Private Lives

‘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.