Private Lives

‘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.