Private Lives

19



The crowd roared as the pony thundered down the rail, its rider leaning out of the saddle, windmilling his stick to crack the ball between the posts. Matthew sipped at his plastic glass of Pimm’s enthusiastically, partly because it was so damn hot out there on the grass, partly to cover his smile. Two years ago, you wouldn’t have caught him dead at a polo match – and if pushed, he’d have muttered something about privileged idiots with more money than sense – but he had to admit, he was enjoying himself. It was like a royal wedding mixed with a rock festival: everyone dressed to the nines, but hell-bent on getting trashed and lying about on the emerald lawns watching the entertainment. He wondered if he was the only one who didn’t have a clue what was actually going on. What a chukka was. At which end of the pitch the yellow team were supposed to score. Then again, he wasn’t here to learn the finer points of polo. He was here to network, as Helen had instructed him, forcing him to attend on her behalf as one of their clients was sponsoring the event.

‘Another drink, Matthew?’

Matt turned to find the tall blonde who had introduced herself earlier as Emily smiling at him.

‘Go on,’ he said, knocking back the rest of his Pimm’s. He warned himself to go easy. Then again, this didn’t really seem like work. It was a Saturday afternoon, and all day he had been surrounded by pretty posh girls, none of whom had the slightest interest in talking shop and all of whom seemed fascinated by him. He had never really experienced corporate hospitality like it; occasionally there’d been a wealthy client at his three-man practice in Hammersmith who would send him a bottle of Scotch, but at Donovan Pierce schmoozing with clients, a lavish fiftieth invitation, the cricket at Lord’s, a corporate box at Wimbledon with captains of industry and their attractive co-workers seemed par for the course.

‘I’ll be back,’ said the blonde, her high heels sinking into the grass as she disappeared to the bar.

Matt grinned wolfishly as he watched her go.

‘Shit,’ he muttered as his mobile began to vibrate. Private number. It was work, then. He tutted to himself, but secretly he was pleased to be in demand, important. He had surprised even himself by how quickly he was slipping into the role of senior partner at the firm.

‘Matt Donovan,’ he said.

‘It’s Rob. Rob Beaumont.’

‘Hey. How’s things?’ he said, surprised to hear his client’s voice.

‘Things aren’t so good, Matt, to be honest.’

Matt walked around the back of the hospitality tent to find a quieter spot.

‘What’s wrong?’

There was a long pause and then a stutter of breath. Matthew didn’t need to see Rob Beaumont to know that he was very upset.

‘I thought we could handle this in a grown-up manner; you know, for Ollie’s sake. But she couldn’t do that, could she? Had to try and get one over on me.’

‘What’s she done?’

‘She wants to move to Miami, Matt. She wants to take our son and move to Miami.’

Matt put his Pimm’s down and tried to concentrate.

‘Do you know that for sure?’

‘I saw Oliver’s headmistress. She wished me luck and said she’d just written Ollie’s reference for his transfer to some school in South Beach. I confronted Kim. She said nothing was definite but that it was an option. She says she wants to take a break from England. Too much media pressure,’ he said, his voice trembling.

Matt doubted that was the reason. He had a stack of press cuttings in his office about Kim Collier and knew she was a woman who relished the media gaze.

‘You’d better come into the office first thing Monday,’ he said, knowing he could clear some things in his diary.

‘She can’t do it, can she? She can’t just take him to Florida.’

Matthew felt a strong pang of pity for the director, but it was his policy to be as honest as he could with his clients.

‘It’s a difficult situation, Rob. We should talk about it more on Monday.’

‘Can she take our son?’ he said with a desperate staccato bark.

‘Probably,’ Matt said finally. ‘Eventually.’

‘How is that fair?’

He didn’t need Rob to remind him how unfair British divorce law could be: a ‘no blame’ law in which the circumstances of the break-up had no bearing on the division of the assets. That was often what people found hardest to take; he certainly had. Carla had run off and had an affair with some slimeball with a stucco-fronted house, and yet she still got half of everything; in fact, she got more: she got Jonas.

‘How often do you see your son, Matt?’ asked Rob so quietly that he could barely hear him.

‘Every weekend.’

‘Once a week. You’re lucky. If Kim goes to Miami, how often am I going to see my Ollie?’

Matt could hear him beginning to sob; a grown man struggling with big, breathless gulps.

‘We can work through this.’

‘How? When the law favours the mother?’

‘Short-term, we can think about a Prohibited Steps Order to stop Kim taking Oliver out of the country. Moving forward, we can fight for a residence order, in custody if you want that battle.’

He didn’t have to tell Rob how high the odds were stacked against him. Right now, his client wanted to hear that there was some glimmer of hope, some slim likelihood that he could at least keep his son in the country after their divorce.

‘I’m ready,’ said Rob with defiance.

‘Then so am I,’ said Matt, ignoring the flicker of self-doubt that reminded him that despite his experience, his talent, his passion, he couldn’t even keep his own son.