‘Put that on, too,’ he said, handing her a too-big leather jacket.
They locked up the office and walked around to Matt’s bike, which was parked on a side street behind the office. He got astride and fired it up, revving the engine, but Anna just stood there, rather forlorn in her huge jacket and helmet.
‘You getting on, then?’ shouted Matt over the noise.
‘I’ve never actually done this before.’
‘Just hop on the back and put your feet on those pegs.’ When she was on, Matt began to move off. ‘And grab on to me,’ he yelled above the engine noise. She wrapped both arms around his waist, and he felt the back of his neck tingle.
‘Don’t go too fast,’ she shouted above the breeze.
He nodded and eased off the throttle, letting Anna get used to the sensation of weaving in and out of the West End traffic and leaning into bends. He picked up speed as they passed the House of Commons, gloriously lit up against the inky London sky, and the wind whipped at them as they crossed the river. Her arms tightened around his waist and her head rested softly against his back, and Matt felt his heart beat faster.
Finally they drew up outside Anna’s cottage and she clambered off.
‘Do you want me to come in?’ said Matt. ‘Just to check everything’s okay?’ he added quickly.
‘I think I’ll be all right. If there was a hit man after me, my guess is he’d have gone home the minute he saw me get on a motorbike with you, thinking his job was done.’
‘I’m completely in control of this machine,’ said Matt, tapping the handlebars.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ laughed Anna.‘You take care of yourself Evel Knievel.’ Her eyes softened in the low moonlight, and he knew her concern was genuine.
‘Call me if you need anything. Even if it’s company.’
She smiled and went inside. Matt waited for a moment, then revved the engine and turned back on to the main road, which took him through the brightly lit centre of Richmond. Seeing all the couples strolling through the town he was suddenly remind
ed of something: he still hadn’t booked the restaurant for his meeting with Carla. But for some reason, that didn’t seem like such a big deal any more.
63
Sam lay on the sunlounger by the pool, staring down at the almost blank page in front of him.
‘Writer’s bloody block,’ he grumbled to himself, snatching up his cigarettes and lighting one. Why couldn’t he think of anything to write? He’d got the best Montblanc pen, bought an expensive notebook – the actual sort Hemingway used to use – and turned off his phone to avoid any distractions. He’d been sitting here in the cool shadow for an hour, and yet inspiration had failed to strike beyond the basic plot: a famous film star decides to give up the fame game and life in a goldfish bowl to return to his sleepy home town. He turned back to the first page in his notebook. He was quite pleased with the titles he had come up with: Unfamous had a nice ring to it, he thought, imagining his interview for Time magazine when Unfamous became a world-wide phenomenon. ‘How did you come up with such a zeitgeisty title for your brilliant comedy, Sam?’ the reporter would ask, to which Sam would tell him that it had spun off an argument with his agent after his Edinburgh comedy smash show with Mike McKenzie.
Sam blew his cheeks out. Of course, it was slightly presumptuous to be planning your Oscar acceptance speech when you hadn’t actually written more than three lines. He looked at what he had so far, imagining who he’d cast as his co-stars: Russell Brand, and Vince Vaughn if he could do a British accent, had been his first thoughts.
Interior: Pub in Margate. Two middle-aged men, TOM and DAVE, are sitting silently drinking at the bar. SAM walks in. He is incredibly handsome and a movie star.
SAM All right, lads?
TOM All right? It’s okay for you, you’ve got a helicopter outside.
SAM I sold the ’copter. It’s all about camels now.
TOM You came on a camel?
DAVE I think he’s being ironic.
A camel walks past the window.
SAM No, I came on a camel.
Under this Sam had written ‘BIG LAUGH’, followed by the scrawled note: ‘Why on earth does Sam have a bloody camel in Margate?’
It was hopeless. When he’d been sitting in his flat with Mike, the ideas had just poured out of them; funny, original, clever. Or had it all been Mike, after all? People were always going on about what a genius he was; maybe Sam had only thought he’d written those sketches. For a brief moment he thought about calling Mike, who had returned to Eigan earlier that week, to persuade him to return to London. But that would be defeatist, he decided quickly, stubbing out his cigarette.
No, the problem was that he was trying to write the scene longhand; perhaps he should be doing it on the computer. He tore out the page, screwed it up, then tried to toss it through the water polo hoop at the end of the pool. It flew about three feet, teetered on the edge, then sank slowly into the water. Sam watched the limp paper disintegrate, the ink blurring and becoming unreadable. He stood up and stalked back to the house. Maybe he needed to brainstorm with someone. Anna Kennedy would be his first choice – she always made the right noises about how good he was – but she hadn’t even called him back, despite his numerous messages. All he’d had was one lousy text from her: ‘Manic at work. Sorry for not calling. A lot on my mind at mo. Ax’