Page 162 of Private Lives

Sam frowned.

‘This isn’t about money, Jim. It’s about re-prioritising. Changing pace. Getting back to grass roots.’

The agent looked at him aghast.

‘Grass roots? You really think you can go back? You’re not one of them any more, Sammy.’

‘But I can be, Jim. I need to. None of this’ – he gestured around Jim’s plush office – ‘none of it is real. I want to find myself again.’

Jim threw his hands up in frustration.

‘Sam, you want to get fucking real. You gonna sell up the place in the Hills and the cars and the jet? You gonna give it all to some orphanage? No? Then you ain’t never gonna be “real” like those stiffs down there on the street. You might have this romantic fucking little illusion going on in your head, but you can’t go back. You can’t become unfamous. Life has changed for you. Permanently.’

Sam shook his head. He knew there was a certain amount of truth in what Jim was saying – he couldn’t erase the last ten years and go to work in a butcher’s, hoping that no one would ever mention his former life – but he was exaggerating. People stopped being famous all the time, moved on to other things, other places, otherwise Hollywood would be the biggest, most crowded city on earth.

‘Anyway, you want to write a script, why d’you have to go to London to do it? We’ll get you a place out at the beach, that way you can still take meetings.’

Sam was starting to get aggravated by Jim’s refusal to see that something had changed in his life.

‘I like it in London,’ he said firmly. ‘Being here a few days has reminded me of that.’

Jim looked at him shrewdly.

‘You fucking some girl there now?’

Sam needed every bit of his acting skill not to betray himself.

‘No,’ he said, feeling disloyal. ‘And anyway, Jim, this is not for ever. I just want to try out a few options.’

Jim’s mouth curled in distaste.

‘You leave this town, I can’t keep you hot.’

‘Don’t exaggerate,’ said Sam. ‘Look at Demi Moore. Disappears to her ranch for a few years, comes back, bags Kutch, they’re the new King and Queen of Hollywood.’

‘With respect, Demi didn’t leave town with the baggage you’ve got.’

Sam took a deep breath.

‘Look, remember when we had that council of war at my place in England? You said that we needed the right vehicle for me to get back in the game. A really great rom-com – that was your idea, you even said I should write it. It was a great idea, Jim, and now’s my chance to do it.’

Jim pouted, thinking it over.

‘You got a plan?’ he said, looking at Sam sideways.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s a cracker. I think it’s got sleeper hit written all over it.’ This was an out-and-out lie, but he couldn’t admit to Jim that his Big Idea consisted of a few illegible notes he’d scribbled on the back of the in-flight magazine on his way into LAX.

‘Well I guess Sly Stallone wrote Rocky in a fortnight,’ said Jim, rubbing his chin. ‘Take the rest of the summer off and we’ll talk again when you’ve got something.’

Sam stood up eagerly, thrusting his hand out to shake. ‘Thanks, Jim, it means a lot to have you on side.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Jim, waving him away. ‘Don’t start getting all kissy on me, it’s only a fucking script.’

Sam walked towards the door, a spring in his step.

‘Hey, Sammy,’ said Jim. ‘This shit better be funny. Because if it’s not, you’re not going to be able to get a job scooping poop on Santa Monica Beach.’

No pressure, then, thought Sam. But as he walked out into the sunshine, he felt as if someone had given him wings. No more red carpets, no more schmoozing studio heads, no more bloody Hollywood. He was free.