Private Lives (20 page)

‘Wouldn’t that just look like Sam was trying to wriggle out of it?’ replied Helen.

‘Isn’t that what we’re trying to do here?’ snapped Jim. ‘I don’t think it’s too late to persuade people that Sam didn’t even have sex with her. She doesn’t really have much evidence, so we threaten to sue, major damages, scare her into a retraction.’

Helen looked thoughtful. ‘It’s possible, but we should have come out with denial immediately. Sam’s all but confessed.’

‘I haven’t said anything!’ he managed to splutter.

‘Yes, and that’s the problem. If you’d denied it and Jessica had stood by you, we could have weathered it, but as it is, she’s effectively kicked you out and now we have all this . . .’ Helen grabbed a copy of the
Sun
and held it up, showing the headline that read: ‘Kinky Sam Forced Himself On Me’.

‘But that’s just rubbish!’ said Sam.

‘Is it?’ said Helen, scanning the text. ‘Sam was a sex pest, always badgering me for sex . . . Sam wanted sex all the time, we did it five times a night.’

Sam winced. He couldn’t bear to look at it himself and it sounded even worse when someone read it out. The funny thing about show business was that you needed the toughest skin just to get your foot in the door. The auditions, the knock-backs, the humiliations, you couldn’t do it without tunnel vision and an iron will. But once you made it, that rhino hide disintegrated. Suddenly everyone was telling you how wonderful you were, how funny, how handsome, every single day of your life. And you came to expect it, your self-esteem was all wrapped up in the constant barrage of love, even if deep down you knew it was pure sycophancy. So when all that was taken away, the insults and the criticism hurt more than ever.

‘Well, is it true?’ pressed Helen.

‘Yes and no,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘Yes and no to what? To being a sex pest?’

‘No! That girl is an old girlfriend from when I was at university
fifteen years
ago. Yes, we had sex, of course we did. And yes, I was keen on it – who isn’t when they’re nineteen?’

‘I hear that,’ said Eli. Helen just glared at him.

‘But this story makes me sound like some sort of rapist. And there’s no timeline on it, so readers might think it happened last week.’

Valerie shrugged.

‘Clever reporting. It’s what they do.’

‘Can’t we sue?’ said Sam desperately.

‘What for? Turning back time? Anyway, this is all taking us away from the main problem,’ added Helen.

‘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, thought 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.