Page 50 of Private Lives

‘I need to see you in person.’

She finally relented. She was too curious.

‘I suppose I could do coffee tomorrow.’

‘I’ve got a summer job in Pizza Hut. I’ve got the day off on Wednesday.’

‘Let’s grab a sandwich. How about we meet in Green Park? By the fountain.’ She didn’t want this to be taking up office time. ‘What’s your name?’

‘My name’s Ruby. I’ve seen your photo, so I know what you look like.’

‘Okay, Ruby. I’ll see you then,’ she said, grabbing her jacket and heading out of the door. Helen Pierce might have written her off, but there was fight in Anna Kennedy yet.

14

The beach was two and a half miles long, that was what Mike had told him. Sam looked back along the long white stretch of sand and wondered why he hadn’t been here before. Eigan island, ten miles from the Scottish mainland, was so heart-stoppingly beautiful, with the pale sun glinting off the ripples of wet sand, the heather-fringed cliffs, even the sea eagles wheeling effortlessly above him scanning the waves for their dinner.

Sam kicked a piece of driftwood with his foot, but remembering that it made the best kindling, he stopped dead and stooped to pick it up. As he bent over, he noticed that the bottom of his two-thousand-dollar Tom Ford trousers had white rings left by the salt water. For a split second he wondered if anywhere on the tiny island offered a dry-cleaning service – as it didn’t even have a shop, he very much doubted it – but as the sunshine shimmered like a spray of tiny diamonds over the clear Atlantic waters, he felt a surge of rebellion and ran to the edge of the shore, splashing through the tide until the fabric was truly soaked.

Laughing, he rolled the trousers up to his calves, realising that although he’d only left the pampered celebrity world two days ago, it already felt like a fading dream. Eli had suggested that Sam hide out in Mexico or at a director friend’s ranch in Idaho – at least until the scandal had died down and the vultures had stopped circling. But Sam didn’t want to be surrounded by strangers, he wanted to be among friends.

‘Not many of those around at the moment, kiddo,’ Eli had said. That was certainly true. Sam hadn’t exactly been inundated with messages of support from his so-called buddies, the various actors and film people he hung around with in Hollywood. When you were dead, you were dead. They didn’t want any of Sam’s black marks rubbing off on them. So he had rung his old university friend Mike McKenzie, reasoning that he was one of the few people who would understand what he was going through. And Mike’s oyster farm on Eigan was perfect when you were seeking blissful isolation.

Eli had driven Sam straight from Jess’s Cape Cod hideout back to the airport. The jet had flown him to the tiny airport at Oban, where he had jumped into a four-seater prop plane, and he was skimming down for a juddery landing on Eigan’s north beach before most people had even had their morning papers delivered.

Sam closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about the papers today, didn’t want to ruin a lovely day just spent walking and enjoying the sun on his face, the sounds of the waves and the birds and the wind. There was time for all that later. Much later. Reluctantly he turned to head back towards Mike’s place, the squat little crofter’s cottage he could see in the distance, white smoke drifting from its chimney. There were worse places to hide out, he thought. In fact he could see himself staying here for a long time. Mike had managed well enough for the past six or so years; it had been his sanctuary, his salvation. Maybe a simpler, less vain life was what Sam needed too.

He walked up the little path to the cottage, smiling at the seashells and pretty stones that had been laid along the flower beds on either side. It was so totally unlike the scruffy, irreverent, disorganised Mike he knew. But then Mike wasn’t the same man he’d known at uni, was he? Living out here, how could he be?

‘The film star returns,’ said Mike as Sam bumped in through the low door. ‘I was worried that the seals had got you. What do you fancy for supper? Oysters. Crab. Scallops?’

Sam flopped down in one of the rickety chairs by the old iron range.

‘You make it sound like bloody Nobu.’

‘It is, except my stuff is fresher,’ winked Mike. ‘And I haven’t got any chopsticks.’

Sam smiled. It had been years since he had seen his old friend and he had been nervous about calling him. After all, what would he say? ‘Listen, Mike old thing, I’ve arsed up my life and my career and I need to hide out somewhere the paparazzi will never find me. I know I’ve been too important to so much as send you a postcard in the last five years, but can I come and stay?’

In the end, that was pretty much exactly what he had said.

Mike had left a dramatic pause, then said: ‘Can you pick up a Snickers on your way through the airport? I’m desperate for one and the boat doesn’t come over from the mainland for another week.’

At least he hadn’t changed all that much. In fact, in many ways he was the same cocky bugger Sam had met on the second day of Freshers Week at Manchester University. Discovering they were on the same drama course, they’d bonded over a shared love of bitter and Seventies comedy. The summer after they’d graduated, they’d taken a two-man show to the Edinburgh Fringe and been a surprise hit. But Sam had always been the Dudley Moore straight man to Mike’s Peter Cook comedy genius and they had amicably gone their separate ways six months afterwards: Sam to serious theatre, darhlink, Mike to massive acclaim at the vanguard of a new generation of indie comedy, followed by his own chat show, a BAFTA-winning comedy drama and something of a reputation as a hell-raiser and a ladies’ man.

Sam watched as Mike shovelled more coal into the fire, his dark fringe hanging down. His hair had always been on the Byronic side: Mike always said he used it like a hypnotist’s pendulum to lure girls into his bed.

‘What are you looking at?’ said Mike.

‘You, you great jessie. You look like someone from a BBC Thomas Hardy adaptation.’

‘Bugger, I was hoping for more of a David Essex gypsy troubadour look.’

‘More “Come On Eileen” than “Winter’s Tale”, mate.’

‘So says the limp-wristed thesp. I’m not the one getting my back waxed, am I?’

‘Hey, if it’s in the contract, I have to wax,’ laughed Sam.