Page 51 of Private Lives

He loved how they could fall straight back into their banter as if no time had passed at all. He just wished he hadn’t left it so long; he still felt guilty that he hadn’t been there when Mike had needed him the most.

Sam hadn’t been entirely surprised at the news that Mike had had a breakdown just when his star was at its highest. He’d always been mercurial and slightly manic, but that was just Mike. He would always be involved in some weird fringe play or organising a huge themed party. He painted and grew cacti and cooked curries for twenty people at a time; he was a powerhouse that never stopped. But Sam knew him well enough to see that he was just running to stand still; Mike once confessed to him that he feared that if he ever stopped, he’d fall into the empty space at his centre.

Finally, seven years ago, Mike had fallen into that hole. He’d been discovered wandering naked around Loch Ness, mumbling that he was looking for the monster. He had just finished a record-breaking sell-out run of his solo show at Wembley; he should have been basking in the glory. Instead, he was sent to a discreet psychiatric clinic in Wales. When he was released two months later, Sam had offered him a room in his LA home and introductions to his Hollywood contacts, but Mike had other ideas and moved out to Eigan. Since then, whenever Sam was in the news – an acting award, a starry premiere – Mike would send him mocking postcards reading:

‘Heard about the nomination. I spent the day digging up potatoes’; or ‘Loved you in the new film, we have foot and mouth here.’

But Sam’s packed schedule coupled with the strain of maintaining a relationship with Jessica had meant that he barely remembered to send Mike a Christmas card, let alone come out to visit his old friend.

Mike took two tins of pale ale from the cast-iron fridge and handed one to Sam. ‘Tell you what, Mr Bojangles. Let’s go for lobster tonight. Then you won’t feel so homesick.’

‘What about you, Mike? Don’t you get lonely out here?’

‘How could I get lonely? There are twelve sheep per acre here.’ He smiled. ‘Plus there are six families; we even have a school – eight kids on the register, I believe.’

They ducked through the low-slung doorway to head outside, sitting on a low stone wall facing the sea. Sam tipped his head back, loving the feel of the warm breeze on his face. On a nearby bluff there was the ruin of a small chapel, covered with a colony of nesting seagulls. It was just perfect.

‘I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave. How did you find it?’

‘My cousin Lucy moved to Mull. After the clinic I came up to visit, and one day I was walking past an estate agent’s and saw this advert reading “Oyster farm for sale”. I wanted some peace and quiet, and oysters aren’t known for answering back. Plus I always fancied myself leading the Good Life. It was just all that fame that got in the way. And the girls, and the cars and the money.’

‘Do you miss it?’

‘No,’ he said bluntly. ‘Twice a year I go and do stand-up in Oban in a pub where they serve cockles and a pint for three quid. Mostly they just throw the cockles at me. But I think secretly they know my stuff is good.’

‘I believe you. So you’re still writing?’

Mike stepped inside the house and came back out holding a dog-eared notebook.

‘This is a script about a priest who goes to work in Hollywood. I’ve written dozens of ’em. Some of it’s the best stuff I’ve ever done. Must be the sea air.’

He threw it into Sam’s lap and Sam flicked through it, feeling a rising excitement.

‘Laugh a minute, old son,’ said Mike confidently. ‘I should know, I’ve timed it.’

Sam didn’t have to read Mike’s script to know how brilliant it would be. The word ‘genius’ was bandied about a lot in LA, but an on-form Mike McKenzie was the real deal. He wasn’t just funny, he was sad too; he made the thoughtful seem so throwaway – you’d catch your breath and realise the impact of his words long after he’d moved on to something else. Sam had never been able to write anything even close to Mike’s output, which was one of the reasons he’d gone off to become an actor. It was hard living in such a tall shadow.

‘Why did we split up again?’

Mike gave a wry smile.

‘Creative differences. That’s what your Wikipedia entry says anyway.’

‘The truth is, I just wasn’t funny.’

‘At least you had the balls to admit it.’

Sam gave him a sideways glance. ‘It was tempting not to.’

Mike shaded his eyes and peered down at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I thought you were my meal ticket.’

Mike snorted and threw a pebble at him. ‘The international movie star thought I was his meal ticket?’

‘It’s true. You were so fucking funny. I could so easily have tagged along as your Ernie Wise, but . . .’

‘But you wanted to be the star?’