Page 161 of Private Lives

‘Sorry, Helen, but I’ve got an urgent “By Hand” for you to sign,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a bike waiting for it and I wasn’t sure if you were returning to the office.’

Helen held out her hand.

‘Pass it here,’ she sighed, hoping the girl hadn’t heard anything of their conversation. When Sid had gone, she turned back to the table, her unruffled composure completely returned.

‘So, gentlemen,’ she coaxed. ‘Are you in or are you out?’

She watched as they each wrestled with their own internal debates: Alex wondering about the ethics of blindsiding a colleague, but ambitious enough to see that it helped his own career; Will desperate to please Larry, but enough of a toady to follow the others; and Edward, well, she expected that Edward was already rehearsing telling Caroline that they could start looking at houses near Harrods. It was Alex who spoke first, just as she knew it would be.

‘Well I think we should go for it,’ he said, glancing up at the others for support. ‘Matt won’t be pleased, of course, but at the end of the day we’re not pushing him out, just levelling the playing field.’

‘I’m in if you guys are,’ mumbled Will.

Finally Helen turned to Edward.

‘Me? Oh, you had me at “more money”,’ he laughed. ‘Count me in.’

Trying hard to hide her joy, Helen signalled to the waiter to fill their glasses, then raised hers in toast.

‘To us,’ she said with a flourish.

50

‘Are you out of your friggin’ mind?’

Sam had seen Jim Parker angry before; in fact it was almost his default setting. He’d once seen his agent grab a waiter by the throat for bringing him the wrong brand of bottled water, and with Sam in the car he’d rammed his Porsche into the back of another expensive sports car he believed had taken his parking space. But Sam had never seen him this worked up before.

‘This is fucking insane, Sam!’ he said, stalking over to his office window and looking down on to the traffic of Wilshire Boulevard. ‘Why d’you want to throw away years of hard work? You need to see a shrink, get laid, something, ’cos you sure ain’t thinking straight.’ He threw a rubber stress ball against the wall. ‘Jesus, we’re talking fucking millions here.’

Of course, Sam hadn’t really expected his agent to do back-flips when he announced he was leaving LA for London to work on a comedy script. On the face of it, it was crazy. Even with the current black mark against him, Sam still had a profile, a track record and a certain notoriety, and with an agent of Jim’s influence, there was always a good chance of finding someone prepared to put him in a great movie. But Sam simply had no interest in going back to all that.

‘Jim, you should have been there,’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘That gig in Edinburgh was just incredible. The intimacy of it all, the connection with the crowd. It was like theatre but better.’

His agent sniffed. ‘Well maybe I could have experienced this transcendental happening if you’d thought to mention yo

u were doing it. Imagine how frickin’ dumb I felt when the phone is ringing red hot with people wanting to talk about your Edinburgh show and I’m like “What show?”’

Sam placed his hands together.

‘I’m sorry about that. But I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d talk me out of it. Sometimes I have to make my own decisions, you know.’

‘Sure, and what great choices you’ve been making lately,’ Jim sneered. ‘Cheating on Jess, battering a photographer. Not to mention like three or four separate disappearing acts.’

‘This is what I want, Jim.’ Sam’s voice was low, controlled, his eyes locking with the agent’s. He could have reminded Jim who was in charge, who employed whom, but that would only have riled him further. Sam still needed him on side.

‘Okay, if you really want to connect with your audience, I can get you something major on Broadway,’ said Jim, exhaling sharply. ‘Arthur Miller, Mamet, some shit like that. To be honest, it might not be a bad idea. With the right play, director, you’re looking at a Tony, no question.’

Sam placed his hands flat on Jim’s desk.

‘I don’t care about a Tony Award and I don’t care about Broadway. I want to write. Those people in Edinburgh thought I was funny, Jim. They were laughing at my words, not just at the way I delivered a line.’

‘Of course they found you funny,’ snorted his agent. ‘They were drunk. They were laughing at you. Schadenfreude, my friend. The movie star reduced to some dick-end hole in the middle of nowhere.’

Not for the first time, Sam thought about firing Jim. Right then he could have told him where to take his ten per cent and shove it. But Jim Parker was the best – a savvy and ruthless power broker who made millions for himself and his clients. At thirty-five he was already being talked about as the new Mike Ovitz; whispers were he was making a pitch for the CEO job at his agency, MTA, and if the board were fool enough not to give it to him, Sam felt sure he would end up running a studio by forty. Jim Parker was not a man you wanted as your enemy.

‘Look, Jim,’ said Sam in a more conciliatory tone, ‘I’m not saying I don’t ever want to make a studio movie again. I just want to take a little time out.’

‘And do what?’ said Jim. ‘Pretend you’re twenty-three again? You’ve made it, kiddo. You make eight million bucks a picture. You’ve done all the hard work already. No more sucking cock and brown-nosing assholes to get some shitty walk-on. You don’t have to do all that crap again, capisce?’