Close Up and Personal (7 page)

I drop the card and stare at Lorna.

“It’s from Berkeley. He’s sent me clothes and booked a table at The Ivy for lunch today.”

“The Ivy!” she says. “It takes three months to get a table there, even if you know someone.”

I nod. Of course I know this. The Ivy is the favourite lunch location of celebrities all over the world. The average person doesn’t stand a hope of getting a table, and even those with contacts usually have to wait. How did he get a table so quickly?

“Perhaps he booked it months ago,” I say, knowing the reasonableness of this, but feeling a little depressed by it. Most likely James Berkeley planned to take a date and has filled me in last minute.

But Lorna is shaking her head.

“You have to say who is coming to make the booking,” she says. “It’s restaurant policy. They like to welcome each guest by name.”

Oh.

“So…” says Lorna. “He must have spent this morning arranging the booking and buying you gifts.” She looks
at her watch. “And it’s only 10:30am so he’s been hard at it. Open them!” she adds, seeing me hesitate before the sumptuous packages.

I open the Chanel box. Inside are
a beautiful dark grey suit and a cream Miss Moneypenny-style blouse.

I look up at Lorna. “A Chanel suit,” I
say as I draw out the perfectly-cut wool jacket. “Does he expect me to wear this?” The skirt is the same soft grey wool as the jacket, and the slightly transparent blouse is light silk with long ties falling from the neck. It’s much more formal than anything I’d usually wear.

“Looks like it,” says Lorna. She picks up a bagel and takes a bite.

I open the next box, labelled Jimmy Choo, embarrassed to think he recognised my fakes and bought me replacements.

Inside
is a pair of high-heeled peephole shoes in patent black leather.

Lorna raises her eyebrows. “Sexy,” she says. “Are you sure he wants to talk about work?”

I let out a puff of air in answer and move on to the third package.

Marc Jacobs. It’s a bag made of butter-soft leather, fixed with an array of
perfectly-placed buckles. The colour is not what I would have chosen – a subtle green – but I can see instantly it’s the perfect match for the suit and my light grey eyes.

I sit for a moment staring at the array of gifts. I
know without even adding up the cost that it’s more than I’ve been given in my whole life.

“I can’t accept this,” I decide. “It’s too much. And besides, who does that Lorna? Who dictates what someone wears to a lunch appointment?”

I remember his reputation as a control freak.

I shake my head. “I’m going to tell him to stuff his lunch appointment and his dress code.”

It’s then I realise I don’t have his number.
Damn
.

Wait. How did he know where I live?

He must have taken the information from the theatre, I realise. Surely that’s against data protection? Then again, I did leave details so I could be contacted about the audition. And this is about work. Right?

“I’ll ignore the car
,” I decide. “Arrogant idiot. Who does he think he is, sending clothes and arranging lunch without asking me?”

“Perhaps it’s an
other audition,” says Lorna, “a test?”

My curiosity is piqued. “What kind of test?”

“Well, you know. You said he wouldn’t tell you the role. What if he wants to play it out over lunch? And the clothes are so you can get into character?”

I consider this. It doesn’t sound
too
crazy. But do I want all this? This strange world of gifts and rules I don’t understand?

“Go,” says Lorna. “What’s the worst that could happen? You get a free outfit.”

I bristle. “I don’t want his clothes, Lorna.”

“An experience then. You’ve missed out on so much
, Issy, since, you know, the thing in that bar.”

The thing in the bar.
The reason I don’t drink alcohol.
We hardly ever talk about it, but Lorna knows how much it affects me.

“Be brave,” she says, “try something different. And besides
, honey, it’s The Ivy! Most of us will never get to go. At least go along and tell me what the food’s like.”

Against my own best advice, I am readying myself for the car when it pulls up outside my flat.

A black BMW.
Typical.

Damn
. I check my watch. Ten minutes earlier than I expected. And I’m still cramming my change purse and phone and make-up into the unfamiliar designer bag.

It’s another five minutes before I make it out to the car. The driver opens the door
, and I slide in gratefully.

“You’re late.” The deep voice makes me start, and I turn to see James Berkeley only a few feet away.

Jeez.

“I… I thought I was meeting you at the restaurant,” I say, marvelling at how
thoroughly this man always manages to wrong-foot me.

He raises his eyebrows. “
And leave a lady to arrive at a restaurant alone? I’m a gentleman, Isabella. Of course I would personally escort you. Who knows who might run off with you between the car and restaurant?” he adds, with a roguish grin.

I smile despite myself. He’s joking
.

The driver slides the car into gear and pulls out onto the Chelsea streets.

“Nice location for an apartment,” he says, looking admiringly at the classic façade of my building.

“My father left it to me,” I say. “But the service charge is the same as rent.” I give a rueful shrug
. “So, it’s not helped my graduate cash-flow.”

H
e looks thoughtful. “Surely someone can negotiate you out of that contract?” he says.

“They could, but my mother has the legal papers,” I say
. “Legality isn’t her thing.”

“Do you work?” he asks.

What a question. Of course I work. But Berkeley was sent to boarding school in England, so he’s probably used to people with trust funds.

“Yes,” I reply, “I work as a waitress for Kinglys.
We cater to silver service events.”

The car pulls through Chelsea, past the boutique clothing stores and restaurants, and swings onto the
road which passes Buckingham Palace.

“Look
,” I say, feeling suddenly braver in his company. “What did you mean by the suit?”

“The suit?” he makes a comedy assessment of his own perfect suit jacket.

“This suit,” I say, pulling meaningfully at my tailored wool lapel. “And the shoes, and the bag?”

“You don’t like them?”

“No… I. It’s not that. They’re lovely,” I admit. “And I have no idea how you got the perfect fit.”

His mouth twitches. “I am observant,” he says, “of beautiful things.”

Does he mean the suit?

“But wha
t do you mean by them?” I press. “Is this some weird audition thing?”

“Some weird audition thing?” he looks genuinely hurt. “Of course not. I’m not interested in dressing you. I simply assumed you would be more comfortable, since our appointment was such short notice, if I took out the effort of the dress code.
And I couldn’t be sure the friend who had so generously lent you that beautiful dress would be so accommodating this morning.”

“Oh.” This sounds very gentlemanly, but I am still suspicious.

“And do you always supply your lunch appointments with outfits?”

“I have never made a lunch appointment at this short notice,” he says. “A table of
recently-signed musicians have been very disappointed today.”

I gape at him. “But that’s… It’s not fair,” I protest.
“We can’t take someone else’s table.”

He smiles. “Just a little joke
, Isabella. The Ivy always keeps back a table for me should I require it.”

“Oh
.” I am a little thrown. Berkeley doesn’t seem like the kind of man who makes jokes. “Why is that?”

“I was one of the founders of the restaurant,” he says, leaning forward in the car. “You really do l
ook very beautiful in that suit,” he adds, lowering his voice. “Very sophisticated. Perfect for lunch. Perhaps one day I will be fortunate enough to see you dressed for dinner.”

Whoa.
Is he asking me out to dinner? This is confusing.

One minute
, he’s saying nothing can happen between us. Now, he seems to be flirting. Does he mean it? Or is he joking again?

“I can’t keep the clothes and the bag,” I say, determined to bring the conversation back to within the realms of my control. “It was lovely of you to think of them, but I wouldn’t feel right.”

Berkeley shrugs. “All those designers have a strict policy on seconds,” he says. “If they are returned then they will be destroyed. It would seem a shame to cause the destruction of such well-made objects.”

He lets the sentence hang in the air, but I refuse to be drawn.

“You should have thought about that before you bought them,” I say.

His face shifts as though he’s trying to supress a smile.

“Keep them for today,” he says. “See how you feel tomorrow.”

The car winds silently towards the curb
, and I realise we’ve reached our destination.

The Ivy’s white and black entrance looms. I’ve seen it before, walking around London, but I never imagined I would get to go inside.

“Wait here,” says Berkeley. For a moment, I think he’s getting out to pay the driver. But of course, this is his own member of staff.

Then I realise he has darted round to the far side of the car to open the door for me.

Is this a date?

The thought slides into my head as he offers his hand to help me out. I twist my legs out of the car, keeping my knees together
, and use his strong arm to right myself.

For a split second
, we stand facing each other, and then he positions my arm carefully alongside his to guide us both inside.

The warmth of his body close to mine makes butterflies in my stomach.

“After you, Miss Green,” he says, pushing the door, and giving me my first sight of The Ivy’s fabulous art nouveau interior.

There is glass everywhere, and the walls are decked in paintings and screen-prints I recognise to be by Damien Hirst and Lucien Freud.

I stand lost for a moment as the maître de approaches. And then he recognises Berkeley and the two shake hands.

We are shown to a table at the back of the restaurant, a distance from the other diners.

“Please,” Berkeley pulls my chair, and I sit.

“Thanks,” I say as he seats himself opposite.

“You look quite at home here,” he says with a slight smile. “Have you been before?”

Quite at home?
I’m so out of place even the waiters must notice.

“Of course not,” I mutter, looking up at him. “Mr
Berkeley, are you mocking me?”

He looks
surprised. “Isabella, I am not. You appear at exclusive launch parties in designer dresses. And you reside in a Chelsea flat. I assume you are
au fait
with London’s better dining establishments.”

He hasn’t asked me to call him by his first name, I notice. Not a date then. The thought disappoints me, although he’s already explained he’s not interested in me.

And then he said he wanted to have you on the stage
, whispers a dangerous voice in my head. I shake it away.

“The dress was borrowed,” I say, “and the apartment was inherited with an enormous service charge and nothing else.”

A waiter appears at Berkley’s side and presents him with a wine list. His eyes flick down to it and then back up at me.

“Would you like wine with your lunch? They have an excellent Chablis which is an ideal accompaniment to the scallops.”

“No thank you,” I say.

He pauses for a second as if to disagree, and then he hands the menu back the waiter.

“Something to discuss later, perhaps,” he says, almost to himself.

The waiter makes to hand him the food menu
, but he waves it politely away.

“I already know the menu,” he says. “We’ll have the scallops to start with and then the lamb to follow.” He thinks for a moment. “And a glass of the Haut Medoc Grand Cru with the lamb,” he adds, pronouncing the French words with fluent flair.

The waiter vanishes, and I scowl at him.

“You do know what year it is?” I say. “Women order their own food nowadays.”

He smiles. “But you’ve never been here, Isabella. And I know what is best to eat. So, in this instance, you’ll defer to my judgement.”

He sits back and folds his hand.

“Have you thought about my proposition?”

The way he says it
, it sounds like a marriage proposal.