Close Up and Personal (5 page)

The shock of all this is weaving through me.

“He sounds insane,” I say finally, trying to remember the serious man I met earlier.

Ben nods. “Insane, and insanely talented. All his leads get Oscars. I guess if you’re an actress
, you have to make the call. Is an Oscar worth a few months of hell?”

I nod slowly, acknowledging the truth of this. Most of the
students I went to drama school with would accept a lot worse than dating restrictions to be guaranteed an Oscar.

We’re interrupted by a waiter, who moves discreetly beside me
.

“Excuse me
, madam. Are you Isabella Green?”

“Yes.” I feel my stomach lurch, wondering what I’ve done wrong.

“The gentleman over there has asked that I serve you and your friends a glass of Dom Perignon and requested that you might join him by yourself.”

“Gentleman? Which gentleman?” I ask, staring over to where he’s pointing. There’s nothing in that direction but the low-lights of the
Super VIP booths.

“The gentleman in the booth nearest the window
.” He points to the largest booth. “Mr James Berkeley.”

Chapter 6

“Oh my God!” Lorna’s voice nearly takes the roof of the club off. She’s eyeing me suspiciously. “I
knew
he must have liked you, the way you were acting.”

“Shhh,” I mutter, alive with embarrassment as people look over
at us.

“Go! Go!” shouts Lorna, pushing me to
wards the VIP area. “Before the waiter forgets you were the one he asked.”

I stumble forward, feeling like Cinderella
in her glass slippers as I totter after the waiter in my fake-designer shoes.

I try not to stare into the booths as I pass the stern-looking bodyguards, but I’m sure I catch a glimpse of at least three Hollywood actors and
several famous models as I walk past.

The final booth is the largest
, and it’s also the emptiest.

Sat
inside is Berkeley, alone, but somehow managing to fill the entire area. He is dark, brooding and looks serious. For a moment, the nerves threaten to overwhelm me.
This must be what it feels like to be summoned to the headmaster’s office
, I think.

“
Miss Green.” His voice is both a greeting and a reprimand. “Take a seat.”

I slide into the booth, my heart pounding. What could he possibly want?

He sits a few feet away, but just like in the theatre, he feels so much closer.

Just the thought of our proximity is enough to start the heat rising in my cheeks.

“That’s a lovely dress,” he says. “Guishem, if I’m not mistaken.”

There’s that accent again.
That English aristocracy accent which is so sure about everything.

“It’s borrowed,” I admit, wondering how he
can radar in on my inadequacies with such accuracy. He makes a quiet glance at my shoes but says nothing.

I assume since he can name the designer who made my dress, he knows instantly th
at my footwear is fake.

“I notice
d you were talking with Ben Gracey,” he says.

“Yes.”

He is silent for a moment.

“You should be careful around him,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief, remembering Ben’s comment that Berkeley is a control freak.

“What exactly do you mean?” I say stiffly.

“Exactly that.” His voice is clipped.

“Are you trying to tell me who I should associate with?”

My voice has raised an octave in affront. Ok, so I was a little wary of Ben Gracey myself. But it’s certainly none of Berkeley’s business.

“No,” he says. His eyes look tired suddenly. “I wouldn’t dream of telling you what to do
, Isabella.”

“Then why have you called me over here?” I demand.

His expression changes back to amusement.

“I enjoyed your audition today
, Isabella, but I’m still baffled by you. I thought we might have a conversation which would help me learn more about you as an actress.”

Nothing to know
, I think, recalling my lack of experience.

“You grew up in England?” he asks, cocking his head slightly.

“Yes.”

“As did I,” he looks thoughtful. “For a time
, at least.”

In the pause that follows
, I notice that he’s ditched the director’s blacks in favour of jeans, a vintage T-shirt, and a suit jacket which fits his broad shoulders and muscular chest to the millimetre.

I find myself imagining what it would be like to run my hands inside the jacket.

“Do you like wine?” he says. His voice is less stern.

“I… I don’t drink,” I manage to stutter. To my relief
, he accepts this without question.

“A soft drink? Water?”

“Yes. Yes please. Water.”

He gestures to the waiter and issues instructions with the graceful simplicity of someone used to being served.

In the booth next to us is a sudden explosion of noise. The group has ordered a treasure chest – a hewn out trunk into which is poured bottle after bottle of Champagne and spirits, and set off with sparklers.

I’ve never seen
this particular drink order up close, but Lorna has described in detail how they cost £1000 each and are the flashiest item at the bar.

Berkeley
frowns slightly.

“A waste of good
Champagne,” he mutters.

Another cork pops and the table of people whoop and cheer.

Our drinks arrive. His is a whisky tumbler with a few perfectly square cubes of clinking ice in a dash of golden liquid. He waits for me to pick mine up before raising his to his lips.
His lips
. I am staring again.

“I wanted to
dig a little deeper into your character, Isabella,” he says, back in stern mode again.

“Yes?” I take a little sip of iced water.

“I was interested to see you act.” That word again. Interested. Hardly the greatest compliment of my acting career.

“
You mentioned you had never tried for a lead role,” he continues, taking a sip of whisky. He pauses for a second, savouring the drink. “Is it your ambition to have a career in theatre?”

I
nod. My mouth is dry.

He looks slightly disappointed.

“A stage actress then,” he decides.

“No,” I shake my head. “Well, not really,” I clarify. “I majored in script
writing. I always wanted to write for the stage. It was only towards my final year I got pulled into more performances.”

“So you don’t want to act?” he looks genuinely baffled.

“I like to act,” I say slowly. “But I’m not sure it’s where my talent lies.” I give him an apologetic smile. “All the students I did drama with at college -they all love getting up in front of people. Being the centre of attention. I’m not like that. So I don’t think I’m the right personality,” I conclude, “to make it as a career actress. But I would like to play some parts, to understand more about writing.”

I’m thinking back to the earlier audition, knowing I’m right.
The rejection was so painful. I couldn’t live like actors do. I’m not strong enough.

“I see.”
Berkeley takes another sip of whisky. He looks much older for a moment, though I know he can’t be very old. The young director award he won could only have been awarded to a man under forty.

He turns to face me and I find myself caught in his green eyes.

“Have you ever considered acting in a movie?” he says.

I shake my head, mesmerised by what he might say next.

“I would like you to consider it,” he says. “I may have a part in mind for you,” he continues.

What?

The suggestion takes me completely by surprise. I sit, stunned, trying to let what he’s just said sink in. James Berkeley is suggesting I act in one of his movies?

For a brief moment
, I feel as though all my Christmases have come at once. And ashamed as I am to admit it, most of my joy comes from the idea of spending more time with him. With James Berkeley.

Then reality floods in, and I frown. This can’t be as good as it sounds. Besides, I never had any ambition to act in movies. What if I’m terrible on-screen? The thought is too awful to contemplate, and I feel my courage slipping away.

“Do you mean a part in one of your movies?” I whisper. I am still reeling with shock. Never in a million years did I imagine this happening.

He nods curtly, and I feel another surge of amazed joy rise up.

I push it down. There must be some catch. Why should he want to cast me? I’ve never acted in a movie before. I could let him down.

“But first you must understand I am not an easy man to work for.”

Right. There’s the catch.

I remember Ben’s comments, about him controlling
who his actresses dated.
No way
, some defiant part in me hisses,
I don’t want to work for someone like that
.

“I am looking for a new talent,” he continues, “something fresh… and innocent. I think that could be you.” His voice is soft.

Wow.
Fresh and innocent. That’s personal. How does he know I’m fresh and innocent?

“What do you mean by difficult to work with?” I manage.

He stares at me. “Difficult,” he says. “But I hope rewarding. If you decide to accept my offer, I will tell you more about my conditions.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, “are you offering me a part?”

“So long as you can agree to my terms,” he says. “And I need you to trust it is the right part for you.”

What?

“I won’t tell you any more about it until you decide to accept,” he continues.

What the hell does he have in mind?

My type-casting comes back to me. Is he going to cast me in some erotic role and make me sign away my rights before I know what I’m doing?

I dismiss the thought as ridiculous, but my
distrust must show in my face.

“What are your concerns?” he asks.

“Is there any nudity?” I say and, as the words come out of my mouth, I flush a deep red at how stupid I sound.

He looks surprised.

“Have you seen my movies, Isabella?”

Of course I’
ve seen your movies.

“Yes.”

“Then why would you think nudity was involved? It’s not been a habit of mine to shoot nude sex scenes.”

His voice sounds bemused, but the expression on his face is
unreadable.

I stare down at the soft leather of the booth, mortified.

“It’s just that I often get asked to do those kind of seductress roles,” I mutter.

“You do?” I look up to see his eyebrows raised. His features have shifted. He looks
angry. “Who by?” His crisp English tones make the question sound dangerous.

“At college,” I sigh
, trying to explain. “It’s because I’m half-Spanish. I always get picked to do the femme fatales and the villainesses.”

Both of these are so far away from my real persona it’s laughable. I’ve barely even
gone all the way with a guy and people think I’m a seductress. But that’s what dark hair and grey eyes get you.

“
I see,” he says. “But a femme fatale is different from being asked to act nude. Has someone ever requested you act nude?” His voice is tight.

I shake my head vehemently, shocked by the question.

“Good,” he says, and the anger in his voice has abated. “In your case it would be completely unnecessary,” he adds.

I look up at him, wondering what he means.

“I will wait until tomorrow for you to think about us working together,” he says. “I don’t wish you to rush the decision, but I am not a patient man and I have a schedule.”

Work together
.

The idea brings a flash of pleasure. I shake it away. This man is a
control freak who dictates his actresses’ personal lives. And it’s not like I crave an Oscar.

“There is one more thing,” he says, and the tone of his voice is almost apologetic.

I put down my glass of water, intrigued by the sudden softening.

“What?” I ask.

“If we are working together,” he says, “nothing can happen between us.”

I stare back at him in total shock. It would never have occurred to me that such a thought would have crossed his mind.

“Of course not,” I mumble, “you’re married.”

He blinks in surprise, and then breaks into a
surprisingly warm smile.