Private Lives

‘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.