Private Lives

2



At any other time, Sam Charles would have thought he had woken up in heaven. Lying on his back in a soft, warm bed, crisp cotton sheets against his skin, he could feel a gorgeous swelling, lapping sensation around his cock.

‘Mmm . . .’ he moaned, receiving a similar murmur from under the sheets. His mouth curled into a grin. God, a good-morning blowjob; how long had it been since he’d had one of those? Jessica must have . . .

‘Shit . . .’ he gasped, sitting up too suddenly, sending lights flashing across his vision. He pushed himself up against the headboard – a headboard, he suddenly realised, he had never seen before – and looked down into the green eyes of a very pretty redhead, her expression poised somewhere between amused and seductive.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ she asked.

‘No. Yes,’ he stuttered, looking around the room for clues, something, anything familiar to tell him where he was.

‘Sorry,’ she purred, disappearing back under the covers. ‘I’ll try harder.’

‘Please, that’s very nice, but . . .’ He eased himself away from her and shuffled crab-like out of the bed. ‘Just going to the bathroom. I’ll only be a minute.’

He backed towards the en suite and shut the door behind him.

‘F*ck,’ he whispered to himself, sinking down on to the edge of the bath, his head in his hands. ‘F*ckity f*ckity f*ck.’ This couldn’t be happening. He was engaged to Jessica Carr, the billion-dollar girl-next-door actress, America’s sweetheart, the girl every woman wanted to be and every man wanted to sleep with. And that girl out there, the one with the luscious, lovely lips, she most certainly wasn’t Jessica.

How the hell did I get here? His brain was like sludge and he had a world-class headache. He could remember how the night had begun: presenting the Rising Talent gong at the Rive magazine awards ceremony at the Royal Opera House. So far, so respectable. Then there had been the after-show party at Shoreditch House. He was pretty sure he’d behaved himself there too. But beyond that, he could remember very little.

He grabbed a cardboard notice from the sink, one of those unconvincing announcements about how the hotel was single-handedly saving the planet one towel at a time. The Thomas Hotel, he read. Not one he’d ever heard of before. Probably the nearest one they could find. Oh God, oh God. Why?

Actually, he knew the answer to that one only too well. His fiancée might be the most lusted-after woman in Hollywood, but like most things in Tinseltown, she was all smoke and mirrors. Jessica didn’t get that amazing slim figure without endless lipo, Botox, spray-tan and boxercise. Sometimes she worked out for four hours a day, more if they were coming up to awards season. Sam could see her now, lying out on her side of the bed in her frumpy towelling robe, frozen in position as she did some ridiculous Pilates exercise, shooing him away as he tried to kiss her. ‘My nails, Sam’, ‘My hair’s just been done’, ‘I’ve got a six o’clock call’: there was always some reason to push him away. Not that any of that gave him an excuse for cowering in the bathroom of some fleapit hotel in . . . he looked at the towel notice again. The Thomas, Fitzrovia. At least he wasn’t too far from home.

‘Sam?’ called a lazy, sexy voice from the bedroom. ‘You coming?’

He shook his head. If only.

‘Just a minute.’

He splashed cold water on to his face and looked into the mirror. His expensively cut dark blond hair stuck up in tufts. His famous bright blue eyes were bloodshot. Well, you’re looking fantastic, he thought sarcastically. No one would have known he was Britain’s hottest actor, not to mention one half of one of Hollywood’s premier power couples.

He stuck out his tongue. It looked grey and mottled, like a steak left in the fridge three days too long. How much had he drunk last night? He squinted, trying to remember, but all he could see was two still images, frozen in his mind: a tray of shot glasses filled with something sparkly, and some idiot sliding across the floor on his knees. He looked down at the grazes on his skin. That’ll have been me, then.

Taking a deep breath, he wrapped a towel around his waist, mentally preparing a speech. Terrible mistake, not your fault, must go, important meeting, that sort of thing. But then he opened the door and there she was, lying stretched out on the bed. Long legs, firm, curvy. Not that horrible stringy LA version of femininity, all sinew and balloon tits. This was a real woman’s body, ripe and fleshy. He could feel himself stirring back to life. Down, boy. He looked away and puffed out his cheeks.

‘Listen, uh . . .’

‘Katie,’ she said with a half-smile.

‘Yes, Katie. Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go. We overslept and I’ve got . . . a thing.’

She nodded and smiled.

‘Last night was lovely, though, wasn’t it?’

I bet, he thought, looking longingly at her body. He felt bad about hurting her feelings, but a maid could walk in at any moment. He knew how often staff in swish hotels tipped off the newspapers about what they saw.

For all he knew, there could be paparazzi waiting outside the room right now; maybe Katie had set the whole thing up.

‘It was lovely,’ he said honestly as he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘But it shouldn’t have happened. I have a girlfriend; a fiancée, actually.’ He paused. ‘So how indiscreet were we last night?’

‘Quite discreet actually.’ She smiled. ‘Although when you tried to skateboard on your knees, some people might have said you were trying to draw attention to yourself.’

‘Was that at Shoreditch House?’ He wondered how many people might have witnessed it.

‘Shoreditch House?’

‘Wasn’t that where we met?’

She looked confused. ‘We met at Ed’s house party. In Soho.’

Ed? Who’s Ed?

‘Don’t worry, Sam. I’m not asking to marry you,’ she said, planting feathery kisses on the curve of his neck.

He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling with the devil whispering in his ear: after all, he’d already cheated – well, probably, sort of – so why not go in for another round? He had plenty of friends who screwed around, especially in Hollywood. Not just with other women – wives of their directors, fans, the make-up girls on set – but with men too. At the all-male spas in West Hollywood, at networking parties. He’d listen to them boast about it and laugh along, but he’d think to himself, you poor saps. He wasn’t like that. Well you are now, aren’t you?

Katie ran her finger down his shoulder.

‘Can’t you just stay for half an hour?’

He was tempted. And not only because her hard nipples were rubbing against his arm. The truth was, he was lonely. Three hundred days of the year he was in bed alone. At any one time he and Jessica were in different parts of the world, shooting films or hopping from city to city on promo junkets, answering the same inane questions about their relationship. Yes, we’ve been together for four years; no, we haven’t set a date just yet. And yes, we’re still madly in love.

‘Sorry. I wish I could,’ he said truthfully. In another time, another life, he would have crawled back under the duvet, ordered room service, then maybe taken her out for dinner, cocktails. Had a normal conversation about music or art or just swapped a few jokes. She seemed like the sort of fun, feisty girl he used to go for before everything became about work, even his love life.

‘I understand, don’t worry,’ she sighed, reaching for her dress, casually thrown over a chair. ‘Listen, do you want me to pay the bill? I realise it might be a bit . . . sticky for you.’

Sam instantly felt a surge of guilt for wondering if she was some kiss-and-tell set-up, closely followed by relief and the glimmer of hope that he might actually get away with this indiscretion. He pulled out his wallet and handed her some crumpled bills.

‘Thanks, Katie, that should cover the bill and a taxi to get you home. I feel awful about doing this to you.’

She smiled, slipping her knickers on under the folds of her dress. ‘No worries.’ Her eyes met his. ‘You’re lucky, you know.’

‘Oh, I know that.’ He couldn’t resist smiling wolfishly.

‘No, I mean to have the problem of getting out of a hotel without anyone seeing. Must be nice being that successful.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Sam, pulling on his own clothes. ‘It can be a complete pain in the arse sometimes, being constantly followed by the paparazzi, having them go through your bins. At least that’s what it’s like when I’m with Jess. Without her they seem a little less interested.’

‘Sounds like a fair trade to me,’ said Katie. ‘The money, the fame, getting to do something you love.’

‘I guess,’ he said, knowing he sounded ungrateful.

‘What’s your secret?’

He shrugged. ‘Right place, right time, I guess. As you say, I was lucky.’

‘Well, do you think you could give me your rabbit’s foot? The luck has eluded me so far.’

He frowned at her. He had the vague sense that he should understand what she was talking about, as if they’d already had this conversation.

Catching his blank expression, she rolled her eyes.

‘You really don’t remember much about last night at all, do you?’

He pulled a face.

‘I can remember something about tequila.’

‘Ah. Well, we spent a long time talking before you turned into Mr Disco. About how I’m trying to make it as an actress?’

Another flash of memory. The two of them singing Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’ in the corridor of the hotel.

‘Didn’t you go on X Factor?’

‘No!’ she said, slapping him playfully on the arm. ‘I went to Guildhall for three years.’

‘Ah. Sorry.’

He looked at her with sympathy. Now he understood what she was talking about; it hadn’t been so long since he was exactly where she was. Desperate for anyone to help him, take notice, give him a leg up.

Had she seduced him? No – he was pretty sure that after a bucketful of tequila, he’d have come back to this hotel very willingly. And anyway, he could hardly blame her. However talented you were, everyone needed a little luck. Sam had got his own break when he’d met Sir Andrew Kerr, an RSC actor, in a café just behind St Martin’s Lane. He’d known Andrew was gay and almost certainly interested in him sexually – the decent thing to do would have been to let him down gently when he invited him out for dinner. But he didn’t. Neither did he refuse to go on to a party and a club afterwards. The proposition from Sir Andrew, when it had finally come, several weeks and nights out later, had been rebuffed politely, and accepted with grace. But by this point Andrew had introduced his dazzlingly good-looking new protégé to a powerful inner circle of agents, producers and directors. And Sam had ruthlessly used the contacts to climb the ladder. A couple of years ago he’d bumped into Sir Andrew at the BAFTAs and the old man had been heartbreakingly decent about it. ‘An actor must do what an actor must do,’ he had said, offering Sam a brandy. ‘It’s all for our art, dear boy.’

He looked at Katie as she tied back her russet hair. She really was beautiful, and that body was sensational. If there were any justice in the world, she would be a huge star. But Sam knew he couldn’t help her in the way Sir Andrew had helped him. Getting texts or phone calls from a gorgeous starlet really wouldn’t help his already strained relationship with Jessica. Even so, he felt terrible leaving it like this.

‘Why don’t you give me your number?’ he said finally. ‘Maybe I can get my manager to sort something out.’

‘Yes, thanks for phoning him. I appreciate it.’

‘I’ve phoned him already?’ He laughed nervously.

Katie pulled out an amateur-looking business card.

‘And here’s my number. In case you ever hear of a director wanting a hot, classically trained redhead.’

Without thinking, he reciprocated the gesture.

His phone began to buzz – a cue to move.

‘Listen, I’d better be off,’ he said. She moved in to kiss him, but he jumped up and made for the door. ‘I’ll definitely be in touch,’ he added, holding up her card. ‘And it was lovely.’

He slipped out of the room, cringing at the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and walked quickly down the corridor. His mobile was still ringing, but the screen read ‘Withheld number’. Jessica? Possible, but unlikely. She was filming in Boston, and it would be the middle of the night on the East Coast. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time she had called to check up on him.

‘Ah sod it,’ he whispered and pressed ‘Accept’.

‘I hope you’ve been behaving yourself!’

Sam’s heart leapt into his mouth, before he realised that the voice was male.

‘Eli?’ he said, relief flooding in. His manager, Eli Cohen. No-nonsense, old-school, unshockable. Even so, Sam wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be on the end of one of Eli’s talking-tos.

‘Of course it’s me, ya schmuck,’ growled Eli. ‘Who the hell else d’ya think?’

‘Where are you?’

‘New York.’

‘Why are you calling me at this time? It must be five a.m. where you are.’

‘I’m an early riser. Especially when my favourite client is phoning me in the middle of the night to tell me he’s found the new Rita Hayworth, giggling like some lovestruck college kid. Is there anything I should know about?’

Straight to the point, like a surrogate father. Sam winced.

‘What do you mean?’ he said, doing his best to sound innocent. He felt guilty lying to Eli, but he didn’t want to make this situation any bigger than it had to be.

‘What do I mean? When you call at three a.m. London time, raving about some hot chick, I gotta worry what I’m gonna read in the papers.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Sam, as he reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘I was presenting this Rising Talent award, remember? One particular girl stood out.’

Eli grunted. He didn’t sound convinced.

‘So you’re sure you don’t have anything to tell me?’

‘No! I’m trying to help young actors!’

His voice echoed around the concrete stairwell.

‘Whatever you say. Just keep your dick in your trousers, kid. It’s not worth it.’

Sam felt himself flush.

‘Stop worrying. Look, I’ve got to go. Talk later, all right?’

He eased open the door to the lobby and scuttled out through a side door, gasping as the sunlight hit him, scrabbling his sunglasses from his jacket. He forced himself to walk slowly, nonchalantly. Just a normal hotel guest out for a morning stroll, scanning the opposite pavement for paparazzi. Nothing: that was something at least. Even better, a black cab was approaching and he raised his arm to flag it.

‘Chelsea Harbour, please.’

Sam had told the truth when Katie had asked about his fame. For a while it had been amazing, brilliant, the best job in the world, but lately it had begun to wear him down. Slumped in the back of a cab, however, he was glad that fame and money had bought him his discreet pied-à-terre by the river. In a few minutes he would be safe inside and he could put this horrible incident behind him.

‘Hey,’ said the cabby as they moved out into traffic. ‘Aren’t you that actor, wassissname?’

‘I wish,’ said Sam, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose. ‘I get that all the time.’ He could see the cabby looking thoughtful in his rear-view mirror.

‘Sam Charles. That’s his name,’ he said finally. ‘Done really well for himself that one, eh? That girlfriend of his, Jessica whatnot. She’s a cracker, she is. Wouldn’t mind being shacked up with her, eh. Eh?’ he said, turning round for his passenger’s approval.

‘Yeah,’ said Sam, looking out of the window to the world beyond his gilded cage. ‘I bet that would be brilliant.’