Private Lives

13



Anna walked back into her office and closed the door with a slam.

How dare he? The patronising bastard! He’d worked in the media what, all of five minutes, yet he still had the nerve to lecture her.

She sat down at her desk, closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She could have done without a confrontation with the new managing partner, who seemed almost as uptight and miserable as Helen Pierce, but then again, he was her boss even if he had been handed the firm by Daddy.

She looked at the piles of newspapers and magazines stacked up on her desk. The News of the World, the Mail on Sunday, the Globe, The Chronicle, each one of them running their own slightly different version of the Sam Charles story. And that was before you got to the gossip magazines and papers from the States and Europe. For the tabloids, of course, it was a perfect story: a sensational tale of celebrity debauchery supported by titillating pictures of a pretty girl in her bra, along with the bonus of being able to put the boot into media lawyers in the guise of stopping the madness of a legal system that protected rich, unfaithful rogues like Sam Charles. They certainly weren’t going to drop this story until they had wrung every last drop of value from it.

She picked up Sunday’s copy of the News of the World, which featured a large picture of Katie Grey in skimpy black lingerie next to the headline ‘My Night With Sam: Exclusive Interview’. With everything else that was going on the world – soldiers being killed in Afghanistan, the situation in Sudan, Iran, North Korea, the global recession – it was difficult to comprehend why even the broadsheets found the fact that Sam Charles had slept with an escort girl of such international significance. But they did. And what the British tabloids said had been repeated by every media outlet from twenty-four-hour satellite news programmes to worthy Internet discussion sites. There were even a batch of Sam Charles jokes going around. Q: ‘How many prostitutes does it take to screw in a light bulb?’ A: ‘None. They’re all too busy screwing Sam Charles.’

She threw the paper down angrily.

The last few days had been hellish. In her entire working career she had never felt more isolated and ashamed. Ashamed of her professional failure in getting the gagging order. Ashamed that she had promised Sam that everything was under control. Ashamed that her parents were watching the story – the bitter irony being that her sister Sophie’s Dorset Kitchen show had aired immediately before her own appearance on News at Ten; although why anyone would consider footage of her leaving the office on Friday night news was still a mystery to her.

Anna leaned over and picked up the phone, dialling 1 for Sid, the trainee solicitor assigned to her.

‘Sid, can you come through for a moment?’ she asked.

She didn’t really want to see anyone, but she had to do something. She had found it very difficult coming into work that morning; part of her had been tempted to phone in sick and go and live on a kibbutz. It would certainly have been the easiest thing to do. Helen Pierce hadn’t said so in as many words – in fact, it seemed as though Helen was pretty much ignoring her – but Anna knew that this whole episode had been a PR disaster for the firm. After all, Donovan Pierce had been named in every newspaper from Brussels to Bangalore as the firm who failed to get the injunction. Whoever had said ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’ had never worked in the law.

‘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.