Private Lives

11



Sam gripped the arms of his seat and tried to swallow. The pilot was banking the private jet to the right in preparation for landing, and Sam could now see Cape Cod peeking between thin, low clouds, a finger of land criss-crossed by roads and houses, surrounded by the flat grey Atlantic Ocean, completely oblivious to the tiny gnat flying overhead. If only he could just stay up here, permanently circling the earth, hermetically sealed from the rest of the world, he’d be happy with that.

Sam had always loved air travel; he’d been brought up in a bland working-class part of London, not far from Heathrow, where the planes roared so low over his house he could make out the name of the airlines: Air China, Thai Air, Air New Zealand, reminding him how easy it was to be transported, for the price of a ticket, away from your humdrum existence. And since he had become really famous, aeroplanes had become his sanctuary. A reclining seat thirty-five thousand feet above sea level was one of the few places he could truly relax, switch off and not be bothered by the millions of people who wanted a piece of him.

But tonight, despite the champagne and the tasty finger food the pretty stewardess had kept bringing over, he could not relax. Today he wished for storms and delays and the outbreak of bird flu, anything to keep them from landing, anything to keep him from the inevitable confrontation with Jessica.

He’d called her, of course. There was no getting around that. After Anna had given him the bad news – no, the disastrous news – about the injunction, he had been forced to wake Jessica up from the comfort of her luxury Boston hotel suite, where she was staying while filming the thriller movie Slayer in the city.

Their conversation had been excruciating. At first she had been tired and groggy, irritated that he was disturbing her. No, she hadn’t heard the early-morning news. No, she hadn’t been called by her agent.

So he’d been forced to tell her everything. At first there had been stunned silence, but when her emotional dam had finally burst, Sam had felt the full force of her confusion, disbelief and, finally, fury. No, she had said – or rather screamed – no, she would not like to meet up to discuss it in person. She never wanted to see him again. The conversation had terminated when Jessica’s publicist had arrived at her hotel suite to take her out of the city.

He squirmed in his seat thinking about it. En route to Northolt airfield, where he had boarded the jet, he had seen images on Sky News of Jess’s hotel besieged by paparazzi. He managed to avoid his own lynching by the press by a matter of minutes, packing a bag and leaving his Chelsea apartment before the media could make him a prisoner in his own home. His London agent had secreted him away in a house in West London until the earliest flight time had been secured. Helen Pierce had called him to assure him that everything was being done to crisis-manage the situation. Somehow he didn’t believe her. The press coverage seemed wall-to-wall. There wasn’t a news station, Internet site or newspaper in the Western world that wasn’t gleefully reporting the story in lurid headlines. And this was only the first wave. The weekend papers would be dominated by the story. Ex-girlfriends, jealous colleagues and various conveniently unnamed ‘friends’ would come crawling out of the woodwork to add sensational details on Hollywood’s hottest scandal. The celebrity magazines would come next – the story could run for weeks. Soon everyone everywhere would know what he had done, or rather the salacious version of it: Sam Charles Uses Hookers, Sam Charles The Cheat, and worst of all, Sam Charles Makes Jessica Cry. There would be nowhere to hide.

The jet’s wheels jerked on to the tarmac at Cape Cod’s Hyannis airport, almost eight p.m. London time, three p.m. EST, sending a blast of oven-hot air at him as he stepped down. A limousine with blacked-out windows was waiting for him. He had no idea whose car it was – for all he knew it could be a hit man hired by Jessica – but there was no such luck. The window buzzed down and his manager Eli Cohen poked his screwed-up face out.

‘Get in, you schmuck,’ he growled.

Sam threw his overnight bag in the back and climbed in.

‘Why did you bring me here?’ he asked, looking around the flat, unfamiliar environment of the Cape. ‘I need to speak to Jessica.’

‘Yeah, I know that, Einstein,’ said Eli. ‘I brought you here because she’s left the city. And lemme tell you, I had to call in fifty years’ worth of favours to find out where she’s gone.’

‘So you’ve spoken to her?’

‘Not in person, no. But you know Harry Monk and me go way back.’

Harriet Monk was Jessica’s agent. She was an LA hotshot at the ITG talent agency, and had a reputation as one of the industry’s most notorious ball-breakers.

‘So where are we going?’

‘Some compound on the Inner Cape. Belongs to a fancy-pants New York family. The daughter is one of Jessica’s friends. So do you want to tell me what happened . . . ?’

As Sam recapped the events of the past week, his manager said very little, just nodding and grunting here and there. Sam was unsettled by his silence; Eli wasn’t a man to keep quiet about anything.

‘What do you think?’ said Sam anxiously when he had finished.

Eli eyed him for a moment.

‘All I want to know is one question. Why?’

‘Why? I was pissed. You’ve seen the pictures, she’s a good-looking girl.’

Eli snorted.

‘I’m not asking why you did it,’ he said, fixing Sam with a shrewd eye. ‘I’m asking why you got caught.’

Sam shook his head and smiled ruefully. This was another reason why Eli was his manager. Most film stars these days had managers and agents who had MBAs from Yale and Harvard. They wore designer suits, ate Japanese food and plotted everything on a spreadsheet. But which of them could see through the clouds thrown up by this media storm and ask the one question at the heart of it? Eli was right. If Sam had wanted to screw some other girl on the side, he could have done it. Plenty would have volunteered and he could have found a discreet out-of-theway venue for their trysts without much trouble. What Eli was getting at was that this wasn’t about sex and it wasn’t really about wanting to let off steam either. Had he wanted to get caught? Why else pick up a girl in such a public place? Why else dance the electric boogaloo with her in front of a gaping crowd? Why else get so drunk you were practically begging her to blackmail you? Sam let out a long breath.

‘Okay, so you’ve got me,’ he said. ‘What should I do now?’ Eli was old-school. He wasn’t the most fashionable manager, but you could rely on him in a crisis, and right now Sam needed him more than ever.

Eli shrugged.

‘These things will pass.’

‘Come on, this is serious, Eli.’

‘I know it’s serious, son. I can tell you what movies to make, what commercial to do, which parties to avoid. I can guide you, advise you in all things professional. But this is your heart and I can’t see inside it.’ He turned in his seat and looked at Sam searchingly.

‘Sam. As my client, I want you and Jessica to stay together and make lots more lovely money. As my friend, I want you to be happy. The two things really ain’t the same. If you love her, then beg for forgiveness and get yourself to Vegas, tie the knot. If you don’t love her, then tell her so. There’s plenty of saps willing to take your place.’

Sam gazed out the window. Funny, wasn’t that exactly what Anna Kennedy had been trying to tell him back in Capri?

‘So you think I can get through this?’

‘Hugh Grant did. But I’ll be honest, it really depends on Jess. Liz Hurley could have crucified Hugh but she chose to take the dignified route and that worked out for both of them. But Jessica? If she goes on Ellen DeGeneres on a revenge mission, you’re dead. If Jess hates you, then America hates you.’

‘Gee, thanks, Eli.’

‘Hey, I’m just telling it like it is. You gotta do what’s right for you. But remember, what affects your career affects my career. And I need a new pool.’

The car stopped outside a wide cedar gate and the driver pressed an intercom to announce them. When the gate opened and the car passed down the drive, an enormous white Cape house in an acre of lawns came into view.

Sam stepped out of the car. He’d half expected to see newsroom helicopters roaring overhead, but he could hear nothing except the swoosh of the sea crashing on the shore and the squawk of gulls above him. He closed his eyes, inhaling the warm, salty air – a moment of calm before the storm. Eli buzzed his window down.

‘I’ll wait for you at that bar just by the highway,’ he said, leaning out. ‘Gimme a call when it’s all over. And Sam? Think of my new pool, huh?’

As the car’s tail-lights disappeared, Sam took a deep breath and walked to the door. Just as he was lifting his hand to knock, the door was wrenched open.

‘You’ve got a goddamn nerve!’

Barbara Carr, Jessica’s mother. The style magazines were always tripping over themselves to say how much the two women looked like sisters, not mother and daughter, but Sam had always thought Barbara looked like a waxwork of Jess that had been left out in the sun.

‘How dare you come up here, you cheap bastard,’ she shouted. ‘Hasn’t she suffered enough?’

‘If you’ll just let me see her for a minute . . .’

‘She doesn’t want to see you,’ snapped Barbara. ‘She never wants to see you again.’

‘I understand that, but we obviously need to talk.’

‘Yeah? And what could you possibly say that would make this any better?’

‘I just want to tell her what happened.’

‘I think that’s pretty goddamn clear.’

Behind her mother, Jessica appeared. She was looking pale and serious, no make-up, her green eyes red from tears, her famous body enveloped by an oversized jumper. In photographs of her on the red carpet, she looked toned and perfect in those curve-skimming dresses showing acres of tanned flesh, but today, the voluminous sweater emphasised how tiny her body really was.

‘Hey, Mom,’ she said. ‘Just give us a minute.’

Barbara looked as if she was about to argue, then shrugged.

‘One minute. He’s not worth any more.’

Jessica turned and moved through the house, then out through glass doors that led on to the beach. Sam followed her and they walked on to the sand. Ahead of them there was a thin ridge of scrubby dunes to the left. Out to sea, across the sparkling Nantucket Sound, Sam could see Martha’s Vineyard shimmering in the distance.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, taking a step towards her.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t even like being this close. Say what you’ve got to say, then go.’

‘Please stay calm, Jess. I just want to explain.’

‘Explain? Explain? You want to explain that you’ve screwed a whore and humiliated me in front of the whole world? Excuse me if I can’t stay calm, Sam.’

‘It was wrong, I know that,’ he began.

‘Oh, it was more than wrong, Sam. It was career suicide, and I’m not letting you take me down with you.’

Sam felt his stomach turn over. He had seen people get on the wrong side of Jessica before and it hadn’t ended well for them. He’d always known she had a vindictive streak, but he’d never been on the receiving end and he certainly didn’t want to start now.

‘For one minute can we stop talking about our careers? This is nothing to do with them. It’s about me and you.’

Her eyes pooled with tears. ‘This is everything to do with our careers. We’re a brand, Sam. We stand for something. We’re wholesome and happy, a perfect young couple; everyone wants to be us. But you’ve messed all that up, haven’t you? All that work I put into it, it’s all gone. And for what? Some cheap slut in London who massages your cock and your ego. Is that all it takes to spoil everything?’

She looked at him with contempt and he knew it was entirely justified.

‘It wasn’t like that. Jess, I never meant to treat you like that.’

He put out a hand to touch her arm, but she flinched back.

‘Don’t!’ she sobbed. ‘And don’t think you can come crawling back to me with “I’m sorry” and think that’s the end of it.’

For a moment he could hear Anna Kennedy’s voice nagging in his head.

Think about why you slept with Katie in the first place.

His fiancée’s exquisite, tear-streaked face made him feel so ashamed he could no longer look at it. But he knew his guilt and sympathy couldn’t distract him from what he wanted, needed to say.

‘I’m not crawling back, Jess,’ he said finally, and felt a sweet, powerful relief as the words came out of his mouth. ‘In fact, I’m not coming back at all. I just wanted to come here to tell you that. I am sorry, I really am. But it’s over.’

She stopped still on the sand and looked at him.

‘You bastard,’ she growled.

‘Maybe. Maybe you’re right. But this is for the best.’

‘How is this for the best, Sam?’ Her voice was trembling. ‘How can this possibly be for the best?’

‘I hate how this has happened, but in a weird way I’m glad it did, because we don’t want to end up at fifty still together and not in love. Not even close.’

The wind whipped at her honey-blond hair and for a moment Sam could see just how beautiful she really was, free from the make-up and the grooming, a real woman, not the Hollywood doll she had become since their stars reached the stratosphere. He remembered the day they had first met on the rom-com Who Needs This? It was the sort of movie that only worked if the leads had real chemistry, and they’d had it in spades. They were filming in the romantic paradise of Maui, they were young, free and single, and to be frank, they both knew an on-set affair never harmed any movie’s publicity. Looking back, their relationship should have ended the moment they got back to LA, but by then it had caught the attention of the American public. Jess’s TV series was taking off – the American public loved her, and they were all too happy to buy into the romance of her whirlwind courtship with this handsome Brit. Suddenly the two of them were hot. Everyone took Sam’s calls. Directors, producers came knocking. And when Who Needs This? became a genuine smash hit, Sam immediately joined the A-list. It had all been too fast, too soon. He knew that now.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ he said quietly.

‘So now you want to play quiz host?’

‘Why have we never talked about our actual wedding? Why have we avoided setting a date?’

Sam had proposed twelve months ago, because it seemed the next logical step. By then, ‘Samica’ were one of Hollywood’s most famous couples, and it seemed as though the whole world was holding its breath waiting for an announcement. But from the moment he had slipped the four-carat Harry Winston ring on her finger, he had felt unsettled. Now he knew why.

‘Because we’ve been too busy for a goddamn wedding, Sam. What, you think we should have gone off to some shitty little chapel in Vegas?’

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe we should have. Or maybe we never set a date because we both knew it wasn’t right.’

‘So now you’re justifying the hooker with the fact that I wouldn’t name the day? Screw you.’

He stepped towards her again.

‘Jess, you deserve someone who gets you,’ he said softly. ‘We both do.’

‘The only thing you deserve is herpes,’ she spat.

He grabbed her arms and looked into her eyes. She struggled for a moment, then stopped.

‘I’m lonely, Jess,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you?’

She looked away, down at the sand. He thought she wasn’t going to say anything, then she suddenly turned back and met his gaze.

‘Yes,’ she said. She looked so fragile and vulnerable swamped in that huge sweater. Part of him wanted to put his arms around her and protect her, but he knew it would only make it worse.

‘I’m sorry, Jess,’ he said, ‘I really am.’

She shook her head, tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘Just go,’ she said.

‘Can’t we—’

‘MOM!’ she shouted back towards the house.

He held his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, okay . . .’

He backed away, started walking up the beach, feeling the sand collect in his loafers. He pulled out his phone and called Eli. He could hear laughter and the tinkle of honky-tonk music in the background.

‘Damn, that was quick,’ said Eli. ‘I’m guessing that’s a big fat no, then?’

Sam sighed. ‘Just come and get me,’ he said.

‘Hang tough, cowboy, I’m on my way.’

When Sam turned around, Jess had gone.