The Director's Cut (11 page)

Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, James looks younger. He seems to have been able to leave his fears for press leaks at the door. And he slips into professional director mode with ease.

There’s something authoritative about him in this guise, which I love. Even though I can’t be close to him physically, I find this part of his personality super attractive.

What’s with that
, Issy? Do you like him being in charge?

Whatever the reason, I feel my eyes roaming over his sculpted features and broad chest. I can’t wait to be in his arms, later.

Then I remember the bet I lost, and a fission of thrilled fear runs through me.

The riding crop.
I promised him he could do whatever he liked with me.

Will he even remember? With the dramatic turn of events, he might have forgotten.

I push the thought to the back of my mind. For the time being, I’m called upon to be professional.

I
t’s only Natalie, Callum and me in the room. We’re seated in a semi-circle, with James standing.

Lorna and the other extras and crew are at a different meeting, elsewhere in the hotel.

“I’ve talked to you all, individually, about my method,” James says after having welcomed us to the meeting. “And I have another important fact to inform you of.”

He runs his fingers through his hair.

“A few of you will know that my background is in acting,” he says.

Callum nods at this, but Natalie looks blank.

“So I hope you’ll be pleased,” continues James, “to know that I’ll be taking the lead role in this movie.”

“You?” Natalie voices the word in pure shock, and then looks embarrassed.

“I mean. That’s great,” she backtracks, turning to include Callum and I. “But can you be sure you’ll be able to give the rest of us enough attention as a director?”

James nods patiently.

“You don’t need to worry about that, Natalie. It won’t affect my direction.”

Natalie looks unconvinced. But sensing she has no support from Callum or
me, she shuts her mouth tight, looking pained.

“What it means for this session,” continues James, “is I’ll be joining you.”

He gives this a moment to sink in.

It suddenly hits me with full force what a sacrifice he’s making. James Berkeley. Introverted and fiercely protective of his personal life, prepared to lay everything on the line and open up to all of us.

He’s doing it for you.

The thought almost brings tears to my eyes.

“Now it’s time to get started with the first exercise,” James is saying. “It will take real bravery. But I know you all have what it takes to get deeper into your roles.”

I let my eyes slide over Natalie’s face. She’s chewing her lower lip, and she looks nervous. Callum’s face is impassive, resigned almost. As those he’s mentally preparing himself.

I know they must have been briefed in part, before accepting their roles, as to what they might expect. But I don’t know how much they know about The Berkeley Method. Probably as little as I do.

No wonder they both look anxious.
For my part, I am absolutely terrified.

James reaches into his pocket and draws out a small fabric bag.

“Inside this bag, I have four slips of paper,” he says. “Each has on it a different word explaining a different emotion.”

I feel my stomach tighten, and my heart begin to quicken.

What will we have to do?

“We’ll each draw out a slip of paper,” says James. His eyes are only on my face, as though he’s trying to reassure me. But it hardly registers in the whirl of fear I feel rising in my body.

“What I want you all to do is think of a memory associated with that emotion,” he explains.

No
, no, no!

This is one of the main reasons I dodged as many acting classes as I could at drama school.
I always hated having to spill in front of the group.

Script writing allows you to control what emotions you show.

Maybe that’s the real reason I chose writing over acting.

James is still speaking
, and I force myself to tune back in.

“And then we’ll each write down a fe
w paragraphs about that memory,” he explains. “After that, I’ll read them out.” He pauses a moment to make sure we’ve all understood. “They’ll all remain anonymous,” he adds, “so no one has to know the memory is yours, unless you want them too.”

In the maelstrom of emotions, this has a calming effect. I mentally do the math.
Four of us. No one has to know which paper was mine.

The thought makes me feel slightly better.

“The point of the exercise,” says James, “is to help you open up to one another. The best acting comes from a feeling of trust and support in the cast. That’s what we’re looking to build in these method sessions. But we’re starting gently.”

I sneak a look at Natalie, wondering if there’s a chance she’d ever feel close to her fellow actors. To my su
rprise, she looks accepting, as though she was expecting this.

I guess she’s just come from rehab. Maybe they do a lot of this kind of stuff.

“We don’t have to write a lot, do we?” Natalie asks. “I’m not the world’s best writer.”

James shakes his head. “Just a few paragraphs
. No need to worry about spelling or grammar.”

Natalie nods,
looking relieved.

It never occurred to me that she would struggle with basic writing. But I realise that as a child star, she probably missed out on a lot of schooling.

I feel a little sad for her, wondering how a poor education might have limited her options. There’s not much else she’s qualified for, if her acting dries up.

James lifts the bag and shakes it.

“Callum?” he says, “would you like to go first?”

Callum stands and approaches James.
He pushes his fist inside the bag and makes a little joke about fishing for the paper, twisting his face as he mauls the bag.

Finally he pulls out a slip, and holds it aloft.

“I have my slip,” he announces, returning to his seat.

Natalie is already heading towards the bag as he sits down. I can’t see her face, but from James’s stern expression, she’s looking for clues as to which paper to pick.

“Just take a slip, Natalie,” says James calmly. “There’s no way of telling the difference.”

She picks out her paper, and James regards me.

“Issy,” he says, “would you like to go next? Or shall I pick mine?”

I shrug.
“Pick yours.”

I can’t imagine it would make any difference.

James plucks his out of the bag. I see his face shift as he regards it. But beyond that, I can’t make out what he’s feeling.

He heads over to me and holds the bag out.

Watching his face, I dip my hand inside and close it around the last piece of paper.

I feel James’s little finger sneak out and softly stroke the top of my hand.

An electric current shoots through my body, and in that sudden moment, I’m shot through with desire for him.

I return him a little secret smile, and then pull
my hand out, the paper in my closed fist. I walk away, driving down the sudden surging feelings, and try to concentrate on what’s expected of me.

“Alright then,” says James, moving away. “You have pens and paper beside you on the floor. We’ll take five minutes or so to write out our memories. Just do the first thing which comes into your head.”

I unfold my paper with a deep sense of dread and read the single word written there.

Shame.

I feel my face fall and work to marshal my expression to neutral. This is better than I feared, I guess. The worst would be ‘grief’ or ‘loss’.

Neverthe
less, it’s not a nice emotion to investigate.

I take a glance around the group. Everyone has similarly downcast expressions, so I’m guessing all the emotions are difficult.

The knowledge that we only have five minutes forces me to act. I have no time to search for the answer which makes me look the best.

Everyone else is already scribbling away. They must be aware of the time constraints too.

So I just write the most shameful thing which comes to mind. It’s an effort, and I’m almost forcing my pen to move.

Ugh. What
a horrible exercise. I’m hating myself, just writing this.

I’ve barely gotten the words down when James announces the time is up.

“How did you all do?”

No one answers, and judging from all our faces, no one enjoyed this exercise.

“Ok,” says James, filling in the silence. “No one enjoyed that. I certainly didn’t. If we could all toss them back into the bag, and we’ll get on with the next part.”

Silently, we all add our papers to the bag.

James shakes it up.

Then he reaches in and pulls out the first slip.

“I’m not going to tell you the emotion that generated any of the memories,” says James. “I’m just going to read it out. And we’re all going to discuss what might have been behind it.”

All of us have grim, anxious faces. I suddenly feel a little closer to Natalie. She looks just as worried as Callum and I.

“When I was ten years old,” reads James, “My dad came to pick me up from a movie set. I was so excited. But he left me on set for two hours whilst he took the producers for drinks to try and land himself an acting role.”

My eyes widen in amazement.

That’s Natalie.

It must be. She’s the only one of us who was acting so young.

I feel a surge of respect towards her. She must have known we’d work out it was her memory. How brave of her.

I turn to Natalie, and she gives me a little shrug and a half
-smile.

Callum
, too, is staring at Natalie in admiration.

“What emotion,” says James, “do we think that was based on?”

This jolts me back into the exercise.

“Fear?” says Callum.
“Perhaps the person feared their father didn’t love them?”

“Very good,” says James. “Issy?”

“Pain,” I say. “Rejection, maybe.”

Poor Natalie
. I give her an apologetic glance.

James nods. “It seems as though many
emotions could be present. Let’s try another one.”

He pulls a second paper out.

“When I was in the depths of my drug addiction,” he reads, “I stole money from my father’s home.”

Is that James? It c
ould also be Callum. And if Natalie’s paper hadn’t been so obviously her, it could have fit her experiences too.

The thought
hits me, suddenly, as to what a large ex-drug problem is in this room.

I realise that no one is speaking.
The drugs revelation seems to have prompted a silence.

“Desperation,” I say, to fill in the gap. “The memory is of a desperate act.”

James raises his eyebrows slightly and nods. Callum, who seemed to have been frozen, suddenly twitches back to life.

“Relief,” says Natalie.

I turn to her in surprise.

“I know it sounds ugly,” she says, “but when you’re an addict, getting money for drugs is a relief.”

I’d never thought of it that way. But then, I don’t know too much about drug addiction. Natalie’s medication flips to the front of my mind.

“Time for the next paper,” says James, plucking out a third memory.

As he opens it up, I get a flash of the front and recognise the handwriting as my own. Part of me wants to sink into the ground. Another part of me wants to share. Everyone else has been so courageous.

“After my father’s death,” reads James, “I was so angry with him, I didn’t attend the funeral.”

I sit perfectly still, with my breath held.

As f
ar as I know, neither Natalie nor Callum would be able to work out this is my memory. James, of course, knows immediately. His eyes move to mine, loaded with feeling. They’re full of something I can’t quite place. Admiration? Love? I look away quickly.

“Anger,” says Callum, sounding pleased to have such a straightforward deduction.

Natalie nods. “Anger, and loss,” she says.

Anger and loss?
Is that how they read that memory? I am filled with shock. How could they not interpret that memory as shameful? I didn’t attend my own father’s funeral, for God’s sakes.

Their reading of my memory throws me into an entirely different understanding of it
. And I realise that maybe this is part of James’s method. Everyone, must understand their emotions differently, when they’re seen through other people’s eyes.