Private Lives

21



She moved across the room, gliding from group to group. Helen was always elegant and graceful, but tonight she was at her shimmering best. Her blond bob shone from a three-hour session with Marcus, her stylist at James Worrall, and her lilac silk dress showed off her figure perfectly. Moving between the rooms of her Kensington townhouse, swapping anecdotes and clinking glasses, she positively glowed. You’d certainly never guess this was her forty-ninth birthday, unless you walked through to the kitchen where, behind the forest of champagne flutes, you would see the huge birthday cake emblazoned with the numbers. Many women of Helen’s age would have kept it quiet or shaved a few years off their official age; they certainly wouldn’t have thrown a glitzy party for their most influential clients and friends. But Helen Pierce had nothing to hide: not in that department, anyway. She was proud of what she had managed to achieve in a male-dominated industry, and proud of how she looked.

The room flickered in the low, flattering glow of candles in silver holders, soft jazz oozed from concealed speakers and the chatter and laughter of her illustrious guests was like a cool stream bubbling over rocks. Still, it was only a select gathering: maybe seventy, eighty people. Next year she’d have to pull all the stops out. That cake would have a big five-oh, but what the hell, you’re only young once. She smiled to herself, wondering idly if she’d ever enjoyed her birthday parties growing up. She could barely remember them. A vague memory of cheap cake and orange squash, the smeared faces of a dozen children crammed into the kitchen of her parents’ small Rochester semi. What were their names? She couldn’t remember. She’d left most of them behind when she’d gone to the local grammar. She’d worked hard to leave them all behind.

Through the crowd she could see the arrival of her newest colleague. ‘Matthew, so glad you could make it. Not brought a date?’

‘Well, I thought I might ask Sandra Bullock, but I think she’s busy,’ he answered, smiling. It took Helen a moment to see that he was joking. It was easy to forget that this was all so new to Matthew.

‘Happy birthday. You look great,’ he said, kissing her awkwardly on both cheeks.

‘Thank you,’ she replied, wishing she could return the compliment. He was wearing chinos and a denim shirt that hung loose over his waistband; it didn’t even look as if he had shaved.

‘So how was the polo?’ she asked, wondering if he’d worn tonight’s outfit to the Guards Club. ‘Did you speak to Leonard Payne?’

‘Yes. He’s a good bloke.’

She didn’t want Matthew getting too close to her top clients. That was her domain.

‘So can we get you a drink? There’s plenty of champagne.’

Matthew shook his head.

‘I’m on the bike. I can’t stay long. My son’s round first thing in the morning.’ He looked around the room. ‘So who else is here?’ he asked with a note of anxiety.

‘From work? Just you. If I invite junior partners, then the associates want to come. If they come, we have to invite the assistants. Then the trainees start getting all uppity. We might as well have the party in the staff canteen.’

‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t,’ said Matthew, looking around. ‘This place is amazing.’

She appreciated the reaction, but she doubted that Matthew had ever been anywhere he could compare it with. His father’s place in Cheyne Walk, perhaps. More spoils of law.

‘It’s a shame Larry couldn’t make it tonight,’ she said.

Matthew shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, I think Loralee will be keeping him away from parties for a little while at least.’

Helen smiled tightly. She had too many fresh memories of Larry careering around her social gatherings insulting people and making a scene. As far as she was concerned, he could stay away for ever. Larry was out of her hair, but now she had to deal with his son. Not that Matthew was anything like as formidable an opponent, but even so, he was a partner and a shareholder. Helen really needed to keep him on side. For now at least.

‘I must go and circulate,’ she said. ‘There are some very eligible women in the room tonight who would just love to meet you, I’m sure.’

Matthew looked at her with surprise, as if he hadn’t been expecting the compliment. Interesting, she thought, filing it away. It never did any harm to keep track of your opponents’ psychology. She moved out through the library, nodding and smiling, then stepped out on to the first-floor terrace. It was a small space, but it had an amazing view of Kensington Gore, and tonight in the balmy evening air, lit by ribbons of twinkling fairy lights, it was magical.

‘Helen, darling! Do come over,’ said a tall woman in a deep-blue backless gown, drenched in jewellery. Fiona Swettenham was the closest thing Helen had to a real friend, possibly because she was married to Viscount Swettenham, the hugely wealthy landowner, with the best house in north Oxfordshire and host of the most fabulous New Year’s Eve parties.

‘You are looking good enough to eat tonight,’ gushed Fiona, fingering the delicate silk of Helen’s dress. ‘Doesn’t she look fabulous, Simon?’

Fiona was standing with Simon Cooper, the managing director of Auckland Communications, the corporate PR giant. He was handsome, tanned and aloof, and Helen felt irritated to see him glance over her shoulder for someone more powerful to talk to. She demanded everyone’s full attention, especially on a night like tonight.

‘I saw you talking to Larry’s son,’ said Fiona. ‘He’s rather delicious, isn’t he?’

‘Fiona!’ said Helen, teasing her. ‘What would Charlie say?’

‘My husband would say I had impeccable taste. Now don’t tell me you don’t think he’s good-looking?’

‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ said Helen. ‘We didn’t hire him for his looks.’

‘You didn’t hire him at all,’ said Simon with a smirk.

Helen flashed the PR a warning glance.

‘Yes, I heard he’d been foisted upon you by Larry,’ said Fiona gleefully. ‘Everyone thought that when Larry retired the firm was going to become Pierce’s.’

Helen didn’t want to make her professional frustrations obvious. ‘Clearly Matthew is a fine lawyer in his own right; we wouldn’t have brought him in as a partner if he hadn’t been very capable . . .’

Simon raised his eyebrows to Fiona. ‘I think that’s what you call “damning with faint praise”.’

Helen was about to reply, but Fiona gave her arm a squeeze.

‘I’m sure he’s very good,’ she said quickly, throwing a look at Simon. ‘Anyway, I love that shabby-geography-teacher-chic thing he’s got going on.’

Helen rolled her eyes.

‘I don’t think it’s deliberate. I think this is his idea of smart. When it’s his birthday I might have to send him to Savile Row. Or at least for a shave.’

‘Is this how you ladies talk about men when we’re not there?’ said Simon.

Helen returned his gaze, challenging him.

‘What makes you think we talk about you at all, Simon?’ she said, flirting gently with him.

Fiona insisted on introducing Simon to a Cabinet minister, and as they drifted off, Helen saw Graham staring at her through the crowd. She tried to smile back openly, and Graham reciprocated by nodding. She’d be damned if people could see the strains in their marriage tonight. Then again, they weren’t the only ones. She could count a dozen couples in this room tonight who, behind closed doors, slept in separate bedrooms, had affairs, but to the outside world were devoted, successful couples.

‘Why so glum, young lady?’ Helen turned to see a rather stout man in a navy blazer and cravat smiling at her. ‘This is your party, isn’t it? You can’t go around moping at such a splendid bash.’

Helen laughed. Timothy Hartnell was a former banking lawyer on the board of one of the big City investment giants.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You know how it is, you never enjoy your own parties, always worrying whether everyone’s having a good time.’

‘Look around, dear girl,’ said Timothy, gesturing with his brandy glass. ‘It’s the party of the season, so have a drink and relax.’

Helen saluted him with her champagne and smiled. ‘To relaxing.’

‘Which brings me to dear old Larry,’ said Timothy. ‘How is it without him bellowing in your ear every five minutes?’

‘It’s quieter, I’ll give you that.’ She wanted to add that it was also cheaper; the cigars Larry had couriered to the office from Davidoff in St James’s, the cases of claret he would send out to favoured clients, the mysterious entries for ‘fruit and flowers’ on the company accounts – Helen was sure they would save hundreds of thousands before the end of the year. But of course Timothy had often been a recipient of Larry’s largesse, so she bit her tongue.

Timothy took her elbow and pulled her closer.

‘What I want to know is why you didn’t buy him out,’ he said with a hint of mischief. ‘We all thought the firm would become Pierce’s.’

‘You’re the second person to say that in five minutes.’

It was another painful reminder of her corporate blindsiding earlier in the summer. Of course Larry had given her the opportunity to buy out his shareholding – he had to; it was in the partnership agreement. But the clause had given her just a twenty-one-day window to agree to the deal and come up with the money. With a bumper year in profits, the firm had been valued at twice the amount she had anticipated, and in the current financial climate she hadn’t been able to get her hands on the requisite cash fast enough.

‘I didn’t even know he had a son in the business.’

‘Matthew’s background is family law. He’s very good,’ she said thinly. ‘We want to provide a wrap-around service for our high-net-worth individuals.’

Timothy chuckled and took a sip of his brandy. ‘Save it for the brochure, m’dear.’ He smiled. ‘I can imagine it’s a pain in the bum. After all, you don’t want to cloud your brand, do you?’

Helen frowned. ‘Cloud the brand?’

‘Oh, I’ve seen it happen with other firms,’ said Timothy. ‘They start taking on too many areas of practice and dilute the reason people come to them. Donovan Pierce are a specialist defamation practice, top of the pile in your field. But start adding too many other bits, Johnny Footballer might get confused.’

Helen took a deep breath through her nose, not wanting Timothy to see how furious all this made her. Was that how people were beginning to see Donovan Pierce – as a diluting brand?

‘I don’t think that will happen, Tim,’ she said quickly.

‘Really? People are starting to talk.’

Hartnell’s opinion was one of the few she valued. She’d have fought harder against Matthew’s appointment to the firm, but she had secretly seen the value in growing the business. Her ego wanted the firm to be Pierce’s, but her business smarts told her it was better to have a forty per cent stake in a much bigger pie.

‘Having Larry Donovan head up the firm gave you muscle. But having his lightweight family-law son on board doesn’t bring much to the table, does it?’

Helen was furious at the suggestion that she couldn’t bring enough gravitas to the firm for both of them.

‘Per employee, Donovan Pierce is one of the top-performing law firms in the country.’

‘Then what do you need Donovan for?’ Timothy said sharply. ‘Get rid of him. He’s not growing your business, he’s harming it.’

The thought that one of Europe’s top financial brains thought that about her firm made Helen shiver.