Private Lives Part 21

Peters gave another shrug and the audience howled.

A studio manager scrambled from the wings to stop him. Sam swept past her only to run into Valerie. Her expression was frantic.

'Take a breath and get back out there,' she hissed.

'Pull the show.'

Valerie's hard, usually controlled face was pale with panic. 'I'll see who I can speak to.'

Sam knew it was pointless. The show would run. He would be humiliated.

'You were supposed to protect me,' he said bitterly, shaking his head. 'Get me out of here.' He broke into a jog down the long, narrow corridor as he spotted a fire exit ahead of him.

'Sam. Wait ...' Valerie's voice faded.

He was at the door. Breathless, he pushed it open and bright sunlight popped in his face as he stepped on to the street. He was surrounded by noise, people, camera lenses being forced into his personal s.p.a.ce.

'f.u.c.k off,' he shouted, covering his head with his hands.

'Come on, Sam. Just a couple of shots.' A photographer pushed his Nikon right into his face.

'Just sod off.'

The photographer was relentless. The camera smashed against Sam's ear, the whirr of the shutter echoing around his head.

'Smile, lover boy,' leered the paparazzo.

Without thinking, Sam grabbed the snapper by the scruff of his s.h.i.+rt.

'Get off me,' Sam bellowed, pus.h.i.+ng the man away from him. The photographer staggered back, then crumpled to the floor, his camera clattering to the concrete as he fell.

'Sam. Stop.'

Someone in the studios was calling him. The crowd was building. A siren roared up to the scuffle and he heard a door slam.

The photographer stumbled noisily to his feet. Through the crowd, Sam could see a police officer's face, blank, s.h.i.+ny and unsmiling.

'Oh s.h.i.+t,' 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 gla.s.s of Pimm's enthusiastically, partly because it was so d.a.m.n hot out there on the gra.s.s, 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 h.e.l.l-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 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 gra.s.s as she disappeared to the bar.

Matt grinned wolfishly as he watched her go.

's.h.i.+t,' he muttered as his mobile began to vibrate. Private number 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 circ.u.mstances of the break-up had no bearing on the division of the a.s.sets. 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 pa.s.sion, 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 c.o.c.kney 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 maitre d' pointed him towards her table. He was wearing an expensive-looking s.h.i.+rt unb.u.t.toned too far and had flashy sungla.s.ses perched on top of his head. He was c.o.c.ky 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 h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo! 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 days. 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 days.

'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 antic.i.p.ated 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 a.r.s.e.'

'What has?'

'Amy b.l.o.o.d.y 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 f.u.c.k.'

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 f.u.c.k, 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 gla.s.s 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 s.h.a.gging 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 a.s.sumed he had helped you with the Amy Hart thing.'

'Nah, that old w.a.n.ker's too b.l.o.o.d.y expensive.'

'I thought you were a client of his ...'

'I was. Ages ago. I was young and I got st.i.tched up, didn't I? Racist thing. I needed help. But I don't trust that dirty old b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 Screws of the World and there it is. "Ryan's a flop in bed" or some c.r.a.p. Load of bulls.h.i.+t, it was. Never had any complaints in that department.' and there it is. "Ryan's a flop in bed" or some c.r.a.p. Load of bulls.h.i.+t, it was. Never had any complaints in that department.'