Close Up and Personal (8 page)

“Between 11pm last night and when a package of clothes arrived this morning? I’ve not had a great deal of time,” I say.

He smiles. “A very reasonable answer.”

“And,” I take a breath, “I don’t think I can agree.”

His face falls. “Oh?”

“I’m very new to all this
, Mr Berkeley.” I spread my hands out on the table. “I don’t have any idea what’s normal and what’s not. But I don’t think this is a usual way to cast actresses.”

“You’re very perceptive.”

“I’d be a fool not to be interested,” I continue. “I’ve seen your films and I know the kind of critical acclaim they generate.” I sigh. “You must be an interesting person to work with, and I would like to see how you make a movie.”

“But?” He leans forward.

“But. I can’t agree to your terms. I can’t take a role on trust, not knowing what it is. I’m not experienced enough to take that risk. I might let you down. And I hardly know anything about you,” I add.

And what I do know isn’t good
.

I sit back, having said my piece, and almost as soon as I do
, two waiters arrive and place a plate of scallops in front of each of us.

They smell delicious, and I hesitate for a moment before Berkeley nods I should pick up my fork. I spear a mouthful and take a nervous bite of the first scallop, conscious he is watching me. It is predictably delicious, with a firm flesh texture and a ginger-butter sauce.

“You like them?”

“They’re delicious.”

Berkeley nods approvingly, then picks up his fork and spears the white flesh of the first morsel. He waits a moment, the fork poised, and then speaks.

“
You say you don’t know anything about me. What would you like to know?” he says evenly.

This throws me completely.

“How do you know Ben Gracey?” I say, speaking the first thing which comes into my head. His expression darkens a little.

“He’s a relative,” he says. “On my father’s side. A cousin.”

That makes sense. The English aristocracy are all interrelated. Judging from his accent, Berkeley is probably a distant relative of every noble-born person in England.

“Where are you from? Why do you work in Hollywood?” I ask, opting for my most pressing questions.

“I was born in Mauritius,” he says, taking a sip of wine, “and I went to boarding school in England from the age of four until I was fourteen.”

“And then?”

“Then I was removed to a boarding school in Hong Kong where I became interested in theatre and movies. I made prudent movie investments in several different countries and then I moved to LA to direct and produce.”

“
What do you mean by removed?” I ask, surprised at my own daring.

Berkeley smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Expelled,” he says shortly. “
Isabella, I don’t talk about my past a great deal. For you, I have made this small exception. Don’t push me.”

The words come out pure cut-glass English aristocracy.
He strikes his fork at the plate in a manner which suggests the conversation is over. I twist my mouth, upset that I’ve offended him.

“I’m sorry for asking
, Mr Berkeley,” I say. I sound like a schoolgirl.

He looks at me in surprise, assessing for a moment. He’s deciding whether or not I’m teasing him.

“I like that you call me Mr Berkeley,” he says, grinning as he puts a scallop into his mouth.

For some reason
, the comment makes me furious. I pick up my fork and another scallop.

“
So James,” I say pointedly, “I know a little more about you, but I still can’t agree to commit to a role I know nothing about.”

I spear
another scallop and ease it into my mouth.

Berkeley
cocks his head a little to one side.

“Well then, Miss Green,” he says.
“Let’s see if we might not come to some arrangement. How about I tell you the role I have in mind for you, and you agree to my other conditions on trust?”

This is unexpected.

“What’s your working style?” I hedge, hoping to draw more out about what’s expected of his actors and actresses.

“My working style?” He picks up a spotless napkin and dabs his mouth. “My working style, Miss Green, is all about discipline.” He fixes me with a steely gaze.

I swallow my last bite of scallop.

“Discipline?”

He nods. “Discipline, Isabella, is vital to drawing the best performance from a production. I need to know that my performers are willing to give up everything, every little last decision if it comes to it, over their personal lives. This is how I extract Oscar performances from every lead I have ever worked with, and a great deal of supporting roles.

Arrogant
, I think,
to credit himself with an actor’s Oscar.
Although I can’t help but think there is some truth to his self-grandeur. He is known as the best director, after all.

“I don’t care about an Oscar,” I say.

“Then what do you care about?”

I think about this. “I care about the art of it all. I care about the script and the words and how it all goes together.”

His haughty expression softens.

“And you want to act to understand this all better?”

“Yes.” I am surprised at how well he summarises me.

“Then there is no better place for you,” he says, his voice dipping low, “than with me.”

I feel my eyes open wide. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? His face looks suddenly charged with lust, and I feel my body responding.

A waiter leans in and removes the scallop plates and another
waiter replaces them with empty plates and a rack of lamb in the middle of the table.

The smell of the food is amazing. I hope the waiter can’t see my flame
-red face.

James stands and takes the carving knife, nodding that the waiter can depart.

“Rare or well done?” he asks, severing a piece of lamb with expert strokes.

“Medium, please,” I mutter. He steers two pieces onto my plate and then serves himself. Then he takes a deep sip of red wine.

“Would I have to sign a contract?” I say, as much to break the unbearable silence of him watching me as anything else.

He raises his eyebrows. “Of course. All movies come with contracts.”

“I don’t mean that,” I say. “I mean a contract for the things you mentioned. The giving up of personal control.”

James takes a slice of lamb, chews and swallows.

“No, of course not,” he says, sounding bemused. “It is a personal matter between myself and my performers. I have never had anyone break their word,” he adds. “We would make an agreement on trust.”

This is new information. So Ben Gracey had it wrong. Or Berkeley is lying.

I look at his face, trying to detect signs of dishonestly, and finding none.

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

He nods, but looks displeased. I feel deflated.

“How about a screen test?” he says suddenly.

I look up from my plate.

“What do you mean?”

“You agree to come to my studio tomorrow,” he says. “Take a screen test, find out my working style for yourself. See how you look on screen. If you don’t like the experience, then we’ll part ways, no hard feelings. If you do, then we might agree to work together.”

I stare at him warily. That doesn’t sound too bad. Good, in fact. And in my own way
, I feel as though I’ve scored a minor victory over Mr-Control-Freak-Berkeley. He’s agreed to audition me on my own terms. Ha.

“Alright,” I say, swallowing the last piece of lamb on my plate and setting my knife and fork back. “That sounds do-able.”

“Do-able?”

“Do-able,” I repeat
. “It’s a word.” I pretend to narrow my eyes at him. His face breaks into a delighted smile. He looks his true age, suddenly a young man of thirty rather than forty.

Then his phone beeps and he removes it from his suit jacket and frowns.

“Nancy,” he says, and I remember the name of the casting director from the theatre. The one who had to step aside for personal reasons.

He is shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, signalling for the cheque, “I have to deal with this.”

I lower my eyes. Of course he has more important engagements than me. I pick up the
new Marc Jacobs bag feeling strangely at limbo. Part of me wants to stay in this glamorous world with this intriguing man. But I have to return to reality.

Until tomorrow
, I remind myself gleefully. Tomorrow is the screen test. The nerves in the pit of my stomach blend with delicious excitement at the thought.

We step outside the restaurant and his car pulls up. “My car will take you anywhere you need to go,” he says, hailing a taxi.

The black cab slows, and James turns to face me. “Until tomorrow?” he says, and
his voice sounds urgent.

I nod, confused yet again by his intentions.

He takes my shoulders and leans in to cheek-kiss me, brushing his lips with deliberate slowness against my right cheekbone, and then my left.

“Until tomorrow,” he murmurs, his breath stroking through my hair. He waits there for a second, holding me pinned inside his arms, and then he steps back and stares into my eyes.

For a moment, I think he’s about to say something else. And then he gives a quick little nod, and he’s gone.

I feel every muscle of my body sigh out after him as he slides into the cab.

I get into his car and ask the driver to take me back to Chelsea.

As I sink back into the leather seats
, I realise I can smell him on the interior.

James Berkeley
, I think, inhaling his fragrance deep into my lungs,
what have you done to me?

Chapter 8

Late as ever, I wrestle into my Kingley’s uniform. The black and white waitress outfit was bought out of my own wages and is the cheapest I could get away with.

My friend
Jerome has already clocked in for me and is waiting outside with the other milling staff when I emerge from the dressing room.

Jerome is my
kind-of-ex-boyfriend. He took a course in theatre production in the same college as me, and we became good friends in the first year. He’s blonde, good-looking, always smells great and gives the world’s best hugs.

He’s usually employed to put up lighting rigs in London theatres, but he also waiters with me on the side.
A choice I often fear is due to him wanting us to get together again rather than a real need for spare cash.

“Hey
, Issy,” he says, “there’s been a change of plan for tonight. We’re being taken by coach to another part of the city.”

I stare back at him in confusion. “A change of plan?”

“Maybe someone messed up,” he says. “In any case, our shift is being driven over to Claridges to fill in for some private party there. Perhaps some other agency let them down,” he adds. “In any case, we get a shift at London’s fanciest hotel. Probably they’ll feed us well at the end of it.”

We clamber into the coach and Jerome, as usual, sits a little too close. My fault, really. A long time ago at college, I decided I had waited long enough for Mr Right. So on my mother’s advice, I tried dating a good friend – Jerome. We had fun going out, and kissing him wasn’t bad. Nice, really. But no strong feelings came with it.

After a few drinks at a party
, I even got brave enough to try and lose my virginity to him. And then I freaked and confessed that I only saw him as a friend.

Poor Jerome has been hoping ever since that I’ll give him another chance.

“You been to Claridges before, Issy?”

I think for a moment. “Yeah. I think one of my first shifts was at Claridges. They don’t let you too near the guests. They have their own trained staff for that.”

“Just put the food down and get out of there?”

“Yep.”

“Great. If we’re lucky and their in-house team has shined all the silverware, we might get out early.”

We filter off the coach into the car park that Claridges reserve for their staff. Guests come in the front and the ambassadors and royalty have a red carpet rolled out. Round the back it’s plain, functional and decidedly unglamorous.

We move into the kitchen and the general manager comes down to brief us. It’s a
straight-forward private party, serving canapés, topping up drinks. There’s no food for us at the end, but as Jerome predicted, we might get out early if the guests don’t stay late.

I load up with my first tray of canapés – quails eggs topped with an artful smear of caviar – and follow the rest of the team into the room.
Jerome is ahead, carrying two trays. He’s always been a show-off.

Claridges
’ wide ballroom swings into view, and as always, I’m struck by the contrast between the incredible gold and blue décor with the plain staff quarters below stairs.