Private Lives (6 page)

Helen didn’t react; instead she turned to Anna.

‘What do you think?’

Clever move, thought Matthew. Deflect the question on to someone else.

‘Well, an actress or a singer might have to push themselves to get noticed,’ said Anna. ‘That’s just part of the job, but they should still be entitled to a private life. Everyone should.’

Matt looked at her, unsettled by her steely self-assurance.

‘Come on, if some two-bit reality star happily sells their wedding or their divorce to
OK!
magazine, then they can’t go “boo-hoo” if someone prints a photo of them coming out of AA.’

‘Well the law might disagree with you, Matthew,’ smiled Anna.

It was his first morning. He was senior partner. He couldn’t let an associate get the better of him, and besides, he just didn’t agree with her.

‘Anna, the law is half cocked on this one,’ he grunted. ‘It’s skewed in favour of the people who can afford expensive injunctions, libel trials and threatening letters from aggressive law firms. It’s not justice, it’s tyranny.’

‘And it keeps the likes of us in hot dinners,’ chuckled Larry, happily slicing up his starter.

Matt could feel the muscles in his neck beginning to tense. He knew he shouldn’t get so worked up about it, but he’d spent twenty years struggling at the other end of the law, dealing with the fallout of broken families where money was often in short supply. And he’d learned that for people who couldn’t afford to fight legal battles, justice was rarely served. He’d seen families crumble, decent working folk broken and children let down by an unbending system. In light of all that, it was hard to feel sympathy for a pampered soap star who didn’t like photographers.

‘Don’t you ever feel guilty?’ he asked finally.

‘Guilty?’ His father chuckled. ‘We just provide a service, Matty. And we do it very well.’

‘I read that
Poke
magazine is going to have to shut down because that awful MP you were acting for won six-figure damages.’

‘The silly bastards shouldn’t have claimed he was an enthusiastic cottager, then!’ laughed Larry.

‘But I thought they had photos of him hanging around Hampstead Heath.’

‘Not illegal, son,’ said Larry, giving a slow wink. ‘He was walking his dog.’

Matthew bit his lip. He couldn’t let his dad wind him up, not today. He turned to Helen instead.

‘Isn’t the truth that
Poke
got caught out because they couldn’t prove the cottaging claims were true? They’re a little indie magazine and didn’t have the proper resources to fight the action.’

Larry swilled back his white Burgundy.

‘A client came to us to sue the magazine and we sued them. Job done. And by the way, excuse me for earning a good living, which has kept you in nice houses, good schools, your mother in gin.’

‘Don’t speak about her,’ said Matt in a low voice. Larry had always known which buttons to press to get a reaction from his son. Matthew was fiercely protective of his mother and had never forgiven his father for the way he had treated her and the way he had left them. Since her death a year earlier, those feelings had become even more complex.

‘Why shouldn’t I talk about her?’ said Larry, looking more angered. ‘You like to paint your mother as a saint, but you don’t know everything about our relationship.’

‘Some relationship,’ said Matt. ‘You were never there. Always out with clients, any excuse to stay away.’

‘Maybe you should ask yourself why I chose to stay away.’

‘All right, boys, play nicely,’ said Helen firmly. ‘If you can’t leave your family issues behind, then there’s no hope of us working together. I’m serious.’

‘Don’t . . .’ began Larry, but whatever he was about to say froze in his throat, his cheeks turning pink. He tugged at his shirt collar.

‘Are you okay?’ Matt frowned, putting down his wine glass. He could see that there was sweat beading on his father’s brow.

‘I’m fine, don’t fuss,’ said Larry irritably, kneading his chest. ‘Just indigestion, I should think.’

But Matthew could see something was badly wrong. He glanced at Helen and Anna, and the concerned looks on their faces told him his instinct was correct.

‘Dad? What’s the matter? Tell me!’ he said.

Larry had now gone a pallid grey and was clutching at his stomach. Then, quite suddenly, he jerked and retched, spewing vomit over the starched white tablecloth. Someone at the next table let out a scream as he lurched forward in his chair, dropping his glass, which shattered on the floor.

‘Someone call an ambulance,’ shouted Matthew, catching his father under his arms and lowering him awkwardly to the floor. Larry was lifeless now, his eyes rolled up in his head.

‘I think it’s a heart attack,’ said Anna.

‘No shit,’ snapped Matthew. He quickly undid his father’s tie, trying desperately to remember what he’d learned about CPR in Scouts. He leaned down: no heartbeat, no breathing sounds. He had to do something, and do it quick.

I hope I’ve got this right, he panicked, clasping his hands together and raising them above his head.

‘What are you doing?’ gasped Anna.

‘Get out of the way,’ snapped Matthew. With every ounce of strength he punched down on to his father’s chest, smashing his fists on to Larry’s breastbone.

‘He’s killing him!’ screamed a woman’s voice.

But it had worked. Larry jerked on the floor, gasping out a strangled breath, his eyelids flickered and his eyes opened.

‘What can I do?’ said Anna urgently at Matthew’s side.

Larry took Matthew’s hand and gave it a small squeeze.

‘This will do fine,’ he whispered.

‘Okay, the ambulance is two minutes away,’ said Helen, calm and in control. She barked some instructions to the waiters and they moved a table out of the way.

As Helen began organising the restaurant, Matthew knelt, holding his father’s hand which had gone worryingly cold.

Please God, he prayed silently, closing his eyes, I know he’s been a sod, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take this man just yet.

‘Are you praying?’ said Larry in a small but amused voice. ‘I hope you’re directing it downstairs. I think the big guy’s given up on me.’

‘I haven’t,’ said Matthew. ‘Not quite yet, anyway.’

Although the ambulance was there within minutes, it seemed like an eternity. Finally, the drone of a siren swelled louder and the doors of the restaurant burst open, two paramedics rushing in. Matthew stepped back, trying to work out where the nearest A&E was. UCL in Euston. Ten minutes if the traffic was good, longer if there were the usual London snarl-ups, his mind scrabbling to think of anything except the horrific, horrible scene in front of him, his own father lying on his back, fighting for his life. There were times when Matthew had wished his father dead, but presented with the possibility, he realised how much he would give to prevent that happening.

A wave of loneliness engulfed him. He had lost his mother; he was about to lose his father too.

‘Okay, old son,’ said one of the paramedics, lifting Larry on to a stretcher. ‘We’ll have you out of here in a jiffy.’

How can they be so calm? thought Matt as he followed, feeling stupid and powerless as the stretcher was wheeled out on to the street. He could see Helen and Anna standing outside the restaurant looking grim, obviously expecting the worst.

Larry squeezed his hand again.

‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered.

‘I’m not worried,’ Matthew said, trying to smile. ‘You’re as tough as old boots.’

‘Less of the old,’ said Larry.

As the crew pushed the stretcher into the ambulance, Matthew began to climb in beside it, but the paramedic stopped him.

‘Family only, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m his son,’ said Matthew, looking down at this frail old man. ‘I’m his son.’ And he realised this was the first time he’d wanted to say that in years.

4

Helen Pierce twirled her favourite gold pencil between her fingers and looked out of her fifth-floor window, over the Soho skyline, hoping that today would be a better day than the day before. After Monday morning’s conference meeting and the drama of Larry’s heart attack, she’d only been able to bill four hours on her time sheet – her lowest daily total in two years. Even when she’d had a bout of swine flu, she’d managed to send out emails and draft letters to counsel from her sickbed.

Helen’s work ethic was one of the reasons she was among the most successful lawyers in London. Although it was only nine thirty in the morning, she had already logged two billable hours to Jonathon Balon, the billionaire property developer she was representing in a high-profile libel case. After twelve months’ work on it, fees were already in excess of one million pounds; when you factored in the rest of Helen’s caseload, an assortment of reputation management, privacy and defamation disputes for footballers, oligarchs, movie stars and captains of industry, she could bank on clearing four million in annual fees in this financial year.

When the
Evening Standard
had listed her as one of London’s most influential people, they had called her ‘a wolf in chic clothing’, a description that she secretly loved. She knew that some men found her image sexy: her sharp blond bob, hard green eyes and roman nose gave her the look of a striking Hollywood character actress, and she certainly made the best of her figure in tailored suits and her trademark patent heels. But what turned Helen Pierce on was the fact that she had the reputation of being the toughest media lawyer in London, and as London was the world’s centre for libel action, that meant she was almost certainly the best at what she did in the world. Now that was sexy.

The shrill ring of her phone disturbed her from her thoughts.

‘Miss Pierce?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s the clerk from Judge Lazner’s office. Can I put him through?’

‘Very well,’ she said, frowning. What could he want?

Mr Justice Lazner, one of the High Court judges on the Queen’s Bench, was due to sit over Jonathon Balon’s libel case slated to trial in September. Balon had been the subject of a hatchet job in the prestigious American magazine
Stateside
, whose eight-page profile piece on the billionaire entrepreneur had claimed that he had got his start in business using money loaned to him by a North London gangster family as a way of laundering drug money. Balon had been understandably livid, especially as it did nothing to improve his reputation as a ruthless operator. Helen Pierce was his obvious first choice as legal representation: fight fire with fire, as he had put it. Helen had liked that.

‘Good morning, Helen.’

Helen had spoken to Julian Neil, Judge Lazner’s clerk, many times before.

‘Isn’t it?’ she said, using her husky voice to full effect. She always flirted gently with any male of influence in the judicial system. ‘Although I’m sure you heard about poor Larry?’

‘How is he?’ asked Julian.

‘He’s doing well, I hear. Soon be back at the bar at the Garrick, I dare say.’

The clerk gave a polite laugh.

‘Send him our regards. Now, Judge Lazner has asked me to speak to you about Balon versus Steinhoff Publications.’

Helen nodded. How could she forget? Stacks of beige files wrapped in pink ribbons covered her desk, every one relating to her biggest case. She had been poring over them for hours over the weekend. Most libel cases didn’t even make it to trial, often settling in the tense hours before court, but this was not a case Helen particularly wanted to settle, partly because she thought she could win it and partly because of the hefty fees involved with a trial that would stretch well into the autumn.

‘He wants to bring the trial forward,’ said Neil.

Helen sat up straight, feeling an unusual flutter of anxiety.

‘But we have a date. September the eighteenth.’

There was a grunt of disapproval down the phone.

‘The courts are not here for your convenience, Miss Pierce. Another case has just settled that was pencilled in for four weeks in court. We propose your case takes its slot. Commencement three weeks Monday.’

Helen knew that ‘we propose’ was a polite way of issuing an order.

‘You want us to begin in less than a month?’ she said. ‘But we’re not ready.’

‘Oh Helen. You’re always ready. Besides, Judge Lazner spent half of last night looking though the case files and thinks three weeks for a pre-trial review should be more than ample. It’s best to get these things sorted sooner than later, don’t you think? Even you must want to get a holiday this summer.’

Helen cursed loudly as she put down the phone.

The judge had been correct when he had said that three weeks was long enough for the final preparations, but she didn’t just want to be ready; she wanted to have anticipated every potential problem. Helen wanted to win every case – and most of the time she got her way. But this trial wasn’t just about proving the allegations were wrong and being awarded damages. It was about restoring Balon’s reputation. That was why people came to Donovan Pierce: the firm delivered. They weren’t cheap, but their clients were happy to pay. The footballer who spent fifty thousand pounds on an injunction covering up his numerous infidelities could save himself hundreds of thousands if not millions in sponsorship deals. Expensive? They were cheap at twice the price.

Helen inhaled sharply and picked up her phone.

‘Lucy, call the Balon team for a conference in the boardroom. Immediately.’

She sipped green tea as she collected her thoughts. She had to get this right. No loose ends, no variables. No prisoners. Slipping on her Armani jacket, she strode down the corridor into the boardroom, where her team were waiting for her, their expressions eager but anxious. They were all sharp graduates, the pick of the bunch, chosen not for their intimate knowledge of torts and case history, but for their commercial ruthlessness.

Anna Kennedy was in the seat beside her.

‘How’s Larry?’ she asked as Helen sat down, voicing what everyone was thinking.

‘He’ll be fine,’ said Helen briskly. She had no time for small talk right now. ‘Change of plan. The Balon case is happening in three weeks’ time, so you can all kiss goodbye to any holiday plans you might have had for the next few weeks.’