Close Up and Personal (25 page)

“And?” I can see where this is going.

“So if you and your mother would like a tour of behind the scenes, I would be delighted to accompany you.”

His face is a picture of innocence. I grin at him, slapping his arm playfully.

“James Berkeley. Are you bribing me to meet my mother?”

“Technically
, I’m bribing your mother,” he says, returning my grin. “But of course, I know you wouldn’t be cruel enough to deny her.”

He leans forward, encircling me in his arms and drawing me out of the covers.

“How long until we meet her?”

“Under an hour,” I say, smiling ruefully at how he’s insinuated
himself into the invitation.

“That’s a shame,” he says, looking into my eyes. “Because it will take over an hour to do what I had planned for you.”

I can tell from his expression he’s not talking about breakfast. And I feel the familiar warm feeling growing again inside of me. How can he do this to me with just a few words and a look?

I blush, wondering if he knows the effect he’s having.

He leans forward and kisses my forehead.

“B
est I keep you nice and fresh for your Mami,” he says, pronouncing the Spanish word with perfect irony. “I wouldn’t like her to think I was corrupting her daughter.”

“Well you are corrupting me,” I say, pretending to be huffy about it.

James raises an expressive eyebrow.

“
Au contraire
, Miss Green,” he says, rising to his feet with an unreadable expression on his face. “I think you’ll find it is you who is corrupting me.”

Chapt
er 21

To my delight, James suggests we walk rather than take the car to Trafalgar Square.

The morning air is refreshing, and in this part of Mayfair
, there is hardly anyone on the streets. They’ve all either gone to work already or are waiting to descend again on St James Street at nightfall.

“I l
ove walking London,” says James.

“Don’t you get mobbed by fans
?” I ask, thinking people must recognise him.

He shakes his head.

“Directors are not as recognisable as you might think, Isabella. We are a little like authors in that regard. My name might be known, but my face not so much. I don’t appear on screen, after all.”

I call to mind of
all the pictures of him and Madison at red-carpet events and think he may be under-estimating his own fame.

I’ve already seen a few pedestrians turn and
double-take. Most directors aren’t in their early thirties, tall, muscular, with sexy green eyes and ruggedly handsome features.

“I love walking in London too,” I say, smiling at him because it’s true. And it’s nice we have something in common. With his glamorous lifestyle and aristocratic upbringing
, I was beginning to think we were different in every last thing.

He smiles back.

“Not everyone understands how small it is,” he says, squeezing my hand. “That’s the contrast with London and LA. When I first arrived in Los Angeles, I tried walking the streets to get a feel for the place. Now I take a car or go jogging.”

We pass Fortnum and Mason, with its sumptuous display of hampers and expensive goods. Then we stroll by chocolate shops and patisseries, with decadent ranges of truffles and coloured meringues decorating their windows.

James takes a sudden turn, navigating us through a hidden passage which acts as a short cut through onto Regency Street. He obviously knows the London streets even better than I do.

“Did you grow up here?” I ask
. “After you moved from Mauritius?”

I thought it to be a safe question, but I can feel from the sudden tension in his hand holding mine that I’m wrong.

“No,” he says. “I boarded in Scotland.”

The image of him waking from his dream last night comes back to me.

It’s so cold here.

“It must have been hard,” I venture, “to move from somewhere hot like Mauritius
to somewhere as cold as Scotland.”

“Yes,” he says shortly
. “It was.”

We walk in silence for a moment until it becomes clear he doesn’t plan on sharing any more details with me. Then Trafalgar Square breaks into view, and I see my mother, waving madly near a statue of a large lion.

I make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. My mother is dressed as usual in a colourful mixture of waving scarfs and tight, floral pants. Under the medley of bright fabric she wears a purple cheese-cloth shirt. At her chest and wrists is an entire market stall’s worth of Mexican silver, huge semi-precious gems, and various bulky costume jewellery.

As we near she races towards me
, her heavy necklaces bouncing.

“Isabella!
Carino
!” She catches me in a warm hug, kissing each of my cheeks enthusiastically, and enveloping me in a cloud of her amber perfume.

She takes a step back, clutching my chin in her hands and considering my face intently.

“How are you? How is the script writing?”

“It’s going
ok, Mami. I’ve been doing a lot of waitressing lately.”

“Ooof!” she makes a dismissive noise. Then she remembers James.

“And who is this?” she asks, glancing at him and back at me, her face a picture of delight.

To my relief, she doesn’t recognise him. But then my mother is hardly an avid reader of gossip magazines or tabloid newspapers.
Her chaotic house is crammed full of unread novels and poems as is it.

“I am Maria, Isabella’s mother,” she says, reaching out her hand to James before I can answer.

“Mrs Green,” says James, shaking her hand. “My very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His face is a picture of charm. I see my mother melt.

“Ay
, Isabella,” she says
sotto voice
, nudging me with her elbow. “He is a handsome one.”

I wince in embarrassment,
but to my great relief, James laughs.

“Mrs Green,” he says “Isabella tells me you enjoy the National Gallery, and it just so happens I have a good friend in the curator there. Might you be interested in seeing some parts of the gallery which are usually screened to visitors?”

That’s it for my mother. I think she might well be in love with James herself.

“I would like that very much,” she says. For once
, she seems almost lost for words.

“Then please allow me to escort you both,” says James, offering his arm first to
her, and then to me.

We walk across Trafalgar Square with my mother stunned into near silence.

She’s been pestering me for years for news of any romantic liaisons. So even James’s existence is enough to thrill the pants off her. But that combined with his effortless charm, handsome features, and ability to pull strings to get her backstage at the National Gallery – it’s no wonder she’s having difficulty taking it all in.

We walk up the large marble steps into the huge doors of the Gallery. Since it’s still fairly early
, the only visitors are a large school party. And they’ve been marshalled into a single group to the side of the entrance.

James disappears to make the arrangements with his friend, and my mother’s relative silence finally explodes outwards.

“Isabella!” she says accusingly. “Why did you not say you had a boyfriend! And so handsome and charming! You know I would be thrilled, why did you not tell me?”

“It’s complicated
, Mami,” I sigh. “I’m not even sure he is my boyfriend.”

She slaps my wrist.

“Ay! Isabella. If he is not your boyfriend then you must make it so.”

She peers in the
direction which James vanished in.

“Such a handsome man. You mark my words
, Isabella. I am a good judge of men. He is worth keeping,”

She says this with a decisive nod.

James reappears with a young woman at his side.

She
looks around my age, but is dressed in the aristocratic fashion, far older than her years. She has medium-length brown hair, brushed straight down, and wears a twinset of a baby-pink cashmere sweater with a matching cardigan. Her pencil skirt inadvertently highlights long slim legs, and a set of expensive looking pearls completes the look of solid, landed wealth.

I feel a sudden wave of depression. This is the kind of girl James belongs with. Not me.

She was probably ‘presented’ to English society at a traditional debutante ball, aged sixteen. My sixteenth birthday was a cake with my uncle and aunty, and a few other friends in a London suburb.

“You must be Isabella? And Mrs Green?” Her accent is pure cut-glass aristocracy and her smile is warm.

She shakes each of our hands in her cool, confident grasp.

“I’m Serena. James tells me you’d like to see behind the scenes?”

My mother’s eyes widen. “I would
love
to,” she says. “I am big fan of the Gallery. I come here at least three times a year. The light here. The
colours
. There really is no match for this collection anywhere in the world.”

My mother’s passion for the National Gallery was obviously the right thing to share with Serena. Her face breaks into a broad smile, and she begins chatting excitedly about the latest vision for the Collection.

James moves in beside me and takes my arm.

“Looks like this was a good chance to win around your mother,” he whispers in my ear.”

I smile back.

“If that was your intention, then it’s worked very well. How do you know Serena?” I try and fail to keep my tone casual.

“Oh, Isabella. Do I detect a note of jealously?”

He seems charmed and delighted.

“No,” I lie, annoyed that he finds this funny. “It’s just that, I’m so different to the people you must have been brought up with. How can you even be contemplating… Us… As a couple? You must know I’d never fit in.”

“Isabella
, I have never seen you look out of place anywhere, and I imagine you will rise to meet the challenge of my upbringing.”

His grip on my arm tightens reassuringly.

“She’s a cousin,” he says, “on my father’s side. You really have nothing to worry about.”

Another cousin.
I think, remembering Ben Gracey.
I wonder how many influential cousins he has?

Serena guides us through a private door and along a corridor into a large room.

It looks very similar to other rooms in the Gallery, with one exception. I’ve never seen it before, or the art on the walls. Though I can readily see the paintings are similar to those exhibited outside.

My mother’s face is a picture.

“That’s a Constable!” she announces, turning to Serena for confirmation. Serena nods.

“The National Gallery also acts as a vault, of sorts, for great works of art,” she explains. “We can’t put everything on display all at once, and some painting
s are too delicate to be displayed at all.”

My mother is open mouthed, staring at the paintings.

“
Esa luz. Tal belleza. Este tipo de trabajo
,” she murmurs.

Serena looks confused.

“
Such light, such beauty, such work
,” translates James, surprising me with his fluency.

My mother i
s also impressed, and turns from where she’s drinking in the art with her eyes.

“You speak Spanish?”
She is, naturally, delighted.

“
Sólo hablo, un poco y mal
,” says James modestly.

I translate in my head.

Only a little, and that badly.

“Do you speak to Isabella in Spanish?” asks my mother. She is preparing to launch herself into a further stratosphere of joy. All my childhood
, she tried to have me speak Spanish.

“I didn’t k
now Isabella could speak it,” says James, looking at me.

“I don’t,” I mumble.

My mother waves her hands dismissively.

“Of course she does.” She catches James’s eye. “
Growing up, she spoke Spanish. Then she becomes a teenager. She gets embarrassed. You know how it is. Speak English, Mami! You embarrass me with my friends!”

She laughs at the recollection. I feel myself blushing,
and look to see that James seems to find this memory of my upbringing amusing.

“I can imagine that,” he says, not taking his eyes from mine.
Then he turns to my mother. “We have not spoken in Spanish to one another, Mrs Green. Although I knew, of course, that she won a scholarship for her Spanish dancing.”

“Yes, yes,” my mother’s eyes light up. “My
daughter was my best pupil. Have you seen her dance?”