Private Lives (16 page)

‘Ah, come in, Sid,’ she said at the timid knock on the door.

The redheaded trainee came into the room and Anna indicated the piles of papers.

‘I’d be grateful if you could get rid of these. You’d better file them, although if it were up to me, you could go and make a bonfire out of them in Broadwick Street.’

‘After I’m done with them, do you mind if I go?’ Sid replied.

Anna glanced at her watch. It was barely six thirty. Most of the other trainees worked until seven, eight o’clock, eager to please and prove. Then again, Sid had recently found out that she was not one of the five trainees who would be kept on for a full-time assistant solicitor’s job when they qualified in September. When Anna had joined the firm and found out that she had been assigned Sid as her trainee she had questioned the move, as Sid was only due to stay at the firm another few weeks. But right now, Anna realised that her own job at Donovan Pierce was not much more secure than Sid’s was.

Anna nodded. ‘Yes, you can go.’

Sid smiled gratefully and carried the papers out, taking care to close the door behind her.

With the papers gone, Anna realised how sparse her office looked. There was just a pen pot and a couple of files on her desk. She had barely made her mark on Donovan Pierce and there was a distinct possibility that she might not ever get the chance. When she had accepted the job, Helen had assured her that she would be considered for partnership at the end of her three-month probationary period. Now she wasn’t sure she would even make it to the end of the three months. She could feel tears welling up. Since Friday she had held it all together, but there was only so much she could cope with.

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ she whispered to herself, screwing her fist into a ball. ‘I’ll be buggered if I take this lying down.’

She grabbed her notepad and flipped it to a new page.

‘Right . . .’ she said out loud, writing the word ‘Strategy’ at the top and underlining it twice. It was her favourite word. Positive, active, a word that said you knew where you were going. But which way? It was obvious to Anna that she had to fight back, but her pen paused above the paper, unsure of what to write next. She looked down at the space where the newspapers had been sitting and clicked her fingers. If they wanted a story, she would give them one.

‘Blake Stanhope,’ she scribbled. ‘Sued for Contempt. Sam Charles Escort Girl Imprisoned for Leak.’

She smiled to herself. Matthew bloody Donovan was wrong; dead wrong. There were always ways to find out who had leaked the story. Of course Blake himself would deny it – as he said himself, he could go to jail for such a stunt. But someone, somewhere knew who had spilled the beans. In theory, the editor of the
Daily News
or the owner of the gossip website was unlikely to tell her the source of the story, but then again, Blake Stanhope had never been their favourite person. He was a parasite feeding on other people’s mistakes and indiscretions, and Anna was pretty damn sure there were plenty of people who’d like to see him get a taste of his own medicine. Besides, she had bartered with editors on many occasions: one piece of information for another. The problem now, however, was that she had no leverage, no stories to swap, nothing to offer.

The phone began ringing and Anna glanced at it with irritation. For a moment she thought about leaving it. After-hours calls were never good news and she needed some randy footballer begging for an injunction like she needed a hole in the head. Sighing, she picked up the receiver.

‘Anna Kennedy.’

There was silence at the other end.

‘Hello? Anyone there?’

Finally she heard someone take a deep breath and a small voice said, ‘Is that Sam Charles’s lawyer?’

Oh God, not a crank call, she thought. Or even worse, a fan who wanted to ask what Sam was really like.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m Mr Charles’s representative. Or rather I was.’

‘I’m sorry for calling so late,’ said the voice. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to ring.’

‘Who is this?’

The voice was young. Maybe teenage. They certainly didn’t sound like anyone able to afford Anna’s £250 an hour Donovan Pierce associate rate anyway. And too timid to be a journalist or another solicitor.

‘You don’t know me,’ said the voice. ‘But I really need your help.’

‘Are you in legal trouble?’

There was another pause.

‘I think my sister was murdered.’

Anna frowned.

‘In which case I think you should be talking to the police,’ she said.

‘Oh, I’ve done all that – she died seven months ago, you see – but they don’t seem to be interested any more.’

‘In that case I don’t see—’

‘It was the inquest into her death last week,’ said the girl quickly. ‘The coroner didn’t say it, of course, but I know she was murdered and I want – I need – to prove it.’

Anna took a sip of coffee. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand why you are calling me.’

‘You deal with celebrities, don’t you? My sister’s death made the newspapers when it happened so I thought someone might look into it a bit more, especially after the inquest. But now there’s this big story about Sam Charles having an affair everywhere and it’s as if my sister never even existed.’

Despite herself, Anna was intrigued.

‘Who was your sister?’

‘Amy Hart.’

Anna wrote it down, but it didn’t ring any immediate bells.

‘I still don’t understand why you think I can help you,’ she said.

‘I called you because you know about the law and you know about celebrities. Someone famous killed my sister and they’re trying to cover it up. Even the newspapers are in their pocket.’

Anna felt her heart beating faster.

‘Look, I can prove that my sister was killed. Can’t you meet me? Please.’

Anna knew she shouldn’t touch this with a bargepole, but the pleading in the girl’s voice did make her feel sorry for her. She sounded lonely, desperate, alone. It was no fun facing anything traumatic on your own; the last three days had taught her that. The girl’s words rang around her head:
Even the newspapers are
in their pocket
. Was it possible? Anything was possible if you had connections and money.

‘What do you think happened to Amy?’ said Anna softly. ‘Who did this to her?’

‘We should meet.’

The rational side of Anna’s brain told her that this was a crazy, mixed-up kid who needed expert advice of the pastoral rather than legal variety.

‘I can’t help you unless you tell me what you think.’

‘I need to see you in person.’

She finally relented. She was too curious.

‘I suppose I could do coffee tomorrow.’

‘I’ve got a summer job in Pizza Hut. I’ve got the day off on Wednesday.’

‘Let’s grab a sandwich. How about we meet in Green Park? By the fountain.’ She didn’t want this to be taking up office time. ‘What’s your name?’

‘My name’s Ruby. I’ve seen your photo, so I know what you look like.’

‘Okay, Ruby. I’ll see you then,’ she said, grabbing her jacket and heading out of the door. Helen Pierce might have written her off, but there was fight in Anna Kennedy yet.

14

The beach was two and a half miles long, that was what Mike had told him. Sam looked back along the long white stretch of sand and wondered why he hadn’t been here before. Eigan island, ten miles from the Scottish mainland, was so heart-stoppingly beautiful, with the pale sun glinting off the ripples of wet sand, the heather-fringed cliffs, even the sea eagles wheeling effortlessly above him scanning the waves for their dinner.

Sam kicked a piece of driftwood with his foot, but remembering that it made the best kindling, he stopped dead and stooped to pick it up. As he bent over, he noticed that the bottom of his two-thousand-dollar Tom Ford trousers had white rings left by the salt water. For a split second he wondered if anywhere on the tiny island offered a dry-cleaning service – as it didn’t even have a shop, he very much doubted it – but as the sunshine shimmered like a spray of tiny diamonds over the clear Atlantic waters, he felt a surge of rebellion and ran to the edge of the shore, splashing through the tide until the fabric was truly soaked.

Laughing, he rolled the trousers up to his calves, realising that although he’d only left the pampered celebrity world two days ago, it already felt like a fading dream. Eli had suggested that Sam hide out in Mexico or at a director friend’s ranch in Idaho – at least until the scandal had died down and the vultures had stopped circling. But Sam didn’t want to be surrounded by strangers, he wanted to be among friends.

‘Not many of those around at the moment, kiddo,’ Eli had said. That was certainly true. Sam hadn’t exactly been inundated with messages of support from his so-called buddies, the various actors and film people he hung around with in Hollywood. When you were dead, you were dead. They didn’t want any of Sam’s black marks rubbing off on them. So he had rung his old university friend Mike McKenzie, reasoning that he was one of the few people who would understand what he was going through. And Mike’s oyster farm on Eigan was perfect when you were seeking blissful isolation.

Eli had driven Sam straight from Jess’s Cape Cod hideout back to the airport. The jet had flown him to the tiny airport at Oban, where he had jumped into a four-seater prop plane, and he was skimming down for a juddery landing on Eigan’s north beach before most people had even had their morning papers delivered.

Sam closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about the papers today, didn’t want to ruin a lovely day just spent walking and enjoying the sun on his face, the sounds of the waves and the birds and the wind. There was time for all that later. Much later. Reluctantly he turned to head back towards Mike’s place, the squat little crofter’s cottage he could see in the distance, white smoke drifting from its chimney. There were worse places to hide out, he thought. In fact he could see himself staying here for a long time. Mike had managed well enough for the past six or so years; it had been his sanctuary, his salvation. Maybe a simpler, less vain life was what Sam needed too.

He walked up the little path to the cottage, smiling at the seashells and pretty stones that had been laid along the flower beds on either side. It was so totally unlike the scruffy, irreverent, disorganised Mike he knew. But then Mike wasn’t the same man he’d known at uni, was he? Living out here, how could he be?

‘The film star returns,’ said Mike as Sam bumped in through the low door. ‘I was worried that the seals had got you. What do you fancy for supper? Oysters. Crab. Scallops?’

Sam flopped down in one of the rickety chairs by the old iron range.

‘You make it sound like bloody Nobu.’

‘It is, except my stuff is fresher,’ winked Mike. ‘And I haven’t got any chopsticks.’

Sam smiled. It had been years since he had seen his old friend and he had been nervous about calling him. After all, what would he say? ‘Listen, Mike old thing, I’ve arsed up my life and my career and I need to hide out somewhere the paparazzi will never find me. I know I’ve been too important to so much as send you a postcard in the last five years, but can I come and stay?’

In the end, that was pretty much exactly what he had said.

Mike had left a dramatic pause, then said: ‘Can you pick up a Snickers on your way through the airport? I’m desperate for one and the boat doesn’t come over from the mainland for another week.’

At least he hadn’t changed all
that
much. In fact, in many ways he was the same cocky bugger Sam had met on the second day of Freshers Week at Manchester University. Discovering they were on the same drama course, they’d bonded over a shared love of bitter and Seventies comedy. The summer after they’d graduated, they’d taken a two-man show to the Edinburgh Fringe and been a surprise hit. But Sam had always been the Dudley Moore straight man to Mike’s Peter Cook comedy genius and they had amicably gone their separate ways six months afterwards: Sam to serious theatre, darhlink, Mike to massive acclaim at the vanguard of a new generation of indie comedy, followed by his own chat show, a BAFTA-winning comedy drama and something of a reputation as a hell-raiser and a ladies’ man.

Sam watched as Mike shovelled more coal into the fire, his dark fringe hanging down. His hair had always been on the Byronic side: Mike always said he used it like a hypnotist’s pendulum to lure girls into his bed.

‘What are you looking at?’ said Mike.

‘You, you great jessie. You look like someone from a BBC Thomas Hardy adaptation.’

‘Bugger, I was hoping for more of a David Essex gypsy troubadour look.’

‘More “Come On Eileen” than “Winter’s Tale”, mate.’

‘So says the limp-wristed thesp. I’m not the one getting my back waxed, am I?’

‘Hey, if it’s in the contract, I have to wax,’ laughed Sam.

He loved how they could fall straight back into their banter as if no time had passed at all. He just wished he hadn’t left it so long; he still felt guilty that he hadn’t been there when Mike had needed him the most.

Sam hadn’t been entirely surprised at the news that Mike had had a breakdown just when his star was at its highest. He’d always been mercurial and slightly manic, but that was just Mike. He would always be involved in some weird fringe play or organising a huge themed party. He painted and grew cacti and cooked curries for twenty people at a time; he was a powerhouse that never stopped. But Sam knew him well enough to see that he was just running to stand still; Mike once confessed to him that he feared that if he ever stopped, he’d fall into the empty space at his centre.

Finally, seven years ago, Mike had fallen into that hole. He’d been discovered wandering naked around Loch Ness, mumbling that he was looking for the monster. He had just finished a record-breaking sell-out run of his solo show at Wembley; he should have been basking in the glory. Instead, he was sent to a discreet psychiatric clinic in Wales. When he was released two months later, Sam had offered him a room in his LA home and introductions to his Hollywood contacts, but Mike had other ideas and moved out to Eigan. Since then, whenever Sam was in the news – an acting award, a starry premiere – Mike would send him mocking postcards reading: ‘Heard about the nomination. I spent the day digging up potatoes’; or ‘Loved you in the new film, we have foot and mouth here.’