Private Lives (22 page)

Sam paced over to the window, staring out at the Manhattan skyline from his room in the discreet Upper East Side hotel his manager had checked him into. It all seemed so distant, like a city drawn in a child’s storybook.

‘Come on, Sammy,’ said Eli, coming up behind him and massaging his shoulders like a boxer’s trainer before a big fight. ‘Be yourself. Say you’re sorry, tell everyone how much you love Jess, smile when Dave breaks your balls, then we’re out of there. Just like we practised, huh?’

Eli had hired a media coach called Monica Glenn, an expert in non-verbal communication, and they had spent the past few days doing mock-run-throughs of the interview. Of course, it was one thing being both charming and humble in Monica’s workshop, quite another to pull it off under the bright lights and high pressure of a TV studio.

Still, the
Sun
interview had gone down well. ‘Sam Charles: I Was An Idiot’, screamed the headline. He’d been humble, he’d said how sorry he was for letting everyone down, he’d said he understood how angry Jess – and his fans – were. But the writer had been sympathetic and much was made of Sam’s previously unsullied reputation and the fact that only one ex-girlfriend had come forward to dish the dirt on him. Actually, that was more to do with Valerie and Helen’s work behind the scenes; the few women who had attempted to sell their stories had been paid off before they’d had a chance to give any damning interviews. He could only hope that David Billington would be equally sympathetic.

‘Guys, news about
Billington
,’ said Valerie, strutting into the room, waving her BlackBerry.

‘Good or bad news?’

‘I won’t bullshit, it’s not good,’ she said. ‘David Billington was in a car accident this morning. Nothing serious, but he’s going to be off the show for a week at least.’

‘So who’s standing in?’ asked Eli.

Valerie pursed her lips.

‘Neil Peters.’

‘Peters?’ Sam groaned, sitting down on the bed. ‘Fuck.’

‘I know, I know, it’s not ideal,’ said Valerie. ‘But they won’t shift on it. Apparently the network’s got big plans for him.’

Sam felt all hope drain from him. He was screwed. Neil Peters was a British comedian who’d somehow managed to break into TV Stateside. There was no question he was a mover and a shaker; he seemed to have graduated straight from Cambridge into a weekly satirical news show on BBC2, his own anarchic chat show on Channel 4, and after somehow landing one of the top agents at CAA, was now making waves in the States. He’d been branded overly smug by some sections of the British press, but with his irritatingly self-confident manner he was a master at getting headline-grabbing quotes from celebrities. Which was why Sam’s instinct was telling him to run for the hills.

‘Can’t we put the interview back a few weeks?’ he asked.

Valerie shook her head.

‘It’s now or never, Sam. We need to get your public back on side; we need to change people’s opinion of what happened, give your side of the story. Right now the story’s hot and we have a chance to get a fair hearing.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about. Is Peters really going to give me a fair hearing? He’s standing in for Billington and wants to impress the executives, so he’s going to go all out to get some fantastic exclusive, isn’t he?’

‘So give it to him,’ said Eli.

‘What?’

‘Give him the old waterworks. Cry your little heart out. That’s what the fans want to see.’

‘I can’t just cry,’ he said. ‘It would look so staged.’

‘It
is
staged, Sam,’ said Eli. ‘What do you think this whole three-ring circus is about? It’s just entertainment, bud. Give people what they want.’

Sam gaped at them. They made it sound as if he was just some juggling seal who’d been booked to jump through hoops for the amusement of the American public.

‘I don’t know if I can be that . . . dishonest.’

‘It ain’t dishonest, it’s just acting,’ said Eli. ‘And that’s what you’re best at, huh?’

Valerie’s phone was beeping. She glanced at it and then threw it back in her Birkin.

‘Car’s here,’ she said, throwing Sam a look. ‘Showtime.’

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat and gazed at a spot of fluff on his knee. The lights were uncomfortably hot and he was aware of the studio audience collectively holding their breath.

‘She . . . she wasn’t a prostitute,’ stuttered Sam. ‘I mean, she seemed to be a nice girl.’

He knew from the look of triumph on Neil Peters’s face that he had said the wrong thing, but he had to say something. Anything.

‘A nice girl?’ Neil smiled as a ripple of titters went around the audience. ‘
This
nice girl?’ he said, sweeping his hand up to a video screen behind him.

Sam winced as a picture of Katie the escort was flashed up. It was from a photo shoot she had done for some men’s magazine where she was reclining on a bed clad only in black lingerie. The audience burst out into laughter.

Sam slumped further down in his seat. He knew this was exactly what Monica had told him
not
to do. ‘Sit up straight, look him in the eye,’ she had said again and again. ‘Look as if you have nothing to be ashamed of and that’s what people will read in your posture.’ He could imagine exactly what people were reading in his posture right now. Guilt. Guilt and shame.

‘Naughty but nice,’ Neil smirked, clearly enjoying Sam’s discomfort.

‘Hell no!’ shouted someone from the front row. ‘Girl’s a ho!’

This brought another wave of titters from the audience.

‘Was she as
nice
as Jess?’ asked Neil.

Immediately the studio fell silent. This was the killer question; this was why the network rated Neil Peters so highly. On the face of it, the question was innocuous, but everyone knew what he was really asking. Was this girl as good as Jess in bed? Had Sam turned to some pretty escort girl because Jessica, the nation’s sweetheart, just didn’t cut it in the sack?

Sam froze. What could he say? The truth? That she rarely even let him near her bed, let alone into it? No, the American public didn’t want to hear anything bad about Jess, that much was clear. But he had to say something. What? Be charming, that’s what Eli had said.

‘A gentleman doesn’t talk about a lady that way,’ he said, desperately trying to make a joke of it.

‘Come on, Sam. Tell us. Has this sort of thing happened before? It’s lonely at the top, you’re a long way from home. It must be tempting to want a pretty girl to escort you back to your room.’

Peters had a knowing way of delivering that made people want to smile. Sam glared out into the studio audience, squinting in the lights at the sea of faces that all seemed to be laughing at him. He was glad his collar was loose. He could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

‘No. This has not happened before.’

‘So what did you get up to at the Playboy Mansion?’

‘Sorry?’ He’d been to Hugh Hefner’s pleasure palace a few times. With Jess and some of his LA friends. It was a great place for a drink and a catch-up with industry acquaintances.

‘I saw you there about a year ago,’ pressed Peters. ‘Having a
good
time, as I remember it.’

Sam felt his brittle emotions snap.

‘Hang on. I was invited to a party there.’ His voice was quavering with anger. ‘I went with Jess. You make the leap from
that
to me being some sort of sleazeball?’

‘That’s not what I said at all.’ Peters gave one of his trademark shrugs: protesting his innocence – hey, he’d only asked a question, right? – but at the same time drawing the viewing public in, making them complicit, making them feel as if they’d all got one over on this dumb Brit actor.

More laughter.

‘What’s your agenda here, Neil?’ Sam snapped. ‘Ratings? David’s Billington’s job?’ He couldn’t help the words pouring out of his mouth. He had a vague thought that Monica, Valerie and Eli would be having kittens about now, but he couldn’t stop himself.

‘Please don’t start jumping on the sofa. Not on my first day.’ Peters’s smug smile seemed to melt into a grotesque mask. The laughter of the audience rang mockingly around the studio.

Sam stood up and ripped off the microphone that had been threaded through his shirt.

‘Sod this.’

‘Come on, Sam.’

‘You think this is entertainment?’

Peters gave another shrug and the audience howled.

A studio manager scrambled from the wings to stop him. Sam swept past her only to run into Valerie. Her expression was frantic.

‘Take a breath and get back out there,’ she hissed.

‘Pull the show.’

Valerie’s hard, usually controlled face was pale with panic. ‘I’ll see who I can speak to.’

Sam knew it was pointless. The show would run. He would be humiliated.

‘You were supposed to protect me,’ he said bitterly, shaking his head. ‘Get me out of here.’ He broke into a jog down the long, narrow corridor as he spotted a fire exit ahead of him.

‘Sam. Wait . . .’ Valerie’s voice faded.

He was at the door. Breathless, he pushed it open and bright sunlight popped in his face as he stepped on to the street. He was surrounded by noise, people, camera lenses being forced into his personal space.

‘Fuck off,’ he shouted, covering his head with his hands.

‘Come on, Sam. Just a couple of shots.’ A photographer pushed his Nikon right into his face.

‘Just sod off.’

The photographer was relentless. The camera smashed against Sam’s ear, the whirr of the shutter echoing around his head.

‘Smile, lover boy,’ leered the paparazzo.

Without thinking, Sam grabbed the snapper by the scruff of his shirt.

‘Get off me,’ Sam bellowed, pushing the man away from him. The photographer staggered back, then crumpled to the floor, his camera clattering to the concrete as he fell.

‘Sam. Stop.’

Someone in the studios was calling him. The crowd was building. A siren roared up to the scuffle and he heard a door slam.

The photographer stumbled noisily to his feet. Through the crowd, Sam could see a police officer’s face, blank, shiny and unsmiling.

‘Oh shit,’ he said, almost breathless.

Valerie ran up behind him. The snapper was talking to the officer.

‘We can deal with this,’ she hissed.

Sam shook his head. Right now he wasn’t so sure.

19

The crowd roared as the pony thundered down the rail, its rider leaning out of the saddle, windmilling his stick to crack the ball between the posts. Matthew sipped at his plastic glass of Pimm’s enthusiastically, partly because it was so damn hot out there on the grass, partly to cover his smile. Two years ago, you wouldn’t have caught him dead at a polo match – and if pushed, he’d have muttered something about privileged idiots with more money than sense – but he had to admit, he was enjoying himself. It was like a royal wedding mixed with a rock festival: everyone dressed to the nines, but hell-bent on getting trashed and lying about on the emerald lawns watching the entertainment. He wondered if he was the only one who didn’t have a clue what was actually going on. What a chukka was. At which end of the pitch the yellow team were supposed to score. Then again, he wasn’t here to learn the finer points of polo. He was here to
network
, as Helen had instructed him, forcing him to attend on her behalf as one of their clients was sponsoring the event.

‘Another drink, Matthew?’

Matt turned to find the tall blonde who had introduced herself earlier as Emily smiling at him.

‘Go on,’ he said, knocking back the rest of his Pimm’s. He warned himself to go easy. Then again, this didn’t really seem like work. It was a Saturday afternoon, and all day he had been surrounded by pretty posh girls, none of whom had the slightest interest in talking shop and all of whom seemed fascinated by him. He had never really experienced corporate hospitality like it; occasionally there’d been a wealthy client at his three-man practice in Hammersmith who would send him a bottle of Scotch, but at Donovan Pierce schmoozing with clients, a lavish fiftieth invitation, the cricket at Lord’s, a corporate box at Wimbledon with captains of industry and their attractive co-workers seemed par for the course.

‘I’ll be back,’ said the blonde, her high heels sinking into the grass as she disappeared to the bar.

Matt grinned wolfishly as he watched her go.

‘Shit,’ he muttered as his mobile began to vibrate.
Private number
. It was work, then. He tutted to himself, but secretly he was pleased to be in demand, important. He had surprised even himself by how quickly he was slipping into the role of senior partner at the firm.

‘Matt Donovan,’ he said.

‘It’s Rob. Rob Beaumont.’

‘Hey. How’s things?’ he said, surprised to hear his client’s voice.

‘Things aren’t so good, Matt, to be honest.’

Matt walked around the back of the hospitality tent to find a quieter spot.

‘What’s wrong?’

There was a long pause and then a stutter of breath. Matthew didn’t need to see Rob Beaumont to know that he was very upset.

‘I thought we could handle this in a grown-up manner; you know, for Ollie’s sake. But she couldn’t do that, could she? Had to try and get one over on me.’

‘What’s she done?’

‘She wants to move to Miami, Matt. She wants to take our son and move to Miami.’

Matt put his Pimm’s down and tried to concentrate.

‘Do you know that for sure?’

‘I saw Oliver’s headmistress. She wished me luck and said she’d just written Ollie’s reference for his transfer to some school in South Beach. I confronted Kim. She said nothing was definite but that it was an option. She says she wants to take a break from England. Too much media pressure,’ he said, his voice trembling.

Matt doubted that was the reason. He had a stack of press cuttings in his office about Kim Collier and knew she was a woman who relished the media gaze.

‘You’d better come into the office first thing Monday,’ he said, knowing he could clear some things in his diary.

‘She can’t do it, can she? She can’t just take him to Florida.’