the only man Bernadette was currently capable of admiring, the only man beyond reproach in appearance, behaviour and consequence. She had never been allowed close enough to find fault, and it was this remoteness, his lofty contentment, that allowed her so-called love to flourish unchecked. Tim was a shining ray of light in Bernadette’s dark, man-hating world. With all other men, at the slightest sign of weakness, the merest hint of an innocuous moral failing, she extrapolated to the worst conclusion, and labelled them monsters. It was a matter of self-preservation.
Tim, however, seemed to have jumped from the pages of her beloved romantic novels, so steadfast and unassuming was he – it was as if he had been pulled from her childhood’s imagination into the real world, and was finally with her as a real-life companion.
She remembered the first time she had seen him, the way he had looked up as she entered his office, how young he had seemed for a man in his thirties, so boyish and kind. And he was wearing glasses! Who actually wore glasses any more? His wonky grin and the bashful way he stood to take her hand were absolutely the most heart-wrenching gestures she had ever seen, and her breath caught in her chest painfully. ‘So,’ he had said, ‘you’re the Man Whisperer.’
She had wanted him then as she had never wanted anything before. It was a rapacious need, a strength of feeling that seemed to explain her very existence. It was unaccountable and unexpected and thoroughly beyond her comprehension, a heady chemical rush that overpowered every other impulse. It was a relief, in fact, to believe that there might be one redeeming male.
Tim was unlike the others because he didn’t use the fact that she was a woman against her. He seemed completely disinterested in her as a woman, almost oblivious to the wide chasm between them. He treated her as a friend and fellow human, and asked nothing of her. Equally, he didn’t make allowances for her – Bernadette had long ago learned to use her seductive charms to gain favour and preference, but Tim had rebuffed every advance she had ever made with gentle redirection and good humour. It was intoxicating.
He had been the first to coin her moniker, ‘The Man Whisperer’ – and what an enterprising suggestion! To address her as such at their initial meeting, to use that as his opener, so respectfully and with so much polish, appealed directly to her feminine pride. It defined a power she had as yet left unnamed, and excused the sexuality she had a hard time controlling. Bernadette quietly imagined his love and forgiveness, as evidenced in that one sentence, and couldn’t have found more comfort had he been a priest explaining the promise of resurrection.
The party was already in full swing. Through bright windows Bernadette could see people moving around, laughing and talking, as waiters offered trays of dinky holiday-themed canapés. A Bing Crosby track wafted out from the open front door, which was bedecked with an evergreen wreath and a big red bow.
Mounting the faux-rickety wooden steps, having successfully crossed the cobbled driveway in extremely high heels, Bernadette wondered where in the house Tim would be, and her body tensed in anticipation. She remembered that she felt sick.
The Christmas party was the perfect place to make known her true feelings, because what was more romantic than Christmas? When she had received the invitation in November, she had had an uncanny, premonition-like feeling that something extraordinary would occur. Tim had told her very pointedly that he looked forward to her attendance.
Almost as soon as she entered the house, she saw him. He was standing with his back to her, talking to a couple she didn’t know, and miraculously his blonde head bobbed and nodded under an audacious bunch of mistletoe that had been pinned to a low archway. She took a shaky step towards him, mentally planning dialogue, and deciding whether to kiss him on both cheeks, or to try and accidentally-on-purpose catch the corner of his mouth. The mistletoe surely offered a whole world of kissing potential. But before she could reach him, she felt small, gentle hands on her waist, and, turning, was caught in a sincere hug, a tight, clinging embrace that communicated genuine friendship.
‘Elizabeth! How lovely to see you,’ Bernadette lied. She tried not to freeze in the other woman’s arms, tried to ease away without signalling her distaste.
Elizabeth Wentworth was Tim’s girlfriend, and the thorn in Bernadette’s side. Elizabeth was exactly the type of good-hearted, guileless female that Bernadette refused to believe existed. She was convinced that behind the front of sweet-tempered liberality lurked a cynicism even darker than her own.
Elizabeth was looking up at Bernadette, nodding and smiling as though she had been asked a question that required a yes answer. Tim’s attraction to Elizabeth was a source of infinite puzzlement. She was not particularly pretty, nor especially smart; she didn’t light up a room, she’d never been known to crack a joke, and she never put a foot wrong. When Bernadette looked at her, phrases like ‘bookish and plain’ and ‘solid and dependable’ sprang to mind. Elizabeth was thirty-three, of average height and average weight, never wore make-up, and always dressed appropriately. She was the type of person Bernadette occasionally wished she herself could be, conspicuous only by her inimitable ordinariness.
‘Come and say hello to Tim,’ Elizabeth said. ‘He’ll be so happy to see you.’
To Bernadette’s horror, Elizabeth linked arms with her, and chaperoned her towards Tim and the mistletoe. Catching their approach out of the corner of his eye, he excused himself from the conversation, and turned with a smile. Bernadette couldn’t stop herself from smiling back like a fool, and felt the familiar hot chemical rush.
Tim was undoubtedly the most sublime and perfect person to ever grace the planet. He was over six foot and gangly, slim-built and angular, and his hair fell in a sandy mop across his forehead. He never wore cologne, but always smelt freshly washed, like soap.
‘Hello, Bernie,’ he said, and hugged her. She pressed herself into his embrace, whilst trying to make it look informal. ‘It’s not a party without you,’ he continued. ‘You look fantastic.’ He stood back to admire her dress, holding her left hand and smiling in appreciation of the effort she had made. Bernadette felt an almost imperceptible squeeze of his fingers around hers as he dropped her hand.
‘Thanks,’ she managed. ‘You look fantastic too.’
Tim always appeared shiny bright and perfect, but particularly so that evening. He was wearing a red plaid shirt – a cool, comfy plaid, Bernadette was pleased to note, not a weird lumberjack one – which seemed appropriately festive in a Hogmanay-ish sort of way. His jeans were not fashionable and he was sporting a pair of dark blue Toms. He always looked like he was ready for some type of outdoorsy adventure, even at formal events or business meetings. Bernadette had him pegged as a hiking/biking/save-the-world-by-recycling type.
Elizabeth had stood silent and approving for the exchange, clearly waiting for her turn to speak. There was an uncharacteristic air of expectation around her as she smiled up at Bernadette. ‘I think there’ll be a lot of people here you already know,’ she began, ‘but there’s someone I’d really love to introduce you to!’ She exchanged a blushing glance with Tim, who rolled his eyes in a humorous way and grinned his lopsided grin. ‘A friend of mine from medical school,’ she added.
Elizabeth was a doctor at Cedars-Sinai, specialising in livers, or kidneys, or some other organ that made Bernadette think of urine. The last person in the world she wanted to meet was some do-gooder, mortality-obsessed workaholic who smelt of cheap cleaning fluid and latex gloves. She gave a visible shudder. ‘Well, I’d really like
a drink first,’ she said, turning to Tim with a please-save-me face.
‘Sure!’ Elizabeth fluttered. ‘You know your way around, right? There’s a bar out back. Do you want me to show you?’
Bernadette bristled at Elizabeth playing hostess in Tim’s house. It seemed quite ridiculous, given that they’d only been dating for a year. Tim had been Bernadette’s literary manager for three years, which, chronologically at least, was a more substantial relationship. ‘No, I’m fine. I have been here before,’ she said, pointedly.
Bernadette moved through the house, observing the other party guests and making a note of any women who were better-looking than her. It was an ingrained habit on entering a room, or any new place. She looked first for men she might love (there never were any, as men were bastards), and second for any threateningly beautiful girls (there were always far too many).
Bernadette’s father had been very particular about the way his daughter should look. He had an eye for detail, and her physical flaws had seemed to genuinely hurt his feelings, her gawkiness an affront to his superior genes. He used to take a ruler and measure the symmetry of her facial features down to the millimetre. She would stand in front of him in her gingham school dress and white socks, shifting in subdued discomfort from foot to foot as he measured her face and recorded the results in a notebook. ‘What a waste!’ he would sigh. ‘I only married your idiot mother because I thought she’d produce decent-looking offspring, and now look at this! Thirty-four millimetres! Preposterous! And the ratios are all wrong!’ Then he would ruffle her hair in a kindly, paternal fashion and say, ‘Let’s hope you have a little of my wit, at least, to distinguish you from the other unattractive girls. Poor little poppet.’ Bernadette had been disappointed to learn that she wasn’t beautiful. She wanted to be worthy of a literary romance in order to encounter a man more loving than her father, and all her favourite heroines were described as being impossibly, other-worldly attractive.
Acts of Love Page 1
