Private Lives Read online

  The photographer stumbled noisily to his feet. Through the crowd, Sam could see a police officer’s face, blank, shiny and unsmiling.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he said, almost breathless.

  Valerie ran up behind him. The snapper was talking to the officer.

  ‘We can deal with this,’ she hissed.

  Sam shook his head. Right now he wasn’t so sure.

  19

  The crowd roared as the pony thundered down the rail, its rider leaning out of the saddle, windmilling his stick to crack the ball between the posts. Matthew sipped at his plastic glass of Pimm’s enthusiastically, partly because it was so damn hot out there on the grass, partly to cover his smile. Two years ago, you wouldn’t have caught him dead at a polo match – and if pushed, he’d have muttered something about privileged idiots with more money than sense – but he had to admit, he was enjoying himself. It was like a royal wedding mixed with a rock festival: everyone dressed to the nines, but hell-bent on getting trashed and lying about on the emerald lawns watching the entertainment. He wondered if he was the only one who didn’t have a clue what was actually going on. What a chukka was. At which end of the pitch the yellow team were supposed to score. Then again, he wasn’t here to learn the finer points of polo. He was here to network, as Helen had instructed him, forcing him to attend on her behalf as one of their clients was sponsoring the event.

  ‘Another drink, Matthew?’

  Matt turned to find the tall blonde who had introduced herself earlier as Emily smiling at him.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, knocking back the rest of his Pimm’s. He warned himself to go easy. Then again, this didn’t really seem like work. It was a Saturday afternoon, and all day he had been surrounded by pretty posh girls, none of whom had the slightest interest in talking shop and all of whom seemed fascinated by him. He had never really experienced corporate hospitality like it; occasionally there’d been a wealthy client at his three-man practice in Hammersmith who would send him a bottle of Scotch, but at Donovan Pierce schmoozing with clients, a lavish fiftieth invitation, the cricket at Lord’s, a corporate box at Wimbledon with captains of industry and their attractive co-workers seemed par for the course.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ said the blonde, her high heels sinking into the grass as she disappeared to the bar.

  Matt grinned wolfishly as he watched her go.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered as his mobile began to vibrate. Private number. It was work, then. He tutted to himself, but secretly he was pleased to be in demand, important. He had surprised even himself by how quickly he was slipping into the role of senior partner at the firm.

  ‘Matt Donovan,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Rob. Rob Beaumont.’

  ‘Hey. How’s things?’ he said, surprised to hear his client’s voice.

  ‘Things aren’t so good, Matt, to be honest.’

  Matt walked around the back of the hospitality tent to find a quieter spot.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  There was a long pause and then a stutter of breath. Matthew didn’t need to see Rob Beaumont to know that he was very upset.

  ‘I thought we could handle this in a grown-up manner; you know, for Ollie’s sake. But she couldn’t do that, could she? Had to try and get one over on me.’

  ‘What’s she done?’

  ‘She wants to move to Miami, Matt. She wants to take our son and move to Miami.’

  Matt put his Pimm’s down and tried to concentrate.

  ‘Do you know that for sure?’

  ‘I saw Oliver’s headmistress. She wished me luck and said she’d just written Ollie’s reference for his transfer to some school in South Beach. I confronted Kim. She said nothing was definite but that it was an option. She says she wants to take a break from England. Too much media pressure,’ he said, his voice trembling.

  Matt doubted that was the reason. He had a stack of press cuttings in his office about Kim Collier and knew she was a woman who relished the media gaze.

  ‘You’d better come into the office first thing Monday,’ he said, knowing he could clear some things in his diary.

  ‘She can’t do it, can she? She can’t just take him to Florida.’

  Matthew felt a strong pang of pity for the director, but it was his policy to be as honest as he could with his clients.

  ‘It’s a difficult situation, Rob. We should talk about it more on Monday.’

  ‘Can she take our son?’ he said with a desperate staccato bark.

  ‘Probably,’ Matt said finally. ‘Eventually.’

  ‘How is that fair?’

  He didn’t need Rob to remind him how unfair British divorce law could be: a ‘no blame’ law in which the circumstances of the break-up had no bearing on the division of the assets. That was often what people found hardest to take; he certainly had. Carla had run off and had an affair with some slimeball with a stucco-fronted house, and yet she still got half of everything; in fact, she got more: she got Jonas.

  ‘How often do you see your son, Matt?’ asked Rob so quietly that he could barely hear him.

  ‘Every weekend.’

  ‘Once a week. You’re lucky. If Kim goes to Miami, how often am I going to see my Ollie?’

  Matt could hear him beginning to sob; a grown man struggling with big, breathless gulps.

  ‘We can work through this.’

  ‘How? When the law favours the mother?’

  ‘Short-term, we can think about a Prohibited Steps Order to stop Kim taking Oliver out of the country. Moving forward, we can fight for a residence order, in custody if you want that battle.’

  He didn’t have to tell Rob how high the odds were stacked against him. Right now, his client wanted to hear that there was some glimmer of hope, some slim likelihood that he could at least keep his son in the country after their divorce.

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Rob with defiance.

  ‘Then so am I,’ said Matt, ignoring the flicker of self-doubt that reminded him that despite his experience, his talent, his passion, he couldn’t even keep his own son.

  20

  If Anna was honest, Ryan Jones was a bit of a disappointment. She’d been expecting someone much better-looking, more imposing, a Cockney wide boy dripping with charisma, turning heads and joking with the ladies who lunched in this buzzing Notting Hill restaurant. Ryan’s character in his teatime soap was a ducker and a diver, a lovable rogue, whereas the real-life Ryan Jones looked . . . well, a bit short.

  She watched as the maître d’ pointed him towards her table. He was wearing an expensive-looking shirt unbuttoned too far and had flashy sunglasses perched on top of his head. He was cocky too, rolling his shoulders and pouting like a model, clearly expecting people to look up from their linguine. Anna noted his irritation when none of them did.

  ‘You Anna?’ he said, shoving one hand into the back pocket of his drooping jeans.

  Charmed, I’m sure, thought Anna, standing up to shake hands.

  ‘Yes, I’m Anna Kennedy, I work at Donovan Pierce – I’m sure Hugh filled you in?’

  Setting up this meeting had actually been far less difficult than she had expected. Ryan was represented by Archer Dale Management, a company Anna had worked with before, so all it had taken was a tiny white lie to her old friend Hugh Archer, managing director of the agency. ‘People have been whispering about Ryan’s appearance at that dead girl’s inquest,’ she had told him. ‘We should nip this in the bud before the noise gets louder.’ She had no intention of helping Ryan Jones in any way, but it was a plausible excuse to get him where she could ask him about his dealings with Blake Stanhope.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ he said, sitting down and ordering a beer from the waitress. ‘You’re a lawyer, right? Am I in trouble?’

  According to a recent Hello! article Ryan was twenty-eight, but up close he looked at least five years older. The wonders of make-up, she thought. His Facebook fan page had over fifteen thousand members: young girls really did fancy anybody they were told to these d
ays.

  ‘It was about the inquest you appeared at two weeks ago.’

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Shouldn’t Hugh Archer be here?’ He looked tired and truculent; like a teenager woken up for breakfast after a night on the town.

  ‘Hugh and I have worked together in the past; he trusts me. Besides, this is probably nothing,’ she said, willing herself to remain blank and calm. When she had arranged the meeting, she hadn’t anticipated feeling so nervous in front of him. Ruby had accused him of killing her sister, and while she still thought it was incredibly far-fetched, the connection with Blake Stanhope had made her anxious.

  Ryan’s lip curled into an angry sneer.

  ‘Nothing? This has been a complete pain in the arse.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘Amy bloody Hart.’

  He saw Anna frown and sighed.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry the girl’s dead and all that, but let’s be frank here: Amy was just a quick fuck.’

  Anna struggled to keep her face neutral.

  ‘She wasn’t even that. She was just some bird I took back to my gaff, then the next thing I know, she’s dead, I’ve got my picture in the papers, and these coppers are asking all sorts of questions. Don’t get me wrong, I like getting press, but I can do without the “Dead Girl” headlines.’

  The waitress arrived with Ryan’s beer and tea for Anna, and she used the distraction to take a deep breath and control her emotion. She needed to keep him talking, make him think she was on his side, however loathsome she found him. Poor Amy Hart, she thought. Was that how she’d be remembered? A quick fuck, just a bit of fun to round off a night out? Anna didn’t really know much about Amy, just what her sister had told her, stuff she’d found on Google: a swimwear shoot in a men’s mag she’d done a couple of years before, a two-line biog on her model agency’s website and a handful of mentions in gossip sheets, and that was it until her death. Even then, the meagre reports on ‘Party Girl Tragedy’ revealed very little more. One paper had referred to her as a ‘brainbox beauty’ because she’d managed a year’s study at university before she’d dropped out to model. Anna was never judgemental about how people chose to make a living; if Amy Hart wanted to wear lingerie and hang out in nightclubs hoping to snare a footballer or soap star, then that was her right to choose.

  But even though she hadn’t known Amy, Anna felt sure that she had never wanted to be used, to be thought of as that night’s plaything, just because she was pretty and blonde and liked the odd glass of free champagne.

  ‘You know what?’ said Ryan, taking a swig of his beer. ‘I really thought I’d got away with it . . .’

  Anna looked at him, startled.

  ‘Yeah, I mean I owe that guy Sam Charles a pint or two. After all those stories when she died, I thought the inquest was going to be big news, but then he gets caught shagging the wrong bird and’ – he clicked his fingers – ‘my story disappears.’

  She looked at him closely.

  ‘Thanks to Blake Stanhope,’ she said casually.

  Ryan frowned. ‘Stanhope? What about him?’

  ‘Oh, I thought Hugh had said something about Blake handling your PR. I assumed he had helped you with the Amy Hart thing.’

  ‘Nah, that old wanker’s too bloody expensive.’

  ‘I thought you were a client of his . . .’

  ‘I was. Ages ago. I was young and I got stitched up, didn’t I? Racist thing. I needed help. But I don’t trust that dirty old bastard any more. Set me up with a dolly-bird once. One of his clients. Next thing I know, I open the Screws of the World and there it is. “Ryan’s a flop in bed” or some crap. Load of bullshit, it was. Never had any complaints in that department.’

  Anna looked at him. Ryan Jones was clearly not an upstanding, trustworthy young man, but she believed him when he said he no longer dealt with Stanhope. The casual, dismissive way he had spoken about Amy was even more telling. Was he really so cold-blooded, so duplicitous that he could be flippant about someone he had killed? It felt impossible.

  She put down her teacup.

  ‘The reason I’m here today is just to find out what you said at the inquest, so I can play down the whispers if we need to.’

  ‘You think it will flare up?’ he asked, looking alarmed.

  ‘I think the story’s probably passed,’ she said with more conviction. ‘You were lucky. The Sam Charles thing happened at the right time.’

  ‘To Sam Charles.’ He smiled ruefully, raising his beer bottle.

  ‘So tell me,’ she pressed.

  ‘I told them the truth,’ he said with a hint of bravado. ‘I met this blonde piece in a club last December. We met up a few days later. I took her back to mine, but it turned out she was a cock-tease so I never saw her again. That’s it. The next thing I know, she’s dead. Police interviewed me about it a couple of days after I read it in the papers.’

  ‘Did you tell the police or the coroner that you thought Amy was a cock-tease?’

  ‘I didn’t phrase it like that. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because it sounds a bit angry.’

  He ordered another beer without asking if Anna wanted a top-up.

  ‘What are you saying, Anna? You think I pushed her down the stairs because she wouldn’t fuck me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re right she pissed me off, though. I didn’t tell that to the police either.’

  ‘Why were you pissed off?’

  ‘Because girls like her don’t know how to keep their end of the bargain.’ He wiped his wet top lip with the back of his hand. ‘They’re happy to get all the attention when they’re out with people like me. The free drinks, the VIP area, all that. And they love getting papped when they come out of a club with me. Amy was lapping it up that night, sticking her tits out for the flash-bulbs. But back at my flat, she was just a prick-tease. Suddenly she’s not interested. So I kick her out.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Anna, unable to hide her feelings.

  ‘Don’t give me that lawyer-takes-the-moral-high-ground crap. I know you lot are only in it for the money. Same as we all are.’

  ‘Just because you bought a girl a few drinks, it doesn’t mean she has to have sex with you,’ she said, unable to bite her tongue.

  ‘You one of these feminists, then? You think I was using her?’

  Anna stayed silent, and Ryan laughed.

  ‘She was using me, sweetheart,’ he said, slapping his own chest. ‘Amy was a nobody. Sorry, but she was. She wouldn’t have got her picture in the papers without me. And that’s what she wanted.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that she was so press-hungry.’

  He flapped a dismissive hand.

  ‘Ah, they all are. Anyway, her mate told me she wanted to make someone jealous.’

  Anna looked at him sharply.

  ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘I don’t know, some bloke she wanted to get back at. Look, who cares about whether I was using her or she was using me? The fact is, I just want this gone. It’s been more trouble than it was worth. And I got a reputation to think about, haven’t I?’

  ‘We’ll do our best, don’t worry,’ said Anna, signalling for the bill. ‘No promises, but I’ll have a quiet word with a few editors, see if we can’t get this hushed up once and for all.’

  To her surprise, Ryan reached over and took her hand. He looked into her eyes as he held it.

  ‘Thanks, Anna,’ he said. ‘No, I mean it. You’ve really helped me out and I appreciate it. Maybe I can pay you back in some way?’

  She gently pulled her hand free.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll settle up with Hugh Archer,’ she said.

  Ryan just sucked his teeth and made a gesture that clearly said ‘your loss, darling’.

  ‘So who was Amy’s friend?’ she asked, as they walked out towards the entrance.

  He shrugged.

  ‘Oh, some blonde model. Mandy. Molly. Can’t remember,’ he said, pushing through the door and out on to the street. �
�She had cracking tits, though, even better than Amy’s. I still see her around at parties, actually. She’s with that modelling agency half the page-three girls are with. FrontGirls. I’ve had a few of them before, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I think I do,’ said Anna, turning away. And they all have my complete sympathy.

  21

  She moved across the room, gliding from group to group. Helen was always elegant and graceful, but tonight she was at her shimmering best. Her blond bob shone from a three-hour session with Marcus, her stylist at James Worrall, and her lilac silk dress showed off her figure perfectly. Moving between the rooms of her Kensington townhouse, swapping anecdotes and clinking glasses, she positively glowed. You’d certainly never guess this was her forty-ninth birthday, unless you walked through to the kitchen where, behind the forest of champagne flutes, you would see the huge birthday cake emblazoned with the numbers. Many women of Helen’s age would have kept it quiet or shaved a few years off their official age; they certainly wouldn’t have thrown a glitzy party for their most influential clients and friends. But Helen Pierce had nothing to hide: not in that department, anyway. She was proud of what she had managed to achieve in a male-dominated industry, and proud of how she looked.

  The room flickered in the low, flattering glow of candles in silver holders, soft jazz oozed from concealed speakers and the chatter and laughter of her illustrious guests was like a cool stream bubbling over rocks. Still, it was only a select gathering: maybe seventy, eighty people. Next year she’d have to pull all the stops out. That cake would have a big five-oh, but what the hell, you’re only young once. She smiled to herself, wondering idly if she’d ever enjoyed her birthday parties growing up. She could barely remember them. A vague memory of cheap cake and orange squash, the smeared faces of a dozen children crammed into the kitchen of her parents’ small Rochester semi. What were their names? She couldn’t remember. She’d left most of them behind when she’d gone to the local grammar. She’d worked hard to leave them all behind.