Page 67 of Private Lives

He was in a suit. And a tie. God, how long was it since he’d worn a tie? Sam leaned into the bathroom mirror and adjusted the knot. Maybe he should have used a Windsor knot? Or was that too formal? He knew he had to get it right, because tonight was the Big One: his appearance on Billington, his own personal walk into the lion’s den. He had watched the tape of Hugh Grant on Leno over and over, noting how the actor sat, what he said, even what he wore. Hence the suit. Hugh had worn a white shirt and an orange tie like a public schoolboy. He’d looked respectable, respectful. Penitent, that was the word Valerie had used. Do I look penitent? Or just like a cheating love rat?

Uncomfortable in the stifling heat of the hotel suite, he pulled the tie off and undid his top button. What did it matter? he thought defiantly. People had already made up their minds, if the endless column inches over the last two weeks were anything to go by. He was going to get savaged in the press no matter what he said or how he looked on Billington. Wasn’t that what the public demanded of their celebrities these days? They wanted to see him torn apart before they would let him crawl back asking for forgiveness. The only upside was that David Billington was one of the more elegant, cerebral interviewers on the talk-show circuit. Just the other week he’d made a televised chat with Paris Hilton feel like Frost/Nixon.

If there was any man for the job, it was Billington. With a bit of luck, it might even turn into the definitive interview.

‘It’s so hot in here,’ he said, striding back into the suite’s living area, where his manager was sitting. ‘Can’t you do something about the temperature?’

He knew he was just anxious. The show taped at 3 p.m. for a 10 p.m. transmission and they were due to leave at any minute for the Times Square studios.

‘Relax,’ said Eli, flipping through the TV stations. ‘The heat’s fine. Just first-night nerves is all.’

‘First night?’ said Sam. ‘You think I’m going to make a habit of this?’

‘Figure of speech. Sit down, eat some fruit. Jeez, you’re making me nervous.’

Sam paced over to the window, staring out at the Manhattan skyline from his room in the discreet Upper East Side hotel his manager had checked him into. It all seemed so distant, like a city drawn in a child’s storybook.

‘Come

on, Sammy,’ said Eli, coming up behind him and massaging his shoulders like a boxer’s trainer before a big fight. ‘Be yourself. Say you’re sorry, tell everyone how much you love Jess, smile when Dave breaks your balls, then we’re out of there. Just like we practised, huh?’

Eli had hired a media coach called Monica Glenn, an expert in non-verbal communication, and they had spent the past few days doing mock-run-throughs of the interview. Of course, it was one thing being both charming and humble in Monica’s workshop, quite another to pull it off under the bright lights and high pressure of a TV studio.

Still, the Sun interview had gone down well. ‘Sam Charles: I Was An Idiot’, screamed the headline. He’d been humble, he’d said how sorry he was for letting everyone down, he’d said he understood how angry Jess – and his fans – were. But the writer had been sympathetic and much was made of Sam’s previously unsullied reputation and the fact that only one ex-girlfriend had come forward to dish the dirt on him. Actually, that was more to do with Valerie and Helen’s work behind the scenes; the few women who had attempted to sell their stories had been paid off before they’d had a chance to give any damning interviews. He could only hope that David Billington would be equally sympathetic.

‘Guys, news about Billington,’ said Valerie, strutting into the room, waving her BlackBerry.

‘Good or bad news?’

‘I won’t bullshit, it’s not good,’ she said. ‘David Billington was in a car accident this morning. Nothing serious, but he’s going to be off the show for a week at least.’

‘So who’s standing in?’ asked Eli.

Valerie pursed her lips.

‘Neil Peters.’

‘Peters?’ Sam groaned, sitting down on the bed. ‘Fuck.’

‘I know, I know, it’s not ideal,’ said Valerie. ‘But they won’t shift on it. Apparently the network’s got big plans for him.’

Sam felt all hope drain from him. He was screwed. Neil Peters was a British comedian who’d somehow managed to break into TV Stateside. There was no question he was a mover and a shaker; he seemed to have graduated straight from Cambridge into a weekly satirical news show on BBC2, his own anarchic chat show on Channel 4, and after somehow landing one of the top agents at CAA, was now making waves in the States. He’d been branded overly smug by some sections of the British press, but with his irritatingly self-confident manner he was a master at getting headline-grabbing quotes from celebrities. Which was why Sam’s instinct was telling him to run for the hills.

‘Can’t we put the interview back a few weeks?’ he asked.

Valerie shook her head.

‘It’s now or never, Sam. We need to get your public back on side; we need to change people’s opinion of what happened, give your side of the story. Right now the story’s hot and we have a chance to get a fair hearing.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about. Is Peters really going to give me a fair hearing? He’s standing in for Billington and wants to impress the executives, so he’s going to go all out to get some fantastic exclusive, isn’t he?’

‘So give it to him,’ said Eli.

‘What?’

‘Give him the old waterworks. Cry your little heart out. That’s what the fans want to see.’

‘I can’t just cry,’ he said. ‘It would look so staged.’