CLOSE-UP & PERSONAL

#CHAPTER 15#

The next morning I'm half expecting the screen test to be cancelled. Or for word never to arrive. But at 9am sharp a hand-delivered parcel and a card in a crisp cream envelope arrives at my apartment.

A card – what's with that? If he knows my address he must also know my mobile number.

I open it, and the same beautiful curved writing announces the screen test will be held at 4pm. A car will come to pick me up.
I unwrap the parcel. It's not tied with bows like the last package, and if I'm being truly honest with myself I'm disappointed. Obviously he's accepted that this is a business arrangement.

That's what you wanted, I remind myself, pulling off the brown paper.
Inside is an iPad. It's ready charged, and I flick it on to see a script has been preloaded onto the screen.

Hmmm. So I guess he wants me to learn my lines.

Suddenly my mobile rings from an unfamiliar number and I click to answer.
"Hello?"
"I take it you received my card?"
Oh. So he can use a telephone after-all. His voice gives me goose-bumps.
"Um. Yes."

"And you'll attend?" There's a note in his voice I haven't heard before. As though a lot rests on my reply.
I pause for a moment. "Yes," I say finally.
Is it my imagination I do I hear a sigh of relief?

"But the conditions still I apply," I continue. "I'm coming to see how you work. And to see if I can actually act this role you've got in mind. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work."

"Of course," His voice is crisp, business like. "You are under no obligation. Come act for me and we'll take it from there."

Something about the way he says 'act for me' brings a little thrill of excitement to my body.
"Ok," I say, trying to keen my voice calm. "Then I'll see you at 3pm."
"Oh Isabella," he says gently, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

And then the line goes dead.

I turn back to the iPad, and make a quick read of the script. From my first reading it's a love story. A young girl who charms a jaded businessman. I scan the text for bit-parts and find only one female character with any lines to read. And she's a prostitute.

Great. Typecast again.

But it's a well-defined character and I feel myself warming to the script. It's good. I wonder if this is part of his talent, picking out good scripts. Or if he has people to do that for him.
I scan through the main female character's role, searching for her connection to the smaller female part which I'm expected to play.

The process is so engrossing that time runs away with me. And before I know it, the car to take me to the audition has pulled up outside.

Quickly I fling on a second-hand floral dress, jeans, ballet pumps and a denim jacket. I cast a quick look ay myself in the mirror. My dark hair falls around my shoulders, curling slightly. Not perfect but it will have to do. I have time to apply a dab of mascara and a slick of lip gloss before running down to the waiting car.

This time he's not inside, and my heart gives a little squeeze of sadness.
What did you expect? He's taken you at your word. No romantic involvement.

The car hums through west London before turning south towards the river Thames. We drive along embankment, past the Houses of Parliament, and then east to London Bridge, where the car turns and follows the bridge over the wide river Thames.
Is the studio outside London? It would make sense.
But instead of continuing out of the city the car turns east again, towards the fashionable dockside district of Shad Thames.

This is where London's most expensive warehouse apartments are, close to the fashionable districts of Shoreditch and Brick Lane, with sweeping views across the Thames.

The car stops outside a large converted warehouse, and the driver announces that we've arrived at our destination.
A studio based in a central London warehouse. It must cost a small fortune to run. Maybe Berkeley has smaller offices which he uses for casting.

The street outside is cobbled, and lined with boutique coffee houses and tiny elegant shops. I look about in confusion. Ahead of me is an entrance of glass and steel, blending effortlessly with the warehouse.
There is a panel of buttons suggesting more than one studio within the building. Do I press one?
I'm spared the decision by the sound of someone descending a set of stairs inside.
Then the metal and glass door opens, and Berkley's handsome face is looking into mine.

His brown hair is more tousled than usual, and he's dressed casually in designer jeans and a yellow T-shirt which looks to have been bought from one of the nearby trendy boutiques. His feet are bare.

"Come in," he says, opening the door to let me through.
In the lobby of the building is a chrome elevator and equally shining set of stairs. He makes a quick asessment of both.

"We'll take the stairs," he says, and I feel my heart sink another level downwards. He doesn't even want to be alone in the elevator with me. He really has taken me at my word.
I follow him upstairs three flights and emerge in the penthouse floor. A door has been left open, and on the other side is a beautiful bare-brick apartment.

The enormous lounge is scattered with the kind of designer furniture which would cost me a year's salary a piece, and a contemporary kitchen is fitted seamlessly into the far wall.

He waves for me to go ahead and follows.

I enter, noticing as I do that an entire wall has been glassed, allowing a flowing view across the river Thames. The wedding-cake turrets of Tower Bridge are in close relief, and in the distance, London Bridge, St Pauls Cathedral and the rest of London's historic skyline are perfectly framed in the metal beams of the window.
I stop partway in, confused.

"Wait," I say, "this is your studio?"
Berkeley comes in after me, closing the door behind him.
"This is my London apartment," he says. "I have a studio room here."

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to make out whether this is professional conduct.
"I thought you were staying at Claridges," I manage, thinking of his suite.

"I stayed at Claridges last night, because I had an event I wished to host," he says. "For the most part when I'm in London I stay here."
Oh. It's stunning.
"This is a lovely apartment," I say.

"Thank you."
"Do you always conduct screen tests from your apartment?"
"This is the first time I have conducted a screen test."