Private Lives

He looked over at Mike, standing in the cool, dark wings of the Hummingbird, the peeling old comedy venue on Edinburgh’s Cowgate. Surely Mike should be feeling the pressure? It was seven years since he had performed anywhere other than the Oban pub, and yet he seemed completely calm, serene even.

Sam crept forward, peeking into the theatre at the packed audience, already buzzing from a foul-mouthed Glaswegian warm-up who’d got his biggest laugh by hitting himself in the face with a rubber brick. God, there were hundreds of them. He realised that this was infinitely more nerve-racking than the time he had presented a gong at the Oscars ceremony. Three billion people had watched him read the autocue at LA’s Kodak Theater, and right now there were fewer than three hundred waiting patiently for the ten o’clock headline act.

Back in London, when they’d been scripting the show, it had felt exhilarating. But right here, right now, with the second hand sweeping mercilessly round, he wasn’t at all sure, especially as absolutely nobody in the audience was here to see Sam Charles. They’d billed it as ‘Mike McKenzie: Back, Back, Back’, a one-night-only appearance of the fallen comedy genius, and it had been the talk of the festival. Even without being listed in the programme – they’d arranged their gig far too late for that – the show had sold out in minutes, and tickets were changing hands on eBay for hundreds of pounds a pop.

But no one except Sam and Mike knew that Sam would be part of the evening too – that in fact the whole show had been written around him, as a sort of comic satire on the perils of celebrity. Sam had been adamant that they should keep his name off the bill. They wanted the audience to be full of genuine Mike McKenzie fans, rather than press and rubberneckers there to see the notorious Hollywood fuck-up.

‘You okay, buddy?’ said Mike, clasping Sam’s shoulder.

‘I’ll be honest, Mike, I’m shitting it.’

‘But why? This show’s the best thing either of us have written.’

‘They don’t want to see me. They’re all here to see you.’ Sam was having serious second thoughts.

‘You’re kidding. You’re the hottest movie star in the world.’

‘Most notorious movie star,’ Sam corrected.

‘Whatever,’ said Mike. ‘Their heads are going to frigging explode when you walk out.’

‘Maybe.’

Sam knew that in theory there were a lot of people who would love to see him at close quarters on the stage; over the years he’d been inundated with requests to appear in the West End, where a major movie star in the cast could treble ticket sales. But comedy crowds were more demanding, unforgiving. Especially drunk comedy crowds, he thought as he heard them roar. The Hummingbird MC, a curly haired Scouser with a great line in withering put-downs for the hecklers, had stepped on stage.

‘It’s time for the main event . . .’ he began, to delighted hoots and whistles.

Sam could feel his heart pounding. Usually he was surrounded by people reassuring him that he would be fabulous. But his manager, agent, publicist . . . none of them knew about the show. On a whim he had invited Anna Kennedy, but it was no surprise she hadn’t turned up. She was his lawyer, an acquaintance more than a friend. Suddenly he felt swamped by loneliness.

‘He’s been on TV,’ said the MC, ‘he’s been to Wembley, he’s even been in the nuthouse . . .’ The crowd crackled with excited laughter. ‘But tonight, here on stage at the Hummingbird, he’s back . . . back . . . BACK!’

Mike bounded on to the stage to a deafening roar. The applause went on and on as he bowed politely, then held his hands up in a faux-modest ‘What, me? This is all just for me?’ gesture. Finally he took the microphone from the stand.

‘Two nuns go into a bar . . .’ he said. The crowd were loving it.

Sam looked behind him to the illuminated Exit sign. It wasn’t too late to bail out. Mike of all people would understand, wouldn’t he?

‘First nun says to the other, “What are you having?”,’ said Mike.

He paused, the audience tittering in anticipation.

‘Second nun says, “Sam Charles, if I play my cards right.”’

As they’d anticipated, the crowd cracked up. Everyone knew that Sam and Mike were old friends, but to hear him take the piss was exactly what they wanted from the edgy genius. And in that roar of laughter, Sam took a deep breath and stepped out on to the stage. There was an almost audible pause, then the crowd went bananas, yelling his name, stamping their feet – they couldn’t believe their luck.

Grinning, his nerves all forgotten, Sam picked up his own mic and said, ‘Remind me next time that there’s no such thing as no-strings sex . . .’

The cheers from the crowd were still ringing in his ears as Sam ran into the dressing room and shut the door. A can of lager was waiting for him on the plastic counter and he opened it with a hiss, gulping it down greedily. The show had been an absolute triumph. From his first line, Sam had felt the crowd were in the palm of his hand. The jokes and routines they had written were pitched perfectly for this audience. They loved Mike’s anecdotes about bumping into an eighties pop star in rehab and singing a duet together, despite the fact that they were both heavily sedated. They lapped up Sam’s account of being trapped in a lift at the Chateau Marmont for an hour with Batman, Spiderman and the Incredible Hulk. And they clearly appreciated the effortless comic timing of two men who had been bursting each other’s egos since they were unknown teenagers. Sam couldn’t remember when he had felt so alive. It was partly the warmth and affection he felt from the crowd; after the endless outraged ‘Sam Charles Is Cheating Scum’ headlines, he’d convinced himself that he’d so pissed off Joe Public that his career – any career – was over, but now he felt them willing him on, a surge of goodwill perhaps born of the fact that they appreciated the huge risk he was taking. More than that, however, he was ecstatic at the reaction to his writing. They had been genuinely laughing. Yes, Mike’s comic delivery added a strong following wind, but it had been his jokes that had started the chuckles. And that was a revelation to him. Maybe there was life beyond LA after all.

‘Well, I think they liked that.’

He could see the reflection of his visitor in the illuminated mirror in front of him. Anna Kennedy was standing in the door frame, her arms crossed, a smile on her face.

‘Anna!’ he cried, turning around to embrace her like a long-lost friend.

‘You’re . . . choking . . . me,’ she moaned before he released her from the bear hug.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ he asked.