Private Lives (33 page)

‘You’re the biggest movie star in the world,’ said Jessica. ‘Of course the press are interested in you.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m fifty years old and my face isn’t quite as pretty as it once was.’

‘Men just appreciate with age,’ said Jessica. ‘Like good art.’

‘Talking of which, where is this painting?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said, beckoning him with one finger into the master bedroom. ‘
Et voilà
,’ she smiled.

The painting was on the wall right above her eight-foot bed. Seven feet wide, it depicted a naked woman stretched out. It was powerful, provocative, but at the same time it had a delicacy and vulnerability to it. She hoped Joe would recognise those same qualities in the painting’s owner.

‘Wow,’ he said quietly, his eyes glittering as he gazed at it. ‘That is amazing.’

‘Isn’t it?’ she said, looking at Joe’s tall frame, his swimmer’s physique. He was separated after all. It was only his Catholic faith that stopped him being officially on the open market, and that meant he was fair game. And if
In Touch
were already spreading rumours about their supposed romance, why not make it real?

‘I’ll be one moment,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘I’ll leave you to view.’

She slipped into her en suite and quickly took off her vest, kicked off her jeans and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled off her bra and panties too. Leaning in to the mirror, she licked her lips so that they had a tiny hint of glistening shine. Smiling to herself, she switched off the main light of the en suite and opened the door. She knew that she’d be backlit by the glow from the illuminated mirror behind her: sexy, beautiful, totally fuckable.

‘What do you think?’ she purred.

He didn’t move his eyes from the painting.

Dismissing a moment’s irritation, she moved over to him. ‘I can think of a better nude than the one you’re looking at.’

He turned to look at her in stunned silence, his eyes wide.

‘Jess . . .’

She put her finger to his lips, then, pressing her bare breasts against his shirt, looped her arm around his neck to pull him closer.

He resisted.

‘I’ll do anything you want,’ she whispered.

He was as still as a statue. She lifted her face to his, expecting to see desire and excitement. Instead she saw disapproval. Deliberately, he took her arm from around his neck.

‘Maybe you should put some clothes on,’ he said, his eyes averting from hers.

She took a furious step back.

‘You’re kidding?’ she snapped.

‘Jess, you’re confused. This . . . this isn’t right.’

‘Confused? Don’t make me sound like I’m crazy. You want this as much as I do.’

‘You’re a beautiful woman, Jessica, and I know if we did hook up it would be good for the movie.’

‘Yes, it would,’ she smiled, seeing an opening. She grabbed his hand and put it on to her warm breast, but Joe snatched it away.

‘Stop it,’ he said, his voice trembling.

She grabbed the sheet from the bed and wrapped it clumsily around her body.

‘What
is
your problem?’ Her voice was quivering with anger.

‘Don’t you know?’ he said finally.

‘Know what?’ she whispered.

‘It’s not you, Jessica. It’s me.’ He dipped his head and played with his hands, pushing the knuckles into the opposite palm.

‘Tell me, Joe. What’s wrong? Because I’m feeling pretty stupid at the moment.’

‘Look,’ he said, rubbing his hand across his mouth. ‘I’m gay.’

‘Gay?’ she repeated. It just wasn’t possible. Joe Kennington was the most macho man in America, an icon of straight-ahead masculinity – he was a father of two, for God’s sake! Jessica wasn’t naive; she knew at least a dozen Hollywood leading men who were hiding in the closet, but
Joe
? That was just crazy. She wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

‘But you and Sia . . .’ she said, sitting down next to him.

‘I love her, don’t doubt that,’ he said. ‘And we were a real couple when we got married.’

‘So your kids . . . not out of a tube, then?’

He laughed, and the atmosphere lifted a little.

‘No, they’re all natural. And completely wonderful. So is Sia, but I guess she wasn’t enough.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘I’ve always preferred men, but I knew I’d have to hide who I was when I came out here, that’s just the way it is in Hollywood. But when I met Sia, I really did fall in love with her. I thought it was the real thing, and in a way, I was glad. It made life so much easier. Until I met Greg. He’s a teacher from Montecito. We share a house together now, right by Tori Adams’s weekend place.’

‘Shit,’ whistled Jessica, and he laughed.

‘Exactly. I’m older now, but not old enough that people wouldn’t care.’ He turned to look at her. ‘And you know what? It’s not about the money; I’ve got enough of that. It’s because I love what I do and I want to keep on doing it. Does that sound selfish?’

She smiled.

‘What the hell are you asking me for? I’m an actress in Hollywood, it doesn’t get more selfish than that.’

He smiled and touched her bare shoulder.

‘I was wrong about you, Jess.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I thought you were just another one of those hard bitches who’ll do anything to get where they want to go. But you’re okay.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, but she knew he was wrong. She would have fucked him and milked it for all it was worth. And she wouldn’t have given it a second thought. What was it he had said?
That’s just the way it is in Hollywood
. Damn right.

‘Still interested in the Clemente?’ She smiled.

‘Too right. It’s beautiful. I’ll get my art consultant to give you a ring this week, get a valuation.’

Jessica nodded. She really didn’t care how much it was worth, she just wanted it out of her bedroom. It had been a gift from Sam and held nothing but bad memories.

‘Hey, you know what?’ she said. ‘I’d love to see those Matisse sculptures of Tori’s.’

Their eyes met for a moment. Joe knew what she was saying: a favour for a favour. An invitation to Tori Adams’s party in exchange for her silence. Now that was what made Hollywood go round.

‘Sure,’ he said smoothly. ‘I’ll set it up.’

32

Andrew had been right: the village of High Marple was perfect, especially on a warm summer afternoon like this. Thatched roofs, flint walls, tidy little front gardens overstuffed with foxgloves and marigolds. The drive down had taken ninety minutes but had seemed quicker, with the windows wound down and the radio tuned to a cheesy eighties station as the meadows zipped by. Anna realised that the pressure she had been feeling over the past few weeks had been mostly self-inflicted. Yes, Helen Pierce had been watching her more closely than the Stasi, just waiting for her to slip up again, but Anna was fairly confident her work on the Balon libel trial had been spotless. And then there was Amy Hart. The rational side of her brain told her she was wasting her time, quizzing models and soap stars about the death of a party girl she had never even met. Yet there was an emotional pull to this case she had never felt in her working life before, and she knew that Amy’s death was something she wouldn’t stop thinking about until she had got to the bottom of what was going on.

The Honourable Member for Derrington East lived in a large double-fronted former rectory on the outskirts of the village. Anna had been surprised that Andrew had arranged the meeting so promptly; then again, guilt could be a very powerful call to action. She parked the Mini as close to the verge as she could and pushed open the garden gate, which gave a satisfying creak.

‘Over here! It’s Ms Kennedy, isn’t it?’

Gilbert Bryce was sitting on a garden chair underneath a parasol reading a Robert Harris novel. He was wearing beige chinos, a navy polo shirt and chunky boat shoes, the sort they sold in M&S. Most people considered Gilbert Bryce a bit of a joke. Unmarried, with a colourful romantic life including two long-standing relationships, with a celebrity clairvoyant and a fifty-something character actress, he was a sitting target for
Private Eye
and the political columnists, who seemed to be incensed that someone like that could become an MP. But in the flesh, he certainly had something: not quite charisma, perhaps, but he was one of those people with an unshakeable belief in his own abilities, and that was a quality that instilled confidence. Anna could see why people would vote for him. He certainly was not a conventionally good-looking man, but his teeth were perfectly straight, his fingernails manicured, and his dark brown hair precisely clipped. Gilbert Bryce understood the power of image, even if it was a slightly ridiculous one.

‘Beautiful village you have here,’ said Anna, walking across the lawn towards him.

‘I like to think so,’ he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. ‘It’s a shame you’re not here next weekend. I’m due to host the village fete. The locals love it.’

‘I’m sure they do.’

‘Speaking of the village, I thought we might have our chat here, if you don’t mind?’

‘Of course,’ said Anna.

‘Normally I’d take you to the Crown – lovely place, by the way – but I do find that the locals start to ask questions.’

‘Questions?’ said Anna, suddenly nervous that he knew exactly why she was here.

‘You know, lunching with an attractive young woman,’ said Gilbert. ‘Believe it or not, that counts as news in these parts. Last week I heard a rumour that I was having an affair with the girl in the butcher’s; I’d only popped in for a chop.’

Anna laughed. She had to admit he had a certain charm.

Gilbert reached over to the table and poured her a glass of lemonade.

‘Sorry, I really should offer you Pimm’s or something, but it’s my housekeeper’s day off.’

He looked at her curiously.

‘So you’re a friend of Andrew Barton’s?’

‘That’s right. He’s my future brother-in-law actually.’

‘Then you must be the sister of that delightful television chef. What’s she called?’

‘Sophie.’

‘Yes, Sophie Kennedy, of course.’

Anna handed him her business card.

‘Oh, but you’re a lawyer, not a journalist,’ he said with a hint of disappointment.

Gilbert was a legendary self-publicist. He had been on
Celebrity Big Brother
despite the grave misgivings of his party whips, and had survived two weeks on
Strictly Come Dancing
.

‘Yes, I’m acting for the family of Amy Hart,’ she said, watching his face closely for a reaction. He gave nothing away. ‘She was a model who died about six months ago.’

‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Doesn’t the name mean anything to you, Mr Bryce?’

He shook his head slowly, as if trying to recall.

‘Amy Hart? Was she a constituent?’

Anna pulled a photo from her bag and handed it to him. He looked at it for several seconds, then glanced back at Anna. She knew he was deciding whether to call her bluff.

‘It’s my understanding, Mr Bryce, that you knew Amy rather well.’

‘Heavens,’ said Gilbert, handing the photo back. ‘You really are a lawyer, aren’t you?’

Anna smiled politely. She had known all along he would deny the relationship; if Mandy Stigwood was right, he had kept his fling with Amy completely under the radar. Indeed, Anna only had Mandy’s word that there had ever been a relationship, and Mandy was what a judge might call an ‘unreliable witness’.

‘As you can imagine, Ms Kennedy, in my line of work I meet a lot of people. I’m generally good at remembering names and faces, though. I find it helps at election time if you keep things personal.’

‘So you do remember Amy?’ she pressed.

‘Possibly, yes. But as I said, in my line of work . . .’

‘She’s dead, Mr Bryce.’

‘So you said.’

Anna laid the photo on the table so Gilbert could not help looking at it.

‘And you say you’re involved with the family?’

‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘The inquest into her death was held the other week. It was an open verdict, but her family aren’t convinced it was an accident.’

She paused for a moment, searching his face. If the news had rattled him, he gave no indication.

‘I’m speaking to people who knew Amy, putting together her movements . . .’

‘So you think it was foul play?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Well I wish you the best of luck with it,’ said Gilbert, reaching for his drink. ‘But I still don’t see why you’d want to talk to me.’

He’s very clever, thought Anna. Much sharper than people give him credit for. He hadn’t specifically denied or confirmed that he knew Amy, leaving himself room for manoeuvre either way. Time to push a little, she thought.

‘I’m sorry to have to ask you these questions, Mr Bryce,’ she said. ‘But it has been suggested that you and Amy had an affair. My source wasn’t sure of the seriousness of the relationship, but was convinced that the two of you had been involved. Can you tell me if this is true?’

He looked immediately uncomfortable. Drawing a hand up to his neck, he rubbed it nervously.

‘Yes, I knew Amy. No, we did not have a relationship.’

‘How well did you know her?’

He shook his head.

‘Barely. Now that you mention it, I had heard that she had died. It was a terrible tragedy. But really, I hardly knew her.’

‘Did you ever sleep with her?’

He flashed her an angry, impatient look. ‘Really, Miss Kennedy, this is not the sort of thing I’m happy to discuss. I am a public figure, yes, but I am entitled to some sort of private life, am I not?’

She knew she was treading towards thin ice. For all she knew, Gilbert was a friend of Helen’s or Larry’s, and the last thing she needed was for him to voice a complaint.

‘I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. I’m just helping a family come to terms with their grief. To help make sense of it all, if you like.’

‘It sounds more like you’re in the business of finger-pointing. Does Andrew Barton know the real reason you’re here?’

‘No.’

Relief softened his expression.