Private Lives

24



‘You ready?’

Lauren Silver stood at the door of Sam’s house in the Hollywood Hills, an architectural triumph on stilts that overlooked the whole of the LA bowl.

Sam whistled through his teeth. She was wearing a black silk cocktail dress that hugged her curves and had a see-through mesh back panel that hinted at a smooth, creamy expanse of skin.

‘Someone’s looking very va-va-voom tonight,’ he laughed, not attempting to hide the soft spot he had for the vice president of marketing for Oasis, the studio behind his latest movie.

‘Don’t get any ideas, lover boy,’ said Lauren, turning on her heel and heading back towards the limo waiting on the drive. ‘I’m your babysitter, remember, not your date. And we’re late, so hop to it.’

Sam looked at his watch as he pulled on his suit jacket, a bespoke Anderson & Sheppard that felt like a suit of armour. It was already five o’clock. The premiere was due to start in an hour and the traffic was usually chaotic when there was an event in town. He jumped into the car beside Lauren and sat back as they raced down the windy lanes towards the City of Angels.

‘So are you prepared for this?’ Lauren asked, giving Sam a sideways glance. ‘This will be your first time out in public since Billington. The press are going to go crazy.’

‘They won’t be looking at me, not with you by my side,’ said Sam, sounding more confident than he felt. For the past forty-eight hours he’d felt so sick with panic, convinced that the crowd were going to pelt him with eggs, that he’d even suggested hiring a stand-in from the lookalikes agency to make a quick appearance on the red carpet. The studio chiefs had other ideas, and had sent Lauren along to hold his hand.

‘I’m serious, Sam,’ she said. ‘You need to be on your A-game tonight. All charm and smiles.’

‘What do you think I’m going to do? Try and touch up the reporter from Fox News?’

‘Who knows? The last time you went out in public you were arrested on battery charges.’

‘That was different,’ said Sam sulkily. He was still smarting at having been charged with assault for the supposed attack on the paparazzo backstage at the Billington show and had to return to court in New York at the end of the month.

‘We just want to keep things tight. Secure.’

Sam looked out of the window.

‘You make it sound like I rob banks.’

Lauren’s expression was firm. ‘We just can’t afford any more bad press on this movie, Sam. You know how it works. This isn’t about you, it’s about the money. The studio needs a hit and so do you.’

Sam fell into a brooding silence. He knew he’d be feeling more relaxed if he had actually seen the movie in question. Despite shooting Robotics almost twelve months earlier, he’d yet to view a final cut. He’d been shown a worrying version of the sci-fi film two months earlier, and had not been surprised when he’d been told that it had gone back into the editing suite for revisions and additional CGI. Ordinarily that would have worried him, but he knew Robotics was one of the studio’s ‘tent-pole’ movies; it had cost over two hundred million dollars to make, and apparently had another hundred million spent on marketing. No, the studios could not, would not let it fail.

The butterflies in his stomach kicked up a gear as the limo slid in front of the Village Theater in Westwood. From the protected womb of the car he could hear the screams of a thousand fans pressed up against the crash barriers. The driver opened the door and the heat and sound crashed over him like a tidal wave. As if on autopilot, his face lit up with his thousand-watt smile and for an instant he was overwhelmed by the moment. It was impossible not to be. Over the past decade he’d been to so many of these things they were almost routine, but the thrill of turning up to your own movie premiere never lost its magic.

The photographers were going crazy. ‘Sam! Sam! Over here!’

‘Give us a smile, buddy.’

‘Where’s Jessica tonight? Can you look sad for us?’

Keep it together, he said to himself, trying not to flinch as the whirr of the camera shutters filled the air like gunfire. Just do what you always do.

‘Keep moving,’ said Lauren into his ear.

‘Who’s that? Your new hooker?’ shouted a voice from the back of the crowd. Sam tried to turn back, but Lauren kept a grip on his arm.

‘Keep smiling,’ she hissed. ‘Charming and lovable, remember?’ She tugged at his hand, pulling him towards the theatre’s entrance. ‘Perfect,’ she whispered in his ear.

Sam was glad to be inside the foyer, away from the gaze of the public.

‘There he is, the star of the show.’ Jim Parker strode over and tapped him playfully on the cheek. ‘You ready to see some kick-ass action?’

‘Let’s hope it does kick ass, Jim,’ said Sam quietly, as they walked towards their seats at the front. ‘Because we’re in trouble if it doesn’t.’

Usually at events like this, the stars who walked the red carpet were discreetly let out the back of the movie theatre, but this time Sam couldn’t wriggle out of it. He was already under scrutiny and they couldn’t afford a ‘Sam Snubs Premiere’ headline.

Then again, no one could have blamed him if he had chosen to walk out. The movie was worse than he had suspected; in fact it was a full-on disaster. He sat there almost mesmerised as scene after clunky, unbelievable scene played out before him in full Dolby Surround Sound. He could hear people sniggering in the darkness behind him. It was the biggest, fattest turkey he’d ever seen. As his character ran across the battlefield – ironically enough, a CGI version of downtown LA – to save his girl from the distinctly unscary robot killers, Sam shrank further and further down in his seat, dreading the moment when the lights would come up and he’d have to face yet another humiliation. No one would say ‘Jeez, what a crap movie,’ of course. This was Hollywood; everyone was relentlessly upbeat to your face. But no one could have watched that train wreck of a film and not seen it for what it was: the death knell for Sam Charles’s career.

‘Come on,’ whispered Lauren, as the final scene played out. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Gratefully, Sam followed her towards the side exit, Jim tagging along behind.

‘What’s up?’ Jim asked as they reached the street door. ‘I thought we were hanging around to press the flesh.’

Lauren shot him a look.

‘Can it, Jim,’ she said. ‘Hasn’t Sam put up with enough recently without hanging him out to dry?’

‘I loved that goddamn movie,’ Jim said earnestly.

Lauren shook her head. ‘Right, Sam, you and Jim go off to the aftershow at Momo’s – the studio needs you to go, I’m afraid: united front and all that. I’ll stay here and firefight as much as I can, then I’ll see you there.’

Sam tried to give her a smile, but he felt utterly miserable. Even Jim had picked up on the mood, and for once sat silently as an SUV carried them to the restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard. They both flashed smiles and waved at the waiting photographers, then ducked inside quickly, being ushered to a booth at the back. Thankfully they were alone for the moment, with the rest of the partygoers still back at the theatre. Jim unfastened the buttons on his tux and let out a deep breath.

‘Okay, so it wasn’t Casablanca,’ he said. ‘But they can’t all win prizes, can they? Tomorrow morning we’ll find you something else. The next one’s going to be dynamite, I promise you.’

Sam looked up at him.

‘What do you mean, “find you something else”? I’ve done three back-to-back movies. I start on that Dreamscape thing next month. We agreed that’s enough until the next knockout script comes in.’

Jim’s mouth flattened into a line.

‘About that . . .’

Sam felt his stomach turn over.

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me there’s a problem.’

‘Sorry, Sam, the Dreamscape movie has fallen through.’

Sam blinked at him. This was meant to be his big payday. No one won an Oscar for doing voice work on a cartoon, but the financial rewards could be phenomenal. He had been promised ten million for what amounted to a week’s work, plus all the extras for the merchandise: licensing his voice in the talking dolls, mugs, greetings cards, the whole caboodle. After all his hard work, this was supposed to be his golden pay-off, his retirement fund. And now it was slipping through his fingers.

‘It’s fallen through?’ he said, panicking. ‘What do you mean – that it’s not happening at all?’

Jim shook his head slowly.

‘Course it’s happening. Animation’s almost done. The problem is you voicing the lead . . .’

‘But we signed a contract.’

Jim picked up a handful of nuts from a bowl on the table and tossed a couple into his mouth.

‘Look, they’re not happy about the publicity you’ve been getting. Dreamscape is a family company and they can get very jumpy about that sort of thing.’

‘But by the time the movie’s out, this is going to be old news.’

Jim shrugged.

‘Right now they’re pointing at the morality clause in the contract and they’re saying they don’t want to take their chances. It’s Hollywood, baby. They don’t want to add any risk to their investment.’

By now the restaurant was beginning to fill up. There was still a party atmosphere – lots of shouted greetings, air-kissing and shoulder-clasping – it was LA, after all. If an alien had stepped into the scene, they would have concluded that the people gathered at the party were the closest friends imaginable, rather than deadly rivals prepared to stab each other in the back for the next movie deal. People were glancing in Sam’s direction, but most were looking away again, embarrassed looks on their faces. Two-faced wankers, he thought angrily. Half the people in the restaurant had done exactly what he’d done at some point in their career, probably on a regular basis. But Sam had got caught.

‘Look, we need to talk,’ said Jim, sipping a fruit juice.

‘More bad news?’ said Sam cynically.

‘Just a strategy.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Jessica.’

‘Jim, enough of that.’

‘Seriously, I know she didn’t want to speak to you a few weeks ago, but I think you should try again and make it work.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you need her. You need stability. A wife. Even a family.’

‘What I need is you getting off my back.’

‘I mean it, Sam. You have a credibility problem. You need goodwill on your side and you need it fast. Hollywood loves a love story. I can make this work for you. Let me talk to her.’

‘I mean it, Jim. No.’

As the VIP area started to fill, Sam felt as if the walls of the restaurant were closing in on him. He stood up.

‘Where you going?’ snapped Jim.

‘The bathroom.’

‘But Evan Black is coming this way. You need to network.’

‘I need the bathroom.’

His agent tutted.

‘The damage limitation starts in five minutes. You got that long to get back here.’

Damp patches of sweat were collecting on the back of Sam’s shirt and the drag of champagne had made him feel heady. Blaming the sudden onset of nausea on a shrimp roll he’d had five minutes earlier, he pulled at his shirt collar as he fled to the bathroom.

He felt a little better in the cool, quiet warren of store cupboards and corridors. Pushing open the bathroom door, he saw a slim blonde in a tiny black Lycra dress bending over the sink, a rolled-up dollar bill in her hand.

‘Sorry,’ he said, holding up a hand. ‘Think I’ve got the wrong room.’

‘No, this is the men’s,’ said the girl, giving him a glassy smile. ‘The queue was too long in the ladies’.’

‘Well, I’ll just wait outside, then,’ began Sam, but the girl stood in his way. ‘Don’t go on my account,’ she said, holding up the note. ‘D’ya want a bump?’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Sam.

‘How about we try something else, then?’ she said, running a finger down his chest.

He backed up against the wall of the small enclosed space. ‘No, I just . . . I just wanted to use the, uh . . .’

‘I know what you wanted,’ said the girl, taking Sam’s hand and putting it on her breast. ‘But I’ve got something else for you to try.’ She sank to her knees, expertly unzipping his fly and reaching inside with a firm, determined grip.

‘Hey, no!’ he said. ‘You can’t . . .’

‘Yes I can,’ murmured the girl, sliding back his boxer shorts and taking the tip of his cock into her mouth.

‘Stop it,’ said Sam, slapping his hand against the wall. Despite himself, he was getting erect.

She pulled back a fraction.

‘I didn’t think you’d play hard to get.’

Sam could feel his heart hammering, the blood banging in his ears. What if someone came in? All these influential people, he’d never live it down.

He scrambled away from her, zipping his trousers up, stumbling back to the bathroom door. He tugged at his collar, panting. His head was swimming now. What was going on? Had he been drugged? His pulse was racing and he felt faint. He had to get away, but how? He was cornered, trapped.

‘NO!’ he yelled, pushing the girl as hard as he could. She toppled backwards, with a baffled look that twisted to anger.

‘F*ck you, you Limey f*ck,’ she hissed. ‘My dress. This cost me a thousand goddamn bucks!’

‘Listen, I’ll get it cleaned, I’m sorry . . .’ he spluttered, realising the worst thing he could do was hand her money.

The girl’s spiteful laugh followed him as he bounced off the walls into the corridor.

‘Yeah, you run, you goddamn fruit,’ she yelled. Clawing at his throat, gasping for air, Sam fell into a store cupboard and crumpled to the floor. He fumbled in his pocket for his phone and, squinting down, thumbed to Lauren Silver’s number.

‘Sam?’ said Lauren, her voice concerned. ‘What’s up?’

‘Lauren, thank God,’ he gasped. ‘I think I’m having a heart attack.’

‘Shit, where are you?’

‘I’m at the back of the restaurant.’

‘Find a quiet place and stay there, I’m on my way . . .’

He clutched his knees in front of his chest and forced himself to breathe. Closing his eyes, he felt the rise and fall of his chest regulate. He looked at the phone gripped between his fingers, and knew immediately what he had to do. He scrolled to another number, and when Mike McKenzie finally answered, he felt an uplifting sense of relief.

‘Meet me in London,’ he said simply. ‘I’m coming home.’