The Berkeley Method (19 page)

“How?”

“Well, that’s what the police don’t know. Because the only actress he targeted won’t talk to them.”

“How long ago did he… target her?” I ask, choosing my words carefully.

“Last year,” says James.

A year. That’s a long time to stay spooked. I feel a wave of unease.

“How does the lipstick thing factor in?” I say finally.

“It’s another thing which leads the police to believe him a psychopath,” says James. “It’s like his calling card. He draws pictures in lipstick. The last actress, he took all her lipsticks. It was the only thing he removed from her house. It’s very common for serial killers to take trophies from their victims. Personal items.”

I think about this. A lipstick is a very personal item.

“All the studios have taken precautions,” continues James. “The feeling is that the last victim could have been a warm up. Psychopaths do that too,” he adds. “They build up to more… daring attacks.”

He closes his eyes, as though in pain.

“We had good security to begin with,” he says. “But
, I was arrogant. I underestimated him.”

James looks devastated by this admission, and I reach up to stroke his cheek. He catches my hand and holds it there.

“Do you really think I’m in danger?” I ask.

James blinks, considering this, with my hand still held against his face.

“No,” he says. “There’s no way I would continue filming if that were the case. No matter what your sympathies for Callum and Camilla are,” he adds with a steely note to his voice. “The stalker is no longer in the studio. And I must admit, I may have overreacted a little. Now Will is in charge, and security is tight, I am far more assured.”

The laughter in the bathroom. I decide not to tell James. Now the set is sealed, there is no need. It would only upset him.

His eyes are on me again. This time, they look almost apologetic. He takes my hand away from his cheek and holds it.

“I don’t like that Will is looking after me,” I admit. “It makes me feel uncomfortable.”

“Why is that?” James looks surprised.

“Because there is already one person on set making unreasonable demands,” I say.

There is no need to say who I’m referring to.

“And I hate that people might think I’m a diva,” I conclude.

James smiles.

“Isabella Green,” he says. “I have directed hundreds of actors. And you are the very last person who could ever be accused of diva behaviour. I chose Will because he is a superb bodyguard, and he is also motivated to protect you. I couldn’t ask for better.”

“He’s motivated to protect me?”

“Of course.” James gives my hand a squeeze. “I don’t think you realise how much people like you, Issy. It was Callum’s first suggestion when he heard about the stalker - that Will move over to be your security. And Will wouldn’t have anyone else do the job when he heard. He didn’t trust them to do as good a job as he would.”

Oh.
I feel a wave of warmth towards Will and Callum.

James pulls me tight to him, suddenly. I feel myself pinned in his arms, but it’s an embrace of fear rather than affection. I look up into his face.

“What’s wrong?”

James says nothing in reply. But his expression is distraught.

“James? What is it?”

He releases me a little, but his strong arms are still locked, keeping me close.

His eyes close for a long moment, and for a second, I think he’s going to cry. Then he opens them again.

“I didn’t realise,” he says, “that my feelings for you had grown so strong. When Callum called and told me you were in danger…”

He doesn’t need to say anymore. His face tells it all.

“Well, that’s not such a bad thing,” I venture, giving him a little smile.

But James is shaking his head.

“I swore I would never let anyone in like this.”

I fall back a little from him, letting my face hold a question.

“Something happened,” he says, “a long time ago.”

James waits for a long moment, as if deciding how to make the next words.

“I seem to bring a curse,” he says, his voice breaking slightly, “on everyone I care for. And I’m frightened. I am so, so frightened. That you will be hurt. Because of me.”

Now that he’s made the statement, his face seems to flood with a little relief. But his eyes are still anguished.

“James, you could never hurt me.” I am trying to tunnel reassurance towards him.

He gives a long sigh and then glances towards a clock – a modernist creation, sitting starkly on the wall of his living area.

“It’s after 5pm,” he says, “which, by my reckoning, makes it a reasonable hour for a gin and tonic.” He gives me a slight smile. “Let me make us both a drink,” he says, “and I’ll tell you a story.”

“What story?” James is releasing me from his arms completely now, and I feel suddenly adrift, and uncertain.

“I want to tell you the story,” says James, “of how my mother died.”

Chapter
21

James is fixing me a drink. And I am sat on probably the most expensive sofa I have ever sat on. It’s part traditional Chesterfield but made with soft grey fabric, rather than leather. Orange piping finishes the audacious curve of the arms.

It’s both old-fashioned English and contemporary in execution. A bit like
Mr. Berkeley himself, I think, with a little smile as I watch him work.

James is pouring
Sipsmith gin from a hand-illustrated bottle. Two glasses are half-filled with the clearest ice I have ever seen. He adds a wedge of lemon, lime, and splashes tonic.

Done with the preparation, he heads over to me, holding the drinks.

“Here.” He hands me mine. The tall glass is so finely made, it feels as though too much pressure could crack it in my hand.

“I’ve never seen such perfect ice cubes,” I say, partly to dispel the charged atmosphere.

“The water is triple-filtered,” says James distractedly. “It makes the ice very clear.”

I take a sip, allowing the sour and sweet flavours to marry on my tongue. After the stresses of the day, the cold gin feels incredible as it hits my mouth.

James takes a graceful sip of his drink and slides his glass onto the table in front of us - a seamless curving piece of unvarnished ash.

I see him hesitate.

“It’s ok,” I say gently. “You can tell me.”

He pauses, reaches for his drink, takes another elegant sip, and replaces it. He closes his eyes as he swallows.

There is a long moment when he does nothing but look into my face. Then he seems to see something there, which reassures him.

“I was just a boy when my mother died,” he begins. “We lived in Mauritius. My father, mother, and I. I was only seven. But
, from what I remember, we were happy.”

His voice is calm, and the memory brings a faint smile to his lips.

“Then I came down with some sort of illness,” he continues. “A fever, I think, which a lot of the local children died of. I don’t remember anything about it, except my mother never left my bedside. I was told later that I owed my life to her. No one else would have nursed me so tirelessly.”

He gives a little sigh.

“My father tried to stop her,” he says. “She didn’t eat or sleep for two days. And although I got better, she became weak. Then she contracted the fever too. By the time I was better,” he adds, “my mother was very, very ill.”

His expression has darkened slightly.

“I was too young to fully understand what was happening,” he says. “But I wanted to help. We were a wealthy family, and we could afford to grow rose bushes, even though each one needed a local man’s salary in water.”

He frowns, remembering.

“The flowers were so beautiful. So, I brought her one every day. I knew it was wrong, really, to pick those expensive blooms. But, I had to give her something.”

I nod, to show I’m listening.

“I’ve seen so many psychologists,” says James thoughtfully. “And I never felt as easy talking about this as I do with you.”

He takes another sip of his gin.

“I poured every ounce of love I had into those roses,” he continues. “Every day, I brought her one. And it was a symbol of how much I cared. How much I wanted her to get better.”

He waits, toying with his glass.

“And then, she died,” he says simply. There is slight pain in his voice, but I can hear that his mother’s death is only a distant trauma for him now.

“You blamed yourself?” I ask.

“I was only seven,” says James. “I got it into my head that my roses had been bad for her. Because I’d broken the rules by picking them. And the emotions I put into them were so intense.”

He gives me a wry little smile.

“Of course, I know now,” he says, “that wasn’t the case. I’ve seen enough head doctors to sort my childish feelings from what is rational.”

He stares up at the ceiling.

“I know all the theories,” he continues, “enough to write a book probably. Guilt Displacement. Feelings of abandonment. Of course, it didn’t help that my father blamed me for her death.”

“He
blamed
you?” I am appalled.

“She would never have caught the fever, if not for me,” explains James.

“But you were just a child!”

“I didn’t have to live with it very long,” says James with a touch of bitterness. “My father remarried in under a year. A grieving widower with a landed estate has his pick of bright young gold diggers.”

He smiles, but the warmth doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I was sent back to the UK,” he continues, “my stepmother said I should be put into boarding school.”

I move my hand to touch his arm.

“How
awful
,” I say, my eyes welling with tears.

“It was a long time ago,” says James.

“But you lost your
mother
,” I say, my voice quavering, “how could
anyone
think it right to send you away from your father?”

“It wasn’t just the stepmother,” says James. “My father comes from a long line of boarders. It’s tradition. So
, the boys can man-up and learn independence.”

“Aged
seven
? After the death of your mother?”

“Seven was considered old,” says James with a rueful smile. “I found out later that my mother had delayed my enrolment. My father would have sent me aged five.”

James shrugs. “Perhaps it would have been best if I’d gone earlier. By the time I got to school, I was very much the odd one out. I was two years newer to the system, from Mauritius, with a deep tan and a French accent.”

As he explains his childhood, James seems to sink into a well-practised reserve. I wonder how long it took him to build this wall.

“I had to fight, every day for a year, to stop them calling me a monkey chaser,” he adds in the same simple tone.

The idea of all this needless cruelty is almost too much to bear. If I ever needed proof of how strong my feelings are for James, this is it. The tears are falling freely from my eyes now.

James catches my expression and reaches up to wipe the tears away.

“It’s not so terrible, Issy,” he says, looking at me curiously. “Much worse things happen to many other people. Better people,” he adds.

I feel my feelings for him rear up, like a lioness.

“But they shouldn’t,” I say fiercely, my voice coming loud. “Bad things
shouldn’t
happen. Not to innocent children.” I am thick with anger towards James’s father and stepmother. How could they?

“The famous Isabella Green temper,” says James with a little smile. “Angry, rather than sad. I was the same way myself, at one time. But I’m touched that you care so much.”

“I do,” I say, a little of my anger faltering. “I do care.” I reach out and touch his face. “Those things shouldn’t have happened to a young child,” I repeat.

James shrugs again.

“But they did. You of all people should know that.”

I look away from his searching gaze. He doesn’t push the point. Instead, he sighs.

“Since my mother died,” he says, “I’ve never given red roses. They symbolise something different to me than they do to most people.”

“I know,” I admit. “I read it in an interview.”

He nods at this, as if unsurprised.

“I don’t give interviews anymore,” he says. “I remember the one you read. It was a favour to a film student. I still wish I hadn’t done it.”

“Why?”

“As a child, I thought holding in my feelings was the way to protect those I cared about,” he says. “No red roses, No feelings. Never let anyone in. That way, I keep those around me safe.”

His eyes are on mine, imploring me to understand.