The Director's Cut (7 page)

“What do you mean?” The question puts an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“I don’t know,” Lorna shrugs. “You were such a target. Like he knew so much about you. It just feels like there’s more to the story.”

More to the story?
Is there?

I shudder at the thought, and Lorna gives me a reassuring pat.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she says. “Ignore me. I’ve gone all Hollywood on you. This is real life. He’s been caught. That’s the end of it.”

But some little thrill of fear spikes inside me.
Like intuition. Telling me there’s more to know about the Lipstick Stalker.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

“Good,” says Lorna. “Don’t. It’s all in the past.”

She wipes her mouth with a napkin.

“Soooo. What are the rest of the cast like? Any known actors?”

I nod. “Natalie Ennis. And Callum Reed.”

“So spill the goss. What are they like? Wasn’t Callum a drug addict?”

“Recovered,” I say quickly. “And he’s really nice. He has a sort of bodyguard, Will. They’re like a double
act. Really funny. They’re both great company.”

“And Natalie Ennis?”

My face twists.

“She’s a bit of a diva.”

Lorna nods. “Spoiled brat,” she opines. “You get the same thing in modelling.”

My fingers twist a napkin on the table.

“What else?” says Lorna, noticing the gesture.

“And.” I pause, and sigh. “I saw a bunch of prescription meds
in Natalie’s bag. I’m worried,” I admit.

“Why?”

“James is very strict about drugs on set,” I say.

Lorna’s eyes widen. I haven’t told her about James’s past. But something tells me
Ben has dished the dirt.

“I’m worried ab
out telling him,” I conclude. “In case it has an impact on the movie. Callum really deserves this break. And Camilla – I haven’t told you about her – but she’s a young actress. She’s lovely. And she’s worked super hard to get a role.”

“Do you have to tell James about what you saw?”

“Well. Yeah. It’s for Natalie as well,” I say. “If she has a drug problem, she needs help.”

Lorna considers this.

“But they were prescription meds,” she says. “And Natalie is in and out of rehab. It’s in all the papers. Probably they’re just for depression or something.”

“Yeah
, maybe. But I still feel like I have to tell James.”

Lorna shrugs.

“Up to you.” Her expression changes. “What do you think will happen with you and the talented Mr Berkeley?”

I can’t help the
smile which creeps onto my face.

“I don’t know.”

“Issy! You are crazy about him!” She shakes her head. “I am so thrilled. With your track record of not dating, I was starting to think you were gay,” she adds. “Except, you know, you never tried anything with me.”

“L
orna!” I swat her arm.

“Just joking. Look honey. I am thrilled. Really. Not to mention that the love of your life has got me a movie role.”

“He’s not the love of my life,” I protest.

“Whatever,” Lorna waves her hand. “I can see it in your face. Just make sure I get to be maid of honour. Then everyone’s happy.”

She gives me a wicked grin, and I feel a surge of love for Lorna. Everything seems so normal with her around. I throw my arms around her.

“Hey! Slow down!” she jokes
. “You haven’t paid for my dinner yet.”

I hold her tight and give a laugh, which is somewhere close to a sob. With all the events of the last week, it’s good to hear Lorna make light of things.

My phone beeps in my pocket, and Lorna pulls away.

“Let me guess,” she drawls. “Mr James Berkeley
wants you back?”

Chapter 8

James arranges to meet us outside the restaurant. And despite my protestations, Lora insists on getting a separate cab.

James eventually agrees but insists on hailing it
himself, paying in advance, and taking the taxi’s license.

“Text Issy when you arrive,” he says gravely.

“Do you have a problem with taxis?” I ask as we walk over to where he says he’s parked.

James shrugs. “A class thing probably,” he admits. “The kind of people I was brought up with, everyone had private drivers. It feels alien to me to allow a woman to get into a car with a man she hasn’t me
t before.”

He pauses for a moment. “It was a wrench to see Lorna get in a cab,” he continues, “so don’t think for a moment I
ever
would let you take a taxi unaccompanied.”

Whoa. Mr Old-Fashioned is back.

“You do know,” I reply tartly, “it’s the new millennium?”

James face stays stern. “I mean it
, Issy.”

“What if I need to get somewhere?”

“You’ll call me, and I’ll send my private driver.”

I sigh, defeated. I might be making some headway on James’s gentle side, but his traditional values still seem non-negotiable.

He’s stopped by a parked car, and it’s a moment before I register.

“
This
is your car?”

“It’s a hire
d car.”

“Wow.”

We’re standing in front of a sleek blue four-seater with an open top. It has a retro look to it – the kind of car you’d imagine playboys driving in the 1950s. I don’t know much about cars. But I spot the mark is Bentley.

“I’m glad you like it,
” says James.

He opens the door for me, and
I slide into the passenger seat.

“Did you have a nice lunch?”
he asks.

“Yes.
Thank you,” I say, looping over my seatbelt.

“Good.” James leans over and satisfies himself it’s properly fastened.

“It’s an old car,” he explains, catching my expression. “Sometimes the seatbelts don’t click in right.”

“Just drive the car, Mr Berkeley, and allow me a little more credit than a pre-schooler. I can fasten my own belt.”

He grins, pops the gear, and cruises slowly out onto the Barcelona backstreet. The car turns, and after a moment, we’re driving along the main road, which intersects with Las Ramblas – the main pedestrianized drag.

Along that route are buskers, pavement seating, and all kinds of colourful stalls. And I can’t wait to walk along it later. But right now, I’m enjoying the sun on my face and the sights and smells of Spain
as the car makes along the seafront.

My phone beeps suddenly. I hold it up to James in illustration.

“Lorna says she got back to the hotel.”

“Good.
”

“So,” I say, “what exactly do you have planned for this afternoon?”

I’m wondering how low key we need to be. James thought we should be safe from the press, after all.

James
waits a moment before replying. “I was planning on taking you to my hotel suite, but this incredible city has changed my mind,” he says.

Are we doing the tourist thing instead of the hotel?

I love the idea of being a regular couple with James. There’s plenty to see in Barcelona, and there’s no one I’d rather see it with.

But I’d also been looking forward to the hotel.

“I picked something up for you,” he says slowly, “whilst you were eating.”

Something about the way he says it changes the atmosphere in the car instantly.

My thoughts swing in a moment, from ice-cream to hotel sheets.

Oh?

“What’s that?” I feel a little thrill of anticipation from his tone.

“Check the back seat.”

I turn my head. There’s a long slim box, which I hadn’t noticed when I first got in. Then again, the amazing car had arrested my attention.

It’s a plain kind of box. Functional almost.

What could be inside?

“Should I open the box?”

“Yes.”

I twist to ease off the lid, letting it fall to the side. And the moment the contents are revealed, I turn back front again, my heart beating fast.

Laying inside the box is a black riding crop.

I feel a spasm hit my groin.

What exactly has he got planned?

“What is that for?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I think you know,” he says silkily. “I was serious, yesterday. When I said I had plans for you.”

I feel myself swallowing. Part of me is scared. Another part is wondering what i
s going to happen.

“The choice is yours,” he adds, “as to how that particular item is put to use.”

It is?

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not taking you directly back to the hotel,” he says. “I’m taking you to an appointment.”

“What kind of appointment?”

“An appointment in which you’ll be expected to show obedience.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll be making a choice, Isabella.” His eyes flick towards the back seat. “Every act of disobedience will have consequences.”

Even though I’m sitting down, I feel my knees weaken. What exactly does he have in mind?

“Reach into the backseat,” he says smoothly, “and pick up the riding crop.”

I turn to him, but he keeps his eyes on the road.

“Do as you’re told,” he growls. “Or I might pull over and use it on you, right here and now.”

I swallow, and reach into the back seat.

My hands close around the smooth leather, and I pull the crop onto my lap. It’s bound all along with a single seam. And the end is a short loop of heavy fabric. I’d like to try it out against my arm, to see what it would feel like. But I don’t dare with him sitting next to me.

“Are you imagining what it might feel like?” he asks.

“Yes,” I admit.

“Good. I want you to keep that image in your head,” he replies.

The car slows, and he pulls into a side street. Then he gets out of the car and walks around to open my door.

“Bring the crop with you,” he says.

My fingers close around it uncertainly as I get out of the car.

“Where I’m about to take you,” he says, “I want you to keep an open mind. But remember. Your obedience is required.”

“And what if I don’t want to be obedient?”

“Then you will be punished,” he says simply.

I let out a breath and get out of the car, the crop held tightly in my hand.

He takes my arm and leads me towards a tiny door.
Where are we going?
Multiple possibilities flit through my head. Some sort of club or party? He told me to keep an open mind.

T
he riding crop feels ominously heavy.

James
eases the door open, and we’re faced with a staircase. He gestures that I should go ahead.

There is a familiar smell in the hallway, and my mind shifts to identi
fy it. Linseed oil. I’ve smelt it a thousand times in my mother’s studio. It’s what artists use for oil painting.

Are we in an art studio?

As I get to the top of the stairs, my suspicions are confirmed. We enter an almost empty studio filled with canvases.

The floor is bare
boards, and the walls are plain. A few shafts of sunlight burst through a half shuttered attic-style window, lighting swirls of dust. If this room was empty, you’d imagine it had been abandoned.

But various paintings and artist’s materials give it a bohemian look.
The paintings are in oil, and they’re all of nudes. Beautiful women, of all shapes and sizes.

In the centre of the room is a luxurious-looking chaise lounge. And to the far side, a large desk covered in paper, paints, brushes and pencils.

James emerges on the stairs after me.

“Do you like the paintings
?” he asks.

“I… Yes.” Now I’m even more uncertain. “You’re going to paint me?”

James shakes his head.

“These have been painted by someone far more talented than I am,” he says. “As much as I would love to paint you, Isabella, I would not do you justice. And I cert
ainly wouldn’t have anyone else paint you.”

“Why are we here
then?”

“Be careful
, Isabella,” he murmurs. “Too many questions sound like insubordination to me.”

The riding crop in my hand feels hot, suddenly.

“I’m going to take some photographs of you,” he says.

Oh.

“The artist who owns this place was kind enough to lend me his studio,” he continues. “And I can’t think of a better setting to shoot the kind of images I’d like. Of you.”