Private Lives

27



Sam looked at the phone, willing himself to pick it up. He hadn’t felt this way since he was a teenager, trying to pluck up the courage to call some girl, but even then he hadn’t felt this anxious. Then, as ever, girls always said yes to his invitations. ‘Come on,’ he said to himself. ‘You’re Sam Charles. Everyone wants to talk to you.’ Yet somehow it was hard to convince himself. Just six weeks ago, he was one of the world’s biggest stars, engaged to one of the world’s most desirable women. He’d never tried, but Sam suspected that if he’d called the White House, they’d have taken his call.

And now? Now he was standing in the living room at his Chelsea Harbour apartment, crapping himself about calling an Edinburgh comedy venue and speaking to the manager about the possibility of hiring out the space.

‘Stop being such a knob,’ he said out loud, striding over to the phone and snatching up the receiver. Unused to making his own professional phone calls, he quickly tapped in the number and waited, wondering what he should say.

Hello, it’s Sam Charles. No. That didn’t cut it. That phrase used to open doors, get him reservations in the best restaurants; now it sounded grubby and embarrassing. ‘Sam Charles’ used to be synonymous with ‘top actor’ and ‘British heart-throb’; now it was synonymous with ‘love rat’ and ‘thug’. He couldn’t have buggered it all up more if he’d actually tried.

He jumped as the front door opened and Mike McKenzie almost fell in, carrying two straining carrier bags of shopping. ‘Hey there, bro,’ grinned Mike. ‘Thought you’d gone out. I’m doing fish pie for lunch, that okay?’

Sam put the phone back in its cradle and watched Mike thump the bags down on the kitchen counter and start unloading: celery, a bunch of basil, some fancy olive oil, free-range eggs. Sam winced. It was only a bag of shopping, but it seemed to be loaded with criticisms of his life. His empty kitchen, his single status, his inability to cook. In fact, if he was honest, he wouldn’t have had a clue where to find the nearest supermarket – it had been years since he’d bought a pint of milk. And now his friend – the famous burn-out and mental case, no less – was here looking after him, making him a pie because he couldn’t be trusted to do things for himself.

But that was why he had come back. To change. To make a fresh start, to begin a new way of living. Back in his London flat, everything felt more real. From his wrap-around penthouse window he could glimpse the King’s Road, Battersea Park and Stamford Bridge, home of his beloved Chelsea Football Club. And while he couldn’t exactly go shopping, watch a match or go for a run – he’d been besieged by paparazzi when he had popped out for a packet of cigarettes – it still felt more like home than LA had ever done.

He felt a pang of regret at how he had neglected his birth city in the pursuit of fame. When he had moved to LA seven years ago to star in a short-lived pilot for ABC, he had promised himself he would return to London every three months. But as time slipped by, and he got bigger, more successful, there seemed increasingly little reason to do so. His parents had both died a decade earlier, which had severed his greatest tie with the country, whilst he had less and less in common with his old friends from the capital’s acting circuit, most of whom had disappeared into non-acting jobs whilst they were ‘resting’ from their sporadic theatre and soap-opera gigs.

‘I’ll just get this in the oven and then we can get back to work,’ said Mike breezily. ‘How have you got on this morning?’ he went on as he busied himself at the stove. ‘Any blinding inspiration?’

‘A few ideas,’ said Sam, smiling.

‘Ah-ha!’ said Mike, pointing at him with his spatula. ‘I knew it. You’ve come up with something good, haven’t you? I can see it on your face.’

It was true. The one good thing to come out of all this mess was the two-man show that Mike and Sam had decided to do for the Edinburgh Festival. The two men had arrived back in London within hours of each other, and had got to work on the script immediately. Predictably, Mike had come up with a dozen brilliant gags and situations. But slowly Sam had found that he was having his own ideas – ideas that were actually making Mike laugh. So far they had written dozens of gags and set pieces, many of them Sam’s, send-ups of their status as fallen stars.

The project had distracted Sam from the savage reviews for Robotics, which had taken three million bucks in its opening weekend; great box office for a small indie movie but a disaster for a major studio summer release. Jim Parker was being bullish out in LA, but Sam could tell that the scripts and offers had stopped coming, and Eli was talking about making a shift over to TV. ‘Look at Glenn Close, and Forest Whitaker in The Shield,’ he said. ‘They had Emmys coming out the wazoo. We get you something like that, we can write our own ticket when you go back to the studios.’ When you go back. Was it really all over already?

But if Hollywood was closing its door to him, why shouldn’t he go back to doing the thing that, looking back, had made him most excited? The early days of his career. The buzz from the stage after a live performance. Okay, so Mike’s comic genius had overshadowed him back in uni days, but things were different now – actually, he and Mike were on level pegging: the world saw them both as massive f*ck-ups.

Scripting the Edinburgh show was hard work, but he was enjoying it more than anything he’d done in years, and best of all, he wasn’t doing it as a career move; he was doing it for fun, for the hell of it, to help Mike out – whatever. But still, there was a nagging thought . . .

‘So did you make the call to the Hummingbird Club?’ asked Mike, chopping an onion.

‘Not yet,’ Sam replied vaguely.

‘Why not? The festival’s already bloody started. We’ll have to pitch up at the bottom of Arthur’s Seat and perform there at this rate.’

‘You should do it.’

‘Why? Your name opens doors.’

‘I think we should keep my involvement under wraps. Until the gig starts anyway.’

‘What for?’

‘Because it could get hairy. Hecklers, press.’

‘I see your point.’

‘But what if no one comes?’ he asked suddenly. ‘What if they come and walk out?’

‘Thanks, mate. I know I’m not a big draw any more, but still . . .’

‘This isn’t about you. It’s about me. Trouble is following me around at the moment. Jess believes in karma, and maybe there’s something in it. I’ve been a bastard. The way I treated Jessica. Firing that lawyer, who, to be fair, probably hadn’t done anything wrong. I didn’t even treat you properly. When you had your breakdown I should have flown over, brought you back to LA. But no, I was filming in Queensland. If no one comes to the show, it’s what I deserve.’

Mike put his knife down.

‘So what?’ he said. ‘So what if no one comes to the show so long as we enjoy it? You’ve got enough money to last ten lifetimes. For me, this is just a holiday from Eigan.’

‘But it will be embarrassing,’ said Sam uncomfortably.

‘No it won’t. You’re just missing the thought of an adoring crowd, people laughing hysterically at every word you say.’

‘No I’m not.’

‘You are,’ laughed Mike. ‘You’ve been seduced. And right now is a chance to stop this silly life you’ve been sucked into.’

‘What silly life?’ Sam replied, affronted.

‘Look at you, mate. Your three-hundred-dollar haircuts. Your waxed chest. Your concierge on speed-dial. Where does it stop, Sam? A facelift at forty, a Pekinese dog on the passenger seat of your Aston? A circle of friends, an entourage, that you pay for?’ Mike shook his head. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I know being a celebrity can be a really great gig sometimes. The free stuff. I especially liked the free stuff. But it turns your head, mate. Turns it away from all the important stuff. You should be hanging out with people you have a connection with. Not people who are connected. Doing work that you feel passionate about, not stuff that pays the biggest cheque.’

‘You’re right,’ said Sam, thinking about the string of bad, soul-destroying rom-coms he’d made, compared to the thrill of appearing at the National Theatre for the first time.

‘Mate, this is the best thing that could have happened to you. Sometimes when you hit rock bottom – and in this penthouse flat I’d say you’re hardly there – when you come up for air, it’s in calmer, less shallow water.’

Sam’s phone was ringing.

‘I’d better take it,’ he muttered.

For a moment, he didn’t recognise the plummy voice on the other end of the line.

‘Helen Pierce,’ she prompted.

‘Oh, Helen, sorry. I was miles away. How are you?’

‘Well, thank you. And how are you, Sam? I enjoyed Robotics.’

‘You saw it?’

‘Yes, I took my nephew. It was wonderful.’

Sam smiled to himself. He would put money on the fact that Helen Pierce didn’t even have a nephew, and if she did, they would not enjoy a movie that had been universally panned by the critics. Then again, Helen Pierce was part of his entourage; one of the sycophants and yes-men who agreed with everything he said and thought everything he did was fabulous.

‘So, Helen . . .’

‘Just a heads-up about a story that was going to print about your latest house guest.’

Sam frowned.

‘My mate Mike.’

‘Well, the Bugle were going to splash with “Sam Charles Moves Hunky Male into Chelsea Penthouse”. You can see where that story was heading. Fortunately we managed to head it off at the pass.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What is Mike there for?’

Sam had no intention of telling the lawyer about their proposed Edinburgh show. Word would get back to Jim and Eli, both of whom knew nothing about it on the grounds that they would vigorously oppose it.

‘Just a holiday.’

‘Very good. Anyway. We should meet. Have a catch-up while you’re in town.’

‘How’s Anna Kennedy?’ he asked suddenly as the female lawyer sprang into his head without warning.

‘Fine.’

Sam looked at Mike, then walked into the bedroom to continue the call.

‘I want to apologise to her,’ he said. ‘I went a little over the top. I was rude. Very rude, in fact.’

‘It’s not necessary,’ said Helen coolly. ‘You’re our client. You were dissatisfied. These things happen. You know how sorry I am for the way she dealt with it. She was suitably reprimanded.’

‘Is she in the office today? I should say hello.’

‘She’s busy at court.’

‘Could you give me her mobile number?’

‘She’ll be busy.’

‘Well, for later then.’

Helen sighed. ‘Very well. I’m sure she’ll be very relieved to hear from you.’

Sam peered out of the window, watching as the silvery curve of the Thames snaked away below them. Sloping away to the left of the road was a long green hill; beyond that, water meadows running down to the river.

Anna certainly lived in one of London’s smartest areas, he thought, surprised that he had never noticed how beautiful the city was before. Idly he wondered if he should have chosen a more sedate, stable career like the law. He could see that his acting skills – such as they were – might come in useful in a courtroom, but he was useless on the details, and that was everything in the law, wasn’t it?

They turned off the main road into a network of residential streets, dozens of tiny chocolate-box cottages crammed together. On the corner of one was a cute little deli-cum-general-store, and for a second he wondered if he should take her anything. Flowers? Bottle of wine? As Mike had pointed out, he had a concierge service on speed-dial; he felt sure they could get an albino peacock delivered to Anna’s house if he asked them to.

However he did it, apologising to Miss Kennedy had suddenly become important to him. He’d never believed in Jessica’s New Age claptrap before now, but it was worth a shot. Treating people a bit better might bring a turnaround in his own luck.

‘Here we are, sir,’ said the driver. ‘You want me to wait?’

Sam looked up at the little cottage with the wisteria climbing around the door, wondering what sort of reception he was about to get.

‘Yeah, better had,’ he said, climbing out.

He paused on the path, glancing left and right.

‘Don’t worry. The coast is clear,’ said a voice.

Sam looked up in alarm. Anna Kennedy was standing in her doorway, a wry grin on her face.

‘No paparazzi in Richmond,’ she said. ‘Too posh and refined for that.’

Smiling, Sam walked up the path, but Anna didn’t move aside to let him in.

‘I was surprised to get your call,’ she said slowly.

‘I wanted to come and apologise for the way I treated you after the injunction,’ said Sam in a rush.

‘Well I wasn’t fired. Not by Donovan Pierce, anyway.’

‘I was feeling emotional,’ he said to justify his sacking of the young lawyer.

‘I would have done the same.’

‘I bet you would. Feisty little thing like you takes no messing, I bet.’

They grinned at each other and his shoulders slumped in relief.

‘Want to come in? I’ve just got home. About to open a bottle of wine.’

‘If you’ve got beer, you’ve twisted my arm.’

Sam stepped into her living room. It was like a little box. He thought back to his spacious five-thousand-square-foot Hollywood home, and wondered how anyone could live in such a tiny space.

The kitchen led off the living room through foldback wooden doors. Anna poured them both a beer and handed him a glass, perching on a stool at her breakfast bar.

‘So how’s things?’

‘Career on the skids, a gay lover moving into my house . . .’

‘Really?’

‘Not really. About the lover, anyway. I have my mate staying with me and the press have found another angle.’

‘I heard about the arrest,’ said Anna.

‘Yeah. Me – the hard man of Hollywood.’

‘You should get off. Aren’t Stein and Kotter repping you in New York? They’re really good.’

‘Should we go outside?’ he said distractedly. ‘It looks like a little sun-trap out there.’

She led him out to her courtyard garden, where the early-evening sun warmed his face. He felt as if he was on a first date in some pretty country pub, an idea that somehow excited him.

They sat for a while, watching a pair of yellow butterflies spiral around a lavender plant.

‘So what are you doing back in London?’

‘Can I tell you a secret?’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’ She smiled.

‘I’m putting on a show. A comedy show, with my friend Mike McKenzie.’

He was surprised at himself for telling her, especially when he had kept his plans so under wraps from Helen Pierce.

‘Mike McKenzie the comedian?’ said Anna, her eyes wide. ‘I love him! I went to see his stand-up show at Wembley. I had all the videos and everything. Such a shame he gave it all up.’

‘Well he’s back.’ Sam puffed out his cheeks, feeling a rush of dread race through his body. It was the first time he had told anyone about his plan with Mike, and it was almost as if saying it out loud had made it real.

‘Amazing,’ she said, looking genuinely excited. ‘So what is it? A two-man show?’

‘Two men and their gags. It’s so far out of my comfort zone, it’s not even funny. To think I have entered into this arrangement willingly.’

‘I think it’s a great idea.’

‘I know you’re paid to be nice to me, but if you think it’s a crap idea, then I want to know.’

‘It’s a radical change in direction, but that’s why it’s so clever and exciting.’

Her words, spoken so bluntly, her expression, so sincere and open, fortified him.

‘What about you? I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble after what happened.’

She suddenly looked distracted. She sipped her beer, and when she looked at him again, it was with her usual can-do efficiency.

‘I’m glad you came,’ she said finally. ‘I want to talk to you about that. The injunction.’

Sam waved a hand. ‘It’s old news. Let’s just get pissed and pretend we’re back in Capri.’

‘I think you might have been set up,’ she replied flatly.

He pulled away from the table in disbelief.

‘What? Katie Grey was a set-up?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well what do you know?’ he said, leaning back in.

‘Wait there.’

He watched her disappear back into the cottage, returning with a bundle of documents, which she spread out over the table.

‘Newspaper cuttings?’ he said, puzzled. ‘But not about me.’

‘For a change.’ She smiled.

She had beautiful hands, he noticed, as she traced a long finger over the newsprint.

‘They’re about the death of a model called Amy Hart.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘You won’t have.’

‘So she died falling down the stairs,’ Sam said, leaning closer to Anna to read the text.

‘Found six months ago at her apartment with her neck broken. It was an open verdict at her inquest. Her sister maintains lots of little things don’t add up.’

‘So what’s this got to do with my injunction?’ he asked, frowning.

‘The inquest was held on the same day as your story came out in the press. Consequently it went unreported. Convenient, don’t you think, considering Amy Hart’s love life?’

‘What love life?’

‘Before she died, she dated a soap actor called Ryan Jones.’

‘So?’

‘Ryan Jones was one of Blake Stanhope’s clients.’

Sam looked up with interest. ‘Now that is a coincidence.’

‘I thought it was odd. But I met Ryan and I think he barely knew Amy. I did some digging and he was filming in Wales the week she died. He didn’t have anything to do with her death, I’m sure of it. At first I thought Blake Stanhope was covering for him, but a job like that would be expensive. Too big, too expensive for Ryan Jones.’

She looked up at Sam, big limpid eyes searching his.

‘But Blake acts for more heavyweight people too. Politicians, billionaires, big, rich companies. Under-the-radar stuff. Big-money reputation-management jobs. He’s not just in the business of brokering stories. He hides them too.’

‘So what else was Amy up to?’ Sam asked with a raised eyebrow.

‘According to one of her friends, she was having an affair with a high-profile MP.’

‘Who you think got in touch with Stanhope to hush it up?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s possible. We both know that the truth isn’t always what we read in the newspapers. Sometimes, what we see in the media is what someone somewhere wants us to know.’

He viewed her carefully. The serious expression, the sober blue dress, the flash of red lipstick, which gave her – he found his mind wandering – a touch of the bad-girl look. From the getgo he’d found Anna Kennedy the sort of pretty, sensible bluestocking girl he hadn’t met since he’d joined the May Ball committee at university to score. But now she was beginning to sound like some conspiracy theorist. Still, who was he to spoil a nice evening in the sun? He looked at the red lips again and decided to run with it.

‘This MP. You don’t think he killed her, do you?’

‘Probably not. More likely he doesn’t want the embarrassment of having a dead glamour girl on his hands. It’s not exactly career gold, is it?’

‘So the MP needs a smokescreen. Stanhope leaks one story at the same time he covers another one up. Paid twice for the same job, eh? Even my agent couldn’t sort something like that.’

He was beginning to feel pulled in by her story.

‘Who is this MP?’

‘Gilbert Bryce.’

‘Who?’

‘I know. Not exactly the Prime Minister. But look . . .’ She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Here’s a list of all the select committees he’s on.’

Sam looked at it, and suddenly Anna’s wild theory didn’t seem quite so crazy. Defence acquisition, energy resources, aerospace development, foreign tax policy – it was as if he had deliberately picked the committees that would give him influence over the wealthiest people in the country. Sam had no idea whether this man was corrupt or not, but he was certainly in a position where he could be involved with bribes and favours.

‘Even if this is all true, how are you going to catch Stanhope out?’ he asked, intrigued. ‘I know you’re after him for contempt of court, but how are you going to do that? I suppose the News online editor and Scandalhound haven’t fessed up.’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘We have some investigators we use, but they cost money we have to sign off to a client.’

He looked at her playfully. ‘So, you want me for my money. Wouldn’t be the first.’

‘And I want to speak to Gilbert.’

‘Can’t help you there, love. Brad Pitt I could introduce you to. MPs aren’t on my Rolodex, though.’

‘Well my ex is a broadsheet journalist. He owes me a few favours.’

Her face tightened at the mention of her lover. He suspected there was a story there as good as the yarn she’d just told him.

‘Don’t you want to know?’ she said, touching the top of his hand. ‘Don’t you want to know if you were stitched up to cover up for what someone did to Amy? Not just for you, but for her.’

He wasn’t sure he did. After all, the horse had bolted. Whatever Blake Stanhope had or had not done to cover up the wrongdoings of some MP didn’t matter any more, because the damage to his life – or blessing in disguise – had been done. And yet as he watched Anna’s face, her soft scarlet bottom lip trembling with anticipation, he felt an electric rush of panic that he might never see her again unless he helped her.

‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he said suddenly. ‘Let’s look into it a bit more. I can pay for the investigator. Whatever you want.’

She grinned at him and gathered up her papers, and for a moment Sam felt like Jack Bauer. He was already so far out of his comfort zone, what did it matter if he was off on another left-field adventure?