‘Which is what?’
‘That your reputation is in the toilet and it’s open season on you now. With your disappearing act, the media had nothing real to report on, so they went trawling for dirt and it’s no big surprise that they found ex-girlfriends and disgruntled rivals who were happy to take a few quid to say bad things about you. The trouble is, this is going to run and run unless we give them a better story.’
Sam felt his heart start to pound and tried to calm himself. He really shouldn’t have taken that sleeping pill; they always put him on edge the next day. Everywhere he turned people seemed to want to bring him down, ruin all the hard work he’d put in.
‘A better story?’ said Jim. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘How about this?’ said Valerie, holding up her hands as if she were imagining the front-page splash. ‘“Sam and Jess: The Second Honeymoon”.’
‘We haven’t had our first honeymoon yet,’ said Sam.
‘What I mean is that a reconciliation story could be all we need. All is forgiven, you both get a huge flurry of publicity and we’re back on track.’
‘It’d certainly put an end to all the Sam-bashing,’ said Helen. ‘What do you think, Eli?’
‘Unlikely,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve spoken to Barbara, the mother. She’s still talking about wanting Sam’s balls on a platter.’
‘But the buzz on Jess’s latest movie is that it stinks,’ said Jim. ‘If it’s really that bad, she may want a positive spin to deflect the attention.’
Sam’s mouth almost dropped open. He couldn’t believe they were being so cynical about something as important as his life.
‘Look, this is my relationship we’re talking about here,’ he said angrily. ‘It’s not some smokescreen for a box-office turkey.’
Helen turned to him.
‘Do you want to have a career in films?’
‘Of course!’
‘Then you will do whatever is necessary to get back on track. Now, have you spoken to Jessica? Is a reconciliation an option?’
Sam paused for a moment.
‘I don’t think so,’ he sighed. ‘You know I flew to the Cape to see her. Plus I’ve spoken to her friends. It hasn’t changed what she’s saying.’
‘Which is what?’
‘That it’s over.’
‘Well, of course she’s gonna play hardball,’ said Jim. ‘The people who read US Weekly want Girl Power. They don’t want her rolling over too quickly. She’s got to let you roast for a while.’
Sam glared at him.
‘Or there’s always the possibility that she is genuinely heartbroken about being cheated on and wants nothing more to do with me. Besides, I think splitting up was maybe for the best . . .’
His team looked at him, their eyes wide.
‘How is this for the best, Sam?’ said Jim.
‘Because I’m not sure I was ever in love with her.’
Silence rang around the room.
Valerie whistled between her teeth. ‘I hope the press aren’t bugging this room.’
‘Have you actually said this to her?’ asked Eli.
‘I mentioned it in Cape Cod.’
Jim Parker went pale. ‘Mentioned it. Sam, this is your career.’
‘This is my life,’ he snapped, feeling his chest tighten.
Helen looked down at her notes, tapping the page with her gold pencil.
‘Okay, well, if a reconciliation is out of the question, we need to think rehabilitation. Ideas, everyone?’
Sam looked at Helen as she took control of the meeting. She was certainly impressive. His agent, manager and PR were the best in the business, ass-kickers all, but they were deferring to Helen Pierce without a murmur. Sam had met plenty of players in his time – Hollywood was the natural home of arrogant egotists – but this woman had something more: control and authority. You felt she knew what she was doing and, more importantly, that she could make it happen.
‘I think we send him to Hazelden,’ said Jim Parker. ‘Six weeks in rehab could be just what we need.’
‘Rehab?’ said Sam, appalled. ‘What for?’
‘Who cares? Booze, drugs, sex,’ said Jim. ‘It’s a strong move because it shows you’re admitting you have a problem and that you want to put it right.’
‘Hazelden’s great but is mainly substance abuse,’ said Valerie. ‘I know another clinic. Very small. Very discreet. Sex addiction is their specialty.’
‘But then people will think I’m a sex addict!’ protested Sam.
Eli patted his arm. ‘There’s worse things to be, buddy.’
‘But it’s not true. Before that girl Katie, I’d only had sex twice in the last six months. Me and Jess weren’t exactly active in that department.’
Valerie looked up at the light fittings. ‘I hope to God we’re not being bugged.’
‘I agree with Sam,’ said Helen. ‘If we can, we want to stick to the “one night of madness” story. I’ll be frank, I don’t think the public – and women in particular – really buy the sex-addict story. Michael Douglas got away with it because it was a new angle, but we’ve since had Duchovny, Charlie Sheen, Tiger Woods; it’s become the get-out clause for anyone caught with their pants down.’
‘We need to do a high-profile interview,’ said Valerie. ‘The biggest possible numbers. Letterman’s already been in touch, so has Ellen DeGeneres.’
Helen nodded. ‘We need to present Sam as penitent. I’m thinking Hugh Grant after Divine Brown. Can you do tears, Sam?’
‘Can he do tears?’ scoffed Eli. ‘Sam is one of the greatest actors of his generation.’
‘Yes, I like this,’ replied Valerie. ‘We can go with how you didn’t know she was an escort, you thought she was just a nice ordinary girl. You love Jessica, but you were lonely because you spend so much time apart. And you’re just an ordinary boy who made a big fat lousy mistake.’
Sam could see the sense of what they were saying, but he had stage fright just thinking about it.
‘I don’t care what we do. But can we just be careful that I don’t end up looking more of an arsehole than I already do? And can we keep Jessica out of this as much as possible? This is my fault, not hers.’
‘That’s exactly it,’ said Valerie enthusiastically. ‘That’s what your public want to hear – you’re sorry, but you still care.’
‘Great,’ said Helen. ‘Let’s set up one of the talk shows. In the meantime, we’ll give the Sun an exclusive interview. It should make it more difficult for them to publish sex-pest stories when they’ve run three thousand words on “My Loneliness Hell”. And Valerie’s right, you should use that line, Sam. “It’s my fault. Not hers.” That comes across well.’
‘Let’s play up your trip to Scotland too,’ said Valerie, her Botoxed face looking almost animated. ‘Some sort of wounded-artist-in-the-wilderness angle. Maybe hint at an interest in green issues, that sort of thing. Moving forward, we need to get visiting some soup kitchens, children’s homes, maybe some refugee camps. Haiti perhaps. Sudan. Get you papped doing it.’
Sam flinched. ‘I like that stuff to be private.’
‘Not any more,’ said Helen tartly.
Eli looked at Jim. ‘What do you think about finding Sam a killer script? Nothing’s going to help him like a shitload of good reviews. But we should avoid the lovable rogue thing. We need vulnerable bumbling Brit, like Grant in Notting Hill.’
‘Good luck with finding that one,’ sniffed Jim, adjusting his shirt cuffs. ‘Great rom-com scripts are like gold-dust.’
Suddenly Sam had an idea, an idea he knew could work. He saw light appear at the end of a very long tunnel.
‘Why don’t I write a script myself?’
He looked around the room. Everyone was nodding, but he could tell they were just humouring him.
‘Seriously, why not? I did write a show we took to the Edinburgh Fringe, you know.’
‘Sure, buddy,’ said Eli. ‘You give it a shot.’
Screw them, th
ought Sam as his agent, lawyer, manager and PR got on with the business of arranging the life of this character called Sam Charles. I can do this, I really can. It was time for Sam, the real Sam, to get on with the business of being himself.
17
‘So. Tell us all about it.’
Anna took a long drink of her wine. Oh God, she thought, the last thing she wanted to do on her night off was relive the nightmare of the Sam Charles debacle for the amusement of her two best friends.
‘Come on,’ said Cath. ‘It’s not every day your best mate makes the News at Ten.’
‘Besides,’ added Suzanne, her eyes wide, ‘we want to hear about your new friend Sam.’
They were sitting around Anna’s small dining table, drinking Sauvignon Blanc as Anna transferred Chinese takeaway from silver-foil dishes on to china plates. It was just like old times, when the three girls had shared a house in Bermondsey when they were at King’s College. They weren’t students any more – Suzanne was now a GP at a practice in Balham, Cath worked for one of the high-street newsagents ‘sourcing bloody Christmas decorations’, as she put it – but they still enjoyed teasing each other and mining for gossip.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Anna, trying to deflect the conversation. ‘Sam Charles was a client, we got stitched up with the injunction. And now I’m being filmed taking my bins out.’
‘I can’t believe you were acting for Sam Charles and didn’t even tell us,’ said Suzanne with mock-offence. ‘I mean, Sam Charles!’
Anna laughed.
‘These things happen really quickly. You get instructed by the client, you get the injunction – or not. That’s it, end of story. It’s not like I’m getting invited to the Oscars, is it? Besides, client confidentiality and all that, I’m not really supposed to tell you in the first place.’
Cath drained her wine and reached for the bottle. ‘To think we actually feel sorry for you sometimes. You always seem so busy, you never have time to come out any more. We think you’re being worked into the ground and then we find out about this exciting clandestine life you’ve been leading the whole time.’
‘Exciting? It’s hard work and stressful,’ insisted Anna.
Cath pouted. ‘Oh, is it hard for you? All the paparazzi and the film stars? I spent the week looking at tinsel snowmen.’
‘Is he as gorgeous in the flesh?’ asked Suzanne. ‘He was so hot in that Blue Hawaii remake. His six-pack is amazing.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Anna absently, thinking back to the moment when they were standing on the yacht together, the intimacy of the situation, the flash of tanned torso peeking out from under his towelling robe. She felt her neck prickle red.
Cath didn’t miss her discomfort. ‘Hang on, you’ve seen his six-pack?’ she replied, her mouth dropping open.
Anna held up her hands.
‘I had to go and interview him in Capri, on this yacht . . .’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ said Cath. ‘Rewind. You’ve seen his six-pack? On a yacht? In Capri? I knew I should have studied law.’
Anna sipped her Sauvignon, trying to keep cool.
‘Come on. Here we are, three successful, intelligent women, and we’re talking about six-packs.’
Cath snorted. ‘You’ve been hanging out with the world’s most famous philanderer, Sam Charles. What do you expect us to talk about? Tolstoy? Come on, how gorgeous is he?’
‘He’s very attractive.’
‘You fancy him.’ Suzanne grinned.
‘I do not,’ she lied. ‘He’s a client.’
‘Why did he shag that hooker?’
‘What part of client confidentiality don’t you understand?’
Suzanne topped up Anna’s glass.
‘Let’s come back to this later when we’ve plied her with booze, eh?’
Anna was glad her friends had come over. Cath was right: she did work too hard, always making excuses whenever they asked her out for a drink, and she had missed the banter and the cameraderie, especially after the isolation of the past week. In fact, she had been so stressed and grumpy, she had almost cancelled their gossipy night in. She was glad she hadn’t.
‘So, other than the Sam Charles case, what else have you been up to? Is the new firm better than the last place?’
Anna dug her fork into her noodles.
‘Well, both the senior partners hate me. Which I suppose you could see as progress; only my direct supervisor hated me at Davidson’s.’
‘Balls to the boss,’ said Suzanne. She had always been a lightweight; she’d only had two glasses of wine and already her can-do doctor façade was melting away.
‘What else?’ said Cath. ‘And you’re not allowed to talk about work.’
‘Well, Sophie’s getting married,’ said Anna. The casualness with which she dropped it into the conversation surprised even herself.
Cath and Suzanne put their glasses down at the same time, instantly seeming to sober up. ‘Oh no,’ said Suzanne. ‘Why didn’t you tell us? How? When?’
Anna puffed out her cheeks, then shrugged.
‘My parents told me a couple of weeks ago. The wedding’s next month in Italy.’
‘Not at that amazing villa?’
‘The very same.’ She nodded.
She tried to think about it in a detached way, like a news item or a piece of gossip about some remote acquaintance, but it was still difficult to actually say out loud. It must be the wine, she thought.
‘Are you going to go?’ asked Cath.
‘No. I’ve told them I’m too busy at work, even though most of my work has actually dried up since the Sam Charles balls-up.’
‘I think you should,’ said Suzanne decisively.
‘Yes, I agree,’ said Cath. ‘Don’t give her the bloody satisfaction.’
‘You two sound like my parents.’
Suzanne ignored her. ‘It’ll be hard, but sometimes you’ve just got to run at it and hope you make it through to the other side. ’Cos it’s a better place over there, you know. Through it. Over it.’
Anna look a long swig of wine, focusing on the taste of cherries and gooseberries as it slid down her throat.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said finally. Part of her was desperate to discuss Sophie’s wedding with someone – deep down she knew that one of the reasons for inviting her friends around was to offload this tangled mess of feelings, to sort them out, work out how she really felt. But now she had voiced it, she knew she was in danger of getting teary, and had no intention of letting her old friends see that.
‘Oh, did you hear that Maggie McFarlane has got some hot new banker boyfriend?’ she said, moving the conversation to safer ground.
‘Maggie? Yes, she met him on Match.com.’
‘I thought she said she’d never do Internet dating.’
‘Never say never.’ Cath smiled. ‘Not when there are hot bankers out there.’
Suzanne looked at Anna over the top of her glass. ‘I think you need to get back out there. Dating, that is.’
Anna snorted, trying to ignore the remark. ‘Knowing Anna, she’s dating George Clooney in the secret life she’s not telling us about,’ said Cath.
‘I’m too busy for a man.’
‘I thought you said work had dried up after the Sam Charles injunction.’
‘Stop hassling me or I’m going to have to injunct you.’
Suzanne sat forward and squeezed Anna’s hand.
‘Honey, it’s been two years. How much sex have you had in that time?’
Anna felt her stomach clench. That was the sort of question she really didn’t want to answer.
‘What is this?’ she said, trying to deflect their concern. ‘Some sort of NHS survey?’
‘I knew it. None,’ said Cath with disapproval.
‘I thought you were over him,’ said Suzanne finally.
Anna knew immediately what she meant.
‘I am,’ she sighed. ‘The fact that he’s getting married to my sister in four week
s doesn’t make me want to do cartwheels, but he’s not the reason I’m single.’
‘So you’ve got a month to find someone,’ said Cath.
‘I’m not going to the wedding.’
‘But if you really are over him, then what better way to tell the world than by turning up in Tuscany with some sexy young hunk on your arm. Stop being the victim. Get off your bum and make things happen.’
‘What about Sam Charles?’ said Suzanne.
Anna threw a felt cushion at her.
‘What?’ said Suzanne, protecting herself. ‘You’ve hung out in Italy with him once. Ask him for a rematch.’
‘First, he’s my client. Secondly, he hates me. Thirdly, he’s a movie star. Oh, and a cheat.’
‘You’re prettier than that escort girl,’ said Cath.
‘Oh, thanks. Is that supposed to be your idea of a motivational speech?’
‘Yes, and my catchphrase is “Think of the six-pack”.’
It was 10.30 p.m. by the time her friends finally left. Anna scraped the plates into the bin, drained the leftovers from two bottles of wine into one glass and returned to the sofa. Outside, it had finally gone dark, and the solitary lamp in the corner cast a low glow around the room. She’d overstretched herself, three years earlier, buying Rosemary Cottage, a tiny whitewashed terraced house in Richmond, but it was the best decision she’d ever made. She couldn’t quite hear the river, and the frequent roar of the aeroplanes on their way to nearby Heathrow wasn’t ideal, but sometimes she would just close her eyes, pretend she was in some gorgeous little village in the Cotswolds and let all of her worries fall away. Not that it was quite working tonight. There was one worry that was overriding all the others at the moment: the fear of losing her job. And after such a public failure, would she find another one? Media legal work hadn’t been hit as much as some sectors in the downturn – you could always rely on actors and sportsmen to make a mess of their lives – but firms were certainly tightening up, making do with the employees they had rather than taking on more staff. And if she had no job, there was the real possibility of losing this wonderful little house. The thought of how things could unravel so quickly made her shiver.
‘Come on, Anna,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Stop being the victim.’ That was what Cath had said, and it was solid advice. What was really so bad? She had a fab house, nice legs and a good brain, didn’t she? She smiled to herself. That could be her dating profile for Match.com.
Private Lives Page 16
