Private Lives

63



Sam lay on the sunlounger by the pool, staring down at the almost blank page in front of him.

‘Writer’s bloody block,’ he grumbled to himself, snatching up his cigarettes and lighting one. Why couldn’t he think of anything to write? He’d got the best Montblanc pen, bought an expensive notebook – the actual sort Hemingway used to use – and turned off his phone to avoid any distractions. He’d been sitting here in the cool shadow for an hour, and yet inspiration had failed to strike beyond the basic plot: a famous film star decides to give up the fame game and life in a goldfish bowl to return to his sleepy home town. He turned back to the first page in his notebook. He was quite pleased with the titles he had come up with: Unfamous had a nice ring to it, he thought, imagining his interview for Time magazine when Unfamous became a world-wide phenomenon. ‘How did you come up with such a zeitgeisty title for your brilliant comedy, Sam?’ the reporter would ask, to which Sam would tell him that it had spun off an argument with his agent after his Edinburgh comedy smash show with Mike McKenzie.

Sam blew his cheeks out. Of course, it was slightly presumptuous to be planning your Oscar acceptance speech when you hadn’t actually written more than three lines. He looked at what he had so far, imagining who he’d cast as his co-stars: Russell Brand, and Vince Vaughn if he could do a British accent, had been his first thoughts.

Interior: Pub in Margate. Two middle-aged men, TOM and DAVE, are sitting silently drinking at the bar. SAM walks in. He is incredibly handsome and a movie star.



SAM All right, lads?

TOM All right? It’s okay for you, you’ve got a helicopter outside.

SAM I sold the ’copter. It’s all about camels now.

TOM You came on a camel?

DAVE I think he’s being ironic.

A camel walks past the window.





SAM No, I came on a camel.



Under this Sam had written ‘BIG LAUGH’, followed by the scrawled note: ‘Why on earth does Sam have a bloody camel in Margate?’

It was hopeless. When he’d been sitting in his flat with Mike, the ideas had just poured out of them; funny, original, clever. Or had it all been Mike, after all? People were always going on about what a genius he was; maybe Sam had only thought he’d written those sketches. For a brief moment he thought about calling Mike, who had returned to Eigan earlier that week, to persuade him to return to London. But that would be defeatist, he decided quickly, stubbing out his cigarette.

No, the problem was that he was trying to write the scene longhand; perhaps he should be doing it on the computer. He tore out the page, screwed it up, then tried to toss it through the water polo hoop at the end of the pool. It flew about three feet, teetered on the edge, then sank slowly into the water. Sam watched the limp paper disintegrate, the ink blurring and becoming unreadable. He stood up and stalked back to the house. Maybe he needed to brainstorm with someone. Anna Kennedy would be his first choice – she always made the right noises about how good he was – but she hadn’t even called him back, despite his numerous messages. All he’d had was one lousy text from her: ‘Manic at work. Sorry for not calling. A lot on my mind at mo. Ax’

He’d read and reread that one, analysing it, looking for all the angles until it sent him crazy. Was it an apology? Did she want to forget about the argument and move on? Or was she saying ‘let’s cool it, I’m too busy’? Was it a woman’s version of the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ get-out? Still, she had put a kiss at the end. Or did she do that with everyone? No wonder he couldn’t write, with Anna playing such cryptic mind games. He’d sent her flowers, of course, but what with it being England and the bank holiday, he couldn’t be sure that she’d got them. He knew he could try a bigger, more serious gesture. Jewellery always went down well in LA. Not diamonds, and not a ring, obviously, but maybe a tasteful necklace? It certainly used to work with Jessica, but somehow it seemed too flamboyant a gesture for two people who had only been on a couple of dates.

Thinking about Jessica only made him feel worse. He should probably send something to her as well after the crash. Sunflowers? Lilies? Did Tiffany do safety pins, for her sling?

He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. When all else fails, drink, he thought.

‘Hey, that’s not bad,’ he murmured, looking around for his notebook to write it down, before remembering he’d left it by the pool.

Sighing, he opened the fridge and pulled out the poached salmon salad his housekeeper Mrs Hudson had left for him. He sat at the granite worktop and picked at the food with his fork, then pushed it away. He wasn’t even hungry. He thought back to his visit to Anna’s cottage, and her cosy kitchen. He bet she could just whip up some scrambled eggs and bacon and lightly toasted muffins on her little four-burner gas stove . . .

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of the buzzer. He frowned: who was at the gate at this time? Mrs Hudson must have forgotten the code again. He pressed the button to activate the electric gates, then opened the front door. He needed to have words. But it wasn’t Mrs Hudson’s battered VW Golf turning into the drive; it was a large silver Mercedes with tinted windows.

‘Who the hell . . .?’ he muttered, wondering for a second if it was a particularly ambitious doorstepping reporter. The car pulled up and a uniformed chauffeur got out, nodded to Sam and walked around to open the passenger door.

First he saw a foot complete with red high heel, then a long tanned leg, then she stepped out.

‘Jessica!’ he gasped. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

His ex-fiancée gave him a full-watt Hollywood smile.

‘Is that the only greeting you’ve got for me after all this time?’ she laughed.

Her relaxed manner almost floored him.

‘Sorry,’ he said, striding over and kissing her awkwardly on both cheeks. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock.’

‘I can imagine,’ she smirked. ‘But you were so sweet on the phone, and you said we needed to talk, so . . .’ She held up her hands and gave her hips a little wiggle. ‘Here I am.’

Suddenly thinking of her accident, he took her arm. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Are you okay?’

‘Oh sure,’ said Jessica, leaning on him. ‘I’m much better, almost back to normal.’

She certainly looked good, fantastic in fact. She was wearing a short red dress with thin straps that showed off her curves to perfection, with a white Birkin bag hanging off her arm. There didn’t seem to be any evidence of her trauma, but then maybe that was clever make-up; Jessica was always quite the expert with that. In fact the bathroom here at Copley’s was still full of thousands of dollars’ worth of cosmetics.

‘Will that be all, madam?’ asked the chauffeur, stepping forward holding an overnight bag.

Jessica turned her green eyes towards Sam.

‘I think that’s up to the master of the house,’ she said, looking over his shoulder towards the front door. ‘I did try to call, but your phone was off. I didn’t know if I’d be interrupting anything . . .’

‘No, no,’ said Sam quickly, taking the bag from the driver and fumbling a tip into his hand. ‘You’re very welcome, come on in,’ he said, ushering Jessica inside. He led her to the kitchen. ‘So how are you?’ he said, sitting across from her.

‘I’m fine. A little shaken up, but these things happen.’

‘I have to say, you’re handling it brilliantly.’

‘You can’t let it get you down,’ she said with a smile that held for a moment, then collapsed, her eyes filling with tears.

‘Jess, don’t . . .’ he said, not knowing if he should come around to comfort her. Instead he reached across the table and touched her hand.

‘I’m sorry. I told myself I wouldn’t, it’s just that . . .’

‘What?’ said Sam softly.

‘I know you’ve moved on, emotionally, professionally. I heard about the Edinburgh show and I’m so happy for you, I really am.’

Her approval somehow mattered to him.

‘But lying there in that hospital bed, it gave me time to think about everything, and, well, about us . . .’ Her lip quivered.

‘Jess, I’m sorry it had to end the way it did.’

‘I thought so too,’ said Jessica, the tears still dribbling. ‘Considering . . .’ she added softly.

Sam felt his instincts prickle.

‘Considering what?’

The silence seemed to go on for ever.

‘Sam, I’m pregnant.’

He stopped dead, unable to draw breath.

‘You’re . . .?’

‘Pregnant.’

He was in complete shock. His brain seemed to have shut down, his mouth could barely open.

‘How?’ he said finally.

‘I think you know how people make babies,’ she said with a small laugh.

‘But when did you find out?’

‘When they take you into ER, they need to check before they X-ray you because it can hurt the baby, so they did a test and, well, there it was.’

‘Is it mine?’

‘Is it mine?’ she repeated incredulously. ‘You’re unbelievable! Do I need to remind you that you were the one that went off and had an affair? I have always been one hundred and ten per cent faithful to you.’

His eyes were transfixed on her belly, wondering if you could see anything yet. He reached his hand out; his fingers were trembling.

‘But do you want to keep it?’ he asked carefully. ‘I mean, your career and everything? Is it the right time?’

‘Yes, I want to keep it,’ she said, her eyes beginning to glisten again. She took his hand and placed it on her completely flat stomach. ‘I want to have our baby,’ she said. ‘It’s always the right time for him.’

Sam looked up sharply.

‘Him?’

‘It’s twelve weeks old, Sam,’ she said proudly. ‘I’ve had a scan, and while they can’t tell the sex for sure yet, I think it’s a boy.’

Sam really didn’t know what to think. His head was spinning. Could he really be the father? Twelve weeks – he tried to count back, but so much had happened in the last two or three months, it was hard to get it straight. He knew he’d gone to see Jessica on the Slayer set, but he really couldn’t remember having sex with her. Then again, he was drinking pretty heavily back then. I can’t remember having sex with Katie Grey either, he thought mournfully.

Jessica snapped open her handbag and pulled out a photograph the size of a Polaroid. It was just a grainy still, a swirling black and white mass, but it was still possible to make out a head and a curled body. Sam drew a finger across the tiny person and felt his heart swell. His son.

‘You are happy?’ she said eagerly.

Suddenly he could hear Jim Parker’s words at the Robotics premiere: You need stability. A wife. A family.

Back then, the very thought of it had terrified him, but somehow, standing here, watching her place her small hand on her pregnant belly, he knew he had to step up to the plate and accept his responsibilities. He had promised himself that he would change. Was this where the real change started happening?

He felt a wave of sadness for a life that had filled him with such excitement an hour earlier and was now sailing swiftly out of reach, like a branch on the rapids.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said uncertainly. ‘It’s just . . .’ He wanted to say, ‘I’ve met someone else, someone I really like, someone I can see myself having a future with’, and he wanted to tell Jessica the truth, that he no longer loved her, that he had spent the last two months breathing a sigh of relief that he was free of her. He looked back at the scan. But here was a baby, a real living thing that they had created together. That had to be worth something, didn’t it? Perhaps it was everything.

‘It’s just what, honey?’ said Jessica.

‘Nothing.’ Nothing worth repeating anyway.

‘Good,’ she said, stroking his cheek with the back of her finger. ‘So I should go upstairs, freshen up and then we can talk about things, okay? Like when you’re going to do the sensible thing and get your ass back to LA.’

When Sam had gone back downstairs, Jessica unpacked her bag in the master bedroom, hanging her clothes – all carefully chosen to show off her body perfectly, of course – in the walk-in closet she had designed for herself only two years previously. There were still some of her own dresses and jeans on the shelves – Sam had either been too sentimental or too lazy to clear them out. When that was done, she sat down on the bed and took the scan out of her handbag. She looked at it for a moment.

There’s no way I want a baby, she thought, acknowledging that she had no maternal instincts whatsoever. This particular foetus belonged – had belonged – to some dumb starlet Jim represented. She’d been knocked up by one of the big studio heads, and Jim had used the information to get one of his projects green-lit. With that accomplished, he had talked Little Miss Careless into having an abortion, ‘for the sake of her career’, and had also had the brilliant notion of putting the scan to a second use with Sam. Jessica chuckled; she really admired the way her new agent’s mind worked. She just knew that she and Jim Parker were going to have a very long and lucrative friendship.

She put the photo between the pages of a copy of The Secret she’d picked up at the airport. It would stay there for a few weeks and then she would get rid of it, probably round about the time she would fake her miscarriage. If she hadn’t reeled Sam in by then with her body, she would definitely land him with her ‘distraught mother’ act. She knew how his mind worked better than anyone – certainly better than that little tramp lawyer he was supposed to be screwing. If she thought she was going to get her claws into Jessica’s gold mine, well, she could think again.

Jessica got up and walked over to the full-length mirror, dropping her dress to the floor. Pretty damn hot for a cripple, she smiled to herself, walking into the closet and choosing a figure-hugging jersey dress in a vivid forest green. She hesitated for a moment, then took off her underwear before she slipped the dress on. Oh yes, she thought, smoothing the material down over her skin, I think that will do it.

She blew a kiss towards the mirror and headed for the door.