Private Lives (50 page)

No pressure, then, thought Sam. But as he walked out into the sunshine, he felt as if someone had given him wings. No more red carpets, no more schmoozing studio heads, no more bloody Hollywood. He was free.

51

Larry was feeling proud of himself. Even for someone of his legendary guile and underhandedness, his plan to bring Fabio Martelli and his lovely new girlfriend to heel on Matt’s behalf had come together nicely. A few hours of research, a few calls to some well-placed sources, and Larry had found out enough about Martelli’s business affairs to write his biography. The playboy – Larry scoffed at the term; it was the sort of label they stuck on any Eurotrash with a yacht these days – had made his money in New York nightclubs in the eighties, shifting into the hotel business in the nineties, and now he had a string of boutique bolt-holes around the globe; the Miami Beach Martelli had just opened to great acclaim. But that was just Fabio’s bread-and-butter business. Clearly his ambition stretched way beyond fluffy robes and pillow mints. He had spent the last five years planning, financing and doing the groundwork for a vast billion-dollar leisure development in Dubai that would make the Vegas casinos look like seaside arcades. Larry had seen the 3D computer plans of the site, and he could tell immediately that it was a fantastic, ambitious and risky development – but it was a development that was about to hit the skids if Fabio Martelli didn’t play ball.

Sitting in the bar at the One Aldwych hotel, Larry looked at his watch. He was early for the meeting, and he certainly didn’t expect Fabio to arrive on time. People like that never did; it was all part of their ‘so busy and important, had to take a call from the Queen’ bullshit image. Glancing around to make sure he wasn’t overlooked, Larry picked up the manila envelope in front of him and pulled out the photographs inside. He almost laughed out loud. Fabio’s mahogany tan would turn white when he saw these babies. Sheryl Battenburg’s photos had been invaluable for Larry’s investigation – who Fabio’s friends were, what sort of women he invited to his yacht, the sex and the drugs – but on their own, they did very little, and certainly didn’t give Larry the leverage he needed. So Larry did what he had always done in such situations: he gave them a little helping hand. He had visited an old drinking buddy called Porno Kev, who just happened to work in the adult film industry. Kev had taken Sheryl’s shots and, via the magic of computer manipulation, had overlaid them with hardcore images he had taken with models. Kev truly was an artist, thought Larry, putting the photos back into the envelope. No one would be able to tell; they looked like one set of photos all taken at an orgy on a yacht. Crucially, Larry knew that Fabio wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. He would assume someone had leaked real shots from his White Party and would know this spelled disaster for his development in Dubai. All foreign development in the emirate was controlled by Dubai World, a holding company owned by Dubai’s strictly Islamic government. They would not react well to the revelation that Fabio Martelli held such parties.

Larry sat back and took a sip of his whisky. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking it, but he’d watered it down with ice, so it wasn’t a real spirit, was it? More like a cocktail, really.

He realised how much he’d missed this: the drama of meeting powerful men in bars, cutting deals, power-broking, manoeuvring to gain advantage. Wasn’t that the definition of politics? The effective use of power?

Well today, he held all the cards. The choice for Fabio would be simple: abort his plan to move Kim and Oliver to Miami or give up on his dream to rake in billions in the Gulf. Larry was confident which way he would jump. He had met countless men like Fabio before, and knew that women like Kim Collier didn’t matter half as much to them as their global enterprises.

Just then, his mobile began to chirp and he snatched it up, half expecting it to be Fabio’s PA saying he was going to be ten minutes late.

‘Hey, Dad,’ said a familiar voice.

‘Matty?’ frowned Larry. They had not spoken for almost a fortnight. Larry was immediately alarmed. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Matthew cautiously. ‘I just wanted to clear the air since the outburst the other night.’

‘Well I was about to call you,’ Larry said guiltily.

‘I also wanted to say thank you,’ added his son.

‘Thank you? Whatever for?’

‘For telling me to think outside the box.’

‘I thought you didn’t listen to a word your old man said?’

‘Well he’s right about some things. Sometimes you don’t need to use the law. Kim Collier just called me to say she’s not going to take Oliver out to Miami after all.’

‘What the hell happened?’ asked Larry, stunned. ‘What did you have to do?’

‘I just appealed to her better judgement. I found her when she was on her own and we had a long talk. I told her about my relationship with you. How a son needs his dad, all that stuff.’

‘And that
worked
?’ said Larry.

‘Apparently so. She loves her son, and I think somewhere deep down she knows that moving across the Atlantic, uprooting her life to be the trophy girlfriend of a well-known philanderer, might not be the best move.’

‘Wow,’ said Larry quietly. He looked down at the brown envelope in front of him. Suddenly it felt grubby in his hand.

‘You sound surprised.’

‘No, no. Not at all,’ he said, picking up the envelope. ‘I always had faith in you.’ There was an awkward pause.

‘How about we try again? Another night. Another pub supper. No arguments this time.’

Larry felt a wide grin uncurl across his face.

‘How about my place? Thursday night. I believe it’s the best boozer in town.’

He hung up, then rang Fabio’s PA.

‘Sorry, my love,’ he said. ‘Just had a call from the Queen, needs her will changing. Tell Fabio I’ll call to reschedule.’

He paid his bar bill and left the hotel, filling his lungs with the London street fumes as if it was mountain air. Spotting a rubbish bin on the Strand, he dropped the envelope in with a satisfying thud, then walked away, a spring in his step. And his supper date with Matt on Thursday made him feel even better. Somehow it was more of a real step forward even than his phone call to offer him the partnership.

It was an occasion that called for a cigar. A trip to see Parnell, the head buyer at Davidoff, would round off this fine morning perfectly. Larry marched down the Strand towards Trafalgar Square, the sunshine warming his neck. It felt like today was the first day of . . . of
what
? Larry had never been the poetic type, but he knew that he was on a new path. To where, he had no idea, but he was sure that his son would be a part of it, and that was a wonderful feeling.

He was snaking around the back streets of St James’s debating the full flavour of a Bolivar Corona versus the peppery bite of a Montecristo No. 2 when he saw a familiar figure get out of a grey sports car fifty yards in front of him. For a moment he wasn’t sure if it was his wife. The car was certainly unfamiliar, and hadn’t she said she was going to visit her friend Jacqui in Esher? But there was no mistaking the theatrical way she swung that blond hair over her shoulder as she stood, no mistaking that knockout body. It was Loralee all right. But what was she doing here? Immediately Larry felt a sense of unease. He switched his attention to the man climbing from the driver’s seat. Tall, around forty, but in good shape under that expensive-looking suit. He looked like one of those sports stars who advertise razor blades. The man touched Loralee’s back to guide her across the road, disappearing into St James’s Palace, a big stucco-fronted hotel popular with well-heeled Middle Eastern tourists. Larry knew that sort of touch. It was intimate, familiar. He could feel his heart beginning to pound as he followed them inside the hotel. Maybe he was overreacting. After all, there was an excellent Moroccan restaurant in the hotel and didn’t Loralee like Moroccan food? He couldn’t remember.

Larry turned towards the Gulshan restaurant and, peering around a corner, scanned the line of customers waiting to speak to the maître d’. Loralee and her companion were not there – and in that instant, Larry realised his happy morning was over. He knew with bitter certainty what he was going to find when he turned back towards the reception. His wife and the young stranger would be checking into a suite, grinning like newlyweds. He knew this because he himself had been in this situation so many times before with other women, with other men’s wives. They would be trying to retain decorum, trying not to giggle in case anyone was watching, yet finding it impossible to hide their glee at the thought of the illicit pleasure that lay ahead. Larry didn’t need to see it to know, yet still he followed, watching from behind as Loralee whispered something into the man’s ear, watching as he stroked her arm and chuckled. Watching as the receptionist handed them the key to their afternoon playtime den. Larry stayed there watching, his mouth dry, his hands trembling, until the lift doors closed on them.

He’d seen enough anyway. There was a pain in his chest and he struggled for breath. For a second he thought it was another cardiac attack, until he felt a single tear dribbling down his crêpey cheek. At which point he knew he did not need to call for an ambulance, because what he was feeling was just the crushing ache of a broken heart.

52

To a casual observer, Helen Pierce was her normal glacial self. Smart and crisp in a white shirt and claret pencil skirt, she sat in her usual place in court behind Jonathon Balon’s barrister Nicholas Collins, a woman completely in control. But inside, she was anxious and insecure as Collins stood to address the judge.

‘M’lud, I’d like to call Dominic Bradley as a witness for the plaintiff,’ he said.

This was the source of Helen’s unease. As far as she was concerned, the whole case hinged on this one witness. Dominic Bradley didn’t look much like a star witness as he shuffled to the box. Mid thirties, unshaven and receding, he had obviously tried to dress up for the occasion by adding a tie to a casual checked shirt and tucking it into his jeans. Helen wondered for a moment how someone like Bradley had managed to date someone as connected and pristine as Deena Washington, but years of experience had taught her that when it came to ambitious women, physical attractiveness was way down on their checklist. Dominic Bradley wasn’t bad-looking, but he clearly had something else, something Deena wanted. Connections, an entree into the glamorous worlds of fashion and media, who knew? All Helen cared about was the fact that he had made it to court in time. In the forty-eight hours after her meeting with Deena Washington in the Hamptons, she’d had every private investigator on her Rolodex scrambling to locate Bradley and discover the reason why he hated Balon. Thankfully he’d been easy to find. As Deena had guessed, he was at his parents’ house in Berkshire. The second part of the equation had proved more difficult. Unsurprisingly, Bradley had been extremely unwilling to help. Why, he had asked her, would he want to assist Balon’s legal team and thus anger the powerful Steinhoff publishing house? He was a jobbing photographer; he could lose his entire livelihood. Helen knew Bradley was playing the same game as his ex-girlfriend, angling for a pay-off, but she couldn’t risk being accused of trying to influence a witness. Anyway, in this case, the law provided: no more incentive was needed than a witness summons from the court.

‘Mr Bradley,’ said Nicholas Collins, ‘can you tell me about your most recent ex-girlfriend, and what she did for a living?’

Helen watched every move Bradley made. The deep breath before he spoke, the nervous glances at both Jonathon Balon and Spencer Reed, the hands gripping one another, the knuckles white.

‘She was called Deena Washington,’ said Bradley, his voice wavering. ‘We were together for three years before we split up after Christmas. She was a subeditor for
Stateside
magazine.’

‘A subeditor? They check and edit copy, don’t they?’

‘That’s right.’

Jasper Jenkins leapt to his feet.

‘Relevance to the case, m’lud?’

Judge Lazner raised a hand to say he wanted to hear where this was going.

‘But subeditors are not generally involved in the commissioning and writing of features, are they?’ said Collins, fixing Bradley with that confident expression that told the court he already knew the answer to the question.

Bradley shook his head.

‘Not on
Stateside
, no. It frustrated Deena. She wanted to be a writer, or maybe features editor one day.’

‘Hearsay, your honour,’ boomed Jasper Jenkins.

‘But she told you she wanted to be a writer, isn’t that correct?’ pressed Collins. ‘That she was frustrated that she was simply correcting other people’s copy.’

‘That’s right. I saw her spend a lot of time at home coming up with ideas to submit to the features team in the hope of being commissioned.’

‘And was she?’

‘No.’

‘And how did you assist Miss Washington in her career?’ asked Collins.

Bradley exhaled deeply, as if he was hesitant about proceeding.

‘I knew that the two biggest, most prestigious story slots in
Stateside
were the true crime and society scandal slots. I gave her a story idea based on something I had heard in London.’

‘Which was what?’

‘I told her about Jonathon Balon, the billionaire London property developer. He used to be my landlord when I lived in north-east London in 1999.’

Nicholas Collins held up his hands in an exaggerated shrug.

‘What was scandalous about that?’

Bradley paused for a moment.

‘Some of his tenants thought he was a crook. There were local rumours about where he got his money from too. How he was being bankrolled by the Weston crime family. Their financial backing meant he went from a mid-level landlord to a billionaire developer in little over a decade.’

‘They were no more than rumours, though,’ stated Collins matter-of-factly.