The Berkeley Method (25 page)

Will has been waiting a tactful distance away. He steps forward as Camilla’s car pulls away.

“Time to visit with
Mr. Berkeley, Issy.”

I nod and head towards James’s apartment, with Will following after.

Will delivers me safely through the door, and I’m greeted by a warm hug from James, and delicious cooking smells.

“What’s going on?” I ask, drawing back and sniffing the air. “It smells amazing in here.”

“I thought it was time I cooked you dinner,” says James.

“You cook?” I am completely amazed. “I didn’t think that English aristocrats did any domestic tasks.”

James kisses my nose and returns to the open-plan kitchen area.

“Technically, cooking is an art, rather than a domestic duty. And I can only cook one meal.”

“Oh.” I follow him through to the kitchen, smiling.

“Of course, that one meal, I cook superbly,” he adds. His voice is only half joking.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I retort. “So
, what’s for dinner?”

“Scallops with bacon and black pudding to start,” he says.

“Very English,” I say, approvingly. “Sounds delicious.”

“
Coq au Vin
for the main,” he continues. “And, if you have room, chocolate mousse for desert. I didn’t make the mousse,” he admits.

“You ordered it from Harrods I presume?” I joke.

“There’s a little farmhouse a few miles away. They make incredible things with free range eggs and cream.”

I slide myself onto a diner-style stool and watch as James flips scallops into a broiling hot pan.

“I never thought I’d see you like this,” I say, after a moment.

“Like what?” James looks up from his hot pan.

“So, domestic.” I wave my hand towards him.

He smiles. “That’s what love will do to a man.”

I feel my heart melt. I can hardly believe he’s saying it out loud.

He loves you.

James looks up and catches me smiling. He smiles back.

“Sit down,” he says. “It will be ready soon.”

He gestures to a long dining table. I walk over to it obediently and sit myself down. This whole scene seems somehow surreal. Particularly when there’s a dangerous stalker on the loose.

Can we catch him without offering me up as bait?

James arrives, holding two plates of scallops and a single glass of white wine. He positions a plate and the glass in front of me.

“No wine for you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “We’re only half a day from apprehending this stalker. I want to keep my head clear. And not make any mistakes.”

James seats himself opposite me.

“There’s a good chance he’ll try and get back to that room we found,” he says.

“A pretty good chance?”

“Try a scallop.” He gestures with his fork. “They’re best hot.”

I eat one and murmur approvingly, as a reflex.

“Delicious,” I say. “I thought they would be.”

“Good.” He eats one of his own.

I stare up at him, and suddenly, what’s wrong with the situation seems to come crashing around me.

“You have to use me,” I say. “You have to use me as bait. You’re not sure the DNA will be enough to catch him.”

“I am sure it will be,” says James. But he won’t look in my eyes.

“You’re risking losing him,” I say. “If you don’t use me, he could get away.”

James strikes the table suddenly with his fist, causing me to jump.

“I
will not
use you as bait.” His voice is only a little louder than usual. But it’s the sheer force of it which causes me to freeze, wide-eyed.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the gentleness returning to his tone. His puts down his fork and slides his hand over to take mine.

“I can’t do it, Issy. I’m not strong enough.”

I’m shaking my head. “You’re strong enough,” I say, “to protect me from anything.” I really believe it.

James shakes his head.

“I don’t doubt I’m strong enough to protect you,” he says, and I see fire in his eyes. “I would defend you from an entire army of stalkers. But I’m not strong enough to lose you.”

His eyes are searching mine. “I
know
what is the sensible thing to do,” he admits. “They all tell me. Will. You. But I won’t do it. I won’t risk you. Even slightly.”

We sit for a moment, eating in silence.

“I think you are strong enough,” I say quietly. I let the words hang there, saying nothing else. James doesn’t reply, but he’s shaking his head.

He rises, after a moment, and takes our empty plates back to the kitchen.

“Let me wash up,” I call after him.

“No need. Dishwasher.”

“Let me load the plates.” I rise to my feet and follow him. He’s leaning on the kitchen worktop – a polished cement creation which looks like it belongs in an art gallery. He looks distraught.

I fold my arms around him.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say. “We won’t talk about it anymore. Ok?”

I pull back to stare into his eyes, and nudge him gently with my nose.

“Ok?”

“Ok,” he says. His eyes fall on mine, full of open honesty. “Let’s enjoy this evening together.”

Something about the finality of it unsettles me. As though he’s thinking it could be our last. Is he risking this movie? Because he won’t risk me?

I have a bad feeling that he’s letting his heart rule his head.

James reaches into an oven and emerges with a pan of bubbling chicken and wine. It smells incredible.

“Go sit back down,” he admonishes me. “You’re not supposed to see backstage.”

I laugh, and return to my seat. I hear him pulling out plates and clinking cutlery.

In a moment, he’s back at the table, dishing up food.

“Why, Mr. Berkeley,” I say, as the amazing fragrances waft from the pan. “You are a man of many talents.”

“You have no idea,” he says with a wicked grin.

I feel a little thrill of lust. How does he do that?

“You do realise,” he says, taking a seat, “that if this movie goes ahead, you will soon be experiencing the Berkeley Method.”

If
this movie goes ahead.
This is sounding less certain by the minute.

James places a plate in front of me, filled with richly coloured meat, green vegetables and potato
dauphinoise
.

“Wine?” he asks.

“No thanks,” I reply, not wanting to drink with him abstaining.

He nods without commenting.

“This looks great,” I say, taking a hearty forkful.

The food tastes out of this world.

“That is really, really good,” I say. “You’ll have to cook for me more often.”

“It’s a once a year event,” says James with a smile. “And always the same meal.”

I shrug. “Worth waiting for.”

James begins eating his own food.

“So,” he continues, “are you ready to open up to your fellow actors?”

He’s talking about his famous Berkeley Method, I realise.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” I confess. “Since we spoke in the restaurant.” I take another mouthful of food and swallow, giving myself time to choose my words.

“It frightens me,” I admit, finally.

“I know.” James takes my hand.

“But at the moment,” I continue, “it doesn’t frighten me as much as the fact the movie might not go ahead.”

I pull my hand back from James’s, and sigh.

“I didn’t have a messed up childhood, James,” I say. “I know you might think I did. But I didn’t.”

James says nothing. He simply waits, listening. I feel myself held in his soft green eyes.

“After the death of my father,” I continue, “things were hard. But not how you might think. They were far harder on my mother than they were on me.”

I look up at him. I feel as though he’s absorbing every word. But lightly, without assumption. For some reason, it makes me talk.

“She had it really tough,” I continue. “He left her all alone.”

James raises his eyebrow at my choice of words, but doesn’t comment.

“She was a single mother,” I say, rephrasing. “We were living in a kind of commune situation. Lots of penniless artists everywhere. Things weren’t stable at all. Money was tight. My mother was grieving, and trying to bring me up.”

“How old were you?” he asks.

“I was five,” I say.

James is quiet for a moment.

“It seems strange that a five year old should know so much about her mother’s struggles,” he comments. There is no judgement in his voice. It’s simply an observation. But it sparks a flare of anger in me.

“She was distraught!” I reply, my voice rising. “She was alone and abandoned. With a five year old to feed and clothe. My mother cried every morning, and every night, for five years after my father’s death.”

I am trying to put things into context. To explain how much worse things were for Mami.

But, something about what I’m saying is starting to reorder itself. Suddenly, scenes of my childhood are making less sense.

“It sounds,” says James, gently, “as though your mother took all the drama of your father’s death. And left none for you.”

The truth of his statement settles around me with cool certainty.

Yes. That’s exactly how it was.

I try and shrug it off.

“That wasn’t all that happened, was it?” asks James. “She failed you in other ways, didn’t she?”

His choice of words is enough to tip me over the edge.

“Don’t you
dare
judge my mother!” I shout. “At least she didn’t send me away! To some cold boarding school! You have
no right
. No right! To judge us.”

In a moment, James is by my side. And then I’m in his arms, sobbing, and he’s stroking my hair.

“It’s alright, Issy,” he says. “It’s alright.”

But it isn’t. For some reason, I can’t stop crying.

I lean into him, heaving with great wracking sobs. He holds me tight, and says nothing.

Then, after a few minutes, the storm passes. I feel lighter, suddenly. Freer. Is this what it would be like? To open up to him? To tell him everything?

Nothing bad happened to you.
I remind myself.
Nothing bad at all.

I find myself staring into James’s eyes, and my thoughts turn back to calm.

Then, in a sudden moment, they twist in another direction. And before I realise what’s happening, I’m kissing him passionately.

He pushes back against me, catching me tight in his arms. And suddenly, every fibre of my being needs him.

James looks into my eyes.

“I want you,” I say, fixing him with my intent.

“Not like this,” he says, shaking his head. “Not to push the pain away.”

“I…” I open my mouth, not sure what to say. Hurt tunnels through me. The rejection burns.

James lifts me up in one easy movement, and I struggle against him.

“Where are you taking me?” I demand, pinned tight in his arms.

“I’m taking you to the bedroom,” says James. “And I’m going to hold you. Until you feel better. And then I’m going to make love to you.”

I stop struggling.

He moves me into the bedroom and lays me gently on the bed, kissing my face and neck.

Then he slides in next to me and wraps his arms around me, nuzzling his mouth into my hair.

We lay like that for a long time, with thoughts buzzing through my head.

I close my eyes, letting the warmth of his arms support me.

Then it is just James and me. Nothing else. Lying next to one another.

I turn to face him.

The sadness that I’d felt has gone. Replaced by a completely different emotion.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, understanding my expression instantly.

I nod and he moves forward to kiss me. Then I pull up my T-shirt over my head.

James responds by helping me relinquish the T-shirt. He unhooks my bra and kisses the tops of my breasts.

Then he unbuttons my jeans and slides them off me.

“Take your clothes off too,” I murmur. I want him naked, his skin next to mine.

James pulls off his T-shirt and tugs off his jeans. In a moment, he’s naked, apart from his boxers.

He loops his fingers around the top of my panties.

“I have a confession to make,” he says, pausing with his hands there. “I’m innocent myself, in a way.”

My eyes widen.

“Not in
that
way, of course,” he adds. In a sudden movement, he tugs away my panties and frees them from my legs.