Private Lives (3 page)

‘Ilina, I’m afraid I have to go,’ said Anna. ‘I have to meet a client, but thanks so much for inviting me.’

‘Darling, just stay for a few minutes longer. I have prepared a little speech and we have a cake.’

Anna had seen the cake; a confectionery mountain would be a better description. With five tiers and a spun-sugar caricature of Ilina standing on top of a copy of the
Globe
, it put every wedding cake Anna had ever seen in the shade.

Ilina tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder and mounted a podium by the infinity pool.

‘Darlings,’ she began, ‘thank you for joining me for my victory parade.’

She was an impressive public speaker, delivering her lines with confidence, wit and verve, and she had the assembled captains of industry in the palm of her hand. In fact, Anna was so busy watching the crowd that it took a moment before she realised that two hundred heads were turning to look at her.

‘Anna Kennedy has been my rock in my time of need,’ Ilina was saying. ‘Her expert legal guidance has been second to none and I would recommend her services should any of you make the mistake of attracting the attentions of the gentlemen of the press.’

There was much laughter at this: there was barely a person in the room who wasn’t regularly in the papers, whether in the gossip columns or the political pages.

‘Please join me in toasting my saviour,’ said Ilina, raising her glass towards Anna.

Anna willed the ground to swallow her whole, whilst trying her best to force a smile on to her face. Across the pool she could see Nick Kimble glaring at her, which was a small consolation, and she took it as her cue to leave, heading for the door via the cloakroom.

‘I’m not surprised Ilina’s pleased,’ said a voice as she waited at the desk for her coat. ‘Six-figure damages, a page-three retraction: pretty good work.’

Anna instantly recognised the woman behind her. Helen Pierce was a legend in the legal profession, a formidable partner at Donovan Pierce solicitors. She had often seen the cool blonde click-clacking imperiously into the High Court, but had never dared to speak to her. Donovan Pierce specialised in defamation and reputation management work and had one of the fiercest reputations in the industry – mainly due to Helen Pierce.

‘Thank you,’ said Anna, unsure of what to say next.

‘Personally I always thought the claim was a little spurious,’ said Helen, ‘under the circumstances.’

‘Really? Why would you say that?’

Helen gave a little tinkly laugh.

‘Suing the
Globe
for suggesting she is a
shopaholic
?’

‘It was hardly that,’ said Anna, slightly annoyed by Helen’s flippant tone. ‘The
Globe
printed a sensationalist catalogue of Ilina’s spending, blatantly designed to make her look obsessive, selfish and out of control, purely for the entertainment of their readers.’

‘Miss Miranova’s spending – out of control? I wonder whatever made them think that?’ She raised her eyebrows, looking pointedly across the room to the caged leopards, the mountainous cake and the circus performers. No wonder she’s such a bloody good lawyer, thought Anna. Even the tiniest of gestures could make you feel guilty or complicit.

‘With respect,’ said Anna, ‘it is Ms Miranova’s business how she spends her own money, and in actual fact, that story caused her a considerable amount of distress.’

Helen fixed her with a cool stare, but Anna merely returned the gaze, determined not to be bullied. The spell was broken when the cloakroom attendant brought their coats, but Helen didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.

‘So, how is life at Davidson Owen?’

‘Busy,’ said Anna, glancing at her watch again.

‘I dare say you might make partner, if you can stick it out long enough,’ said Helen.

‘Within the year, hopefully.’

‘Really?’ laughed Helen. ‘We both know Stuart Masters is a misogynist. You’re to be congratulated for your loyalty, but you can’t be under any illusions.’

Anna fought to keep her expression neutral, but her heart was hammering.

‘Illusions?’

‘I suppose you’re aware of how many women partners have been appointed at Davidson’s in the last ten years.’

‘A few.’

‘Two,’ said Helen, fixing her with that gaze again. ‘In their family division. It’s not brilliant, is it: two new female partners compared to eighteen men?’

Where was all this leading? Was Helen just making conversation, or was there a subtext to her enquiries? It was starting to feel like a job interview – and really, wasn’t that why Anna’s heart was hammering?

‘And how are things at DP?’ asked Anna as casually as she could. ‘I read in the
Lawyer
that Larry is finally retiring.’

Larry Donovan had set the firm up twenty-five years ago. He was loud, flamboyant, one of the few truly colourful characters in the industry. The rumour was that he and Helen maintained a respectful distance from each other, but there was no love lost between them.

‘It’s his leaving party in a couple of weeks,’ said Helen. ‘I thought the only way he’d leave the office would be in a coffin, but his new, much younger wife has apparently put him under considerable pressure to spend the money he’s spent a lifetime acquiring.’

‘So what’s he going to do? A round-the-world cruise?’

Helen ignored the question. ‘I’ll cut to the chase, Anna. With Larry’s retirement, we’ll need to strengthen certain areas of the team.’

‘You’re offering me a job?’

Helen smiled.

‘I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime.’

‘Partner?’

‘Not yet.’

Anna felt her excitement immediately abate, but offers like this were a game.

‘In which case, I’m not sure there’s any point in my leaving Davidson’s,’ she replied defiantly. ‘Despite what you say, I’ve just pulled off a high-profile coup for the firm. You heard Ilina’s endorsement. I think that puts me in a pretty good position for partner.’

Helen smiled. ‘Nick Kimble has been telling anyone who will listen tonight that it’s
his
high-profile coup.’

The sinking feeling in Anna’s stomach told her it was true. Nick and Stuart Masters were tight; they played golf together, their wives were friends, there was no way Stuart would support her over Nick. But she couldn’t let Helen see that she was right.

Her phone began to buzz angrily again. ‘I really do have to go.’

‘The Friday-night rush.’ Helen nodded. ‘Who’s in trouble this time?’

Anna smiled coyly. There was no way she was giving up details about the case or her client.

‘You remind me of myself, Anna. Tough, smart, ambitious. Let’s talk again soon, okay?’

Anna nodded and dashed off, hoping to find a taxi sandwiched between the Bentleys.

Anna didn’t think about the job offer at all the next day; there simply wasn’t time. After a late-night meeting with the client, she’d worked far into the night. By ten a.m. she was instructing a barrister in a coffee shop in Pimlico; two hours later they had cornered a judge, and thirty minutes after that they were in possession of a gagging order preventing all major news outlets from running a juicy exposé about Anna’s client, a Premiership footballer who had made the moral slip – as Nick Kimble had put it – of getting his mistress pregnant.

It was five o’clock by the time Anna was finally on the road, driving towards her parents’ Dorset cottage, physically exhausted and emotionally drained from a heated verbal exchange she’d had with the
News of the World
’s legal manager. She wasn’t yet thirty, but today she felt about twenty years older. She slid down the window and let the warm air ruffle her hair. It was actually a perfect time to be driving out of the city; traffic was quiet, and the late-afternoon sun cast long green shadows across the fields as she passed. But she still couldn’t relax. Two days earlier, her mother Sue had called her to say they had something to discuss with her. She had refused to talk about it on the phone, and Anna had immediately imagined illness or financial problems with the business. Her parents Sue and Brian owned the Dorset Nurseries, a beautiful garden centre in the heart of Thomas Hardy country. It was a wonderful place, curated under her mother’s tasteful, elegant eye. Wheelbarrows of plump dahlias and clematis surrounded luscious lawns, cabbage white butterflies fluttered around terracotta pots crammed with poppies and foxgloves. Five years ago, they’d added a quaint restaurant in a previously abandoned conservatory and had an immediate hit. On an evening like this, there was nowhere finer to sit and sip Darjeeling or sample some of Brian Kennedy’s tarts and salads.

Anna’s dad had learned to cook in the army and had always been exceptional in the kitchen; he had thrown himself into his new role with gusto. Which was why Anna was worried: they’d had money worries before – what business didn’t these days? – and she knew it would kill him to have to give it up.

At last she turned her Mini into the driveway. The family home was a large thatched cottage that backed on to the perimeter wall of the nursery.

‘Here she is . . .’ cried her father, striding out to meet her, his arms open.

He was still wearing his chef’s whites, complete with spots and smears from the dish of the day. ‘Come on through to the kitchen,’ he said, squeezing her. ‘I bet you could do with a big glass of wine, eh?’

Her mother was sitting at the long oak table, writing in a ledger.

‘You both look bushed,’ Anna said as she walked over to kiss her mother.

‘My elder daughter. She always says the sweetest things,’ said Brian good-naturedly.

‘I’m worried about you,’ said Anna with a frown. ‘You’re working too hard. Both of you.’

Sue closed her book with a thump, looking less pleased than her husband.

‘Actually, I couldn’t be feeling better. You know we’re taking three months’ booking in advance for Saturday and Sunday now, so perhaps it’s all paying off at last.’

‘Fantastic,’ Anna replied with a broad smile that belied her nerves. If the discussion wasn’t about business, she wondered if it was something even more ominous. For a moment, her eyes met her mother’s, but almost immediately Sue looked away.

‘So how’s work?’ she said briskly.

‘Busy. We settled our libel case on Wednesday. My client threw a big party, so my head’s a little fuzzy.’

‘Hair of the dog will sort that out,’ said Brian, ushering her through the cottage.

The front room was cluttered and homely, with low beams, a wide brick fireplace and higgledy-piggledy pictures of her father’s time in the army, her parents’ wedding day, even a few framed squiggles from when she and her sister were kids. It was the sort of place where you could just curl up with a book and forget about the world, if it wasn’t for the framed photograph, a new addition on the wall.

Anna flinched, then forced herself to look at it.

Her sister Sophie, clutching her National Television Award for ‘Best Factual Show:
A Dorset Kitchen
’. She was looking even more beautiful than usual, her pouty mouth painted scarlet, her long raven bob teased into Veronica Lake waves; her slim, curvy body poured into a form-fitting dress made her look more fifties starlet than celebrity chef.

Her mother was watching her.

‘Did you see the Awards?’

Anna shook her head.

‘You know me. No time for telly.’

‘We went to the ceremony. It was wonderful.’

The atmosphere prickled. Her father softened it by handing Anna a large glass of wine. ‘Lovely Sauvignon, this one.’

‘And I have something for you,’ she said. She bent to rifle through her bag and pulled out a gift-wrapped box, handing it to her father.

‘For me?’ said Brian, his eyes twinkling.

She grinned. ‘Well I think yours is the only birthday we have in this house within the next twenty-four hours.’

‘Open it tomorrow, Brian. At the party,’ said Sue.

‘Open it now, Dad. I’m not going to be here tomorrow,’ said Anna quickly.

Sue looked at her husband, then back at Anna.

‘When you said you were coming for your dad’s birthday, I assumed you’d be here for the actual day.’

Anna glanced away. ‘I have to get back.’

‘So you can go to a client’s party but not to your father’s?’

Her mother’s snipe hit its target. Anna shifted uncomfortably.

‘I thought it was just a few friends coming round for drinks, not a proper party. You don’t want me there anyway.’

‘I’d love you to stay,’ said Brian.

She desperately wanted to celebrate with her father. Family occasions used to be so important to the Kennedys, and whilst part of her knew she should be the bigger person, to rise above it as if what had happened had never even existed, she knew she couldn’t bring herself to be in the same room as Sophie and her partner Andrew. Not yet.

‘Is she definitely coming?’ she said finally.

Her parents exchanged a look.

‘Andrew’s coming too,’ said Sue briskly. ‘
He’s
managed to get the day off work, and you know how busy he is.’

‘Mum, leave it.’

‘I’m just beginning to wonder if you are going to spend the rest of your life avoiding your sister?’

The high, taut cheekbones, the slender build that gave Sue her elegance were beginning to make her mother’s face look hard. But Anna spent her entire working day standing her ground. She wasn’t going to wilt under Sue’s stern and uncompromising gaze.

‘I’m not ready to see her,’ she said, taking a swift swallow of wine.

‘Well when are you going to be ready? You’ve not spoken to her for nearly two years. This is getting ridiculous.’

‘She stole my boyfriend,’ Anna reminded them.

‘Yes, and she was wrong. But isn’t it time you buried the hatchet? For us? For you?’

Anna looked away. They still didn’t get it. She supposed to them it was just some romance gone wrong. Living in Dorset, far away from Anna’s London life, they hadn’t seen how badly hurt she’d been, how devastated by the betrayal. And if they had recognised it, then they hadn’t wanted to take sides or get involved. She’d tried to block out the memory with work, with cigarettes and alcohol, with distance, but right now, it felt as raw and visceral as the moment she had first found her sister and her boyfriend together.