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Authors: J. S. Taylor
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most.”
“Most?”
“All,” he admits. “It’s one of the ways in which I get the best from my actors. I take good care of them.”
He swings the car around a corner, and a complex of small chalets comes into view. I count around twenty – all set on a grass bank next to a gravel drive, a little like a village street.
“This is where you’ll be staying with the other actors,” he says.
“Here? They’re lovely.”
The chalets remind me of the fairy tale house in Hansel and Gretel, though they’re made of wood rather than cakes and candies.
I peer out of the window. “I thought actors had to stay in trailers.”
“Not in my studios,” says Berkeley with a touch of pride. “I won’t have anyone staying where I wouldn’t stay myself. And I’m not a fan of trailers.”
The BMW crunches onto the gravel drive leading to the chalets, and then slows and stops.
We’ve pulled up outside what I would judge to be the nicest of all the accommodation. It’s slightly larger than the rest and has a wooden balcony along the front.
James exits from his side of the car and walks around to open the door for me.
“Thank you,” I say , as he guides me out.
“This is where you’ll be staying for the duration of the movie,” he says, gesturing to the lovely wooden chalet. I gaze at it wonderingly.
“You’re in the chalet which used to be mine,” he adds.
Oh. That feels very intimate somehow.
I’m s taying in James’s chalet.
“Where do you stay now?” I ask, feeling discomforted.
“Over there.” James points to a verge in the distance. I can make out an enormous apartment with a sweeping glass frontage. It’s uber-modern, with pristine white walls, wood-panelled sections, and a dramatic sweeping roof.
“I found it was better to be a little way from the actors,” he says, taking my hand. “Here, I’ll show you inside.”
It must be lonely , I think, taking a final glance at his apartment before turning my attention to the wooden chalet.
James walks me to the door and reaches in his pocket.
“Here,” he says, handing me a card. “Don’t lose this. This card lets you in and out of your chalet. You can also use it anywhere else in the studios. Like a credit card.”
The card is flat and purple, with my name embossed in gold type. I take it hesitantly, feeling dizzy with privilege. I’m not sure I’m ready for all of this. Last week , I was a drama student with a part-time waitressing job. Now, I’m an actress with free access to an entire leisure complex.
“Use it in the door lock here.” James takes the card and shows me how to swipe it slowly downwards. “And press your finger on this scanner.”
He gently takes my finger and pushes it down. I feel a wave of desire sweep through me. How does he do this with the slightest touch?
“Have they registered my fingerprints so quickly?” I ask, trying to distract myself from a sudden urge to rip his shirt off.
“It’s an instant process,” he says. “Your prints are now matched all over the studio. You can get in anywhere you want. Almost anywhere,” he adds as an afterthought.
Must be an expensive security system, I think as the door clicks unlocked.
James opens the door and gestures me inside.
I walk past him into an incredibly beautiful room. It’s double height, with huge panes of glass mounted halfway up the wall, letting in large quantities of light.
The walls are a mix of pale wood panelling and white, and a wooden stair leads from the large open room into a mezzanine level.
The whole effect is the kind of open-plan interior you might see in a décor magazine.
“It’s lovely,” I say, taking in the feature fireplace, large plasma TV, and designer furnishings. “Truly lovely.”
James smiles. “I’m so glad you like it,” he says softly. “But I’m hoping you won’t be here for too long.”
I turn to him in confusion.
He takes my hands in his.
“I had this room specially fitted out for you,” he
“Most?”
“All,” he admits. “It’s one of the ways in which I get the best from my actors. I take good care of them.”
He swings the car around a corner, and a complex of small chalets comes into view. I count around twenty – all set on a grass bank next to a gravel drive, a little like a village street.
“This is where you’ll be staying with the other actors,” he says.
“Here? They’re lovely.”
The chalets remind me of the fairy tale house in Hansel and Gretel, though they’re made of wood rather than cakes and candies.
I peer out of the window. “I thought actors had to stay in trailers.”
“Not in my studios,” says Berkeley with a touch of pride. “I won’t have anyone staying where I wouldn’t stay myself. And I’m not a fan of trailers.”
The BMW crunches onto the gravel drive leading to the chalets, and then slows and stops.
We’ve pulled up outside what I would judge to be the nicest of all the accommodation. It’s slightly larger than the rest and has a wooden balcony along the front.
James exits from his side of the car and walks around to open the door for me.
“Thank you,” I say , as he guides me out.
“This is where you’ll be staying for the duration of the movie,” he says, gesturing to the lovely wooden chalet. I gaze at it wonderingly.
“You’re in the chalet which used to be mine,” he adds.
Oh. That feels very intimate somehow.
I’m s taying in James’s chalet.
“Where do you stay now?” I ask, feeling discomforted.
“Over there.” James points to a verge in the distance. I can make out an enormous apartment with a sweeping glass frontage. It’s uber-modern, with pristine white walls, wood-panelled sections, and a dramatic sweeping roof.
“I found it was better to be a little way from the actors,” he says, taking my hand. “Here, I’ll show you inside.”
It must be lonely , I think, taking a final glance at his apartment before turning my attention to the wooden chalet.
James walks me to the door and reaches in his pocket.
“Here,” he says, handing me a card. “Don’t lose this. This card lets you in and out of your chalet. You can also use it anywhere else in the studios. Like a credit card.”
The card is flat and purple, with my name embossed in gold type. I take it hesitantly, feeling dizzy with privilege. I’m not sure I’m ready for all of this. Last week , I was a drama student with a part-time waitressing job. Now, I’m an actress with free access to an entire leisure complex.
“Use it in the door lock here.” James takes the card and shows me how to swipe it slowly downwards. “And press your finger on this scanner.”
He gently takes my finger and pushes it down. I feel a wave of desire sweep through me. How does he do this with the slightest touch?
“Have they registered my fingerprints so quickly?” I ask, trying to distract myself from a sudden urge to rip his shirt off.
“It’s an instant process,” he says. “Your prints are now matched all over the studio. You can get in anywhere you want. Almost anywhere,” he adds as an afterthought.
Must be an expensive security system, I think as the door clicks unlocked.
James opens the door and gestures me inside.
I walk past him into an incredibly beautiful room. It’s double height, with huge panes of glass mounted halfway up the wall, letting in large quantities of light.
The walls are a mix of pale wood panelling and white, and a wooden stair leads from the large open room into a mezzanine level.
The whole effect is the kind of open-plan interior you might see in a décor magazine.
“It’s lovely,” I say, taking in the feature fireplace, large plasma TV, and designer furnishings. “Truly lovely.”
James smiles. “I’m so glad you like it,” he says softly. “But I’m hoping you won’t be here for too long.”
I turn to him in confusion.
He takes my hands in his.
“I had this room specially fitted out for you,” he
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