Private Lives

61



Despite the bucolic surroundings of his country estate, Sam Charles was feeling thoroughly miserable. He walked down from the house, kicking listlessly at stones on the winding path through the gardens. It was a perfect summer’s day, with a cloudless pebble-blue sky and the smell of cut grass coming from the striped lawns. The gardener had also made a fine job of tidying up the flower beds, and in the soft sunshine, the bright sunflowers and nodding delphiniums looked like a display from the Chelsea Flower Show. Yet Sam couldn’t find pleasure in any of it; he was determined to wallow in self-pity, however cheerful the world looked. The source of his dark mood – as ever, he thought bitterly – was women. Specifically, one woman: Anna Kennedy. He had assumed that a down-to-earth lawyer might be easier to work out than his previous actress girlfriends. But clearly not. She was neurotic, paranoid and completely baffling. As least you knew where you stood with actresses like Jessica; you just needed to shower them with constant attention, gifts and compliments and agree with everything they said. But Anna was at the opposite end of the spectrum: fiercely independent and apparently impervious to flattery and Sam’s not inconsiderable charm.

I mean, what right-minded woman wouldn’t want to come and spend the weekend at a luxurious Wiltshire manor with me? thought Sam, pulling the head off a flower as he walked past. After all, he’d thought his fledgling romance with Anna was going so well. He’d certainly been pulling the stops out – calling when he said he would, inviting her to Provence after she had won that libel trial. So when he’d asked her to come to Wiltshire for the weekend after their trip to Mougins, he had assumed that she would jump at the chance of spending the bank holiday in his bed. Instead she had made some vague excuses about having to work.

Of course, Sam did suspect she was still miffed from their argument in the restaurant – and yes, perhaps his suggestion that the only reason he had helped her with the Amy Hart case was because he fancied her hadn’t helped much – but he knew the real reason she’d turned him down was to attend James Swann’s party.

A cabbage white butterfly flitted across the path and Sam threw the flower head at it. Amy bloody Hart. He just couldn’t understand why Anna cared so much about some dead party girl. No, correction: he couldn’t understand why she cared more about Amy Hart than about him.

He walked over to the grass tennis court, hidden in the shade of a large spreading copper beech. Setting up the ball machine, he took a spot on the opposite baseline and practised his forehand, slamming each ball angrily yet accurately across court. Then, feeling a little better, he sat down on a wooden bench, wiping his face with a cold towel he pulled from the little ice box next to his seat.

Why am I even bothering with a woman at this point in my life? he thought, leaning his head back to look up through the branches and leaves of the tree. Yes, Anna Kennedy was a great girl, smart, very sexy, but she was definitely too uptight for him. And yet . . . and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about how lovely she’d looked in that blue dress in Provence. How great she smelled, how enthusiastic she was when he’d told her about his script ideas. He’d never met a woman who was so supportive on the one hand, but so single-minded about what she wanted to do. Sam just couldn’t work her out one bit, and that possibly added to her appeal.

Sighing, he reached back into the little fridge and cracked open a bottle of cold lemonade. Just then, his mobile phone began vibrating in his pocket. Tutting, he pulled it out.

‘Yes?’

‘Hey, Mr Sunshine, how’s things in England?’

Sam recognised Jim Parker’s voice immediately and softened his tone.

‘Sorry, Jim,’ he said, taking a long drink. ‘Just a bit distracted. Been concentrating on the script since I’ve been back here.’

‘Is that why I haven’t been able to get hold of you since last Friday?’

‘Yeah, you know how it is when you’re in the zone,’ he lied.

‘And would that zone happen to include the South of France, too?’

Sam swallowed.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sam, I read the British papers. You were spotted at Moulin de Mougins on Saturday looking very friendly with a pretty brunette. If you were trying to stay off the radar, it didn’t work.’

Sam swore under his breath. He hadn’t intentionally taken Anna to such a famous restaurant; he’d just wanted to treat her, make her feel special. But now it was out, he knew he’d made a big mistake. To the gossip mags, it would look as though he was sneaking around, trying to keep his new relationship a secret – and that would only make them more interested. And just when he wasn’t sure what he’d got himself into.

‘So who is she, Sam?’ said Jim.

‘Anna Kennedy.’

‘The lawyer?’ gasped his agent. ‘The one who dropped you in this shit? What, was it a thank-you for f*cking up the injunction? Or just for f*cking up your life?’

‘Jim, you know it wasn’t like that, and besides . . .’ he hesitated, ‘I like her.’

Jim didn’t say anything for a moment.

‘And have you heard about Jess?’ he asked finally.

Sam frowned.

‘What about her?’

‘Jessica’s been in a car accident, Sam. That’s why I’ve been calling you.’

‘You’re kidding me!’ His heart seemed to skip a beat. ‘When was this? How is she? Was it bad?’

‘Last week, and she’s okay, but that’s only because someone up there is watching over her. Some crackhead ploughed into her in a stolen car; she could have been crippled.’

‘Jesus,’ whispered Sam, feeling a flood of guilt. What if she had been badly hurt, or even killed? And this was last week? Why hadn’t he heard about it? He’d been trying so hard to refocus, he hadn’t bothered taking anyone’s calls – except Anna’s.

‘Where is she now? Hospital?’

‘Back home. Barbara’s looking after her.’

‘I should call her,’ he panicked. ‘I mean, if you think she’ll even take my call?’

‘Buddy, it’s always worth a shot.’

He called her the second he got off the phone with Jim. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say, but he felt he needed to speak to her. After all, they’d been engaged a long time; you couldn’t just turn those feelings off like a tap. Or a faucet, perhaps.

‘Hello?’

Sam’s heart sank. Jessica’s mother.

‘Hey, Barbara, it’s Sam,’ he said as brightly as he could. ‘Do you think I could speak to Jess?’

There was a cold silence for a moment.

‘I really don’t think she wants to speak . . .’ said Barbara, then the line became muffled. In the background, Sam could just make out the exchange: ‘Lemme speak to him.’ ‘No, you’re not up to it, he’s only gonna upset you.’ ‘Gimme the goddamn phone.’

There was some bumping and hissing, then Jessica came on the line.

‘Sam? Is that you?’ Her voice sounded shaky and weak. Sam felt dreadful.

‘Yeah, it’s me. Listen, Jess, I just heard about the accident; how are you?’

‘I’m okay, I guess,’ she said slowly. ‘As well as can be expected, anyway.’

‘What the hell happened?’

‘I was just driving back from the studio when some guy comes out of nowhere and crash! He slammed into me, flipped the car in the air a couple of times; I almost got hit by a truck coming the other way.’

‘My God.’

‘Yeah, the fire department had to cut me out of the wreckage. My legs were almost crushed, can you imagine that? There was gasoline everywhere. One spark and I could have . . .’ She trailed off with a sob.

Sam felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn’t help feeling this was all his fault. He and Jessica might not have been right for each other, but ever since his one-night stand with Katie, things seemed to have gone wrong for both of them.

‘Oh honey, I’m so sorry.’

Jessica made some snuffling noises, like she was wiping her nose.

‘That’s sweet, Sam,’ she said. ‘It means a lot.’

‘But you’re okay? Physically, I mean?’

‘Sam, they’re saying I might need surgery,’ said Jessica, her voice cracking again.

‘On your legs?’

‘Maybe some work around my eyes. Jim’s put me in touch with his guy out here.’

‘I should fly out . . .’

‘No, no,’ said Jessica. ‘I’m fine. I’m up and about now, and you have your own life to be getting on with.’

Sam stopped. Had she heard about the picture of him and Anna in Mougins?

‘Are you sure? Because I can easily grab the jet.’

She paused.

‘What for, Sam?’ she said sadly. ‘But honestly, I’m okay. And thanks for calling. I do appreciate it.’

She hung up, and Sam sat there looking at his phone for a long minute. Then he stood up and walked over to the far side of the tennis court, using the scoop to pick up the fluffy yellow balls and drop them into the basket.

Jess had sounded so small and fragile on the phone. There had been times early on in their romance when she had been like that, when she’d shown him her softer, more vulnerable side. He did love her back then. And there had been other good times, both of them on their way up, both in it together. Sam realised that he missed those days badly.

‘But you can’t go back, can you?’ he said aloud, bending to pick up his racquet and the first ball from the top of the basket. He threw the ball into the air, swishing the racquet around in a perfect serve, watching the ball slam into the netting on the other side of the court. ‘No, you can’t.’