Close Up and Personal (9 page)

My eyes sweep the room, searching for a route where other waiters have not yet been. And then I nearly drop my tray.

James Berkeley is standing, talking with another female guest.

My legs almost propel me straight back out of the room. But I’m at work. I’m holding a tray of food. Somehow
, I have to get through this without him seeing me. It’s not just the embarrassment of serving him. Waitress-chic I am not. My thoughts flick to my hair, scraped back into a functional bun, and my face, completely devoid of make-up. I look terrible.

Why should I care if I look terrible?

But I know the truth. I’m falling for him. And it’s important he doesn’t see me looking plain and awful. I’ll analyse that later. Right now, I need to keep out of his way. Keeping my eyes front, I head for the opposite side of the room.

My tray lightens as I whirl through the guests, waiting for them to take food from the tray. And I turn to head back to the kitchen.

Maybe I can get away with this after all. He might not stay long.

“Isabella.”

I turn. It’s him, looking immaculate in a grey suit and tie.

“Oh,” I swallow. “Hello Mr
Berkeley.”

He smiles. “Back to Mr
Berkeley?”

“James,” I correct myself. The weight of the tray in my hand suddenly feels unbearable, and I realise the heat of serving the room has left a sheen of sweat on my face.

He lowers his voice. “I like the way you look in your waitress’s uniform.”

Oh.

“I obviously chose the right catering company.”

The penny drops.

“You?” I say. “You booked my catering company for this event?”

“I assumed
, since you work for them, they must be the best.”

I look down at the tray in my hand. A real part of me wants to hit him over the head with it.

My voice comes out as a hiss. “You hired my catering company so I would come and wait on you? What kind of twisted thing is that to pull?”

His face shows hurt, but I’m far beyond sympathy.

I look left and right to check no one can see us.

“I cannot believe you would do this!”

James takes my arm. Much to my own annoyance, the hold sends a thrill coursing through me.

“So you have a temper,” he says
. “That’s good to see in an actress. But this isn’t what you think.”

Isn’t it? Confusion sets in. Surely this is another one of his bizarre controlling mind games? Like send
ing clothes for a lunch date.

“Then what is it?” I manage, the anger in my voice lessening slightly. His hand on my arm is confusing.

“Come with me.” Still gripping my upper arm, he begins leading me from the room.

“I’m working,” I protest.

James makes a quick sweep of the room, signals with his hand, and in an instant the general manager is with us.

“Is there a problem
, Mr Berkeley?” he asks, looking to me and to James.

“Not at all,” says James. “But I am looking to cast a waitress as an extra in
a film, and I think this young lady would be perfect. Would you mind if I took her away for a few moments to discuss the role?”

The manager’s eyes bulge slightly. “Of course,” he says. “She has my permission to be
away from the shift for as long as you need her.”

James nods a ‘thank you’ and drops his hand to propel me forward
by the small of my back out of the ballroom. As we reach the entrance, he seamlessly takes the tray from my hand and hands it to a waiter travelling in the opposite direction.

“My suite is just along here,” he says, pointing down the corridor and manoeuvring me forward.

“What makes you think I’m going to go in your suite with you?” I say, wondering where this is going.

He stops and turns so we are facing each other in the corridor.

“Isabella,” he says, “I’m sorry if I offended you by bringing you here. Although, you really do look lovely in that uniform.”

I scowl, and the corners of his mouth lift devilishly for a moment. Then his face turns serious.

“I wanted to see you,” he says. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Whoa! What?

“Follow me.” He propels me down the corridor again.

We arrive at an enormous door, and James slips a keycard into the holder. The suite opens up and I’m greeted with the lavish view of Claridges
’ priceless antique furniture and enormous four-poster bed.

“I don’t have the strength,” he says as we walk in the room, “to stay away from you anymore.”

I’m still taking in the unexpected words when James shuts the door behind us and sweeps me suddenly into his arms, forcing me back against the door.

Then his lips are on mine and the hardness of his body
is on me.

I feel an electric current surge through me.
He has me pressed against the door, with one hand pinning my shoulder. My lips respond to his, moving in mirror image as his tongue flicks over my mouth. And I am sinking, sinking into him…

I force a hand between us, pushing him away.

“Wait,” I say. “I can’t do this.”

He steps towards me again, but I keep my hand held up in warning.

“Everything with you,” I gasp, “is just so confusing. You tell me nothing can happen between us, and then you book my entire catering team just to get me alone in your suite.”

He nods. He is breathing heavily.

“I have never been involved with an actress, Isabella. But you…”

“Me what?”

“I have never met anyone like you,” he says. “As a director, I can’t let your talent go to waste. But as a man…”

He leaves the sentence hanging.

“As a man you want us to have sex?” I fill in.

“I want to do so much more to you than have sex with you,” he says, and his eyes are roaming my body, hungrily.

I take a deep breath.

“James. Mr
Berkeley. I have agreed to a screen test with you, and I will keep my word. But I also agreed that nothing would happen between us. If we are to work together, I don’t want there to be any…” I search for the word… romantic? “Sexual involvement,” I decide.

What am I saying? This is the hottest man you’ve ever met, and you’re talking yourself out of fucking him right here, right now, in this room.

My body is virtually screaming in protest.

But that’s not what I want. Not this way. And he needs to know it.
I turn to leave.

“Isabella, wait.”

I move to pull open the door, and he takes hold of my arm. I turn to him, my eyes challenging. Is he going to try and stop me leaving?

“If you agree to the screen test tomorrow, I agree to your terms,” he says. The light has gone out of his eyes. “I
think you’ve misjudged me,” he continues, “but a gentleman does not argue with a lady.”

And with a little nod of his head
, he opens the door for me and lets me leave.

I half stumble down the corridor, thick with the emotion of what has just happened.

That kiss.

Half of me
wants so badly to run back to the room. The other, more sensible half, walks my legs back down to the kitchen.

To my great relief
, I almost crash straight into Jerome, who’s sizing up which tray he can pick off canapés from to snack on.

“Hey,” he says, seeing the upset in my face. “What’s up? Issy? What’s up?”

I fall gratefully into his arms, and he gives me one of his world-beating hugs.

“Hey,” he says, “did someone out there upset you.”

I nod into his shoulder. Why can’t I bring myself to feel something for Jerome? He’s such a lovely, uncomplicated person.

For some reason
, I feel overwhelmed with emotions, and tears well up in my eyes.

What is wrong with me? A few meetings with James Berkeley and I’m a wreck. No
one has ever had this effect on me.

I draw back and wipe a few tears from my cheek.

“It’s nothing,” I say. “Just rejecting the advances of James Berkeley.”

His face does a
comedic double-take.

I laugh, feeling better.

“Remember that audition Lorna got me?” I say. “It was at his theatre, and I met him then.”

“Did he try to hit on you?”

“Not exactly. I think I like him. I don’t know. He wants us to work together, and I don’t want to complicate things. I’m fine, really.”

Jerome holds my shoulders, checking in
my face that I mean it.

“Well
, if he bothers you, just let me know,” he says, looking back out in the direction I’ve just come from.

I smile in thanks. Jerome is built like a
quarter-back. But having just been pressed up against the wall by James, I think they’d be evenly matched.

“Thanks, it’s fine, really.”

“Ok.” Jerome looks doubtful. “Well, let’s just finish this shift, ok? Then I’ll take you for a drink. Soft drink,” he adds quickly, remembering.

I smile. “A soft drink sounds great.”

Chapter 9

The next morning
, I’m half expecting the screen test to be cancelled. Or for word never to arrive. But at 9am sharp, a hand-delivered parcel and a card in a crisp cream envelope arrives at my apartment.

A card – what’s with that? If he knows my address
, he must also know my mobile number.

I open it, and the same beautiful curved writing announces t
he screen test will be held at 4pm. A car will come to pick me up.

I unwrap the parcel. It’s not tied with bows like the last package, and if I’m being truly honest with myself
, I’m disappointed. Obviously, he’s accepted that this is a business arrangement.

That’s what you wanted
, I remind myself, pulling off the brown paper.

Inside is an iPad. It’s
already charged, and I flick it on to see a script has been preloaded onto the screen.

Hmmm. So I guess he wants me to learn my lines.

Suddenly, my mobile rings from an unfamiliar number and I click to answer.

“Hello?”

“I take it you received my card?”

Oh. So he can use a telephone after
all. His voice gives me goose bumps.

“Um. Yes.”

“And you’ll attend?” There’s a note in his voice I haven’t heard before. As though a lot rests on my reply.

I pause for a moment. “Yes,” I say finally.

Is it my imagination, or do I hear a sigh of relief?

“But the conditions still
apply,” I continue. “I’m coming to see how you work. And to see if I can actually act this role you’ve got in mind. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.”

“Of course
.” His voice is crisp, business-like. “You are under no obligation. Come act for me and we’ll take it from there.”

Something about the way he says ‘act for me’ brings a little thrill of excitement to my body.

“Ok,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “Then I’ll see you at 4pm.”

“Oh Isabella,” he says gently, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
”

And then the line goes dead.

I turn back to the iPad and make a quick read of the script. From my first reading, it’s a love story. A young girl who charms a jaded businessman. I scan the text for bit parts and find only one female character with any lines to read. And she’s a call-girl.

Great. Typecast again.

But it’s a well-defined character, and I feel myself warming to the script. It’s good. I wonder if this is part of his talent, picking out good scripts. Or if he has people to do that for him.

I scan through the main female character’s role, searching for her connection to the smaller female
part which I’m expected to play.

The process is so engrossing that time runs away with me. And before I know it, the car to take me to the audition has pulled up outside.

Quickly, I fling on a second hand floral dress, jeans, ballet pumps and a denim jacket. I cast a quick look at myself in the mirror. My dark hair falls around my shoulders, curling slightly. Not perfect, but it will have to do. I have time to apply a dab of mascara and a slick of lip gloss before running down to the waiting car.

This time
, he’s not inside, and my heart gives a little squeeze of sadness.

What did you expect? He’s taken you at your word.
No romantic involvement.

The car hums through
West London before turning south towards the River Thames. We drive along part of the city known as Embankment, past the Houses of Parliament, and then east to London Bridge, where the car turns and follows the bridge over the wide River Thames.