The Berkeley Method (3 page)

I stare at her, desperately wanting to believe what she’s saying.

“He could have checked in to visit someone,” offers Lorna, although her eyes don’t look as though she believes it.

“I don’t think he was just visiting,” says Sandy softly.

We all turn to face her.

“I’m so sorry, Issy,” she says, “but I know a little about rehab. It’s about the last place on earth where there’s no mobile phone reception. They do it so the addicts can’t dial in drugs.”

Her blue eyes are heartbreakingly sad. “If he told you he didn’t have phone reception for a week, then I think he probably checked in,” she whispers.

I feel my whole world shatter into little pieces.

I rise shakily to my feet, shoving the iPad into my purse.

I need to be alone somewhere, to analyse these headlines in more detail.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” I murmur.

Sandy and Lorna are already getting up to come with me, but I wave them back down. My hand looks blurry, I notice. I must be quite drunk.

“I’m fine by myself,” I say, pushing a little brightness into my voice.

Isabella
, the actress.

“Really,” I add, “I’m ok. I only knew the guy for a few days.”

Lorna and Sandy sit back down, but their faces still look unconvinced.

I turn away from the little table and push through the punks crowding the bar.

Then, when I’m out of sight of my friends, I push open the heavy wood and frosted-glass door of the pub.

I break out into the cool night air and straight into a heavy haze of cigarette fumes. A huddle of smokers have stationed themselves just by the door.

“Excuse me,” I mumble, moving through them. My only thought is I want to be alone, with no one staring at me.

My eyes scan the busy Camden street. It’s thick with drinkers and people heading to clubs and gigs.

I walk for half a block, until I spot a quieter backstreet, and gratefully step inside.

At least now I can think. The peace and quiet of the empty street falls around me, and I walk on, my mind a whirl of thoughts.

He told me his drug problem was in the past. He promised me. And I believed him.

I turn the possibility over in my mind. Is it better that he has checked into rehab than changed his mind about us? I decide I would rather he had no feelings for me than was addicted to drugs again.

Holy hell. I must really care about him.

The realisation has me letting out a slow breath.

I stop, feeling calmer. I don’t want to return to the pub, but the others will be worried about me.

I will go back, I decide, make my excuses and go home. I can’t pretend to be cheerful with this new terrible knowledge. I need to think about it alone.

I turn to retrace my steps and realise that I am a little lost. The backstreets must have forked at one point without my noticing.

Classic Issy
, I admonish myself.

When I first started drama school, it was a running joke how often I would get lost. Unlike the other richer students, I wasn’t brought up in the city. I stayed with my aunt and uncle in a far off suburb. The route to central London was confusing, and I set a school record for poor navigation.

I wheel around in confusion. Suddenly the peaceful backstreet feels sinister. I have an immediate sense that I don’t want to be here.

Swallowing anxiously, I turn to retrace my steps, looking to get back onto a main street any way I can.

I’ve only gone a few steps before I see a shape close off the direction I came from. A man. Large. Looming.

I feel my breath constrict.

Nothing to worry about, Issy. He’s just walking home.

But my instincts, even through my drunkenness, are telling me something is wrong.

I turn to walk away in the opposite direction. And then I hear the man behind me break into a run.

Panicking, I start to run too. And that’s when another man steps out in front of me, barring my path.

I stop and stare up at him. He’s tall, with a shaven head, wearing a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans. He looks like a thug, a skinhead, and something about his expression warns me he is dangerous.

I hear the man behind me slow. I am trapped in the narrow alley with a man blocking each way out.

“What’s the rush?” asks the skinhead in front of me.

I move to walk by him, and he shoots out a strong hand, closing off my escape.

I turn to see the other man has slowed to a saunter and is walking towards us. He’s shaven-headed too, though I can’t make out much more of what he looks like in the dark alley. I have a sudden image of jackals closing in on their prey.

Terror rises up. I try to push it down.

“Let me by, please,” I say, drawing on all my acting ability to sound calm and confident.

The man shakes his head, and his eyes roam up and down my body meaningfully.

A strong bolt of fear spikes through me.

“You can take my bag,” I say, unstrapping my purse from my shoulder. Despite my fear, my first thought is I should have taken better care of the iPad.

The man’s face breaks into an evil grin, but he doesn’t take the bag.

I feel my heart begin to pound.

“Please,” I start to say, but the words hardly come out.

The man takes a step towards me and grabs my arm. His fingers pinch into the skin.

“No!” I am shaking my head and trying to tug my arm away. Somewhere in my alcohol-blurred brain, I am aware of the other assailant moving closer.

Fear has made me weak. I pull ineffectually against the grip on my arm, my mind ablaze with terror.

“Let me go!”

I stare into the face of the skinhead holding my arm. He grins, revealing broken teeth.

Desperately, I try to tug my arm free again. “Please,” I whisper, “let me go.”

The skinhead opens his mouth to reply. Then suddenly, his head jerks violently to the side, as though he’s been struck from behind.

Before I realise what’s happening, a third man emerges from the shadows. He squares up to my attacker and tunnels a perfect uppercut into his jaw.

The grip on my arm vanishes. The skinhead’s face flies up and back. Then he collapses onto the dirty pavement, like a puppet with the strings cut.

I stand, open-mouthed, staring at the unconscious figure on the ground. Then my gaze shifts back to my rescuer.

I gasp aloud in disbelief.

It’s James Berkeley.

Before I have time to compute how he came to be in this alley, James steps forward. In one neat movement, he picks me up as though I weigh nothing and positions himself between me and the other man.

The second attacker is now looking less sure of himself. His eyes flick to the unmoving figure on the floor then back to my rescuer.

James’s face is set to rigid, cold fury. My whole life, I have never seen a man look so angry. He looks like a killer.

Shadows fall over his perfect sculpted lips, wide jaw, and dark eyebrows. His green eyes are pools of black. The solid strength of his muscular body seems to radiate outwards, barely contained by his suit jacket.

The second skinhead’s cocky surety has vanished now. He looks completely uncertain as to what his next move should be.

Slowly, James shrugs his jacket off and passes it to me, revealing the hard shape of his bare arms. The firm sections of his chest are visible beneath his T-shirt.

The rage coming off James is like a hot wave. He is a coiled spring, seconds away from tearing this man apart with his bare hands.

The skinhead hesitates only for a second before sprinting off in the opposite direction and disappearing into the gloom.

It is only then I realise I have been holding my breath. I exhale, and relief floods through me.

James turns to me. All the anger in his face has vanished. He steps towards me, and in a moment I am in his arms. He holds me tight, then stretches up a hand to cup my face.

“Are you alright?”

My eyes must be popping out of my head.

“Yes. I… How did you get here?”

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he says, ignoring the question and searching my face with his eyes.

“Yes. I’m fine,” I decide. The terror is fast turning to confusion.

What is going on?

James eyes the figure on the ground for a moment, and then taps a quick message on his phone.

“My driver will have the police pick him up,” he mutters. He glances for a moment, assessing that the assailant is no longer a threat.

“How did you do that?” I manage weakly, staring at the unconscious skinhead.

“I used to box,” he says lightly, in the same tone as he might explain his shoe size.

My mouth opens and shuts again. I must be in shock.

“Isabella,” he adds, looking at me disapprovingly. “This is the
last
time you wander off into an alley on your own. What the hell were you thinking?”

He sounds furious, and without waiting for an answer, ushers me forward, out of the dark backstreet.

With his navigation skills, we’re back onto the bustling Camden main road in seconds.

“How did you find me?” I ask as we emerge into the swarms of clubbers and pub-crawlers.

“I followed the trail of broken hearts, Isabella.”

I stare at him in disbelief.

“Just a little joke,” he says without smiling.

I am still holding his jacket, I realise. I hand it back to him, vaguely noting the Prada label and hand-stitched lapels.

It’s a chilly night, but he takes the jacket and drapes it over his arm, leaving his arms bare outside his T-shirt.

His eyes never leave my face.

I put my hands on my hips, trying to take charge. “I’m very grateful to you for… rescuing me. But what the hell is going on? How did you know where I was? Even
I
didn’t know where I was,” I add, my voice registering disbelief.

“Before I answer that, I want you to swear to me you will never do something so stupid again.”

“I…” I am mired in confusion.

“Swear it to me!” He sounds so angry, it knocks the wind out of my sails.

“Fine, ok, I swear it to you,” I mutter. “It’s not usual for me to wander into back alleys in any case.”

I raise my eyes to meet his, letting him see he had something to do with my rash behaviour.

He takes a step forward and holds me by the arms, staring into my face, as though assuring himself I mean it.

I blink up at him, trying not to lose myself in his lovely face. His eyes, dark with intent in the alley, are now the beautiful shade of green I remember.

Something in my expression reassures him, and he steps back with a sigh.

“What were you thinking?” he asks finally. “Do you have any idea how vulnerable a girl like you is in this part of London?”

I shake my head, refusing to defend myself. It’s time I got some answers.

“Tell me how you found me,” I demand.

I match his gaze, insisting on an answer.

He pauses for a second.

“There’s a tracker on the iPad I gave you,” he admits.

“What?” I stare at him with my mouth wide open.

“It’s just a standard app,” he says. His eyes don’t meet mine. “All those devices have them built-in. You just need to log-on to an internet site to see where they are.”

“You’ve been stalking me using a tracking app?” The words come out in a squeak of disbelief.

So much for him not caring
, whispers a victorious part of my brain. But my brief joy is quickly drowned out by words like ‘stalker’, ‘control freak’ and ‘rehab’.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” says James, holding his hands up. “It’s part of our insurance policy. All company property has those apps running, in case they get lost or stolen.”

“You were tracking me?” I realise I am repeating myself, but I’m still struggling to come to terms with his behaviour.

I pause for a moment, realising that James is regarding me with an odd expression.

“What is it?” I manage, disconcerted by the strength of his gaze.

“God you’re beautiful,” he says. The words come out of him like a rush. “I’d forgotten just how beautiful you were. If anything had happened to you in that alley…”

Stay strong
, I warn myself, but I feel my heart melting as he stares into my eyes.

Then his arms are around me, pulling me into a deep kiss.

My body turns to warm treacle, and the familiar taste and feel of him has an immediate effect. Despite everything going on in my mind, I find myself sinking into him.

“Oh, Isabella,” he sighs, drawing away to stare into my face, “I have missed you so much.”

He kisses me again, his arms stronger around me. His hand tunnels up to hold my neck, fixing my head against the strength of his passion. I am pinned tight in his arms.