Private Lives (32 page)

He sipped his wine.

‘So what’s this favour you need?’

‘It’s for a case I’m working on.’

‘The Balon case? Did he get funded by those mobsters like they’re saying?’

‘As if I’d tell you, even if I did know.’

‘You always were so secretive.’

‘Secretive? Andy, this is my job. I get paid to keep secrets. And you’re a journalist.’

‘I was your partner, wasn’t that more important?’

‘You tell me,’ she said, meeting his gaze.

It was no surprise to Anna that Andrew was now associate editor at
The Chronicle
, effectively number three, within striking distance of the top job. He’d risen effortlessly from news reporter to business editor to his current position. Not bad for someone not yet thirty-five. They’d met at the Islington home of a senior BBC news executive. It had been his daughter’s party, a law school friend of Anna’s, while Andrew was a family friend. Anna had felt so grown up talking to a serious journalist in this high-ceilinged room, full of books and pictures, the sort of place she wanted for herself. They’d talked for hours, getting drunker and drunker on the fruit punch, until suddenly he’d taken her hand and pulled her outside, kissing her in the doorway of that tall white Georgian house. Their jobs had provided common ground; both workaholics and obsessed with current affairs. But the nature of her work, her clients’ indiscretions to have to keep quiet, her battles against the papers, built a Chinese wall between them that had often made Andrew feel resentful.

‘This isn’t about Balon. It’s about Gilbert Bryce, the MP. I need to talk to him.’

‘What do you want to meet Gilbert for?’ His expression clouded. Gilbert Bryce was a well-known womaniser but Anna didn’t flatter herself it was jealousy.

‘It’s something I’m working on for a client. I can’t tell you.’ She had no idea how interested
The Chronicle
would be in the story of a lingerie model’s death. Probably not very. They didn’t usually go for stories about the Chinawhite set at the broadsheets.

‘Of course not,’ he said, not hiding his exasperation.

‘Please, Andy, this could be important.’

‘I’m not asking for any gory details, I just want to know what you want to speak to him about.’

‘I can’t tell you,’ she said firmly.

‘Then I can’t introduce you. Gilbert is a contact; I have a relationship with these people. I can’t just fix you two up without knowing what it’s about.’

‘Can’t you? I’d have thought it was the least you could do.’

‘Oh Anna . . .’ he said, shaking his head just enough to register his disappointment.

‘Sophie told me how long you’d been having an affair. Before I caught you. Not quite the once or twice you claimed, was it?’

He looked down. She was sure she saw him colour with shame.

‘What point was there in telling you the truth?’

‘You made me look a fool by sleeping with Sophie. But you kept on making me look like a fool when you didn’t tell me the truth.’

She hated the thought of Sophie and Andrew pitying her with the little secret they had carried between them. ‘You owe me, Andy.’

‘If I introduce you to Gilbert, will you come to the wedding?’

‘Unbelievable,’ she said scornfully.

‘I want you to come to our wedding.’ He shrugged. ‘Why not? I do you a favour, you do us one.’

‘Forget it,’ she said taking a five-pound note out of her purse to pay for her drink. ‘I thought you might want to do the decent thing and help me, I thought you might think you owed me something for the time we spent together at least, but obviously not.’

She got up to leave, but he caught her arm.

‘Don’t go. Please,’ he said.

Reluctantly Anna sank back into her seat.

‘Look, Parliament has closed for the summer,’ said Andrew finally. ‘But I happen to know where Gilbert lives, some chocolate-box village in Sussex. I’ll see if I can set up a meeting, but don’t piss him off, okay?’

‘Thank you,’ she said honestly. ‘I’ll try not to be my usual offensive self,’ she added with a half-smile.

She watched her ex-boyfriend’s face soften.

‘I’m sorry. For everything.’

‘I’m a big girl, Andy. I get it that two people have to move on because their relationship isn’t working, because they meet someone else . . . But why her?’

‘Because she was like you, only simpler.’ He looked down and then met her gaze intently. ‘Soph makes me feel
good
about who I am, not bad.’

Anna looked at him with puzzlement.

‘What did I do wrong?’

‘You’re so smart, so always on the money about everything. I guess I wasn’t up to the challenge. You deserve someone in your life who is.’

She waved her hand to order the bill, feeling lighter and more free than she had in years, because she knew she agreed with him.

31

Jessica opened her pale green eyes and sat up, propping herself up on her elbows. God, these hospital beds were uncomfortable, and she’d been lying in it most of the day. Who’d have thought a death scene would need so many takes? She caught a glimpse of herself in a prop mirror: pale make-up, darker around the eyes, a few dribbles of fake blood on her cheek where she’d been coughing it up to dramatic effect. Exactly how I feel, she thought. She was drained, exhausted. For some reason, since Jim Parker had removed Sam’s treadmill and shaving kit, the house had seemed empty and she’d been finding it hard to sleep. Normally she would have taken a Xanax, but she had to stay sharp for the reshoots. Although sharp wasn’t the word. She felt lethargic and moody all the time. Maybe she was coming down with something.

‘All right, people,’ said Judd Spears, the director of
Slayer
, the serial killer thriller that Jessica was filming. He beamed with pride as he stepped away from the monitor. ‘I think we can say that’s a wrap!’ He slapped Jessica on the shoulder. ‘We nailed it, baby. You were a sensational stiff.’

‘Great,’ said Jessica, forcing a smile as she slid her legs off the gurney.

Joe Kennington, the leading man, walked over.

‘Good work, Jess,’ he said with a smile.

‘Thank you.’ She blushed. Joe had a reputation for being exacting with his own performances and consequently very critical of his co-stars, with stories of on-set dust-ups and sub-sequent freeze-outs of the offending actors, so she was chuffed with the compliment.

‘Hey guys, there’s a party in the Hills,’ said Judd. ‘Wanna come?’

Jessica’s heart sank. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her eyes open, let alone have the necessary sparkle at an industry networking gathering.

‘Not for me,’ said Joe, holding up a hand. ‘I’ve got some interview with
Rolling Stone
in the morning.’

Judd bounded off and Joe turned to Jessica, raising his eyebrows.

‘He makes me feel really old,’ he laughed.

‘Rubbish. You’re the hottest, fittest guy in Hollywood.’

It wasn’t strictly true. Joe was pushing fifty; not even a facelift could stop the dying of his looks. But it was never a bad idea to suck up to industry grandees like him.

‘How about dinner? Catering wasn’t up to much today, was it?’

Jessica smiled prettily. What a wonderful idea. And if the paps spotted them, it would only add weight to the rumours of an on-set romance that were already fluttering around.

‘That sounds good,’ she said. ‘Just let me wash this blood off first.’

Maki Soba was a low-key Japanese restaurant off Melrose. Lit inside by glowing pink and yellow paper lanterns, it had the most flattering lighting this side of the studio lot.

‘Try the tempura,’ said Joe, pointing to the bowl with his chopsticks. ‘It’s so light.’

Dutifully Jessica popped some in her mouth and pulled a suitably ecstatic face. ‘This place is amazing,’ she said. ‘How did you find it?’

‘I’ve been coming here for years,’ said Joe. ‘It was a favourite of Sia’s.’

Jessica nodded solemnly. Sia was Joe’s ex-wife. They’d been married for twelve years – a lifetime in Hollywood terms – and only separated the previous spring. Rumour had it Sia had run off with her personal trainer and that Joe was still in mourning.

‘So what do you think about Judd landing
Purple Skies
?’ he asked, referring to the hot new project their director was attached to.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said honestly. ‘Do you think he’s sensitive enough to pull it off?’

‘Ah, so you’ve read it too,’ grinned Joe. ‘I didn’t think anyone else in Hollywood had actually heard of it. I love that book.’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ She laughed lightly. In actual fact, she had only read the PEN Award-winning novel because Sam had practically forced her. He had gone on about how clever and moving it was, and she had finally given in.

‘Well that’s what I was worried about. Can Judd do it? When you have a property that delicate, that personal, it would be so easy to turn it into some hokey thriller, but I was at Tori Adams’s house at the weekend. Apparently she thinks Judd is the new Spielberg – that he can turn his hand to anything from
Schindler’s List
to
Indiana Jones
.’

Jessica wasn’t convinced. Not if the rushes of
Slayer
were anything to go by. But if Tori Adams rated him, well, that was a different matter. Tori, who was producing
Purple Skies
, was one of the most powerful women in Hollywood, notorious for her tight inner circle of influential friends, including studio bosses, directors and, of course, top stars like Joe, who all helped each other.

‘How long have you known Tori?’ she said casually.

‘Thirty years.’ Joe smiled, picking up a shiitake dumpling. ‘We shared a flat in Venice Beach when we were just starting out.’

‘I wonder who they’ll cast?’ she said nonchalantly.

‘I think Tori’s keeping a tight rein on it. At least Judd’s ego isn’t so big yet that she can’t still control him. She’s having a party on Saturday, so I’ll get the inside track on what she’s thinking then.’

‘What’s the occasion?’

‘Oh, you know Tori, she’s just dropped some huge bundle on three Matisse sculptures and she wants to show them off. We’re supposed to turn up and drool with jealousy. Which we will, of course.’

‘I never saw you as an art aficionado,’ said Jessica.

‘I started collecting five years ago. Mainly Twombly, Warhol, Clemente.’

‘I have a Francesco Clemente at the beach house,’ Jessica said, wide-eyed, happy to compete. She had worked out a few years earlier that collecting was a signifier of status, intellect, particularly when you didn’t have any, or were working on it.

‘You must just sit and stare at it for hours,’ Joe said earnestly.

Jessica shook her head sadly.

‘No, not any more. It . . . well, it reminds me of Sam too much, you know?’

He nodded, perhaps thinking about his own break-up.

‘Are you looking for a buyer?’

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘The Gagosian are interested . . .’

‘Perhaps we could cut out the gallery?’

‘Why don’t you come and have a look at it after we’re done here? You don’t have to be anywhere, do you?’

He hesitated for a moment, then clicked his fingers for the bill.

‘Not until my
Rolling Stone
interview, no.’

She was glad of the forty-minute drive out to Malibu. Joe had been a tough nut to crack on set, but she knew he was someone worth getting to know a lot better.

Oh shit, she thought with a jolt as they pulled up at her home. My mother. She couldn’t take Joe Kennington back to her Malibu love nest and have him walk in on Barbara lying on the sofa in her velour sweatpants eating potato chips and watching
Jersey Shore
.

She slid her key into the lock and before she even had time to push the door fully open she could hear her mother’s sing-song voice.

‘Hi, honey. How was it being dead?’ said Barbara, appearing in the hallway.

‘Hi, Mom,’ Jessica replied, glancing back at Joe. ‘Not at the gym?’

‘At this time?’ she scoffed, stopping as Joe stepped forward.

‘And you must be Jessica’s sister,’ he said, offering her his hand. ‘I’m Joe.’

Cheesy bastard, thought Jessica, smiling despite herself. Barbara looked like a hooked fish, her eyes staring, her mouth opening and closing.

‘Joe Kennington. How
are
you?’ she said greeting him as if he was a long-lost friend.

‘Of course you’re at Sarah’s tonight, aren’t you?’ prompted Jess, hoping Joe hadn’t seen the warning glances she’d flashed at her mother.

Barbara winked at Jessica with all the subtlety of a brick. ‘Sarah? Oh yes. Friend of mine, having a few problems, you know. I’ll just grab the car keys. See you again, Joe,
hopefully
.’

With relief, Jess listened to the engine of Barbara’s SUV gun away, then calmed herself, listening to the gentle background swoosh of the ocean.

Joe was standing with his arms crossed in front of him, smiling with a gentle look of amusement.

‘It’s great you have such a close relationship.’

‘It has its moments. So. Drink? Vodka? Tequila?’

‘Not for me. Just a soft drink.’

Another teetotaller, she thought wearily.

She pulled a carton of juice from her Sub-Zero fridge, filled a tumbler and added a large measure of vodka when he wasn’t looking.

‘To the movie,’ she smiled, raising her own glass. ‘I’m sorry I took so long to die.’

Joe chuckled as they clinked the glasses together.

‘Well I guess you’d better show me this Clemente,’ he said.

‘This way.’ She snaked through the house to the top floor, swaying her hips just a little more than usual, knowing that Joe’s eyes were going to be glued to her ass.

‘This place might be too big now I’m on my own.’

‘How you holding up?’ he said with concern.

‘Truthfully, Sam and I had run our course. We’d both agreed that. But I wish it could have ended in a different way. The press intrusion has been tough.’

He nodded.

‘I can sympathise. When Sia and I separated, we were hounded for weeks. I didn’t even think the press were interested in us.’