Private Lives (43 page)

‘I heard you on the phone at work. That’s why I followed you. I wondered what was going on.’

‘Why, what did you think it was?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Anna quickly.

‘Come on, you followed me for some reason,’ Sid chided.

Anna felt on the spot.

‘I heard you talking about needing money . . .’

Sid laughed. ‘Thought I was selling secrets to the
Sun
, did you?

‘Something like that.’

‘Still pissed off about the Sam Charles injunction?’

‘It’s not a question of being pissed off, Sid, it’s about finding out what went wrong.’

‘Let it go, Anna,’ said Sid passionately. ‘People have stopped talking about it, the work is piling in for you, and I know you’re speaking to Sam because he phoned the office for you the other day. Oh shit, I forgot to pass the message on . . .’

Anna laughed off her embarrassment. Sam had been ringing her every couple of days; checking in, he called it, but there was something about their contact that felt illicit.

She looked over at Charlie.

‘He’s beautiful, Sid,’ she said, feeling a warm glow that surprised her.

‘I know.’ Sid grinned.

‘Is his dad in the picture?’ she asked as diplomatically as she could.

Sid shook her head.

‘I got pregnant at law school. Max, Charlie’s father, was a student at LSE. American, rich. Not sure what he saw in me.’ She smiled. ‘We decided to keep it, we were going to get married, set up home, all that romantic crap. He was going to live off his trust fund and look after the baby while I did my training contract.’

‘So what happened?’

She gave a cold laugh.

‘Have a guess. That bohemian romantic ideal lasted for about a nanosecond, until his parents heard about it and went bananas. He left me a note and buggered off back to America the second he graduated.’ She shrugged. ‘It was too late for an abortion. His family offered me a thousand dollars a month maintenance, but I told them to stuff it. They’ve never even met their grandson.’

‘But I don’t understand how you’ve kept it hidden all this time.’

‘My closest friends at law college knew,’ said Sid, ‘but I didn’t tell anyone else. I only started showing at six and a half months, and by then everyone was too wrapped up in their final exams to notice I’d got a bit porky.’

‘Didn’t you think people would find out?’

Sid raised an eyebrow.

‘I’d landed the Donovan Pierce job before I got pregnant, and when Charlie was born at thirty-four weeks I realised that I could start work in the September after law school finished as planned. I wanted to qualify as quickly as possible and start earning some decent money so I could make a life for us. On the first day I joined the firm, I went to see Helen Pierce, ready to tell her I had a four-week-old baby, but I just couldn’t. And the longer I left it, the more impossible it became to say anything.’

‘But Sid, you should have. Instead, people think you’re not committed to the job, when you’ve just got other commitments.’

‘Wouldn’t have washed though, would it, Anna? You must know how hard it is. How few women make partner. Are you telling me it’s because men are better at their jobs than women? I don’t think so.’

Anna felt both sad and relieved. Thankful that Sid had not been the source of the leaked Sam Charles story; yet depressed that this smart young woman had been booted from the firm for being twice as strong and resourceful as the other trainees.

Her phone was ringing. Helen Pierce would be back from court, wondering where her associate was. How was she going to explain that she was in the depths of south London?

‘Can I just take this?’ she whispered to Sid, walking into the next room. She was surprised to hear not Helen’s voice but Phil Berry’s.

‘It looks like Ruby Hart was right,’ he said without preamble. ‘Louise Allerton left her job at
Class
magazine for no apparent reason three days after Amy died. As far as her old boss knew, she didn’t have another job to go to, and actually he was very surprised she resigned because she’d just got a promotion to beauty editor. She seemed to be loving her job.’

‘Any reason why she went?’

‘I tracked down her mother, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming. Claimed she didn’t have a clue where her daughter was.’

‘So she could be anywhere?’ said Anna disappointedly.

‘Not quite. Turns out Mum was lying through her teeth. She wired money to a bank in Alappuzha, Kerala, a month ago.’

Anna knew better than to ask him how he found this stuff out.

‘Kerala? Is that India?’

‘The southern tip. I phoned round all the hotels, hostels, backpacker places. A place called the Sea View Hotel says she checked in late January.’

‘And is she still at the Sea View?’

‘No,’ said Phil. ‘She stayed a month, then left.’

‘And we’ve got no mobile phone number for her, no Facebook page, even?’

‘No, she’s lying low, this one.’

I wonder why, thought Anna. She was already convinced that this girl knew something about Amy Hart’s death.

‘So what now?’ This couldn’t be the end of the line. It just couldn’t be.

‘To be honest, Anna, it’s difficult to do much more without going to India, but I don’t know how much your client wants to find this out. How much he’s willing to pay.’

‘The client’s got money,’ said Anna slowly. ‘I just need to find out if he’s prepared to spend it.’

Sam had invited her to see him in Edinburgh. She would feel too much like a groupie if she just turned up, but now there was a reason.

She would go to him. She had to go to him.

44

Sam glanced at his vintage Patek Philippe wristwatch, willing it to run slower. Only two minutes to go until showtime. One fifty-nine. One fifty-eight . . .

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.

‘You invited me, remember?’ she said, looking a little embarrassed.

‘Yes, yes, but I didn’t think you’d come.’

‘Well someone had to watch over you. You know what usually happens when you get in front of a crowd.’

‘I’ll have you know that the assault and battery charges against the photographer have been dropped.’ He grinned.

‘Does that mean I can’t charge you for danger money any more?’

He laughed and motioned to a rickety stool. ‘Sit down. Beer?

She waved her hand. ‘All yours. You deserve it.’

He watched her face, looking for traces of pity or sympathy, but she seemed genuinely excited. Even so, there was something reserved, impenetrable about Anna Kennedy; he never could quite work out what she was thinking. Handy for a lawyer, he supposed.

‘So. What did you think?’

‘Honestly Sam, you were brilliant. Both of you. And I’m not the kind of girl who gives compliments willy-nilly.’

‘And it was funny?’

‘Bloody funny. Smart, self-deprecating . . . I bet Eli and Jim are on the phone right now setting up Madison Square Garden and Caesar’s Palace.’

Sam took a pull of his beer and grimaced.

‘Actually they’re not. They don’t know I’ve done this.’

‘You’re kidding me! I thought you were joking when you said you weren’t going to tell anyone.’

He shook his head.

‘They’d have put me off doing it. Or even worse, turned it into a circus.’

‘Hey, it
is
a circus out there, a total scrum.’

‘So it was good?’

She chuckled. She had a lovely laugh. Knowing, tinkling, genuine.

‘Sam, I’m not here to massage your ego,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve got enough people to do that already.’

Suddenly the door burst open and in stumbled Mike McKenzie, wide-eyed happiness oozing from every pore. ‘We did it!’ he cried, flinging his arms around Sam and spinning him around, laughing. ‘You clever, clever bastard! I could never have done anything like this on my own. We fucking rocked out there!’