Private Lives (10 page)

He gave her a sideways glance.

‘You think I’m an arsehole, don’t you?’

‘I’m not here to judge you,’ said Anna. ‘I’m here to help you.’

He shrugged.

‘I realise that most people think I should be doing cartwheels to be living with one of the most beautiful, successful women in America, but . . . well, I don’t. I feel trapped. Being an actor is the only thing we have in common. Look, I’m not making excuses for having sex with that girl, but . . .’ He gave Anna a look that indicated he wanted to say more. ‘Sorry,’ he laughed. ‘I suppose I should be telling this to my shrink, not my lawyer.’

‘Don’t worry, I get it a lot,’ said Anna. ‘I’ve been thinking about having a couch put in my office.’

It was true: one thing celebrities, captains of industry and sports stars liked to do was offload their problems, to ‘over-share’, as they said on the American talk shows. Anna could sympathise – they were usually in trouble, after all – but she suspected it was usually less to do with introspection and more to do with a desire to talk about themselves. She looked at Sam, wondering if what he was saying was true. Maybe he was in a loveless relationship with Jessica. Or maybe it was something he had convinced himself into believing after he had slept with Katie, a way to justify an action he knew was wrong. One thing her line of work had taught her was that men didn’t have to be unhappy with their partners to cheat on them.

Uncomfortably, her thoughts strayed to the night she had found her own boyfriend, the man she had trusted, in bed with her sister. She remembered Andrew’s protestations that it wasn’t how it looked, how it meant nothing, how it would never happen again. But that had been a lie too, hadn’t it?

When Andrew had finally admitted that he was in love with Sophie, she had understood it. She understood that it was easy to fall in love with Sophie. Whether it was her beauty, her lusciousness, her slightly helpless charm, everyone who ever met her was pulled into her whirlpool.

What Anna could not understand, what had been so painful and made her feel completely stupid, was when Andrew had admitted that he was no longer in love with her, that the spark had gone from their relationship and she no longer made him happy.

Anna didn’t know Jessica Carr and certainly had no idea how she felt about Sam. But she knew one thing: no one deserved to be in a one-sided relationship.

‘If you really want to talk about it, can I give you some advice?’ she said finally.

‘What?’

She hesitated before she spoke.

‘Think about why it happened in the first place. If you’re miserable with Jessica, then maybe you should end it, not sleep with someone and then get an injunction to protect your relationship.’

‘What? So now you don’t want to get the gagging order?’

‘I never said that,’ she said, feeling a tremor of hostility. ‘I just meant that if you’re unhappy, you should change things to make yourself happy.’

Sam’s cheeks flamed.

‘It’s not that easy, though, is it?’

Anna shrugged.

‘It doesn’t have to be this difficult.’

He turned and got back into the car without speaking. Anna silently cursed herself, knowing she had overstepped the mark. She knew she shouldn’t let her personal experiences colour her professional actions.

They drove on through the island, each looking out of their own side of the car, the upbeat mood all but evaporated. Finally they entered Capri Town, where Giovanni stopped beside the bustling Piazzetta.

‘Studio Rosso is down there,’ he said, pointing towards a warren of back streets. ‘Keeping going straight ahead and you’ll see it. Tell Consuela I said
ciao
.’

‘Thanks, Giovanni,’ said Anna, climbing out. Just as she was about to close the door, Sam leaned forward.

‘Hey, are you hungry?’

‘Yes,’ she said, a little too quickly.

‘There’s a fantastic restaurant just down there called La Capannina. All the greats have been there: Sinatra, Loren.’ He smiled. ‘You said you wanted your own Ava Gardner moment.’

She was glad they were back on civil terms, but she felt a pang of disappointment that he wasn’t offering to accompany her. What did you expect, she thought to herself, a movie star wanting to go out for dinner with you?

‘I’d come with you,’ he said, as if reading her mind, ‘but I think that being seen in one of Europe’s busiest tourist spots with a pretty girl who is not my fiancée might get me in more trouble than I am already in.’

Anna laughed.

‘See?’ she said. ‘You’re learning.’

His expression became more serious, his blue eyes searching hers.

‘Will you call me as soon as you’re out of court? We can’t let them publish this, Anna.’

She knew she was being played, knew her first assessment of Sam had been correct: he was an operator. Celebrities were good at making you feel as if you were the most important person in the world so you would go the extra mile to oblige them.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said and closed the door, waving as the car pulled away. She knew Sam Charles was probably a terrible rogue with a string of girls in every port. She knew he had probably lied about what had happened with that girl Katie. She knew at the very least that he was a first-class actor.

Even so, as she turned to walk down the cobbled street, Anna couldn’t help feeling that helping him was the most important thing in her life.

8

‘Home sweet home,’ called Larry, opening the door of his Cheyne Walk townhouse. He put his bag on the marble floor and breathed in the familiar smell – flowers, polish, coffee. Home. He’d never noticed how particular and comforting his house smelled until he’d spent five days in hospital. Five days? Had it only been five days? It had felt much longer. But then he couldn’t remember a time when he’d actually stopped and thought about things for more than a few minutes. Sometimes, he’d discovered to his surprise, it was good to slow down and smell the roses every now and then.

Loralee bustled in behind him, taking his arm and leading him up the stairs to the master bedroom, handling him as if he was an infirm geriatric.

‘Now you sit there on the bed and I’ll get Irina to cook some lunch,’ she said.

‘Great idea, I couldn’t stand all that tasteless muck in hospital. What about a nice steak?’

Loralee shook her head, her honey-blond hair swaying.

‘No steak. The doctor said you’ve got to cut down on your cholesterol; we’re switching to steamed vegetables and pulses until you’re stronger.’

Larry groaned. ‘How do they expect me to get stronger on that hippy swill? Well, what about a quick stiffener before lunch?’

‘Oh no,’ said Loralee, frowning. ‘There will be no more booze either. One glass of red wine a day, that’s good for the heart apparently. But strictly no spirits.’

‘What is this, the bloody Gulag?’ he spluttered.

She walked over and stroked his hair back.

‘Come on now,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve got to look after you. We came so close to losing you, isn’t it worth making a few little sacrifices?’

Sacrifices, he thought, it’s all right for you to say, you’re not the one making them. But instead he gave her a weak smile.

‘Whatever you say, old girl.’

‘Good.’ She smiled, turning towards the dressing room. ‘I’ve got to get out of these clothes, I smell of hospital.’

The dressing room was an indulgence Loralee had insisted on when she’d moved into the house eighteen months earlier. Larry had spent £100,000 knocking the master bedroom through into the second bedroom on this floor to create a giant climate-controlled space that his new wife soon spent an equivalent amount filling with shoes, dresses and bags.

‘Oh, I forgot to mention,’ she called from inside, ‘Matt rang you this morning. He wanted to pop round once you were home.’

Larry felt a wave of happiness.

‘Oh good,’ he said, trying not to sound too pleased. He was well aware that Loralee wasn’t overly fond of his son. ‘When’s he coming?’

‘Well I told him today probably wasn’t a good day.’

‘Why not?’

‘I said you’d be busy.’

‘Busy?’ he spat. ‘I’ve retired, remember? The day is yawning ahead of me like a bloody unfilled tooth.’

Cheeky cow, he had a good mind to call Matthew up right now. He was sure he could feel his blood pressure rising again.

Okay, breathe, he told himself, massaging his chest as he stared out of the window towards the Thames and the tethered spikes of the Albert Bridge. He’d been bullish about the booze, but the truth was he really didn’t want to go through anything like the last week again. After forty years in the fast lane, he’d managed to convince himself that he was pretty indestructible. Well, you got that wrong, didn’t you, old son? Despite the balminess of the late afternoon he shivered. He knew that after such a close brush with death, people were often reinvigorated and liberated, grateful for a second chance. But instead he just felt hollow and lonely.

Loralee was humming to herself in the next room, just a little girl playing dressing up. Larry was under no illusions about his new wife, but he knew she cared about him. Was that enough to sustain him in his retirement? And the bigger question: what the hell was he going to do now?

The last few months had gone past in a blur of snap decisions: marriage, giving up the firm, reaching out to Matthew. They had all seemed like good ideas at the time, but they had left him with an aching hole to fill. The thought of there being no work to do, no meetings to go to, no phone calls to take, it all made his stomach churn.

What did people
do
when they were retired? Play golf? You might as well go down to the funeral parlour and pick out a headstone now.

In truth, it had been the death of his first wife Katherine that had made Larry reconsider his position. It had been more of a jolt than he’d liked to admit. In his mind, Katherine was still the young, vivacious girl he’d fallen in love with over forty years before. People as energetic and vital as Katherine Donovan didn’t just keel over, did they? He looked down at the bruise on his arm where the nurses had attached his drip, and had to reflect that perhaps they did.

That was why he had given up work, that was why he had handed the firm over to Matty. He simply wanted to make amends for the way he had treated his first wife and his son. The two things had dovetailed together to make the perfect solution. Well, almost perfect. Loralee had been furious, despite the fact that they had more money than they could spend. But then how much would ever be enough for an ambitious young woman like Loralee? He looked up in surprise as he heard his wife’s voice.

‘
This
was why I said you’d be busy,’ she purred. She was standing at the entrance to the dressing room, one arm draped on the door frame. She was naked except for stilettos, stockings and suspenders, plus a tiny white apron that skimmed her breasts and thighs and a nurse’s hat perched at a jaunty angle, like a drunken sailor. ‘I thought you might need some TLC.’

She walked slowly, seductively over to the bottom of the bed and crawled up towards him, as lithe as a panther.

‘The consultant said you had to start taking regular exercise,’ she growled, pushing him back on to the pillows and beginning to undo his shirt buttons. ‘I think I’ve got just what the doctor ordered.’

He reached up, feeling the soft, smooth curve of her buttocks.

‘Ooh, Mr Donovan, you mustn’t,’ she giggled.

Larry was grateful to feel his cock stiffen. Not bad for a sixty-five-year-old just out of hospital and on beta blockers, he smiled to himself. And all thoughts of calling his son drifted away.

9

‘Excuse me? Could we just pull the sheet up a couple more inches?’ said Matthew, feeling his cheeks redden. ‘The, um, buttocks are in breach again, I’m afraid.’

The director made a sour face, but flapped his hand to an assistant, who scurried over to the bed and gently pulled the white sheet up Erica Sheldon’s back. Matthew puffed his cheeks out and tried not to stare at the long expanse of tanned skin, the slim neck, the spray of deep red hair falling across the pillow. Christ, she was gorgeous.

In normal circumstances, of course, Matthew would have relished the opportunity to inspect the body of one of the world’s most beautiful actresses at close quarters, but this was not normal. Surreal, bizarre, horribly embarrassing, yes. But normal? No. He was here on a sound stage at Shepperton Studios as Erica’s lawyer to make sure the nudity clause of her contract was followed to the letter – and he couldn’t get it wrong. It was his first real task as a partner at Donovan Pierce and he was determined not to screw it up, however far he was out of his comfort zone. He suspected, of course, that this was Helen Pierce’s idea of a joke: the media law equivalent of sending the new apprentice to the store for a glass hammer or a bucket of steam. She was testing him, showing him she was in charge, so he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of getting anything wrong. He had memorised the clause: which underwear Erica was allowed to appear in – ‘tanga, brief or standard bikini, not G-string’ – where the sex scenes were allowed to take place – bedroom, hallway, not bathroom unless obscured by shower curtain – and, in this case, exactly how many millimetres of ‘gluteus maximus indentation’ could be revealed.

Matthew had always been annoyed by legalese, the insistence on using impenetrable long-winded language when plain English would have been just as accurate. ‘You may show the lower back but not the upper crease of the bottom’, for example, would have been much clearer if they had simply put ‘no arse crack’. He began to smile at the idea.

‘Everything all right?’

Matthew looked up suddenly. Erica Sheldon was speaking to him. From a bed. Naked.

‘Fine, yes,’ he said quickly.

‘Are we good to go here?’ she asked, her expression serious.

‘Yes,’ said Matthew, clearing his throat. ‘Good to go.’

‘Just a hint of ass, right?’ she added playfully.

Matthew gave her a thumbs-up, then realised what a dork he must look and turned away, cursing himself.