Private Lives

He’d read and reread that one, analysing it, looking for all the angles until it sent him crazy. Was it an apology? Did she want to forget about the argument and move on? Or was she saying ‘let’s cool it, I’m too busy’? Was it a woman’s version of the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ get-out? Still, she had put a kiss at the end. Or did she do that with everyone? No wonder he couldn’t write, with Anna playing such cryptic mind games. He’d sent her flowers, of course, but what with it being England and the bank holiday, he couldn’t be sure that she’d got them. He knew he could try a bigger, more serious gesture. Jewellery always went down well in LA. Not diamonds, and not a ring, obviously, but maybe a tasteful necklace? It certainly used to work with Jessica, but somehow it seemed too flamboyant a gesture for two people who had only been on a couple of dates.

Thinking about Jessica only made him feel worse. He should probably send something to her as well after the crash. Sunflowers? Lilies? Did Tiffany do safety pins, for her sling?

He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. When all else fails, drink, he thought.

‘Hey, that’s not bad,’ he murmured, looking around for his notebook to write it down, before remembering he’d left it by the pool.

Sighing, he opened the fridge and pulled out the poached salmon salad his housekeeper Mrs Hudson had left for him. He sat at the granite worktop and picked at the food with his fork, then pushed it away. He wasn’t even hungry. He thought back to his visit to Anna’s cottage, and her cosy kitchen. He bet she could just whip up some scrambled eggs and bacon and lightly toasted muffins on her little four-burner gas stove . . .

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of the buzzer. He frowned: who was at the gate at this time? Mrs Hudson must have forgotten the code again. He pressed the button to activate the electric gates, then opened the front door. He needed to have words. But it wasn’t Mrs Hudson’s battered VW Golf turning into the drive; it was a large silver Mercedes with tinted windows.

‘Who the hell . . .?’ he muttered, wondering for a second if it was a particularly ambitious doorstepping reporter. The car pulled up and a uniformed chauffeur got out, nodded to Sam and walked around to open the passenger door.

First he saw a foot complete with red high heel, then a long tanned leg, then she stepped out.

‘Jessica!’ he gasped. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

His ex-fiancée gave him a full-watt Hollywood smile.

‘Is that the only greeting you’ve got for me after all this time?’ she laughed.

Her relaxed manner almost floored him.

‘Sorry,’ he said, striding over and kissing her awkwardly on both cheeks. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock.’

‘I can imagine,’ she smirked. ‘But you were so sweet on the phone, and you said we needed to talk, so . . .’ She held up her hands and gave her hips a little wiggle. ‘Here I am.’

Suddenly thinking of her accident, he took her arm. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Are you okay?’

‘Oh sure,’ said Jessica, leaning on him. ‘I’m much better, almost back to normal.’

She certainly looked good, fantastic in fact. She was wearing a short red dress with thin straps that showed off her curves to perfection, with a white Birkin bag hanging off her arm. There didn’t seem to be any evidence of her trauma, but then maybe that was clever make-up; Jessica was always quite the expert with that. In fact the bathroom here at Copley’s was still full of thousands of dollars’ worth of cosmetics.

‘Will that be all, madam?’ asked the chauffeur, stepping forward holding an overnight bag.

Jessica turned her green eyes towards Sam.

‘I think that’s up to the master of the house,’ she said, looking over his shoulder towards the front door. ‘I did try to call, but your phone was off. I didn’t know if I’d be interrupting anything . . .’

‘No, no,’ said Sam quickly, taking the bag from the driver and fumbling a tip into his hand. ‘You’re very welcome, come on in,’ he said, ushering Jessica inside. He led her to the kitchen. ‘So how are you?’ he said, sitting across from her.

‘I’m fine. A little shaken up, but these things happen.’

‘I have to say, you’re handling it brilliantly.’

‘You can’t let it get you down,’ she said with a smile that held for a moment, then collapsed, her eyes filling with tears.

‘Jess, don’t . . .’ he said, not knowing if he should come around to comfort her. Instead he reached across the table and touched her hand.

‘I’m sorry. I told myself I wouldn’t, it’s just that . . .’

‘What?’ said Sam softly.

‘I know you’

ve moved on, emotionally, professionally. I heard about the Edinburgh show and I’m so happy for you, I really am.’

Her approval somehow mattered to him.