Close Up and Personal (19 page)

“
So what will you do now?” I ask, changing the subject.

He seems amused.

“What do you mean?”

“You and Madison. I suppose you have some public engagements. So you can reassure the world you’re happily married?” The last words come out bitterly. I can’t help myself.

“Yes,” he says. “We have a premier tonight which we will both attend. Our PRs have already explained the tango situation to the press.”

The tango situation
. My eyes fill with tears.

“Issy,” he says gently. All the fire has left his face, and he
sweeps my wet cheek with his thumb. “You have no idea what you mean to me. Today, when I thought I might have lost you…” he lets the words hang.

“I’ve spoken to Madison,” he continues. “We’ve agreed that the marriage has done all it can to help her career. She’s back in the A-list now. She’s happy. As soon as it’s appropriate
, we’ll begin making it obvious we’re leading separate lives. It won’t happen overnight. But it is happening.”

He’s leaving Madison?

“Is Madison happy with that?” I ask. I am in shock.

“Madison and I are very good friends,” he says carefully. “She wants me to be happy and she knows this is what I want.”

“Are you doing this for me?” The thought is too preposterous.

“
Who else would I be doing it for?”

I frown, confused.

“It’s all so much,” I admit. “Everything has happened so quickly. Part of me has strong feelings for you. Part of me is unsure.”

Like the fact that you want to
subdue me.

He nods, looking sad.

“I couldn’t ever expect that a girl like you would consider me,” he says. “I’m not a walk in the park, Issy. But I want to make the situation right, so you can at least decide with everything clear.”

“And that includes divorcing your wife?” as I say the words they sound ridiculous.

“Stage wife,” he says. “Not my real wife. Our relationship has come to a natural end. This way you can decide for yourself. But I warn you,” he voice turns dark, “you may still decide you can’t have a relationship with me. I’m not even sure I’d want you too.”

“This is the obedience thing,
” I say slowly.

“Yes.”

I nod, assessing this.

“I’m not an old-fashioned girl,” I say, thinking of my upbringing. “My parents ran puppet-shows. It was all very bohemian.”

He laughs at this admission.

“It sounds charming. When am I going to meet your mother?”

“My mother?”

“You told me your
father had passed away. Otherwise, naturally I would want to be introduced to him as well.”

“Yes. Um. Well. My mother. She lives out in the countryside.”

I remember suddenly that my mother is planning to come to London soon. Though I can’t recall which day we arranged. I’ll have to check my diary. I try to picture my mother meeting Berkeley, but the image doesn’t come.

“She’s coming to London soon, but I think it might be too soon for you to meet her,” I explain.

“I see.” His eyes are questioning me.

“She’s a little unusual,” I manage.

“With a daughter like you, I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

“Well perhaps I can meet h
er when you decide you’re ready,” he concludes.

“What about your parents?”
I say, to change the subject.

“What about them?”

“What are they like?”

“There’s only one remaining,” he says. “My mother died when I wa
s a very young boy, in Mauritius.”

I piece this together with what I know of him. So he was brought up with his mother in Mauritius and then packed off the boardin
g school in England.

“Did you get sent to boarding school when she died?” I ask tentatively.

“Yes.” He is terse, making it clear no more questions are to be asked.

“What about your father?” I ask, steering the conversation over to something else.

James gives a cold laugh. “My father. Well. There’s a story.” He pauses for a moment. “I guess you’ll get the chance to find out. Would you like to meet him?”

Would I?
I’m not sure.

“When?”

“In a few weeks,” he says. “I’ve made arrangements to visit the estate. You could come with me.”

The estate?

“Where exactly does your father live?” I ask, hedging for an answer.

He laughs again, obviously aware that I’m delaying my answer.

“In the countryside,” he says. “I think you’ll like it.”

His phone beeps and he frowns.

“Think about it,” he says, “we’d only be there one night.” He stands, and leans down to kiss my forehead.

“I have to go and play the
dutiful husband,” he says. And my heart twists in my chest.

Chapter 18

Whilst James plays the husband figure, Lorna has dragged me out for yet another party night. She’s sure it will take my mind off the situation, and maybe she’s right. Though I hate to admit it, the thought of James leading Madison up the red carpet makes me feel sick with jealously.

Lorna’s pulled some strings to arrange an evening
with two of her modelling friends at the Met Bar, and all three of them are getting into the swing of things.

I’m wearing a
n orange and black retro-print dress, which is the best I could do from my wardrobe to keep up with the models. On the London streets, I could usually be considered fashionable. My wardrobe is full of vintage buys and clever second-hand finds, and I can always pull an interesting outfit together. But alongside Lorna and her model friends, and their access to the latest designer releases, I don’t have a hope.

“Tell me again why we’re drinking here?” I say, taking in the designer lighting
concept which casts the sixties-style tables into things of glamorous beauty.

“The agency ha
s an arrangement with the bar,” says Alex, looking at me with mock-seriousness over his horn-rimmed glasses. “We supply the eye candy, they supply the drinks.”

“Which means we get to drink at
the Met Bar,” says Lorna, “while all the other people our age are searching out the pint-pitcher deals in Trafalgar Square.”

We’re sitting on a black vinyl table with a jug of pre-mixed cocktail. Sandy, a blonde Claudia Schiffer lookalike from
Houston, wrinkles her nose as she sips her drink.

“Sweet,” she say
s, swallowing the sticky liquid and tugging her low-cut white dress down a little further.

Sandy schooled at Yale and managed to ditch her Southern accent along the way. But that doesn’t stop most English people
from thinking she’s a dumb model. It used to drive her crazy, but she’s learned to play up to it.

“That’s what you get when the drinks are free,” says Alex, a skinny male-model with oversized retro glasses and artistic tattoos covering his arms.

“God bless Select Modelling agency for supplying us with low-quality drinks in such an upmarket establishment.”
Alex is technically an artist, but his quirky looks got him spotted last year, and now he fronts major designer campaigns.

“Bottoms up!” says Lorna, raising her mineral water in a mock toast. She’s sensibly sticking to sugar-free soft drinks tonight, filling me with relief. It’s one of my real fears that Lorna will get carried away drinking and
have a diabetic episode.

I chink my own glass – a mix of water with a splash of cocktail in it. Since Berkeley
, I have found myself brave enough to drink alcohol again, but I’m not about to get drunk.

The Met Bar is attached to one of London’s most glamorous hotels and has a notoriously difficult entry policy. I was amazed to get in, until Lorna talked me through the deal with her agency.

“I think the choice of bar might also have something to do with a certain gentleman,” adds Sandy, raising her glass and eyebrows at Lorna.

For once
, Lorna looks a little embarrassed.

“He only said he might be here,” she says, fiddling with her napkin.

“Wait,” I say, “are you talking about Ben Gracey?”

I had forgotten about him entirely. In the last few days
, I’ve thought of nothing but Berkeley, and my selfishness hits me full force in the face. I haven’t asked anything about Lorna’s love life.

“Lorna, I’m so sorry. Did you two hook up?”

She turns to me, bashful.

“Yeah, well.
No. Not exactly. He
is
cute,” she says shyly. “And he texted to say he might show up tonight.”

I can’t believe it. Lorna. Shy. Waiting for a man.
A man who says he
might
show up. This is not like her at all. I think back to what I remember of Ben but not much comes to mind. Then again, I did have him contrasted with the force of nature that is James Berkeley. Hardly a fair comparison.

“Well he’s a lucky guy,” I manage, wondering what he’s pulled to have this effect on her.

“Here’s to lucky guys,” opines Alex, raising his glass for yet another toast. Alex is gay, and with his model good looks, could actually be considered one of the luckiest men on the male scene. At least, if you define luck by quantity.

“Here, here,” says Sandy, taking another sip. She smacks her lips
at the sweet drink. “I might stick to the water,” she says.

“No way,” says Alex, leaning over to top up her glass
. “We are finishing this jug. It’s free.”

“Ok,” acknowledges Sandy. “But then we head up to the rock clubs in Camden and party with people our own age.”

I look around the Met Bar and realise she’s right. I’ve spotted a fair few celebrities in here and even more obviously wealthy people. But the average age is over forty. No wonder Lorna’s modelling agency has a deal with the bar. We’re the youngest people here.

I excuse myself to visit the bathroom and head to the
shining tiled luxury of the Met Bar toilets.

“Someone’s in a hurry.”

I’ve bumped full force into a linen shirt and designer suit jacket, and straighten up to apologise.

“Hey
, Isabella.”

“Oh,” I recognise the face suddenly. It’s Ben Gracey. “Hey Ben.”

“Listen, I’m on my way to see Lorna at that table,” he says. “But I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour the other night.”

The other night?
I remember the unlicensed cab, Berkeley’s anger.

“Oh. Right,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, truly.” He stops me with a gentle hand. “I’m really sorry. I’d had a few too many drinks and was all swept up with you gorgeous girls.” He gives a charming smile, and I feel myself warm to him.

Only someone with that aristocratic English accent could say that last line without sounding cheesy.
He’s from the same class as James Berkeley, I realise. And then I remember that they’re relatives.

“I hear you’re seeing more of James Berkeley,” adds
Ben.

I
pause, wondering how to respond. Can I admit it publicly?

“Lorna told you?” I guess, silently
promising to kill her when I get back to the table.

“Yes. Don’t be angry. She had your best interests at heart. She doesn’t trust him
, Isabella.”

She doesn’t? That’s news to me.

“At least, not recently,” he corrects himself.

“What do you mean?”

Ben lowers his voice and leans in urgently.

“Listen
, Isabella. I grew up with James Berkeley. I know more about him than most. You need to be careful.”

You don’t know the half of it
, I think wryly.

“He got into trouble at school,” he continues.

“Yes,” I say, finding myself rising to James’s defence. “He was expelled. He told me.”

“Oh.” Ben looks confused. Angry almost.

“And I expect he didn’t tell you why he wasn’t welcome in his father’s house for a time.”

“No,” I say, coldness settling around me. “He didn’t.”

Ben’s voice is low, urgent.

“Berkeley had a problem with drugs,” he says, showing me with his eyes that he means a serious problem. “You need to be careful, Isabella. He’s unstable. Not good news at all.”

“I…” I stare at Ben, not knowing what to say. This sudden new information has hit me hard. Can I stand any more rollercoaster emotions today about James Berkel
ey?

“Well
, thanks,” I manage. “I’ll bear that in mind.” And I head towards the bathroom trying to compute this information.

I enter the sweep of glittering mirrors and expensive toiletries and stare at my reflection.