Page 29 of Private Lives

‘Yes,’ she said, a little too quickly.

‘There’s a fantastic restaurant just down there called La Capannina. All the greats have been there: Sinatra, Loren.’ He smiled. ‘You said you wanted your own Ava Gardner moment.’

She was glad they were back on civil terms, but she felt a pang of disappointment that he wasn’t offering to accompany her. What did you expect, she thought to herself, a movie star wanting to go out for dinner with you?

‘I’d come with you,’ he said, as if reading her mind, ‘but I think that being seen in one of Europe’s busiest tourist spots with a pretty girl who is not my fiancée might get me in more trouble than I am already in.’

Anna laughed.

‘See?’ she said. ‘You’re learning.’

His expression became more serious, his blue eyes searching hers.

‘Will you call me as soon as you’re out of court? We can’t let them publish this, Anna.’

She knew she was being played, knew her first assessment of Sam had been correct: he was an operator. Celebrities were good at making you feel as if you were the most important person in the world so you would go the extra mile to oblige them.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she said and closed the door, waving as the car pulled away. She knew Sam Charles was probably a terrible rogue with a string of girls in every port. She knew he had probably lied about what had happened with that girl Katie. She knew at the very least that he was a first-class actor.

Even so, as she turned to walk down the cobbled street, Anna couldn’t help feeling that helping him was the most important thing in her life.

8

‘Home sweet home,’ called Larry, opening the door of his Cheyne Walk townhouse. He put his bag on the marble floor and breathed in the familiar smell – flowers, polish, coffee. Home. He’d never noticed how particular and comforting his house smelled until he’d spent five days in hospital. Five days? Had it only been five days? It had felt much longer. But then he couldn’t remember a time when he’d actually stopped and thought about things for more than a few minutes. Sometimes, he’d discovered to his surprise, it was good to slow down and smell the roses every now and then.

Loralee bustled in behind him, taking his arm and leading him up the stairs to the master bedroom, handling him as if he was an infirm geriatric.

‘Now you sit there on the bed and I’ll get Irina to cook some lunch,’ she said.

‘Great idea, I couldn’t stand all that tasteless muck in hospital. What about a nice steak?’

Loralee shook her head, her honey-blond hair swaying.

‘No steak. The doctor said you’ve got to cut down on your cholesterol; we’re switching to steamed vegetables and pulses until you’re stronger.’

Larry groaned. ‘How do they expect me to get stronger on that hippy swill? Well, what about a quick stiffener before lunch?’

‘Oh no,’ said Loralee, frowning. ‘There will be no more booze either. One glass of red wine a day, that’s good for the heart apparently. But strictly no spirits.’

‘What is this, the bloody Gulag?’ he spluttered.

She walked over and stroked his hair back.

‘Come on now,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve got to look after you. We came so close to losing you, isn’t it worth making a few little sacrifices?’

Sacrifices, he thought, it’s all right for you to say, you’re not the one making them. But instead he gave her a weak smile.

‘Whatever you say, old girl.’

‘Good.’ She smiled, turning towards the dressing room. ‘I’ve got to get out of these clothes, I smell of hospital.’

The dressing room was an indulgence Loralee had insisted on when she’d moved into the house eighteen months earlier. Larry had spent £100,000 knocking the master bedroom through into the second bedroom on this floor to create a giant climate-controlled space that his new wife soon spent an equivalent amount filling with shoes, dresses and bags.

‘Oh, I forgot to mention,’ she called from inside, ‘Matt rang you this morning. He wanted to pop round once you were home.’

Larry felt a wave of happiness.

‘Oh good,’ he said, trying not to sound too pleased. He was well aware that Loralee wasn’t overly fond of his son. ‘When’s he coming?’