Private Lives Page 19

  Through the crowd she could see the arrival of her newest colleague. ‘Matthew, so glad you could make it. Not brought a date?’

  ‘Well, I thought I might ask Sandra Bullock, but I think she’s busy,’ he answered, smiling. It took Helen a moment to see that he was joking. It was easy to forget that this was all so new to Matthew.

  ‘Happy birthday. You look great,’ he said, kissing her awkwardly on both cheeks.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, wishing she could return the compliment. He was wearing chinos and a denim shirt that hung loose over his waistband; it didn’t even look as if he had shaved.

  ‘So how was the polo?’ she asked, wondering if he’d worn tonight’s outfit to the Guards Club. ‘Did you speak to Leonard Payne?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a good bloke.’

  She didn’t want Matthew getting too close to her top clients. That was her domain.

  ‘So can we get you a drink? There’s plenty of champagne.’

  Matthew shook his head.

  ‘I’m on the bike. I can’t stay long. My son’s round first thing in the morning.’ He looked around the room. ‘So who else is here?’ he asked with a note of anxiety.

  ‘From work? Just you. If I invite junior partners, then the associates want to come. If they come, we have to invite the assistants. Then the trainees start getting all uppity. We might as well have the party in the staff canteen.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t,’ said Matthew, looking around. ‘This place is amazing.’

  She appreciated the reaction, but she doubted that Matthew had ever been anywhere he could compare it with. His father’s place in Cheyne Walk, perhaps. More spoils of law.

  ‘It’s a shame Larry couldn’t make it tonight,’ she said.

  Matthew shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, I think Loralee will be keeping him away from parties for a little while at least.’

  Helen smiled tightly. She had too many fresh memories of Larry careering around her social gatherings insulting people and making a scene. As far as she was concerned, he could stay away for ever. Larry was out of her hair, but now she had to deal with his son. Not that Matthew was anything like as formidable an opponent, but even so, he was a partner and a shareholder. Helen really needed to keep him on side. For now at least.

  ‘I must go and circulate,’ she said. ‘There are some very eligible women in the room tonight who would just love to meet you, I’m sure.’

  Matthew looked at her with surprise, as if he hadn’t been expecting the compliment. Interesting, she thought, filing it away. It never did any harm to keep track of your opponents’ psychology. She moved out through the library, nodding and smiling, then stepped out on to the first-floor terrace. It was a small space, but it had an amazing view of Kensington Gore, and tonight in the balmy evening air, lit by ribbons of twinkling fairy lights, it was magical.

  ‘Helen, darling! Do come over,’ said a tall woman in a deep-blue backless gown, drenched in jewellery. Fiona Swettenham was the closest thing Helen had to a real friend, possibly because she was married to Viscount Swettenham, the hugely wealthy landowner, with the best house in north Oxfordshire and host of the most fabulous New Year’s Eve parties.

  ‘You are looking good enough to eat tonight,’ gushed Fiona, fingering the delicate silk of Helen’s dress. ‘Doesn’t she look fabulous, Simon?’

  Fiona was standing with Simon Cooper, the managing director of Auckland Communications, the corporate PR giant. He was handsome, tanned and aloof, and Helen felt irritated to see him glance over her shoulder for someone more powerful to talk to. She demanded everyone’s full attention, especially on a night like tonight.

  ‘I saw you talking to Larry’s son,’ said Fiona. ‘He’s rather delicious, isn’t he?’

  ‘Fiona!’ said Helen, teasing her. ‘What would Charlie say?’

  ‘My husband would say I had impeccable taste. Now don’t tell me you don’t think he’s good-looking?’

  ‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ said Helen. ‘We didn’t hire him for his looks.’

  ‘You didn’t hire him at all,’ said Simon with a smirk.

  Helen flashed the PR a warning glance.

  ‘Yes, I heard he’d been foisted upon you by Larry,’ said Fiona gleefully. ‘Everyone thought that when Larry retired the firm was going to become Pierce’s.’

  Helen didn’t want to make her professional frustrations obvious. ‘Clearly Matthew is a fine lawyer in his own right; we wouldn’t have brought him in as a partner if he hadn’t been very capable . . .’

  Simon raised his eyebrows to Fiona. ‘I think that’s what you call “damning with faint praise”.’

  Helen was about to reply, but Fiona gave her arm a squeeze.

  ‘I’m sure he’s very good,’ she said quickly, throwing a look at Simon. ‘Anyway, I love that shabby-geography-teacher-chic thing he’s got going on.’

  Helen rolled her eyes.

  ‘I don’t think it’s deliberate. I think this is his idea of smart. When it’s his birthday I might have to send him to Savile Row. Or at least for a shave.’

  ‘Is this how you ladies talk about men when we’re not there?’ said Simon.

  Helen returned his gaze, challenging him.

  ‘What makes you think we talk about you at all, Simon?’ she said, flirting gently with him.

  Fiona insisted on introducing Simon to a Cabinet minister, and as they drifted off, Helen saw Graham staring at her through the crowd. She tried to smile back openly, and Graham reciprocated by nodding. She’d be damned if people could see the strains in their marriage tonight. Then again, they weren’t the only ones. She could count a dozen couples in this room tonight who, behind closed doors, slept in separate bedrooms, had affairs, but to the outside world were devoted, successful couples.

  ‘Why so glum, young lady?’ Helen turned to see a rather stout man in a navy blazer and cravat smiling at her. ‘This is your party, isn’t it? You can’t go around moping at such a splendid bash.’

  Helen laughed. Timothy Hartnell was a former banking lawyer on the board of one of the big City investment giants.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You know how it is, you never enjoy your own parties, always worrying whether everyone’s having a good time.’

  ‘Look around, dear girl,’ said Timothy, gesturing with his brandy glass. ‘It’s the party of the season, so have a drink and relax.’

  Helen saluted him with her champagne and smiled. ‘To relaxing.’

  ‘Which brings me to dear old Larry,’ said Timothy. ‘How is it without him bellowing in your ear every five minutes?’

  ‘It’s quieter, I’ll give you that.’ She wanted to add that it was also cheaper; the cigars Larry had couriered to the office from Davidoff in St James’s, the cases of claret he would send out to favoured clients, the mysterious entries for ‘fruit and flowers’ on the company accounts – Helen was sure they would save hundreds of thousands before the end of the year. But of course Timothy had often been a recipient of Larry’s largesse, so she bit her tongue.

  Timothy took her elbow and pulled her closer.

  ‘What I want to know is why you didn’t buy him out,’ he said with a hint of mischief. ‘We all thought the firm would become Pierce’s.’

  ‘You’re the second person to say that in five minutes.’

  It was another painful reminder of her corporate blindsiding earlier in the summer. Of course Larry had given her the opportunity to buy out his shareholding – he had to; it was in the partnership agreement. But the clause had given her just a twenty-one-day window to agree to the deal and come up with the money. With a bumper year in profits, the firm had been valued at twice the amount she had anticipated, and in the current financial climate she hadn’t been able to get her hands on the requisite cash fast enough.

  ‘I didn’t even know he had a son in the business.’

  ‘Matthew’s background is family law. He’s very good,’ she said thinly. ‘We want to provide a wrap-around service fo
r our high-net-worth individuals.’

  Timothy chuckled and took a sip of his brandy. ‘Save it for the brochure, m’dear.’ He smiled. ‘I can imagine it’s a pain in the bum. After all, you don’t want to cloud your brand, do you?’

  Helen frowned. ‘Cloud the brand?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve seen it happen with other firms,’ said Timothy. ‘They start taking on too many areas of practice and dilute the reason people come to them. Donovan Pierce are a specialist defamation practice, top of the pile in your field. But start adding too many other bits, Johnny Footballer might get confused.’

  Helen took a deep breath through her nose, not wanting Timothy to see how furious all this made her. Was that how people were beginning to see Donovan Pierce – as a diluting brand?

  ‘I don’t think that will happen, Tim,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Really? People are starting to talk.’

  Hartnell’s opinion was one of the few she valued. She’d have fought harder against Matthew’s appointment to the firm, but she had secretly seen the value in growing the business. Her ego wanted the firm to be Pierce’s, but her business smarts told her it was better to have a forty per cent stake in a much bigger pie.

  ‘Having Larry Donovan head up the firm gave you muscle. But having his lightweight family-law son on board doesn’t bring much to the table, does it?’

  Helen was furious at the suggestion that she couldn’t bring enough gravitas to the firm for both of them.

  ‘Per employee, Donovan Pierce is one of the top-performing law firms in the country.’

  ‘Then what do you need Donovan for?’ Timothy said sharply. ‘Get rid of him. He’s not growing your business, he’s harming it.’

  The thought that one of Europe’s top financial brains thought that about her firm made Helen shiver.

  22

  According to the latest issue of Vogue, Danehill Park was the most exclusive day spa in the country. Set in a hundred acres of Surrey parkland, the grand stately home had been converted into a beautifully furnished hotel for mini-breaking couples and savvy tourists looking for a taste of rural England without the inconvenience of the mud and the creaky floors.

  Anna settled back on to her poolside sunlounger and sighed. She’d booked the day trip to the spa as a present for her mother, but she couldn’t deny she was enjoying it too. The spa was a modern addition in a glass and steel extension at the back of the house, built around a mint-green kidney-shaped swimming pool; with the gentle pan-pipe music and the aromatherapy, it was hard to do anything except just lie back and feel your stress float away.

  She glanced over at her mother, lying next to her in a towelling robe, a lavender sleep mask over her eyes. According to her father, Sue Kennedy had been working herself into the ground revamping and extending the Dorset Nurseries’s dining room while also running the gardening business. ‘She needs a break, hon,’ he had told Anna on the phone. ‘If she doesn’t slow down, she’s going to blow a gasket.’

  ‘This is wonderful, isn’t it?’ said Sue, lifting one corner of her eye mask and peering at her daughter.

  ‘It was such a good idea of Dad’s.’

  When she had booked the trip, Anna had taken on board her father’s concerns, but she was grateful for the quality time alone with her mother. They had always had an uneasy relationship. Even when the girls had been small, Sue Kennedy had seemed to dote on the prettier, girlie Sophie, who shared her feminine wiles and breezy popularity. She had never seemed to understand her older daughter’s efficient bookishness, used to tease her for preferring to take long walks across the fields and hills with her father than spend time indoors braiding hair with Sophie or playing with make-up. But recently Anna could sense her mother drifting away from her in a vapour trail of disappointment and frustration. She had got used to not having Sophie in her life, but to add her mother to the mix would be unthinkable. She was determined to stop the rot in their relationship and knew that this day out was as good a place as any to start.

  ‘How about lunch?’ she said, uncurling herself from the lounger.

  Sue glanced at her dainty gold watch.

  ‘Not yet, darling. I wish you would just relax.’

  Anna chuckled. ‘You’re right. We’ve got a big libel trial starting tomorrow, so I should chill out before the fun starts.’

  ‘You mean fun as well, don’t you,’ Sue said, teasing her.

  ‘Honestly, it is quite exciting.’

  It was Sue’s turn to laugh. ‘You always found the funniest things to get excited about. Those books about Mount Everest you used to love. You were always so enquiring. It’s probably why you turned out so clever, so successful.’

  Anna realised that this was the nearest thing she’d had to a compliment in a long time. Then again, Sue had been good-humoured, less snipey all morning, and hadn’t even mentioned Sophie or the wedding once.

  ‘Come on then. Let’s go and try out this restaurant.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to complain about the food.’ Anna grinned.

  ‘Of course I’m going to complain, darling,’ said Sue, knotting her robe tighter and slipping on her white slippers. ‘It’s just professional interest.’

  The restaurant was beautiful. The interior was all scrubbed pine and stiff linen, just the right balance between formality and casual; you felt you were in a sophisticated restaurant, but it didn’t seem weird to be wearing a fluffy robe. The double doors were open, leading on to an outdoor seating area around a small pond that shimmered invitingly in the heat.

  ‘Let’s eat outside,’ suggested Anna, feeling lifted by the warm, scented breeze drifting into the restaurant and realising this was the nicest day out she had had in ages.

  She snaked through the wrought-iron chairs and then stopped dead as she saw a familiar figure seated under a parasol. Sophie was reading a magazine. She was dressed casually in leggings and a T-shirt, her hair all piled up like some nymph emerging from a grotto.

  ‘I don’t believe it . . .’ Words seemed unable to form in Anna’s throat.

  Sue looked at her wearily. ‘I couldn’t let it go on, Anna. It’s so silly. At least speak to her.’

  Sophie looked up, her expression papered with the same wide-eyed anxiousness she’d had as a child when she knew she was about to be in trouble.

  Anna couldn’t stop staring at her. Of course she’d tuned into her sister’s TV show, more often than she’d liked. Sophie was a culinary Jessica Rabbit, all seductive curves and painted face, the perfect wife who could whip you up a luscious pie then take you to bed for an hour of mind-melting sex. That was how she remembered her sister in the flesh, too. A lusty temptress.

  But the woman in front of her was slimmer, softer, less dangerous. Thin arms poked out under her black T-shirt; her face, leaner thanks to pounds lost for the television and her wedding, looked different, yet familiar. Her sister looked just like a slimmer version of herself.

  ‘Go on,’ hissed Sue.

  Anna resisted her mother’s forceful hand against her back, then put one foot in front of the other and moved slowly towards Sophie’s table.

  ‘Hello,’ she said awkwardly. ‘It’s been a while.’

  For a second she remembered the same words that were spoken almost four years earlier. She could see quite clearly the night Sophie had turned up at her flat, suitcase in hand, looking for a place to stay, having just washed back up from three years of travelling, with a sprinkling of tattoos, an empty bank balance and a vague ambition to get into telly.

  Anna had been glad to have her sister back. Glad to have someone to laugh with, cook with, go out drinking with. They’d shared their love dilemmas: Anna’s frustration with Andrew, Sophie’s complaints about the lack of decent men in London. And after three months of Sophie’s unsuccessful attempts to find work, Anna had pleaded with Andrew to give her a job at the newspaper, where he was on the fast track to editorship. He’d delivered: an assistant’s job in the features department, which had turned into a food
column when Sophie had charmed the editor and regaled him with stories about the Dorset Nurseries.

  The rest was a history Anna had tried hard to forget.

  A waiter had begun fussing around them, offering bread, hummus dips and sparkling water.

  ‘Have you had any spa treatments yet?’ asked Sophie finally. ‘I believe they’re heavenly.’

  The benefits of the relaxing floral facial Anna had had an hour earlier seemed difficult to recall.

  ‘It’s a lovely place,’ she replied coldly.

  ‘How was the journey over?’ asked Sue, trying to fill the silence.

  ‘A bit of a rush.’

  ‘Sophie’s been filming the new show,’ said Sue proudly. ‘We’ll never be able to cope with the demand when it’s on in the autumn.’

  Anna watched her mother beam at Sophie. Sue Kennedy never stopped mentioning how grateful she and her husband were to their younger daughter for driving business to the Dorset Nurseries. Anna tried not to feel too resentful that no one ever mentioned that it was her idea in the first place to transform the disused conservatory into a restaurant, or that she had spent many hours compiling her parents’ business plan and helping them get the finance to do it. But it was hard not to feel slighted.

  ‘So have you looked at the menu?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you recommend, Sophie?’ asked Sue.

  Anna almost smiled. Everyone in Sophie’s inner circle knew that the delicious recipes in the best-selling Dorset Kitchen Cookbook and on the show were Brian Kennedy’s creations rather than Sophie’s, but even her parents went along with the little white lie.

  ‘Oh, um, probably the field mushrooms,’ she said, picking up the stiff card. ‘Or the sea bass with fennel.’

  ‘I’ll have the risotto, then the sticky toffee pudding,’ said Anna.

  ‘Gosh, I wish I could eat all that,’ said Sophie. ‘If I so much look at a dessert, it jumps straight to my hips.’

  ‘Sophie’s already lost eight pounds in the last month,’ said Sue. ‘For the wedding.’