Private Lives (38 page)

She sat back and closed her eyes, going over the trial once more in her head.
Stateside
had called dozens of witnesses in the course of the week, most of whom had been humdrum: the writer of the piece, a selection of the people he had interviewed, most of them just there to nod and say ‘yes, that’s what I told him’ – it was all par for the course in a trial like this. The only witness Helen had been worried about had been Spencer Reed, the magazine’s flamboyant editor. Spencer was one of the most famous editors in the world, and he had an ego and swagger to match. In the past decade she’d represented a handful of clients in defamation actions against
Stateside
, and Spencer had always been an impressive witness: passionate, defiant, deeply protective of his magazine. But this time, he’d been different. He was still outwardly confident and eloquent, but you could tell he was just going through the motions. I wonder . . . thought Helen, walking across the office to the tall bookcase covering the wall opposite her. On the bottom shelf, neatly filed in boxes, were dozen of copies of the magazine. They had both the UK and the US edition delivered, as any given month there would be a few subtle differences between the two. Different advertising, occasionally a different cover.

She carried the magazines back to her glass desk and sorted them into two stacks, one American, the other British, then set about methodically going through each one, armed with a packet of pink Post-it notes.

Forty minutes later, the job was done. Helen stood back and smiled at her handiwork, then picked up the phone and called Anna.

Her associate was there in less than a minute, standing at the door like a schoolgirl summoned to see the head teacher. It was a Sunday, so Anna was wearing her weekend clothes – jeans, ballet pumps and a white T-shirt, but even so, she still had that clean-cut head-girl efficiency about her. Helen knew that Anna felt personally responsible for the Sam Charles debacle, and that was good; she had no time for ‘clockers’, people who just treated the law like a job they could clock on and off from. Like her, Anna lived and breathed her work, plus she was smart, sharp and hungry, and she had something to prove to her boss. Helen would never dream of saying as much, but for all those reasons, Anna was the member of her team she trusted the most.

‘Do you know what I have always found strange?’ she said, gesturing towards the piles of magazines. ‘The fact that the Jonathon Balon story appeared in both the US and the UK issue.’

‘I thought all features appeared in both issues,’ replied Anna.

‘Not quite. Only about ninety per cent of the editorial is the same. The UK issue usually has one major story pertinent to the British market, a couple of party pages and a handful of diary items to give a regional flavour, which are generated by their London bureau.’

‘So the fact that the Balon story is in both issues means it was generated by the main editorial office in New York?’

Helen nodded. ‘Which is the odd thing. Why run a five-thousand-word feature on a London-based property developer?’

‘Because he’s a billionaire and because he’s politically ambitious?’

‘They didn’t know that when this piece was commissioned, I’m pretty sure of that.’

‘Do you think that’s enough reason to get the public interest argument thrown out?’ asked Anna.

‘Possibly,’ said Helen, ‘but possibly isn’t good enough any more.’

Helen had no intention of taking any more chances with this case. She had been confident of a win, but they had been caught out by the defence: that couldn’t happen again.

‘See the pink notes sticking out of the sides?’ she said. ‘I’ve marked all the British-focused features that appear in both editions. They’re British stories, yes, but stories with a real international impact. Stories that would interest you whether you lived in Manhattan or Manchester.’

Anna stepped closer, then looked at Helen in surprise. ‘There aren’t many.’

‘There are just three,’ smiled Helen. ‘And there are eight years’ worth of magazines there.’

‘So it’s unusual for
Stateside
to commission a story like the Balon profile, something with such a uniquely British flavour?’

‘Unusual?’ Helen corrected. ‘Almost unheard of.’

She could see that Anna was interested now, thinking through the angles, looking for a solution: that was exactly why she had called her.

‘Find out everything about the senior members of staff on the magazine,’ said Helen. ‘Start with Spencer. I want to find a connection, however small, to Jonathon Balon.’

Anna looked at her, the penny dropping.

‘You think this is an intentional hatchet job?’ she said. ‘Something personal?’

‘Did you notice the way Spencer was glaring at Jonathon in court?’ said Helen, nodding. ‘I thought it was because he was annoyed that Jonathon had brought the libel action, but what if it’s something else? Spencer is famous for using his magazine to voice his anti-Republican standpoint; why wouldn’t he go a step further and use it to trash an individual he didn’t like?’

Anna’s eyes opened wider.

‘And a story printed with malice would stop
Stateside
from using the Reynolds defence in a libel case, because even if it’s in the public interest, it has to be balanced and fairly reported.’

Helen nodded gleefully.

‘Go and find out what this is really about.’ She smiled. ‘Then we’ll give them a hatchet job of their own.’

38

As far as Matthew was concerned, the White Horse was the perfect London boozer. Dark, cramped, done out in chipped mock-mahogany and red velvet, the walls covered with pictures of boxers and racehorses. The gents’ had grafitti and a broken mirror, and they still sold cling-film-wrapped cheese rolls behind the bar. It certainly wasn’t the sort of place where you’d order a white wine spritzer.

Perhaps that explained why Matthew was the only Donovan Pierce employee in the pub at half past seven in the evening, despite the fact that the White Horse was by far the nearest watering hole to the office. He’d asked a few people, of course, but everyone seemed to be chained to their desks, still making calls and furiously writing reports. That was the kind of work ethic Helen Pierce demanded, and they were probably terrified of her coming back from court to find them drinking lager, but Matthew had been brought up to value his leisure time. His mother Katherine had worked long, hard hours as a lecturer at University College London, but when work was done for the day, she felt no guilt in letting her hair down.

‘There’s always time for fun,’ she’d say with a smile, filling their weekends with trips to the beach, the cinema and London museums. When Matthew was just starting out as a solicitor, he’d still meet up with his mother for after-work suppers or her trademark G and Ts, dissecting their days and sharing the gossip.

Matthew smiled nostalgically as he sipped his bitter. It was warm, foamy and tasted of bracken. During his career as a family lawyer, he’d met dozens of men who’d turned to alcohol as a way of numbing the pain of losing their family. And after Carla had left him, he had almost gone the same way. But he’d taken hold of his heavy drinking before alcohol had become his crutch. He’d started rowing again, and bought a motorbike for long rides deep into the countryside that made him feel better than whisky ever could.

‘That looks good,’ said a familiar voice behind him.

Matt glanced up and saw his father standing there clutching a white plastic bag under his arm.

‘Bloody hell. What are you doing here?’

It was actually quite a shock to see Larry. In Matt’s mind, his father was always a charging bull. Maddening at times, yes, but always vital and strong. Now he was pale and thin, his shirt baggy and loose around the neck. Perhaps it was the dim light in the bar, but his hair seemed greyer, his skin transparent. But he still had the same twinkle in his eye.

‘I’m allowed to come into pubs, you know,’ he said. ‘Laid off the heavy drinking but I can still breathe in the fumes.’

The chestnut-haired barmaid waved at him.

‘Melinda, my dear,’ he boomed, his voice as loud as ever. ‘Just a vodka and tonic for me, hold the vodka, there’s a darling.’

He carried his glass over to Matthew’s booth and lifted it in salute.

‘How did you know I was here?’

Larry shrugged. ‘Sarah on reception said you’d gone to the pub. This was always my favourite place to sneak off to, so I figured, like father like son.’

‘Well it’s good to see you up and about,’ Matt said. ‘Were you coming in to work? The Garrick Club?’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Larry. ‘I was shopping.’

‘Shopping? You? I never thought I’d hear you say those words.’

Larry slid his plastic bag towards Matthew. It had a Hamleys logo on the side.

‘For Jonas. I hope he likes it, but the receipt’s in the bag – God knows what kids like these days. I felt rotten for forgetting his birthday. Not quite got used to not having a secretary there to keep a diary.’

‘It was a shame you weren’t in on Saturday,’ said Matthew, peering into the bag.

‘Saturday? What do you mean?’

‘We stopped off to see you. Me, Jonas and Carla.’

‘I didn’t go out on Saturday. I was probably in the den watching the cricket and didn’t hear the bell. Strange that Loralee didn’t answer, though.’

Matt frowned. Why had Loralee turned them away? Perhaps Larry wasn’t as well as he was making out and she wanted him to rest. Either way, he didn’t want to press the point.

‘Maybe she’d popped out for something,’ he said.

‘So you were with Carla?’ said Larry, not missing a trick. ‘I didn’t know you were even talking these days.’

‘We’ve always tried to keep up the tradition of going out on Jonas’s birthday, however awkward it is, because Jonas loves it. But this time we actually had a lovely day. Went to the New Forest. Carla and I weren’t even at each other’s throats for once.’

‘And what did her banker fellow think of that?’

‘He didn’t know. She’s divorcing him.’

Larry guffawed, slapping the table.

‘And now she’s sniffing back after you, is she?’

‘Don’t be daft. That ship has sailed.’

His father looked at him probingly.

‘So, I’m enjoying the firm,’ Matthew said, to divert the subject.

‘So I believe,’ replied Larry.

‘You have spies reporting back to you, eh?’

Larry chuckled.

‘Something like that. Are you bringing work in yet?’

‘I’m acting for Rob Beaumont in his divorce,’ said Matthew casually.

Larry looked suitably impressed. ‘Really? That’s a good one. Very high-profile. And how’s it going?’

Matt hesitated. He realised that he had spent twenty years pretending that his father’s approval didn’t matter to him, when really it mattered very much indeed. The last thing he wanted to admit was that the Rob Beaumont divorce wasn’t going well, but he knew he would welcome his father’s take on things.

‘Actually, the poor sod is screwed.’

Larry laughed. ‘Surely not, when he’s got the best family lawyer in the country on his side?’

His father’s words did little to reassure him.

‘Kim – Rob’s wife – is having an affair with an American and wants to move out there to be with him, taking the child with her.’

‘This is Rob’s child?’

Matt nodded. ‘The courts will order the child lives with Kim, I’m sure of it. Rob can refuse consent to take the kid out there, but you know she’ll get round that.’

‘The law can be a bitch,’ said Larry. ‘So who’s the boyfriend?’

‘Fabio Martelli, some uber-rich Miami businessman.’

Matt watched as his father sipped his tonic, mulling the problem over.

‘So what’s your advice been so far?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been realistic with him,’ said Matthew. ‘Kim will eventually get the residence order to have her son with her, but if Rob withholds consent, we could keep Oliver in the country for another eighteen months.’

Larry nodded with approval. ‘By which time Kim’s affair might be over?’

‘It’s what I figured.’

‘Good strategy. But if this guy Fabio’s as rich as you say, Kim Collier’s not going to walk away lightly.’

Matthew gave an ironic smile.

‘You know Kim?’

‘I’ve been in this business thirty years, watching people like Kim Collier keep their careers afloat. I know her singing career is on the slide. She tried acting too, and that didn’t take off either. So my gut feeling is that a good marriage might be her next career move.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Your problem is you’re thinking too straight.’ He leaned towards his son. ‘Lawyers don’t just use the law to get what they want, you know.’

Matthew frowned.

‘So what exactly are you saying I should do?’

Larry’s expression turned serious.

‘It depends how much you want to win this – and how much Rob wants to keep hold of his son. Kim, Fabio, they’ll have their weak points. Exploit them.’ The glint in his eyes suggested ruthlessness, grubbiness.

Matt knew what sort of strategy his father was suggesting. He had no problem with playing hardball, but dirty tricks had a habit of rebounding and biting you on the backside.

‘There is an eight-year-old child involved in this, Dad. I’m not sure that having his parents’ names dragged through the mud is the best thing for him.’

‘So you want to do the
decent
thing?’ Larry mocked.

Matt smarted, remembering his mother, weak, near the end. When she had told him what a wonderful, decent son he was, it had been with a sense of pride not just in him, but in the way she had brought him up. And yet to Larry, the word was clearly an insult.

‘Do you want to win this case?’ snapped Larry. ‘Donovan Pierce is a firm of winners. We do whatever it takes.’

‘Under your regime, perhaps.’

‘Well it’s
my
name still on the letterhead.’

Matt flinched. He’d tried hard not to think too carefully about his father’s motives for handing over the firm, wanting to believe the best of him, not see the worst.