Acts of Love

by Talulah Riley

  ‘Oooh!’ Bernadette purred. ‘How thrilling. I love it when you’re so obviously dominant.’

  David laughed delightedly, as though he were included in the joke. ‘Of course, Tim, I’ll leave you to it!’ he said, pleased to answer a direct appeal, having found no other way to insert himself into the conversation. ‘And you know, Bernie,’ he simpered, heaving himself from the chair, ‘Squire would follow this with great interest. We could even have you on the cover! Maybe. It’d be a nice change for you, wouldn’t it? In lingerie? We could do something exquisite. Black lace, I think.’

  Tim ushered David out the door, and Bernadette immediately kicked off her heels and put her feet up on the desk, her long legs glinting, revolver-like, in the sunlight. Tim wandered over slowly, thoughtful, and leaned on the edge of his desk, delightfully close to her bare feet.

  ‘How are you doing, Bernie?’ he asked, with a complete change of tone.

  ‘How am I doing? I’m doing fine. Thank you for asking.’

  ‘Come on, Bern. Seriously.’ He stroked the top of her foot. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re asking,’ she said, jerking her foot away from him. ‘I’m still in love with you, if that’s what you mean?’

  Tim groaned and straightened up. He paced the room while Bernadette watched. It gave her a comfortable sense of déjà vu. She wished she could explain things to him properly, wished she could drop the seductive mantle she wore and explain that she was scared. That she had been hurt too deeply by men in the past. That she had almost given up on the old idea of love. That Tim, and his goodness, was her last hope. But instead, she drawled provocatively, ‘What’s with this lecture tour? Are you trying to get rid of me?’

  He stopped and turned to her with a doleful look in his cornflower-blue eyes, and she realised with a metallic sickness in her throat that she had hit upon the truth. ‘Oh. You are trying to get rid of me.’

  ‘It’s not that. Of course it’s not that. I’m just trying to think of something that will challenge you, something to take you to the next level professionally. You’re too smart a person to waste yourself on … on …’

  ‘On you? You’re trying to distract me from the pain of a fruitless love? That’s very kind of you, but I don’t need charity.’

  Tim knelt down in front of her so that their faces were level. ‘I’m not trying to get rid of you. I need you in my life, Bernadette.’

  ‘You look like you’re asking me to marry you,’ she said, resting a hand on his shoulder like a queen with a knight errant.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, simply. ‘That’s the one thing I can’t do. I love you, Bernie. I think you’re an incredible woman. I need you in my life. I’m selfish … I want you in my life. But I can’t marry you. I’ve made a promise to someone else.’

  Bernadette smiled sadly at him. The innocence and pure feeling of his declaration, the almost childlike vein of need and the beauty of his eyes overwhelmed her. ‘All right,’ she gulped. ‘I’ll do your stupid lecture tour.’

  In the end, it turned out that the lecture tour was to be a bi-coastal speaking event, consisting of only two evenings. Bernadette was to speak for one night in Los Angeles, and a second in New York. Despite the lack of dates on her tour, the prospect was still a daunting one.

  Although she had a successful career as a journalist, communication was not Bernadette’s strong point. She preferred to simmer philosophically in a world of inner torment, relishing thoughts too scary for public consumption. The idea of standing on a platform in front of hundreds of women, trying to sell them some kind of world view, was anathema. And there was a big difference, she realised, between putting words on a page – words that could be laboured over and edited at will, even by a third party – and the nakedness that would be a consummate part of standing unchecked on stage, non-concrete vocalisations pouring forth from her untrained lips. Oh, the horror of immediacy.

  She lay, fitfully discontent, in bed, contemplating the oddness of having to present a complete version of herself to strangers. It was nice to be on her own, for once, without the short, dark presence of the Dwarf of Doom.

  Her home was a vision of tranquillity and unity, at odds with her inner life. The wide, soft bed was furnished with high-thread-count cotton, pure white. Hand-crafted oak side tables displayed mother-of pearl-trinket boxes, a glass carafe of infused water, an artistically stacked pile of sensible literature – and nothing else. There was a faint, not overpowering, floral scent, and the lighting was low and discreet. The true ornament of the room was Bernadette herself, exactly as she had intended. It was a room ready, at any unexpected moment, to receive Tim.

  Her phone vibrated from the depths of the voluminous duvet, interrupting her reverie. It was a text from Elizabeth: Hey! Can I call you? I suck at texting.

  Bernadette rolled her eyes. She texted back: Now’s not good to talk. Ever so busy. What do you need?

  The cell beeped back: Are you free tomorrow to do bridesmaid stuff?

  Bernadette plunged her face into her pillow and choked out a small scream. Yes, she texted back.

  It was an extremely disgruntled Bernadette who dragged her feet along Wilshire Boulevard the following afternoon, en route to ‘bridesmaid stuff’. She perked up enough to notice a stunning sapphire-blue cocktail dress in the Neiman Marcus window, but mostly her eyes were downcast and distraught. She couldn’t help but wonder why it was that she was not the bride. Bernadette had been born to be a bride. Elizabeth had been born to be an NGO worker, or a pioneer in the field of urology.

  Reaching the corner of Wilshire and Rodeo, she stopped as instructed and looked around for Elizabeth’s unremarkable form. Instead, she saw Radley Blake striding towards her.

  ‘Oh no. What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘Lovely to see you too,’ he said, stooping to kiss her cheek. ‘I’m here in the same capacity as you.’

  ‘As a bridesmaid?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I have no words,’ she said.

  ‘I have plenty.’ He smiled, his body too close to hers. ‘Do you want to hear them?’

  ‘No,’ she said, stepping away just as Elizabeth arrived.

  It was hugs all round, with Elizabeth apologising profusely for being all of three minutes late.

  ‘Should we wait for the others?’ asked Bernadette.

  ‘I didn’t ask the others.’ Elizabeth smiled impishly. ‘This is a very special bridesmaid outing.’

  ‘I feel honoured,’ said Radley, as Bernadette gave a tight smile.

  The three of them trooped up Wilshire in the balmy sunshine, Elizabeth brimming with some happy secret, Radley striding along contentedly and Bernadette dragging behind like a sulky teenager.

  ‘Here we are!’ cried Elizabeth, stopping outside a large shop that sold nothing but wedding dresses.

  Bernadette’s mood plummeted further. ‘Oh gosh,’ she said. ‘Dresses? I didn’t realise this was what we were doing. When you said “bridesmaid stuff”, I thought we’d be sampling cake or something. I’m not sure I’m right for this.’

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘You have more style than any real-life person I’ve ever met. I totally need you here. I trust your judgement one hundred per cent!’

  ‘Really?’ said Bernadette hopefully, with brief visions of steering her nemesis towards a hideous pistachio meringue, but Radley was staring at her in a steely fashion that rendered that idea impractical.

  The wedding dress store was an impressive ivory-hued, rose-scented, over-the-top emporium of girlish delight. Several highly manicured saleswomen descended upon them the moment their feet crossed the threshold, and Bernadette shrank back behind Radley, in abject disgust at their overpowering eagerness.

  Elizabeth welcomed the exuberance of the shop girls, matching their plastered smiles with a genuine beam of her own, informing them that yes, she had an appointment, and yes, she was Elizabeth Wentworth. The shrill cacophony that accompanied this information had Bernade
tte starting for the door, but Radley pre-empted her movement and caught her by the arm. ‘Be nice,’ he hissed.

  He pushed her towards the other women, and she found herself saying, yes, she was the bridesmaid, and yes, she was very excited to help pick the dress. Then, at once, they all seemed to notice Radley.

  ‘Is this the groom?’ asked the senior assistant, name-tagged Rita.

  ‘Oh no,’ laughed Elizabeth. ‘Radley is my maid of honour!’

  The girls all laughed uproariously, like it was an original joke. They fussed round Radley, cooing over him as though they’d never seen a man before. ‘All my best friends are men,’ Rita was saying. ‘There’s just something so incredible about the male perspective.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’ agreed Radley, slyly eyeing Bernadette.

  She wandered further into the fluffy lair, running her hands over the silk and lace offerings crowding the room. It was a maze of white illusion, and she wanted to get lost in it. The dresses were beautiful, fairy-tale creations made for once-in-a-lifetime wearing. Dresses designed for virgin princesses. She stood humbled at the altar of material goodness, savouring the pleasure of pretty things well made and bounteously presented. Bernadette was a true capitalist. There was something quite magical about the luxury of this place, the pomp and spangle and modern convenience, and all in aid of validating an ancient ritual of rights and obligations.

  ‘Would you like some champagne?’ asked one of Rita’s underlings, offering a glass of gorgeous bubbliness.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bernadette, not making eye contact, but taking the glass and slinking back to find the others.

  Radley had enthroned himself in some kind of atrium seating area. He sat on a cream couch, which rested on a platform over an open koi pond. Potted vegetation surrounded it, creating a Midsummer Night’s Dream fantasy-forest effect, and Radley himself contributed a complementary Puckish vibe.

  ‘This is the viewing area!’ he called. ‘Won’t you join me?’

  Bernadette carefully made her way over the koi pond bridge, and gingerly placed herself on the sofa, every part of her body quivering with suppressed emotion.

  Rita guided Elizabeth into a changing room on the other side of the pond, both women disappearing behind a silvery curtain. The other assistants had melted away, and Bernadette felt suddenly as though she had been transported to Fairyland on a couch. It was a surreal moment, hearing the gurgling of the pond, seeing nothing but white silk and forest greenery, the most corporeal sensation the weight of Radley next to her. These out-of-body moments had been occurring more frequently since Tim had announced his engagement. Any semblance of control over her life had evaporated, and she felt like a puppet of the fates, an empty wooden doll.

  ‘Well, isn’t this jolly?’ said Radley, bringing her crashing to earth with a bump. There was nothing quite like his mordant harassment to ground a person. She didn’t answer, but gulped down more of the champagne. ‘I’d go easy on that if I was you,’ he continued. ‘I don’t have Mick with me to take you home today.’

  She refused to rise to his teasing and continued to stare doggedly at the curtain whence Elizabeth would emerge. It seemed to be taking her an inordinate amount of time to get into a dress. Bernadette counted to twenty in her head, tried to check her breathing, and decided to completely ignore Radley.

  Radley, for his part, after muttering, ‘Antisocial …’ began to check emails on his phone. They sat in silence. After five minutes, unable to bear it any longer, Bernadette stood and called out, ‘How are you doing?’

  There was a rustle, a pause, and then a blushing Elizabeth appeared, in a spectacularly elegant dress, looking as attractive as Bernadette had ever seen her.

  Bernadette sat back down on the sofa abruptly. Elizabeth smiled shyly up at them and hopped on to a small dais, to best admire herself in the three-way mirror. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

  Bernadette was having trouble with words. A little croak escaped her, but luckily the ever-ready Radley was there for honest praise. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said softly. ‘Lizzie, I really think this is the dress for you.’

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘But everyone always picks the first dress, right? It’s like a trap. Maybe it’s just because you don’t usually see me dressed up, and this is such a big contrast?’

  ‘What do you think, Bernadette?’ asked Radley.

  Bernadette found it surprisingly easy to squash the sabotage attempt rising through her, and was able to stammer, ‘It’s stunning – extremely flattering. I can’t imagine anything more beautiful on you.’

  To Bernadette’s utter discomfort, tears welled in Elizabeth’s eyes and she began to cry with joy. ‘Oh God, don’t cry!’ Bernadette gasped, annoyed.

  Elizabeth was laughing and crying at the same time, and again Bernadette was struck by the unrealness of the whole situation. It was as though her life was some carefully constructed stage play, and these bit players knew their lines too well. Elizabeth was too appealing.

  The shop environment was clearly playing tricks on her brain, and she tried to snap herself back to some clarity. ‘You should still try on others, though,’ she finished. ‘Just in case there’s something you like better. Besides, how often does one actually get to do this?’

  When Elizabeth returned behind the curtain, elated by Bernadette’s words and the excitement of dress shopping, Radley took Bernadette’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘You’re doing very well,’ he said, gently.

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered back, and didn’t pull her hand away. They sat in amicable silence, enjoying the simple sensation of hand-holding as though it was an undiscovered art.

  ‘I’m looking forward to shadowing you for our interview,’ she said.

  ‘Me too. That’s in a few weeks, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ she breathed, quite dreamily.

  He brushed his thumb rhythmically over the back of her hand. It seemed like a thoroughly acceptable and quite pleasant form of timekeeping, much better than the ticking of a clock. ‘I hear you’re branching out? With a lecture tour?’

  Bernadette shrugged modestly. ‘Apparently there are a lot of women who’re interested in what I have to say. I’m supposedly some kind of twenty-first-century role model, you know? A sort of female guru—’

  ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,’ cut in Radley, laughing. ‘You’re the least spiritual person I’ve met in my life.’

  Bernadette sharply withdrew her hand from his thumb’s caresses. ‘Well, that was nice while it lasted,’ she spat. ‘All of two minutes. Why can’t you be a decent human being for a respectable amount of time?’

  ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said.’

  Bernadette was momentarily thrown. ‘What I said when?’

  ‘The other night, at my house. You said that by shutting myself off to the idea of finding a mate, and yet continuing to pursue women, I’m basically playing a game I’ve declared I will never win. Interesting. I haven’t thought of it like that before.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I can see why you’re a writer. Because that idea, it really hit home. I don’t like losing. I never choose to play anything unless there’s a chance I can win.’

  ‘Big talk.’

  ‘Not just talk. I’ve decided: I’m going to get married.’

  ‘What? Who to?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t decided that part yet.’ He looked thrilled with the idea, and she couldn’t help but feel a momentary pang of jealousy directed at whoever was to become Mrs Radley Blake. She wondered why jealousy seemed to cloud her reaction when hearing about the successes of other women. Why should she care that Radley was going to make some girl ridiculously happy, turn her into a fairy-tale bride? It wasn’t a biological imperative, driven by resource scarcity – there were plenty of other men in the world. There were boundless opportunities for countless women to thrive, so why did she feel the need to stand on the head of any girl who threatened t
o be happy?

  ‘Well that didn’t take long,’ she said. ‘For you to change your mind. So much for your conviction.’

  ‘I never said I was a man of conviction. I am a man of action, of pure, unguided effervescence.’

  ‘Oh, get over your bad self. I’ve had enough of you.’

  Elizabeth appeared in another creation, not as spectacular as the first. They both gave her the comme ci, comme ça hand gesture, and she retired once more behind the curtain in a fit of giggles.

  ‘She seems to be having a good time,’ Bernadette said, only a little wistfully.

  ‘I’m having a good time too,’ Radley smiled. ‘I don’t think you understand how much I enjoy your company. We joke with one another …’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it joking so much as insulting.’

  ‘… and the levity does me good. I look forward to spending time with you.’

  Bernadette withdrew into herself slightly, as she was wont to do when faced with genuine emotion. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m quite shallow. It’s easy to be flippant when you don’t give a fuck.’

  ‘You’re only shallow on the surface,’ he grinned. ‘Thanks to my skilful eavesdropping, I know just how deeply you feel things.’

  ‘Only certain things.’

  ‘Depth only has one direction.’

  They were staring at each other, so that neither noticed when Elizabeth popped out in a third ensemble.

  ‘Hey! You two! What do you think?’ she called.

  All in all, and given the tragedy of the basic circumstances, it was quite a pleasant afternoon. Helping the fiancée of the man you love pick her wedding dress could have been a more painful experience.

  Radley had proved to be a helpful distraction, at turns annoying, charming and controversial. He had even suggested that Bernadette try on a gown, for the fun of it. Rita hadn’t looked best pleased, but he had managed to persuade her with his most irresistible smile. There were few women, Bernadette realised, who could say no to him.