Private Lives Part 53

John shook his head.

'I'm talking a proper knockout love interest, Jess. A real adversary for Sally and I've found an actress who I think would be perfect.'

He picked up a remote control and zapped on the seventy-inch television at the far end of his office. The screen popped on to a beautiful brunette smouldering through some dialogue.

'Brooke Geller. She's great, isn't she?' gushed John. 'Twenty-four, only done a couple of duds in pilot season before now, so she's fresh.'

Jessica's stomach turned over as she watched the audition tape. Brooke Geller was stunning, a smouldering raven-haired yin to Sally's all-American yang. John was right, she would be perfect. This girl was gorgeous, had a Victoria's Secret body and looked at least a decade younger than Jessica. Brooke Geller was a star, plain and simple, and there was no way Jessica wanted her on her her show. show.

'What do you think?' said John, pressing the pause b.u.t.ton.

'Billy wouldn't go for someone like that,' she said tartly.

'Didn't you see that rack? Billy is a man.' John smiled, taking off his gla.s.ses to clean them. 'Besides, we need to make Billy more fallible, more rounded. He was too much of a goody-two-shoes before.'

'I didn't notice his two million fans on Twitter complaining.'

'Well they're going to Tweet even more when Billy and Brooke start an affair.'

Jessica's mouth dropped open 'Tell me you're kidding,' she said, her voice quivering with anger. 'Billy cheating on Sally with some tramp? It's a bit insensitive, isn't it, in view of everything that has happened to me this summer?'

'Jess, it's not meant to be about that.'

But the way John's face coloured, she knew that was exactly what it was meant to be about. They were cynically chasing the ratings, pulling back the audience with the promise of art imitating life. No wonder Hartnett and his new writer had kept the script such a secret until now.

'What a low shot,' she hissed. She was so livid she was struggling to breathe. 'And how long do you see this storyline continuing? One episode?'

'Six episodes initially; we'll see how the fans react.'

'You mean the whole season, don't you?' Jessica's heart was thudding. 'Is this about these "Desperate Jess" headlines? Because if it is, don't worry, I'm taking those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to court.'

'It's not about that, I promise you.'

She jumped to her feet, grabbing her cell phone.

'I'm getting Len on the phone right now,' she snapped. 'We'll see what he has to say about this.'

Len Morgan was the head of the studio. He was a disgusting lech who had spent years trying to touch her up, and Jessica felt confident she could wrap him around her little finger.

'Stop a minute, Jess,' said John, putting his hand over her phone. 'This was Len's idea. He's a businessman. He's only interested in the bottom line.'

'No,' she whispered, trying to hold it together.

'Jess, look. You are a wonderful, wonderful actress. You are the undisputed star of this show. But you know how important the eighteen to twenty-five demographic is for advertisers. Unless we can convince the studio we can bring that revenue in, there might not even be a Season Six.'

She steeled herself. 'And you think Brooke Geller is the answer to your problems? She might have sucked your c.o.c.k to get this gig, but it will take more than that to convince the American public. They love me me.'

'They did did, Jess,' said John. 'But things change.'

'Screw you, John,' she growled. 'Expect a call from my lawyer.' She grabbed her bag and wrenched the office door open.

'Stop, Jess. Come on,' he called after her. 'We can sort this out.'

But Jessica was already running out of the building, her eyes clouding with tears. How dare they? How dare they use her heartbreak as a way of shoring up the ratings? It was disgusting, immoral.

Scrabbling her keys out, she jumped into her car and flipped down the vanity mirror. You know how important the eighteen to twenty-five demographic is You know how important the eighteen to twenty-five demographic is. Like she was too old. Like she was becoming irrelevant. She peered into the mirror, pulling her cheeks back. Well, a good cosmetic surgeon would ensure that didn't happen. She'd show them who the public wanted America's sweetheart or some s.l.u.t with perky t.i.ts. She shoved the key into the ignition and revved the engine in a roar, screeching across the lot. She indicated right to turn the car on to Mulholland, and as she put her foot on the gas, she peered into the mirror again. Maybe a bit of under-eye work wouldn't go amiss either, she thought. Then her whole body jolted sideways, her head slamming into the windscreen, metal squealing and crumpling as another car smashed into hers. And then she felt nothing.

56

'Another round?' said Helen, summoning the waitress with an elegantly raised finger in the heaving wine bar underneath the Embankment arches. 'Or how about shots?' she added with an unsteady smile.

'I think she's p.i.s.sed,' whispered David Morrow into Anna's ear. There was certainly no question that Helen was c.o.c.k-a-hoop. Jonathon Balon had been awarded seventy-five thousand pounds in libel damages that afternoon at the High Court. It wasn't a huge amount, but then Balon had never been particularly bothered about the level of compensation.The key thing was that his name had been vindicated; after two long weeks of wrangling, Mr Justice Lazner had declared the Stateside Stateside allegations to be 'seriously defamatory' and the magazine's Reynolds defence had failed. Helen had taken great delight in giving a long statement on the steps of the High Court to the waiting media, declaring the verdict to be 'a triumph against irresponsible journalism'. allegations to be 'seriously defamatory' and the magazine's Reynolds defence had failed. Helen had taken great delight in giving a long statement on the steps of the High Court to the waiting media, declaring the verdict to be 'a triumph against irresponsible journalism'.

'I never thought I'd see the day when Helen Pierce wasn't one hundred per cent in control,' said Anna. 'She can barely stand.'

'All part of her act,' smirked David. 'You watch: at eight o'clock on the b.u.t.ton, she'll leave, go to the gym, do two million sit-ups to work off the booze, then she'll be straight back to the office to call the States, drum up some new business.'

He gave Anna a wicked little smile.

'So then. A little bird tells me you've become very friendly with Sam Charles.'

Anna felt herself blus.h.i.+ng furiously. She was glad the light was low.

'Where on earth have you heard that?' she said, as innocently as she could.

'One of the secretaries told me they'd heard you giggling to him on your mobile. "Ooh Sam ..." you were going, "talk dirty to me ..."'

She slapped him on the forearm.

'I did not say that. He's a client. Of course I'm not s.h.a.gging him.'

'You were the one who mentioned s.h.a.gging,' laughed David. 'I merely suggested that you were friendly.'

She avoided his gaze. Did he know she was lying?

All week, since their trip to Kerala, Sam had been texting and calling her. She had teased herself that she had been playing hard to get by default she had no idea about the etiquette of dating a celebrity and had let him do all the running purely because she didn't know what else to do. And boy, had it worked that morning he'd invited her round to his Chelsea Harbour apartment, telling her to pack a bag for the weekend. Anna couldn't pretend she wasn't excited. She felt sure they'd had a connection on that trip, not just between the sheets, but elsewhere, in the laughter and the conversation. Surely he wasn't that good an actor?

'Well I wouldn't get all moralistic about him being a client,' said David, flapping a hand. 'Where else are you supposed to meet your other half but at work these days? I bet half the Donovan Pierce staff are at it with each other. I hear the PAs have a bet on to see who can bed Matt Donovan first.'

'But he's the boss.' Anna frowned. She was surprised to feel a jolt of protectiveness about her colleague.

David laughed, showing his big claret-stained teeth.

'You weren't so full of ethics when you were nuzzling into Sam Charles's ear, were you?'

'I'm going to the bar,' she said, planning her escape route. The conversation was getting a little too close for comfort, and she could do with a soft drink to sober her up, especially with a busy night ahead planned.

'Not joining us in the tequila, Anna?' said Helen, coming up behind her holding a shot gla.s.s.

'I'm seeing double as it is.' Anna smiled.

'Fair enough,' said Helen. 'But you won't deny me a toast?' She clinked her gla.s.s against her a.s.sociate's. 'To Balon,' she said, downing her spirit in one. 'Actually I wanted to say thank you for all your help,' she added, meeting Anna's gaze. 'I appreciate everything you've done.'

Anna was taken by surprise at the compliment.

'No problem,' she shrugged. 'What a great way to start at the firm, with a successful libel trial.'

Helen gave a low chuckle. 'Well I know we got off on the wrong foot. But you belong in this firm, Anna, I knew it the moment I met you. Lesser people would have been crushed by that Sam Charles incident, but you came out fighting. I like that.'

Words of praise from Helen Pierce were as rare as hen's teeth, so it was impossible not to feel proud. Seizing the moment, Anna looked Helen in the eye.

'So does this mean you're not going to turf me out after the three-month probationary period?' She said it light-heartedly, but she knew she'd never get a better chance to put her case forward.

Helen smiled.

'On the contrary, Anna. When I recruited you, I thought I would have to decide between you and David Morrow for the partners.h.i.+p. But if business comes flooding in, as I suspect it will after the Balon trial, then perhaps we can take on both of you. So long as there aren't any more c.o.c.k-ups,' she added pointedly.

Anna stayed at the bar, watching as Helen picked up a tray of tequila shots and took them back to their colleagues. It was seven thirty already and she knew she had to leave. Her colleagues were so wrapped up in their tequilas that no one noticed her slip out of the door, out on to the streets, which had an agreeable buzz of antic.i.p.ation of the Bank Holiday weekend ahead. She hailed a taxi and instructed the cabby to take her to Docklands. Partner, she thought to herself. Helen's announcement had made her feel nervous, considering where she was now heading to. She had wanted this opportunity her whole working life and part of her didn't want to do anything to jeopardise it. But keeping her head down was not her style, and she had come too far with Amy Hart to give up now.

The cab drew up outside the modernist east London headquarters of Media Incorporated: Andy's workplace. Anna had come here to meet him many times when they had been dating, and it felt strange now to be here to ask him another favour. She hated herself for it, of course, but then again, she was running out of options.

She paid the cabby and walked towards the entrance, pus.h.i.+ng against the tide of workers flooding out, keen to start their long weekend. Andrew was waiting for her on the eighth floor.

'Haven't you got better things to be doing on a Friday night?' he said, his voice a mixture of amus.e.m.e.nt and interest.

'I've been doing that since we left court this afternoon,' she replied, following him through the newspaper's offices, an open-plan jumble of desks and bodies, still buzzing even at this time with chatter, ringing phones and the rattle of keys. News News never sleeps never sleeps, wasn't that the excuse Andy had always given her on the many occasions he'd stood her up?

'Been celebrating your win on the Balon trial, I'm guessing?' he said, steering her into a small office. 'We're running a story about it in tomorrow's edition.'

'Then I'd send a reporter down to Gordon's wine bar if I were you. Helen Pierce was on her fourth tequila shot when I left, and I think she'll be as loose-lipped as she'll ever be. You might get an exclusive.'

Andrew sat down and folded his hands across his chest, suddenly the businesslike newspaper executive.

'So what's going on, Anna?'

'I've got a story for you,' she said quietly.

'Really?' he said with surprise. 'One of your clients?'

'You wish,' she said. 'It's to do with your pal Gilbert, actually.'

'How did that go? I haven't heard back from him, so I a.s.sume you behaved yourself.'

Anna frowned. That was odd; when she had left Gilbert, he had been mightily p.i.s.sed off. She had actually been expecting an irate call from Andy telling her off for upsetting his contact. Why hadn't Gilbert complained? For some reason, that was unsettling.

'Well, he told me virtually nothing.'

'MPs. They love to talk, but hate to actually say anything.'

'Which is why I've come to see you,' she said. She opened her bag and pulled out the file of newspaper cuttings on Amy Hart, handing them over. Slowly she began to tell him the story: the visit from Ruby, the possible cover-up with Sam Charles and the long trail she had been following that had led her all the way to Kerala. When she had finished, Andy sat for a long moment, staring out of the now-dark window.

'Why are you getting involved in this, Anna?' he asked. His expression had the soft, anxious look of concern.

'Because a girl was possibly murdered and whoever did it has got off scot-free.' She hesitated for a moment. 'But I'm not sure I can do this on my own.'

He smiled.

'Now that's one admission I thought I'd never hear.'

'I mean it, Andy. One girl is dead. Another is in hiding ...' She didn't want to add that she was scared, but Andrew knew her better than anyone.

'Okay, well let's start by saying that there is no story here.'

Anna began to object, but Andrew held up a hand.

'There is absolutely nothing to suggest that Amy Hart was murdered, or that anyone else was involved in her death. No police investigation and nothing particularly suspicious in the inquest. Then there's Amy's boyfriend. We don't even know who he is, apart from the fact that he's called Peter and he's friends with James Swann maybe. Let's a.s.sume for one minute that Amy was blackmailing this Peter; we still have no idea what she had on him. And even if we do know all these things, how the h.e.l.l do we connect any of it to Amy's death? Because that's what you're suggesting, isn't it? That mysterious Peter had her killed because of what she knew?'

Anna felt her shoulders slump with disappointment. The sad truth was that Andy was completely right: there was was no hard evidence of any kind; their information was sketchy and incomplete, nothing they could present to a court, just a trail of crumbs leading to the foot of Amy Hart's stairs. no hard evidence of any kind; their information was sketchy and incomplete, nothing they could present to a court, just a trail of crumbs leading to the foot of Amy Hart's stairs.

Andy looked at his watch, then picked up his phone.

'Amir, can you pop over?' he said officiously. Anna could tell that the meeting was finished. She felt panicky.

'Look, Andy. Bear with me,' she pleaded. 'I know this sounds spurious ...'

'Yes it is. Which is why I've just called Amir. Maybe he can move things forward.'

'Amir?'

'Our deputy investigations editor.'

'You mean you believe me?'

'There's b.u.g.g.e.r-all here,' he laughed, tapping Anna's cuttings file. 'But if we only followed up on stories that had everything cut and dried, newspapers would be very dull and very empty. So I'm prepared to let Amir have a look at this. Let's shake the tree and see what drops out, eh?'

Anna sat back, letting out a long sigh.

'Thanks, Andy,' she said with relief.

'If we can prove any of this, which admittedly is going to be extremely difficult, then this is a major society scandal. Swann's set is one of the richest, most powerful circle of men and women in the country. Which is why I am not having you poking around all this on your own.'

'Spoken like you care,' she teased him.

His expression softened.