Page 83 of Private Lives

The butterflies in his stomach kicked up a gear as the limo slid in front of the Village Theater in Westwood. From the protected womb of the car he could hear the screams of a thousand fans pressed up against the crash barriers. The driver opened the door and the heat and sound crashed over him like a tidal wave. As if on autopilot, his face lit up with his thousand-watt smile and for an instant he was overwhelmed by the moment. It was impossible not to be. Over the past decade he’d been to so many of these things they were almost routine, but the thrill of turning up to your own movie premiere never lost its magic.

The photographers were going crazy. ‘Sam! Sam! Over here!’

‘Give us a smile, buddy.’

‘Where’s Jessica tonight? Can you look sad for us?’

Keep it together, he said to himself, trying not to flinch as the whirr of the camera shutters filled the air like gunfire. Just do what you always do.

‘Keep moving,’ said Lauren into his ear.

‘Who’s that? Your new hooker?’ shouted a voice from the back of the crowd. Sam tried to turn back, but Lauren kept a grip on his arm.

‘Keep smiling,’ she hissed. ‘Charming and lovable, remember?’ She tugged at his hand, pulling him towards the theatre’s entrance. ‘Perfect,’ she whispered in his ear.

Sam was glad to be inside the foyer, away from the gaze of the public.

‘There he is, the star of the show.’ Jim Parker strode over and tapped him playfully on the cheek. ‘You ready to see some kick-ass action?’

‘Let’s hope it does kick ass, Jim,’ said Sam quietly, as they walked towards their seats at the front. ‘Because we’re in trouble if it doesn’t.’

Usually at events like this, the stars who walked the red carpet were discreetly let out the back of the movie theatre, but this time Sam couldn’t wriggle out of it. He was already under scrutiny and they couldn’t afford a ‘Sam Snubs Premiere’ headline.

Then again, n

o one could have blamed him if he had chosen to walk out. The movie was worse than he had suspected; in fact it was a full-on disaster. He sat there almost mesmerised as scene after clunky, unbelievable scene played out before him in full Dolby Surround Sound. He could hear people sniggering in the darkness behind him. It was the biggest, fattest turkey he’d ever seen. As his character ran across the battlefield – ironically enough, a CGI version of downtown LA – to save his girl from the distinctly unscary robot killers, Sam shrank further and further down in his seat, dreading the moment when the lights would come up and he’d have to face yet another humiliation. No one would say ‘Jeez, what a crap movie,’ of course. This was Hollywood; everyone was relentlessly upbeat to your face. But no one could have watched that train wreck of a film and not seen it for what it was: the death knell for Sam Charles’s career.

‘Come on,’ whispered Lauren, as the final scene played out. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Gratefully, Sam followed her towards the side exit, Jim tagging along behind.

‘What’s up?’ Jim asked as they reached the street door. ‘I thought we were hanging around to press the flesh.’

Lauren shot him a look.

‘Can it, Jim,’ she said. ‘Hasn’t Sam put up with enough recently without hanging him out to dry?’

‘I loved that goddamn movie,’ Jim said earnestly.

Lauren shook her head. ‘Right, Sam, you and Jim go off to the aftershow at Momo’s – the studio needs you to go, I’m afraid: united front and all that. I’ll stay here and firefight as much as I can, then I’ll see you there.’

Sam tried to give her a smile, but he felt utterly miserable. Even Jim had picked up on the mood, and for once sat silently as an SUV carried them to the restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard. They both flashed smiles and waved at the waiting photographers, then ducked inside quickly, being ushered to a booth at the back. Thankfully they were alone for the moment, with the rest of the partygoers still back at the theatre. Jim unfastened the buttons on his tux and let out a deep breath.

‘Okay, so it wasn’t Casablanca,’ he said. ‘But they can’t all win prizes, can they? Tomorrow morning we’ll find you something else. The next one’s going to be dynamite, I promise you.’

Sam looked up at him.

‘What do you mean, “find you something else”? I’ve done three back-to-back movies. I start on that Dreamscape thing next month. We agreed that’s enough until the next knockout script comes in.’

Jim’s mouth flattened into a line.

‘About that . . .’

Sam felt his stomach turn over.

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me there’s a problem.’

‘Sorry, Sam, the Dreamscape movie has fallen through.’