Private Lives

50



‘Are you out of your friggin’ mind?’

Sam had seen Jim Parker angry before; in fact it was almost his default setting. He’d once seen his agent grab a waiter by the throat for bringing him the wrong brand of bottled water, and with Sam in the car he’d rammed his Porsche into the back of another expensive sports car he believed had taken his parking space. But Sam had never seen him this worked up before.

‘This is f*cking insane, Sam!’ he said, stalking over to his office window and looking down on to the traffic of Wilshire Boulevard. ‘Why d’you want to throw away years of hard work? You need to see a shrink, get laid, something, ’cos you sure ain’t thinking straight.’ He threw a rubber stress ball against the wall. ‘Jesus, we’re talking f*cking millions here.’

Of course, Sam hadn’t really expected his agent to do back-flips when he announced he was leaving LA for London to work on a comedy script. On the face of it, it was crazy. Even with the current black mark against him, Sam still had a profile, a track record and a certain notoriety, and with an agent of Jim’s influence, there was always a good chance of finding someone prepared to put him in a great movie. But Sam simply had no interest in going back to all that.

‘Jim, you should have been there,’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘That gig in Edinburgh was just incredible. The intimacy of it all, the connection with the crowd. It was like theatre but better.’

His agent sniffed. ‘Well maybe I could have experienced this transcendental happening if you’d thought to mention you were doing it. Imagine how frickin’ dumb I felt when the phone is ringing red hot with people wanting to talk about your Edinburgh show and I’m like “What show?”’

Sam placed his hands together.

‘I’m sorry about that. But I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d talk me out of it. Sometimes I have to make my own decisions, you know.’

‘Sure, and what great choices you’ve been making lately,’ Jim sneered. ‘Cheating on Jess, battering a photographer. Not to mention like three or four separate disappearing acts.’

‘This is what I want, Jim.’ Sam’s voice was low, controlled, his eyes locking with the agent’s. He could have reminded Jim who was in charge, who employed whom, but that would only have riled him further. Sam still needed him on side.

‘Okay, if you really want to connect with your audience, I can get you something major on Broadway,’ said Jim, exhaling sharply. ‘Arthur Miller, Mamet, some shit like that. To be honest, it might not be a bad idea. With the right play, director, you’re looking at a Tony, no question.’

Sam placed his hands flat on Jim’s desk.

‘I don’t care about a Tony Award and I don’t care about Broadway. I want to write. Those people in Edinburgh thought I was funny, Jim. They were laughing at my words, not just at the way I delivered a line.’

‘Of course they found you funny,’ snorted his agent. ‘They were drunk. They were laughing at you. Schadenfreude, my friend. The movie star reduced to some dick-end hole in the middle of nowhere.’

Not for the first time, Sam thought about firing Jim. Right then he could have told him where to take his ten per cent and shove it. But Jim Parker was the best – a savvy and ruthless power broker who made millions for himself and his clients. At thirty-five he was already being talked about as the new Mike Ovitz; whispers were he was making a pitch for the CEO job at his agency, MTA, and if the board were fool enough not to give it to him, Sam felt sure he would end up running a studio by forty. Jim Parker was not a man you wanted as your enemy.

‘Look, Jim,’ said Sam in a more conciliatory tone, ‘I’m not saying I don’t ever want to make a studio movie again. I just want to take a little time out.’

‘And do what?’ said Jim. ‘Pretend you’re twenty-three again? You’ve made it, kiddo. You make eight million bucks a picture. You’ve done all the hard work already. No more sucking cock and brown-nosing a*sholes to get some shitty walk-on. You don’t have to do all that crap again, capisce?’

Sam frowned.

‘This isn’t about money, Jim. It’s about re-prioritising. Changing pace. Getting back to grass roots.’

The agent looked at him aghast.

‘Grass roots? You really think you can go back? You’re not one of them any more, Sammy.’

‘But I can be, Jim. I need to. None of this’ – he gestured around Jim’s plush office – ‘none of it is real. I want to find myself again.’

Jim threw his hands up in frustration.

‘Sam, you want to get f*cking real. You gonna sell up the place in the Hills and the cars and the jet? You gonna give it all to some orphanage? No? Then you ain’t never gonna be “real” like those stiffs down there on the street. You might have this romantic f*cking little illusion going on in your head, but you can’t go back. You can’t become unfamous. Life has changed for you. Permanently.’

Sam shook his head. He knew there was a certain amount of truth in what Jim was saying – he couldn’t erase the last ten years and go to work in a butcher’s, hoping that no one would ever mention his former life – but he was exaggerating. People stopped being famous all the time, moved on to other things, other places, otherwise Hollywood would be the biggest, most crowded city on earth.

‘Anyway, you want to write a script, why d’you have to go to London to do it? We’ll get you a place out at the beach, that way you can still take meetings.’

Sam was starting to get aggravated by Jim’s refusal to see that something had changed in his life.

‘I like it in London,’ he said firmly. ‘Being here a few days has reminded me of that.’

Jim looked at him shrewdly.

‘You f*cking some girl there now?’

Sam needed every bit of his acting skill not to betray himself.

‘No,’ he said, feeling disloyal. ‘And anyway, Jim, this is not for ever. I just want to try out a few options.’

Jim’s mouth curled in distaste.

‘You leave this town, I can’t keep you hot.’

‘Don’t exaggerate,’ said Sam. ‘Look at Demi Moore. Disappears to her ranch for a few years, comes back, bags Kutch, they’re the new King and Queen of Hollywood.’

‘With respect, Demi didn’t leave town with the baggage you’ve got.’

Sam took a deep breath.

‘Look, remember when we had that council of war at my place in England? You said that we needed the right vehicle for me to get back in the game. A really great rom-com – that was your idea, you even said I should write it. It was a great idea, Jim, and now’s my chance to do it.’

Jim pouted, thinking it over.

‘You got a plan?’ he said, looking at Sam sideways.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s a cracker. I think it’s got sleeper hit written all over it.’ This was an out-and-out lie, but he couldn’t admit to Jim that his Big Idea consisted of a few illegible notes he’d scribbled on the back of the in-flight magazine on his way into LAX.

‘Well I guess Sly Stallone wrote Rocky in a fortnight,’ said Jim, rubbing his chin. ‘Take the rest of the summer off and we’ll talk again when you’ve got something.’

Sam stood up eagerly, thrusting his hand out to shake. ‘Thanks, Jim, it means a lot to have you on side.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Jim, waving him away. ‘Don’t start getting all kissy on me, it’s only a f*cking script.’

Sam walked towards the door, a spring in his step.

‘Hey, Sammy,’ said Jim. ‘This shit better be funny. Because if it’s not, you’re not going to be able to get a job scooping poop on Santa Monica Beach.’

No pressure, then, thought Sam. But as he walked out into the sunshine, he felt as if someone had given him wings. No more red carpets, no more schmoozing studio heads, no more bloody Hollywood. He was free.