Private Lives (5 page)

He looked at Katie as she tied back her russet hair. She really was beautiful, and that body was sensational. If there were any justice in the world, she would be a huge star. But Sam knew he couldn’t help her in the way Sir Andrew had helped him. Getting texts or phone calls from a gorgeous starlet really wouldn’t help his already strained relationship with Jessica. Even so, he felt terrible leaving it like this.

‘Why don’t you give me your number?’ he said finally. ‘Maybe I can get my manager to sort something out.’

‘Yes, thanks for phoning him. I appreciate it.’

‘I’ve phoned him already?’ He laughed nervously.

Katie pulled out an amateur-looking business card.

‘And here’s my number. In case you ever hear of a director wanting a hot, classically trained redhead.’

Without thinking, he reciprocated the gesture.

His phone began to buzz – a cue to move.

‘Listen, I’d better be off,’ he said. She moved in to kiss him, but he jumped up and made for the door. ‘I’ll definitely be in touch,’ he added, holding up her card. ‘And it was lovely.’

He slipped out of the room, cringing at the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and walked quickly down the corridor. His mobile was still ringing, but the screen read ‘Withheld number’. Jessica? Possible, but unlikely. She was filming in Boston, and it would be the middle of the night on the East Coast. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time she had called to check up on him.

‘Ah sod it,’ he whispered and pressed ‘Accept’.

‘I hope you’ve been behaving yourself!’

Sam’s heart leapt into his mouth, before he realised that the voice was male.

‘Eli?’ he said, relief flooding in. His manager, Eli Cohen. No-nonsense, old-school, unshockable. Even so, Sam wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be on the end of one of Eli’s talking-tos.

‘Of course it’s me, ya schmuck,’ growled Eli. ‘Who the hell else d’ya think?’

‘Where are you?’

‘New York.’

‘Why are you calling me at this time? It must be five a.m. where you are.’

‘I’m an early riser. Especially when my favourite client is phoning me in the middle of the night to tell me he’s found the new Rita Hayworth, giggling like some lovestruck college kid. Is there anything I should know about?’

Straight to the point, like a surrogate father. Sam winced.

‘What do you mean?’ he said, doing his best to sound innocent. He felt guilty lying to Eli, but he didn’t want to make this situation any bigger than it had to be.

‘What do I mean? When you call at three a.m. London time, raving about some hot chick, I gotta worry what I’m gonna read in the papers.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Sam, as he reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘I was presenting this Rising Talent award, remember? One particular girl stood out.’

Eli grunted. He didn’t sound convinced.

‘So you’re sure you don’t have anything to tell me?’

‘No! I’m trying to help young actors!’

His voice echoed around the concrete stairwell.

‘Whatever you say. Just keep your dick in your trousers, kid. It’s not worth it.’

Sam felt himself flush.

‘Stop worrying. Look, I’ve got to go. Talk later, all right?’

He eased open the door to the lobby and scuttled out through a side door, gasping as the sunlight hit him, scrabbling his sunglasses from his jacket. He forced himself to walk slowly, nonchalantly. Just a normal hotel guest out for a morning stroll, scanning the opposite pavement for paparazzi. Nothing: that was something at least. Even better, a black cab was approaching and he raised his arm to flag it.

‘Chelsea Harbour, please.’

Sam had told the truth when Katie had asked about his fame. For a while it had been amazing, brilliant, the best job in the world, but lately it had begun to wear him down. Slumped in the back of a cab, however, he was glad that fame and money had bought him his discreet pied-à-terre by the river. In a few minutes he would be safe inside and he could put this horrible incident behind him.

‘Hey,’ said the cabby as they moved out into traffic. ‘Aren’t you that actor, wassissname?’

‘I wish,’ said Sam, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose. ‘I get that all the time.’ He could see the cabby looking thoughtful in his rear-view mirror.

‘Sam Charles. That’s his name,’ he said finally. ‘Done really well for himself that one, eh? That girlfriend of his, Jessica whatnot. She’s a cracker, she is. Wouldn’t mind being shacked up with her, eh. Eh?’ he said, turning round for his passenger’s approval.

‘Yeah,’ said Sam, looking out of the window to the world beyond his gilded cage. ‘I bet that would be brilliant.’

3

Matt Donovan had never been more anxious, curious, angry or excited to take receipt of a birthday present in his entire life. He stood outside the smart Broadwick Street offices of London’s most famous media law powerhouse, and exhaled deeply before he stepped inside.

You can do this, he told himself as he walked towards the glass and stainless-steel reception desk of Donovan Pierce solicitors. You have to do this, he reminded himself, recalling the last trying six months, which had seen his business collapse, his life savings depleted and his professional reputation as a lawyer sail perilously close to ruin.

‘I’m here to see Helen Pierce,’ he told the model-grade blonde behind the desk. She was as smart and chic as her surroundings – floor-to-ceiling windows and sculpted cutting-edge furniture all gave the impression of an ultra-modern global company that was connected in every sense.

‘Can I take your name?’ she asked without changing expression. Instantly he wished he’d splashed out on a new suit instead of the old faithful that had seen several years of service. Then again, until his father’s remarkable offer a few weeks earlier, he’d been in no position to pay his mortgage, let alone invest in a wardrobe full of Paul Smith just to make a good impression.

‘Donovan. Matthew Donovan,’ he said as the blonde leapt up, tugging her tight pencil skirt into place.

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Donovan. I’m to escort you straight to the boardroom. Everyone’s very excited you’re here,’ she gushed, leading him down the corridor.

Matthew grimaced. He’d made it clear that a condition of coming here was that he should be treated just like any other employee, but he should have known: low-key was not the way his father operated.

Stay calm, he said to himself. It’s only a job.

But as the door swung back, he was confronted by a roomful of people, all standing to clap. He gasped.

‘Matthew!’ boomed Larry Donovan, slapping his palm against the back of Matt’s suit.

‘So good to have you here at last.’

Matt stiffened in his father’s alien embrace. Until six weeks ago, Larry Donovan had been a remote figure in his life. He had divorced his mother Katherine when Matthew was barely eight, and when he did swan in, it was always with a grand gesture or a theatrical flourish: the time he had turned up at Matthew’s twelfth birthday party with a troupe of juggling clowns, or the day Matthew had passed his driving test and Larry had a Porsche Carrera delivered to his door, complete with a card reading ‘There’s a bottle of bubbly in the glovebox.’ And now this, the biggest, most surprising gesture of all.

Keeping his arm around Matthew’s shoulders, his father addressed the room.

‘Everyone, this is Matthew, one of the best young lawyers in the country and a definite chip off the old block. Now that I’m being put out to pasture, I think he’ll fill the hole nicely. Matthew’s a family law specialist, which means that Donovan Pierce will now be able to provide a wrap-around service for our high-net-worth clients. Divorce work, pre-nups, post-nups and anything else he can think of.’ His chuckle was as loud as a roar.

‘Anyway, I know you’ll join with me in welcoming him to the firm as my replacement as senior partner.’

Matthew smiled stiffly as the other partners and associates began to applaud again.

‘Thanks, everyone, I’m very pleased to be here. Especially with that typically understated introduction.’ There was a ripple of polite laughter. ‘However, I’m keen to get straight to work. I’ll certainly do what I can to live up to the hype.’

Larry nodded. ‘Exactly right. I think we should crack straight on, let Matthew see what he’s up against. What have we got on the slate this week?’

Having stepped down as senior partner, Larry was officially only a consultant for Donovan Pierce now, but the team still responded to his instructions as if he were a Roman emperor. As the department heads ran through their workload – a snooker player caught in a newspaper sting, an actress suing a magazine for printing a picture of her daughter, plus the big one, the libel case involving property billionaire Jonathon Balon – Matthew took a moment to weigh each of them up.

Sitting across from Larry was a blonde woman in her late forties, wearing a crisp white shirt and a bottle-green suit that matched her sharp eyes. The woman radiated authority and competence, not to mention a slightly frightening intensity. Helen Pierce was a legend in the legal world. Word had it she was more connected than the Cabinet, and she had a reputation as a vicious fighter in the courtroom. Matthew had met her before; there was no way someone of Helen Pierce’s reputation would allow part of her firm to be handed over to just anyone, family or not, so he had been summoned to a ‘casual lunch’, which had quickly turned into an interrogation, with Helen grilling him on everything from his financial competence to obscure points of law. Matthew thought he had performed fairly well, particularly under such intense pressure, but then Helen had floored him by telling him she had asked a detective to look into his private life: his business, his divorce, his ex-wife, his son. ‘Everything you have ever done, seen or thought can be used against you, Matthew,’ she had said. ‘I need to know how clean your dirty laundry is. I don’t like surprises.’

The truth was, Matthew hadn’t wanted to take the job – or ‘birthday gift’ as Larry had touted it when he had called him out of the blue two months earlier. His relationship with his father was difficult enough without the added problem of Helen Pierce. But really, he had no choice. When his father had offered him a large equity shareholding in Donovan Pierce, Matt had been a partner at a small three-man family practice in Hammersmith, but a combination of unpaid bills, rising rental and rates and an office manager on the take had left them financially torpedoed.

The meeting broke up quickly, leaving Matthew alone with Larry and Helen.

‘So good to have you here at last, Matty,’ said Larry, slapping his son on the back. ‘How about we mark the occasion with a spot of early lunch?’

Matt glanced at his watch. It was barely ten thirty. ‘How about tomorrow? I should probably get settled in. I’m keen to get my feet under my desk.’

‘No can do,’ said Larry. ‘I’m not in tomorrow; semi-retired, remember? Come on, Helen, we need to wet the baby’s head, eh?’

Helen Pierce looked unimpressed as she gathered her papers. ‘I’m snowed under, Larry. The Balon case needs my attention.’

‘Balls to Balon,’ said Larry. ‘This is an auspicious day! My boy has finally come home to his rightful place. We need to celebrate.’

He leaned out of the door.

‘Denise!’ he shouted down the corridor. ‘Get us a table at Scott’s, will you? The sooner the better. Matthew, Helen and I. Tell Mario I want a decent table this time.’

‘How about we bring Anna Kennedy?’ said Helen. ‘She started today as well, remember?’

‘Anna?’ said Larry, frowning. ‘Is she the good-looking brunette? Good. She can come as long as she doesn’t drone on about work.’

Matthew was relieved to see that the restaurant was quiet. It was still early for lunch, and the chic dining room was only just beginning to fill. He knew how loud and embarrassing his father could be, especially when he got stuck into the claret. As they all sat down, he glanced over at Anna Kennedy, who looked as uncomfortable as he did. Then again, she could well be one of those ball-breakers who never cracked a smile. In the taxi to the restaurant she had been making calls, barking instructions at her secretary. She had only been at the firm one morning; surely she didn’t already have a caseload? She caught him staring and he glanced away. She was undeniably a very attractive woman, who probably had men ogling her all the time. The last thing he wanted her to think was that he was a sleazeball, especially as he was her new boss.

‘So where were you before?’ he asked her as they sat down at the table.

‘Davidson’s. I did a lot of their short-notice injunction work. Privacy law and libel.’

Matthew nodded. Impressive.

‘What brought you here?’ he asked.

‘Well, obviously DP has an international reputation for protecting the interests of . . .’

He placed a hand on her forearm. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not an interview.’

She shot him a playful smile.

‘Okay, it was the money,’ she whispered.

Matthew laughed. Maybe she wouldn’t break his balls after all.

‘It’s not too early for a Scotch, is it?’ said Larry.

Helen flashed him a frosty glance that reminded Matthew of his mother.

‘Just me, then?’ said Larry, unfazed, waving the waiter back over.

‘So what do you make of our little law firm, you two?’ asked Helen.

‘Well, I’m surprised nobody’s growling and gnawing on bones,’ replied Matthew.

‘What?’ said Larry, coming into the conversation late.

‘I think Matthew is referring to Donovan Pierce’s reputation.’ She smiled. ‘That we’re the Dobermanns of the legal world.’

Matthew nodded.

‘There’s a certain truth to it, I do admit,’ said Helen. ‘But I prefer to see ourselves as protective rather than aggressive. Our client base is well known and wealthy and we do our best to shield them from the exploitation of the media.’

He couldn’t help smiling. ‘But who is exploiting whom here? Celebrities are happy to use the media when it suits them. The papers sell copies off the back of the stories, and firms like Donovan Pierce earn huge fees trying to keep the peace.’