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So he’d been forced to tell her everything. At first there had been stunned silence, but when her emotional dam had finally burst, Sam had felt the full force of her confusion, disbelief and, finally, fury. No, she had said – or rather screamed – no, she would not like to meet up to discuss it in person. She never wanted to see him again. The conversation had terminated when Jessica’s publicist had arrived at her hotel suite to take her out of the city.
He squirmed in his seat thinking about it. En route to Northolt airfield, where he had boarded the jet, he had seen images on Sky News of Jess’s hotel besieged by paparazzi. He managed to avoid his own lynching by the press by a matter of minutes, packing a bag and leaving his Chelsea apartment before the media could make him a prisoner in his own home. His London agent had secreted him away in a house in West London until the earliest flight time had been secured. Helen Pierce had called him to assure him that everything was being done to crisis-manage the situation. Somehow he didn’t believe her. The press coverage seemed wall-to-wall. There wasn’t a news station, Internet site or newspaper in the Western world that wasn’t gleefully reporting the story in lurid headlines. And this was only the first wave. The weekend papers would be dominated by the story. Ex-girlfriends, jealous colleagues and various conveniently unnamed ‘friends’ would come crawling out of the woodwork to add sensational details on Hollywood’s hottest scandal. The celebrity magazines would come next – the story could run for weeks. Soon everyone everywhere would know what he had done, or rather the salacious version of it: Sam Charles Uses Hookers, Sam Charles The Cheat, and worst of all, Sam Charles Makes Jessica Cry. There would be nowhere to hide.
The jet’s wheels jerked on to the tarmac at Cape Cod’s Hyannis airport, almost eight p.m. London time, three p.m. EST, sending a blast of oven-hot air at him as he stepped down. A limousine with blacked-out windows was waiting for him. He had no idea whose car it was – for all he knew it could be a hit man hired by Jessica – but there was no such luck. The window buzzed down and his manager Eli Cohen poked his screwed-up face out.
‘Get in, you schmuck,’ he growled.
Sam threw his overnight bag in the back and climbed in.
‘Why did you bring me here?’ he asked, looking around the flat, unfamiliar environment of the Cape. ‘I need to speak to Jessica.’
‘Yeah, I know that, Einstein,’ said Eli. ‘I brought you here because she’s left the city. And lemme tell you, I had to call in fifty years’ worth of favours to find out where she’s gone.’
‘So you’ve spoken to her?’
‘Not in person, no. But you know Harry Monk and me go way back.’
Harriet Monk was Jessica’s agent. She was an LA hotshot at the ITG talent agency, and had a reputation as one of the industry’s most notorious ball-breakers.
‘So where are we going?’
‘Some compound on the Inner Cape. Belongs to a fancy-pants New York family. The daughter is one of Jessica’s friends. So do you want to tell me what happened . . . ?’
As Sam recapped the events of the past week, his manager said very little, just nodding and grunting here and there. Sam was unsettled by his silence; Eli wasn’t a man to keep quiet about anything.
‘What do you think?’ said Sam anxiously when he had finished.
Eli eyed him for a moment.
‘All I want to know is one question. Why?’
‘Why? I was pissed. You’ve seen the pictures, she’s a good-looking girl.’
Eli snorted.
‘I’m not asking why you did it,’ he said, fixing Sam with a shrewd eye. ‘I’m asking why you got caught.’
Sam shook his head and smiled ruefully. This was another reason why Eli was his manager. Most film stars these days had managers and agents who had MBAs from Yale and Harvard. They wore designer suits, ate Japanese food and plotted everything on a spreadsheet. But which of them could see through the clouds thrown up by this media storm and ask the one question at the heart of it? Eli was right. If Sam had wanted to screw some other girl on the side, he could have done it. Plenty would have volunteered and he could have found a discreet out-of-theway venue for their trysts without much trouble. What Eli was getting at was that this wasn’t about sex and it wasn’t really about wanting to let off steam either. Had he wanted to get caught? Why else pick up a girl in such a public place? Why else dance the electric boogaloo with her in front of a gaping crowd? Why else get so drunk you were practically begging her to blackmail you? Sam let out a long breath.
‘Okay, so you’ve got me,’ he said. ‘What should I do now?’ Eli was old-school. He wasn’t the most fashionable manager, but you could rely on him in a crisis, and right now Sam needed him more than ever.
Eli shrugged.
‘These things will pass.’
‘Come on, this is serious, Eli.’
‘I know it’s serious, son. I can tell you what movies to make, what commercial to do, which parties to avoid. I can guide you, advise you in all things professional. But this is your heart and I can’t see inside it.’ He turned in his seat and looked at Sam searchingly.
‘Sam. As my client, I want you and Jessica to stay together and make lots more lovely money. As my friend, I want you to be happy. The two things really ain’t the same. If you love her, then beg for forgiveness and get yourself to Vegas, tie the knot. If you don’t love her, then tell her so. There’s plenty of saps willing to take your place.’
Sam gazed out the window. Funny, wasn’t that exactly what Anna Kennedy had been trying to tell him back in Capri?
‘So you think I can get through this?’
‘Hugh Grant did. But I’ll be honest, it really depends on Jess. Liz Hurley could have crucified Hugh but she chose to take the dignified route and that worked out for both of them. But Jessica? If she goes on Ellen DeGeneres on a revenge mission, you’re dead. If Jess hates you, then America hates you.’
‘Gee, thanks, Eli.’
