The Director's Cut (22 page)

Chapter 25

I return to my hotel room to change for dinner and discover that James, once again, has designed my wardrobe for this evening.

A large box awaits me on the
hotel bed. And I slide off the lid to reveal a swathe of sumptuous light-green satin inside. The fabric looks beautiful.

I lift
the dress out carefully from the rustling tissue paper beneath.

Hmmm. Not a bad choice
, Mr Berkeley.

The dress sweeps low at the top, with an elegant halter neck cut from light ribbons. It’s designed to fit
close to the body at the top and swirl out a little at the bottom in an asymmetric hem bordered with handmade silk flowers.

I try and guess what the outfit might mean about tonight. It’s semi
-formal, but not what I would call black tie.

My class apprehensions make a sudden, ugly appearance. I hope he doesn’t mean to take me somewhere filled with titled aristocrats.

I notice something else in the tissue paper at the bottom of the dress box.

There’s a heavy cream envelope and
a flash of green fabric.

Carefully, I lay the dress out on the bed, and return to the box.

I lift out the envelope to see it’s been pinned to a pair of satin panties, in the same light green as the dress.

James Berkeley. We are going to have words, about you dressing me.

I frown at the idea of him orchestrating my wardrobe so completely. But I can’t help but admit the panties are beautiful. There’s no bra, and judging by the low neckline of the dress, it doesn’t need one.

Curiously, I open the
envelope which had been pinned to the panties. There’s a single piece of card inside, and I pull it out.

Inked in the elegant
, curving handwriting, which I recognise as James’s, are the words: ‘
all the better to spank you in
’.

I smile despite myself.

We’ll see about that.

Still smiling, I turn my attention back to the dress.

It’s got a slight Spanish look to the style, with the curving hem and flowers. Light green is not the right colour, of course. A traditional dress would be red. But, the bias shape and flowered hem makes a definite nod to local culture.

I peek at the label. It’s couture, by a Spanish designer.

Hmmm.
An established designer would understand fashion heritage. So this is no accidental look. My guess is that James is taking me somewhere local. And the style of the dress is a clue.

I feel a little wave of relief. No need to worry about class anxieties then. If it’s a Spanish place
, I’ll fit right in. I’ve been coming to this country since I was a child.

I shower, remove the remaining smudges of movie-set make-up, dry my hair, and draw on the satin panties. They fit close against my behind, and I like the way they feel.

I approach the dress reverently. I’ve never worn high fashion before. Carefully, I lift it up. It’s certainly a lot heavier than other dresses I’ve encountered. The satin is folded into perfect overlapping waves, and I’m guessing the material adds weight.

I pick it up and stand in front of the mirror. At first glance, I can’t see a way into the dress.

After a little searching,
I find a hook and a zip, perfectly hidden at the side.

I guess that’s part of what you pay a designer price tag for.

I don’t even want to guess what James paid for this dress. I can tell, just by the feel of it, this is probably the most expensive item I have ever handled.

Slowly, I slide it on, dipping my head through the delicate halter
neck ribbon.

The top is designed to fit tightly, and I see that expert corseting has been stitched inside the dress. I see the ends of two laces, which I presume
are to tighten the body, and give them an experimental tug.

Wow!

In the mirror in front of me, my waist leaps from slim to non-existent. I stare unbelievingly at my reflection, hardly able to take in what I’ve just seen.

Can a dress do that? No wonder A-
listers look so amazing at events.

I unloose the laces a little, giving myself a bit more room to breath
e. The effect is still astounding. I no longer resemble Betty Boop, but my stomach is the flattest and tightest it’s ever been.

I pull up the zip, closing the green satin across my bust. It skims a line, very low across my chest, exaggerating the hourglass effect of the waist corseting even further.

I let the skirt drop down, bringing the silken flowers of the hem to rest in an asymmetrical line which starts high on my thigh and ends just below the knee.

The light green has done something amazing to my eyes, making the blue-grey tones even brighter against my pale skin.
Traditional Spanish red makes my black hair deeper and more dramatic. But this green colour makes my eyes the main event.

I let out a breath, taking in my reflection.

Now the dress is closed, the figure flattering apparatus inside is completely hidden. You would never guess that this dress contained corsetry.

I shake my head in wonder. You can’t odds the genius of that.

There’s no doubt about it, Issy. You look totally stunning.

I stifle a grin at my own lack of modesty. But it’s true. I now understand why people have a love affair with designer clothing. If they can make this kind of transformation, then I see the appeal.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

“Hello?” I call, still glued to the strange novelty of my own reflection.

“Are you ready?”

James’s voice.
As ever, I feel a stab of excitement.

“Give me a minute,
” I call.

I’ve not had time for make-up, so I launch myself towards the mirror and make a few quick sweeps of mascara.

There, that will have to do.
I figure the dress will do a lot of the work for me.

I
walk to the door and open it.

On the other side stands James, immaculately dressed in a dark suit.
He’s holding a bunch of red roses.

Red roses. Oh James.

I smile up at him to see his face is frozen in amazement.

“Issy,” he breathes. “You look…. Oh wow.”

I smile shyly.

He steps into the room quickly.

“We’re not going out.” He sets his face in a comic expression of fear. “I can’t have other men see you like that,” he says, closing the door behind him and stepping towards me. “I’d spend the whole night fighting them off.”

I laugh. “It’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

He’s staring at the dress.

“Stop it,” I laugh. “Your eyes will pop out of your head.”

“I think they might.”

James hands me the flowers and takes a step back to assess my outfit again.

“My God,” he murmurs. “Words do not do you justice, Isabella Green.”

“Thank you,” I smile, sinking my head into the fragrant blooms. “They’re beautiful. I don’t know what I did to deserve an entire bunch.”

“You deserve that and more, every day,” says James. His eyes haven’t left my figure since he’s stepped in the room.

Divested of the flowers, I notice he’s also holding a pair of green high-heeled shoes.

“Are those for me as well?”

“They’re certainly not for me,” he says. “But I’m not sure I can let you have them.”

“And why not?” I move to place the bunch of roses on the bed.

James steps towards me, moving his arms around my waist. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate on a single thing all night, seeing you looking like this.”

“I spent a long time imagining you in that dress,” he adds, “and now all I can think about is getting you out of it.”

He pulls me a little tighter. “If I wasn’t such a gentleman, I would rip the clothes off your lovely body right now.”

I feel a twinge of lust spark through me.

“However,” he says with a sigh. “
I’m looking forward to tonight. And I’d hate to be late.”

I
’m remembering his words from before.

He wants me to prove
that I’m his.

Where could we be going?

Chapter 26

We venture out of the hotel on foot, and James assures me the restaurant is only a few streets away.

“I chose it deliberately,” he says, “because I had an inkling of how beautiful you would look in that dress. And I didn’t want to have to wait too long to get you back to the hotel.”

“That doesn’t sound too gentlemanly,” I admonish him.

“My sincerest apologies,” James replies. “Lust and manners are not comfortable bedfellows.” He pulls me closer to him as we walk.

We’re out on Las Ramblas now, Barcelona’s main thoroughfare. It’s lined with outdoor restaurant seating, colourful shops, stalls, and busking artists and performers.

The warm night air feels
light on my bare shoulders.

“
Besides, I regret the decision to be within walking distance now,” admits James. “I didn’t think about the consequences of taking you outside.”

“Which are?”

“Haven’t you noticed?” asks James. “Every single person on this street is staring at you.”

I have noticed a few glances, but I’m sure he’s exaggerating.

James shakes his head. “You are going to be a movie star in every sense of the word,” he says sadly. “I only hope I’ll be able to cope with it all.”

I’m never sure how to take this line of conversation, so I say nothing, choosing instead to soak up the heady atmosphere of the
Barcelona streets.

James makes a sudden move left, drawing me to the side of the road.

“Here we are,” he says.

“We’re here already?”

We’re stood in front of an empty-looking building, and I can’t see any clue as to a restaurant.

“Up there,” he clarifies.

I tip my head and see glowing candles and a tiny sign in the window of the second floor. It’s written in Catalan, rather than Spanish, which is the native language of Barcelona.

Must be a real local place.

I turn to James, questioningly. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go in.”

I follow James up a dark staircase, and we emerge into a typically Spanish-looking restaurant. There is a large bar of dark polished wood with a long sweep of ornate tiles behind it.

Hanging from the bar are large sides of cured meat and an elaborate construction of tiled shelving
filled with wine bottles and jars of olives.

From what I can make out, it’s a very typical Spanish bar.
I’ve seen this kind of set up a hundred times before. And I’m at a loss to know why James has brought me here.

It seems like
nothing out of the ordinary. Which from what I know of James, is not his style at all.

I take a scan around. There is a clutch of low tables, each with a wine bottle bearing a candle. A few diners are enjoying tapas style dishes.

I notice that the dress is conspicuously smarter than usual. The men are mostly suited. And the women wear evening dresses. But aside from the formal dress, it all seems very average.

Maybe James just wanted us to go to a
typical, local place for once.

But something tells me that’s not the answer.

“Can I get you a drink?” James asks, approaching the bar.

“Sure.”

“Cold sherry? I’m told it’s the drink to start with in Spain.”

I smile at him. “Technically
, we’re in Catalan,” I say with a smile, “so we should be drinking Cava.”

“I’m impressed
by your local knowledge.” He grins.

I shrug. “I came to Spain a lot as a child. The Catalan distinction is a big deal here. You can accidentally insult someone in Barcelona by calling them Spanish.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

James orders two glasses of Cava, and we both sip the sparkling wine, staring out into the wider restaurant.

“Can you guess why we’re here?” says James, after a moment.

“No. I have absolutely no idea.”

“Let’s go to our table,” says James. “It starts in a few minutes.”

“What starts?”

He doesn’t answer, and instead, takes my hand to lead me to one of the low tables. But I’m already working it out.

“It’s a flamenco bar?” I guess.

James nods as we take our seats.

“I didn’t think they h
ad them in Barcelona,” I murmur. “Flamenco is a southern Spanish thing.”