Close Up and Personal (20 page)

“What are you doing, Isabella Green?” I mutter to myself. “What are you doing with this man?”

I look at myself for a long time, trying for an answer, but nothing comes.

James has told me himself that he’s dangerous. Unsuitable. That he has a strange requirement that I acquiesce to his will. Then I remember what Ben told me about the contracts which James made his actresses sign.

But that wasn’t true? Was it?

I try to piece together what I know. James denied it. I believed him. Could Ben be making all of this up? Obviously, they’re not friends. I could see that by their terse exchange in the car the previous night. But some instinct tells me Ben is right about the drug problem. I remember James’s face when he talked about his ex-girlfriend and a rush of jealousy courses through me.

A drug overdose
. Those were his words.
She died of a drug overdose.

All I can do is ask him.
But for all the unfair mistrust I’ve shown, I’m not sure he deserves to be interrogated.

Then I realise there is another way to find out. There is at least one advantage to dating a famous man.

Pulling out my phone, I open an internet search page.

I hesitate for a moment, and then, before I can change my mind, I Google:
‘James Berkeley, drugs
’.

The moment I press ‘search’ I regret the decision. It seems unfair that because James is famous I can delve into his private history
, but he can’t look at mine.

Nevertheless I can’t draw my eyes away from the returned searches.

The web is strangely silent on James Berkeley. Besides his Wiki information page and official film pages, there isn’t very much at all.

Obviously he keeps his private life to himself.

Guiltily, I scan down a few more pages. There is nothing to suggest he ever had a drug problem. But perhaps he’s managed to hide it. It’s not unheard of.

The only page I see which promises to divulge any personal information at all is an interview with a newspaper I’ve never heard of.

The headline of the search result is: “
James Berkeley and the Last Red Rose
”

I open the search and begin to read.

It’s your usual director-interview, talking about his latest movie. Then something catches my eye.

The journalist questions James on the symbolism of roses in the film.
I read on.

Berkeley tells me that roses have a special symbolism for him,
reports the piece.
He tells me he has never given a red rose, since his mother died.

I remember the yellow roses he bought me. Yellow for jealously, he said. So what do red symbolise? Love. The answer comes to me as obvious.

For some reason, I feel a deep and sad longing. I wonder if he’ll ever buy red roses for me.

Serves you right for poking around in his personal life,
I tell myself, allowing the wave of sadness to wash over me. I click shut the internet page determinedly, ashamed of myself for spying.

Then I turn to the bathroom sink and
splash cold water on my face, resolving to pull myself together.

I decide I am d
etermined to have a night out without thinking anymore about James. Taking one last look in the mirror, I head back out to the bar. My phone beeps in my pocket and I pull it out.

Jame
s. Typical. How does he do that?

I read the message.

I miss you gorgeous.

My heart melts and I push the phone back into my pocket, smiling. Ben can’t be telling the truth. He just can’t.

When I emerge back from the bathroom, I see that Sandy and Alex are clustered by the bar. I look in confusion to our table. Lorna and Ben are sat there, giggling and pawing at each other like teenagers with a bottle of Champagne on the table.

“What’s up?” I ask, heading for where they’re standing. “Why are you at the bar?”

Alex rolls his eyes and pushes his glasses a little further up the bridge of his nose.

“Ask the love
birds,” he says, with a bored wave towards the table. “He shows up with a bottle of fizz and suddenly they’re all over each other. Me and Sandy thought we’d best give them some room, because they sure as hell should get one.”

Sandy gives me a rueful smile
, and I look back at the table. Lorna has a full glass of Champagne and I purse my lips.

“She’s already had two glasses,” says Sandy, following my line of gaze. “Does he know she’s diabetic?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe Lorna hasn’t told him. She does seem to like him a lot. Perhaps she’s embarrassed.”

Alex looks unconvinced and glares daggers at the table.
Neither Lorna or Ben notice.

“We’re heading to Camden,” says Sandy
. “Want to come with us?”

I shake my head, looking back at Lorna. “I should check
that she’s ok. We’re supposed to be sharing a ride home.”

Alex takes a final slug of the free cocktail. “Mr Fancy Pants said he has somewhere else he was going after here. Made it clear no
one else was invited. Not even Lorna. I’d say when that bottle is done, you’ll have your friend back.”

“Ok,” I say, wondering whether I should join the table.

“Sure you don’t want to come with?” asks Sandy.

“No, that’s ok.”

Alex pats my arm. “You’re a good friend.”

“She’d do the same for me.”

“Sweetheart, she wouldn’t. But you’re an angel for thinking it,” Alex replies. He and Sandy give me a hug before heading out to take the underground to Camden.

After they leave
, I flip open my phone.

There’s a new message.

Are you ignoring me?

I smile and
text back.

Not ignoring you. Out with friends in the Met Bar.

The truth is, I’m showing off a little by telling him I’m in the Met. I know James Berkeley can get in anywhere he wants, but I have my own ways of getting in the best places, even without him.

Almost instantly my phone beeps.

That’s a relief. Wish you were here. Premieres with the wife are boring.

I give a half smile. I’m not sure I’m cool enough with his situation to be able to joke about it yet.

I toy with my phone wondering about what Ben told me. Not the kind of thing I can put in a text message.

My phone beeps again.

See you later?

See me later? When does he mean?

When
? I type back.

Tonight?
I’m only across the street. My after party is in St James Hotel.

I bite my lip. I didn’t expect him to want to see me tonight.
Or for him to be so nearby. To be honest, I’ve had as much emotion as I can take for a day. I need time to think. To work out what he wants from me.

I didn’t realise he was only across the street though. The idea of him so close is tempting. But I set my mental resolve.

Not tonight.
I write.
Tired.

The phone beeps again.

Tomorrow?

I laugh.
You’re persistent
. I tap.

There’s
a few minutes this time before my phone buzzes an answer.

Persistence is required for everything worth having in life. Pick you up at 8?

I smile to myself. He really is persistent.

Ok
. I text.

I look back to the table where Ben and Lorna are sitting. Ben is nowhere to be seen. And Lorna…
I suddenly see that Lorna is slumped forward, face down on the table.

My phone beeps again. But this time I don’t reply, because
I’m racing over to the table.

“Lorna?” She’s out cold, her perfect features pressed against the black vinyl of the table. The phone in my pocket starts ringing but I ignore it.

“Lorna!” I pull her upright, looking about for help. I can’t see any staff nearby and I don’t want to leave her to run to the bar.

If her drink has been spiked, I won’t leave her even for a second. Not after what happened to me.

“Wake up.” I sit her upright, gently slapping at her cheeks. Her eyes flutter and I see they are rolled back in the sockets.

The phone rings again. I ignore it, trying to shake Lorna to consciousness. It cuts out and then starts ringing.

In desperate confusion I grab it out of my pocket and answer.

“I can’t talk, my friend is ill,” I yell into the phone, before cramming it back into my pocket without hanging up.

“Lorna!” I shout again. “Lorna. Please wake up!”

I look out into the wider bar area. It seems so alien to shout in this muted and elegant place. But I do anyway.

“Help!” I call to the bar. Across the hushed tones of conversation happening elsewhere,
the barman doesn’t hear me.

“Help!” I shout more loudly. “My friend is unconscious!”

This time it works, and the barman, alongside several drinkers, turn in anxious alarm. The barman is first on the scene, running to the table.

He’s young, not much older than twenty, and already panicking.

“Did you call an ambulance?” he asks, seeing Lorna pale and out cold.

An ambulance.
Of course. How stupid.

I pull out my phone and dial 999.

“Hold her,” I say to the barman, as I stand to talk in the phone.

“Hello caller,” says a voice at the other end. “What’s your emergency?”

“Um. Medical,” I say, my voice panicked. “My friend. She’s diabetic and she might have drunk too much alcohol. I think she could be going into a diabetic coma.”

“Where are you please?”

“The Met Bar. On St James Street.”

“We’re sending an ambulance now. Can you describe your
friend’s condition to me please?”

I look back to Lorna’s beautiful face, and the tears start coming. “Um. She’s not moving. She won’t open her eyes,” I start to sob. “She won’t respond to her name.”

“Ok, ma’am,” says the voice on the other end. “We’re sending someone for you now. Please keep calm and try to keep your friend conscious.”

“She’s not conscious!” I virtually scream the words in panic.

There’s a beeping sound and I realise another caller is trying to get through on my phone. Berkeley. I ignore the beeping.

“Ok,” I say. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“The ambulance is less than two minutes away,” says the voice. “Do your best to talk to her, get through to her.”

“Has she taken anything?” says a deep voice by my side.
I turn in amazement to see Berkeley.

“How did you get here so fast?”
I am momentarily rail-roaded by his sudden appearance.

“I
ran. Has she taken anything?”

The question throws me.

“What? I. Um. No, I don’t think so.”

Lorna’s eyes flutter a little, and I seize on the gesture, shaking her. She groans.

“You’re sure she hasn’t taken anything?” James’s eyes are searching my face, and there is something in them I’ve never seen before. As though a tiny part of him is unsure, frightened.

The memory of Ben’s words comes back.
Berkeley has a problem with drugs
.

I push it away. I have more serious concerns.

“Yes. I’m sure. She’s diabetic. She’s had alcohol and she shouldn’t.”

The unfamiliar expression on his face vanishes.
Lorna is blinking a little now, and starting to move groggily.

I feel a rush of relief.

“She needs sugar. Now.” James looks around until he sees the barman.

“You have sugar syrup behind the bar and sliced oranges,” Berkeley is saying. “Bring a bottle and some slices. Quickly.”

The barman
pauses for a moment.

“I’m not ordering a drink man,” growls Berkeley. “This
girl needs sugar. Get syrup and orange slices. Now!”

The barman
runs off, leaving me to stare up at the surprise arrival.

“She
wasn’t conscious,” I manage, my lip trembling as Lorna becomes slowly more lifelike, twisting her head around a little on the vinyl table.

“How much has she drunk?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Was she buying her own drinks?”

“No… I…”

“Someone was buying them? How many?”

This focuses my mind.

“I
… Uh. It was a bottle of Champagne,” I look at the table.

“Two glasses on the table,” he says. “The most she could have had from that bottle would be three. Champagne bottles only hold four. Most likely she’s had two or less.”