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‘Sorry,’ she purred, disappearing back under the covers. ‘I’ll try harder.’
‘Please, that’s very nice, but . . .’ He eased himself away from her and shuffled crab-like out of the bed. ‘Just going to the bathroom. I’ll only be a minute.’
He backed towards the en suite and shut the door behind him.
‘Fuck,’ he whispered to himself, sinking down on to the edge of the bath, his head in his hands. ‘Fuckity fuckity fuck.’ This couldn’t be happening. He was engaged to Jessica Carr, the billion-dollar girl-next-door actress, America’s sweetheart, the girl every woman wanted to be and every man wanted to sleep with. And that girl out there, the one with the luscious, lovely lips, she most certainly wasn’t Jessica.
How the hell did I get here? His brain was like sludge and he had a world-class headache. He could remember how the night had begun: presenting the Rising Talent gong at the Rive magazine awards ceremony at the Royal Opera House. So far, so respectable. Then there had been the after-show party at Shoreditch House. He was pretty sure he’d behaved himself there too. But beyond that, he could remember very little.
He grabbed a cardboard notice from the sink, one of those unconvincing announcements about how the hotel was single-handedly saving the planet one towel at a time. The Thomas Hotel, he read. Not one he’d ever heard of before. Probably the nearest one they could find. Oh God, oh God. Why?
Actually, he knew the answer to that one only too well. His fiancée might be the most lusted-after woman in Hollywood, but like most things in Tinseltown, she was all smoke and mirrors. Jessica didn’t get that amazing slim figure without endless lipo, Botox, spray-tan and boxercise. Sometimes she worked out for four hours a day, more if they were coming up to awards season. Sam could see her now, lying out on her side of the bed in her frumpy towelling robe, frozen in position a
s she did some ridiculous Pilates exercise, shooing him away as he tried to kiss her. ‘My nails, Sam’, ‘My hair’s just been done’, ‘I’ve got a six o’clock call’: there was always some reason to push him away. Not that any of that gave him an excuse for cowering in the bathroom of some fleapit hotel in . . . he looked at the towel notice again. The Thomas, Fitzrovia. At least he wasn’t too far from home.
‘Sam?’ called a lazy, sexy voice from the bedroom. ‘You coming?’
He shook his head. If only.
‘Just a minute.’
He splashed cold water on to his face and looked into the mirror. His expensively cut dark blond hair stuck up in tufts. His famous bright blue eyes were bloodshot. Well, you’re looking fantastic, he thought sarcastically. No one would have known he was Britain’s hottest actor, not to mention one half of one of Hollywood’s premier power couples.
He stuck out his tongue. It looked grey and mottled, like a steak left in the fridge three days too long. How much had he drunk last night? He squinted, trying to remember, but all he could see was two still images, frozen in his mind: a tray of shot glasses filled with something sparkly, and some idiot sliding across the floor on his knees. He looked down at the grazes on his skin. That’ll have been me, then.
Taking a deep breath, he wrapped a towel around his waist, mentally preparing a speech. Terrible mistake, not your fault, must go, important meeting, that sort of thing. But then he opened the door and there she was, lying stretched out on the bed. Long legs, firm, curvy. Not that horrible stringy LA version of femininity, all sinew and balloon tits. This was a real woman’s body, ripe and fleshy. He could feel himself stirring back to life. Down, boy. He looked away and puffed out his cheeks.
‘Listen, uh . . .’
‘Katie,’ she said with a half-smile.
‘Yes, Katie. Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go. We overslept and I’ve got . . . a thing.’
She nodded and smiled.
‘Last night was lovely, though, wasn’t it?’
I bet, he thought, looking longingly at her body. He felt bad about hurting her feelings, but a maid could walk in at any moment. He knew how often staff in swish hotels tipped off the newspapers about what they saw.
For all he knew, there could be paparazzi waiting outside the room right now; maybe Katie had set the whole thing up.
‘It was lovely,’ he said honestly as he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘But it shouldn’t have happened. I have a girlfriend; a fiancée, actually.’ He paused. ‘So how indiscreet were we last night?’
‘Quite discreet actually.’ She smiled. ‘Although when you tried to skateboard on your knees, some people might have said you were trying to draw attention to yourself.’
‘Was that at Shoreditch House?’ He wondered how many people might have witnessed it.
‘Shoreditch House?’
‘Wasn’t that where we met?’
She looked confused. ‘We met at Ed’s house party. In Soho.’
Ed? Who’s Ed?
‘Don’t worry, Sam. I’m not asking to marry you,’ she said, planting feathery kisses on the curve of his neck.
He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling with the devil whispering in his ear: after all, he’d already cheated – well, probably, sort of – so why not go in for another round? He had plenty of friends who screwed around, especially in Hollywood. Not just with other women – wives of their directors, fans, the make-up girls on set – but with men too. At the all-male spas in West Hollywood, at networking parties. He’d listen to them boast about it and laugh along, but he’d think to himself, you poor saps. He wasn’t like that. Well you are now, aren’t you?
