Private Lives

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Anna Kennedy? Not working? Never thought I’d see the day.’

  She looked up and frowned when she saw Blake Stanhope.

  ‘Back in court, Blake? Who have you stitched up this time?’

  Blake pulled a look of mock hurt. ‘Don’t take that tone with me. I thought we were friends.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘Come on, Anna,’ he said, more evenly. ‘We’re in the same game, aren’t we?’

  ‘Blake, you belong in jail.’

  His shoulders slumped.

  ‘I know you think I’m some sort of unprincipled rat, and maybe I have my moments, but believe me when I say I didn’t leak that story. And I don’t appreciate you quizzing every editor in town asking them if I shared the Sam Charles story with them.’

  ‘You heard about that?’ Maybe her discreet enquiries weren’t so discreet.

  He nodded.

  Anna looked at him, trying to read his face.

  ‘Well, someone did, and we only have two in the line-up: you and that girl Katie Grey. Or maybe someone in your office.’

  Blake paused, looking up at the dark portrait of a rather forbidding-looking judge in ceremonial dress.

  ‘It was no one in my office,’ he said defensively. ‘I was the only one who knew about it. As for Katie . . . She’s not a bad girl. Just a frustrated one. It’s often the way with kiss-and-tell girls. It’s not just about the money. Someone they slept with makes a heap of promises to them and then doesn’t deliver. Speaking out is their way of lashing out. Katie felt rejected, hurt. But she understood the injunction had gagged her, and she wasn’t going to break the law.’

  ‘You all sound so moral.’

  He took a seat beside her.

  ‘Have you considered phone hacking?’

  She had.

  ‘We take every precaution. Our phones are swept regularly. We avoid leaving voicemail messages. Don’t you?’

  ‘Never been stung yet.’

  ‘To your knowledge.’

  ‘I’m careful. Besides, do you think the papers are going to take the risk of phone tapping after the last scandal?’

  She downed her drink, deep in thought.

  Silence rattled between them.

  ‘Have you ever considered that the leak might have come from your end?’ he said finally.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s possible? One of Sam’s staff, a driver, a PA? Or someone at your office. A temp. A cleaner.’

  ‘Don’t make ridiculous accusations just to get yourself off the hook.’

  ‘For a smart girl, you’re very trusting,’ he said casually.

  For a second Anna thought about Sid. Struggling for cash, with a job about to end. Or Josh, Sam’s PA. Sam was convinced his young assistant didn’t know the details of his indiscretions, but Josh had that smart competence that suggested he knew everything.

  ‘I trust everyone on our team one hundred per cent,’ she said defensively. ‘We run a tight ship.’

  ‘Just a little food for thought, some free advice between old friends,’ said Blake playfully. ‘You lawyers do rather think in straight lines, don’t you? Maybe it’s time to take off the blinkers. Who would benefit from leaking the Sam and Katie sex story, if it wasn’t Katie and it wasn’t me?’

  30

  He was already there when Anna arrived, sitting alone at a table facing the street. The front windows of the bistro had been folded back to the evening air and she paused at the corner watching him, a glass of red wine in front of him, making a big show of tapping away at his BlackBerry; he was always so concerned about appearances, desperate to show he was busy and in demand. They had been here together once before – she wondered if he remembered. Probably not; he would never have agreed to the meeting here, it would have been too loaded and intimate.

  She looked at his face, so familiar yet so distant. He was tanned, his blond hair lighter than she remembered, his eyes more blue. It was strange how people could be such a big part of your life, how you could become accustomed to their habits and tics, their every crease and wrinkle like your own. And then, just like that, they could slip away completely.

  ‘Anna,’ he said, standing up as she walked over.

  ‘How are you, Andy?’ she said, sitting down, allowing him to push her chair in. In the early days, she had been charmed by his little old-world customs. She’d met plenty of people from Andrew’s background at law school – wealthy parents, public school, Oxbridge – but none with his effortless polish. And yet he had been so normal in many ways: he liked football, Britpop, wore his shirts untucked. But every now and then there was a little reminder of the privileged upbringing a world away from the Cumbrian pub she had been brought up in.

  The waiter brought her a glass and Andy poured her some wine from the open bottle. She noticed the menu face down on the table.

  ‘You’re not eating?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not hungry. Are you?’

  ‘Not really,’ she lied. She was actually starving, having been stuck in court all day, but Andy was clearly telling her he had no intention of staying longer than he had to.

  ‘So how’s things?’ he said, carefully rearranging his two forks on the tablecloth.

  ‘Don’t you read the papers?’ she said. It was meant to be a joke, but came out wrong.

  He glanced at her.

  ‘Of course. Always nice to see my fiancée half drowned. Honestly, Anna, what was all that crap at the spa about?’

  ‘If you ask me, she got off pretty lightly,’ she said, standing her ground. ‘I’m amazed the media haven’t found out that we haven’t spoken for two years. “Cosy cake-maker is home-wrecker” type thing.’

  She’d had this conversation with Andy in her head a hundred times since they had split up – their first proper sit-down discussion – and she’d always been witty and cutting and amazingly beautiful, not bitter and sarcastic like this.

  ‘Look, Anna, if you’ve just asked me here to rake over all that again, I’ve got better things to do with my time.’

  ‘I don’t want that either.’

  She was being honest. She’d seen him a handful of times since That Night; she’d tried hard to avoid him, but it was difficult to do so in the worlds in which they moved. It was always awkward, but sitting opposite him today she felt strangely unmoved.

  ‘Does she know we’re meeting?’ she asked.

  He looked away.

  ‘No.’

  Anna felt a surge of triumph. Childish, pathetic even, but it made her feel better.

  ‘I didn’t know whether I should tell her,’ said Andy. ‘Although I’ve hardly seen her all week. She’s been filming.’

  ‘At the nurseries?’

  ‘No, she was finding all that travelling too difficult. It’s filmed in Notting Hill now.’

  ‘That well-known rural idyl.’

  He laughed. ‘They’re shooting in the most rustic central London location house they could find. Poured concrete floors, Aga, imported Provençal knick-knacks, you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Which will of course be passed off as your own?’

  ‘Well I wasn’t having a bloody camera crew round at our place.’

  Our place. Andrew and Anna had never had their own place. He had his bachelor pad in trendy Wapping. Sterile and manly, all black leather and chrome with damp towels left on the bathroom floor. Anna had tried to make her mark, but she was swimming against the tide, and with their long work hours, it was so much easier to go back to their respective homes. Another sign she had missed.

  He sipped his wine.

  ‘So what’s this favour you need?’

  ‘It’s for a case I’m working on.’

  ‘The Balon case? Did he get funded by those mobsters like they’re saying?’

  ‘As if I’d tell you, even if I did know.’

  ‘You always were so secretive.’

  ‘Secretive? Andy, this is my
job. I get paid to keep secrets. And you’re a journalist.’

  ‘I was your partner, wasn’t that more important?’

  ‘You tell me,’ she said, meeting his gaze.

  It was no surprise to Anna that Andrew was now associate editor at The Chronicle, effectively number three, within striking distance of the top job. He’d risen effortlessly from news reporter to business editor to his current position. Not bad for someone not yet thirty-five. They’d met at the Islington home of a senior BBC news executive. It had been his daughter’s party, a law school friend of Anna’s, while Andrew was a family friend. Anna had felt so grown up talking to a serious journalist in this high-ceilinged room, full of books and pictures, the sort of place she wanted for herself. They’d talked for hours, getting drunker and drunker on the fruit punch, until suddenly he’d taken her hand and pulled her outside, kissing her in the doorway of that tall white Georgian house. Their jobs had provided common ground; both workaholics and obsessed with current affairs. But the nature of her work, her clients’ indiscretions to have to keep quiet, her battles against the papers, built a Chinese wall between them that had often made Andrew feel resentful.

  ‘This isn’t about Balon. It’s about Gilbert Bryce, the MP. I need to talk to him.’

  ‘What do you want to meet Gilbert for?’ His expression clouded. Gilbert Bryce was a well-known womaniser but Anna didn’t flatter herself it was jealousy.

  ‘It’s something I’m working on for a client. I can’t tell you.’ She had no idea how interested The Chronicle would be in the story of a lingerie model’s death. Probably not very. They didn’t usually go for stories about the Chinawhite set at the broadsheets.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said, not hiding his exasperation.

  ‘Please, Andy, this could be important.’

  ‘I’m not asking for any gory details, I just want to know what you want to speak to him about.’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Then I can’t introduce you. Gilbert is a contact; I have a relationship with these people. I can’t just fix you two up without knowing what it’s about.’

  ‘Can’t you? I’d have thought it was the least you could do.’

  ‘Oh Anna . . .’ he said, shaking his head just enough to register his disappointment.

  ‘Sophie told me how long you’d been having an affair. Before I caught you. Not quite the once or twice you claimed, was it?’

  He looked down. She was sure she saw him colour with shame.

  ‘What point was there in telling you the truth?’

  ‘You made me look a fool by sleeping with Sophie. But you kept on making me look like a fool when you didn’t tell me the truth.’

  She hated the thought of Sophie and Andrew pitying her with the little secret they had carried between them. ‘You owe me, Andy.’

  ‘If I introduce you to Gilbert, will you come to the wedding?’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ she said scornfully.

  ‘I want you to come to our wedding.’ He shrugged. ‘Why not? I do you a favour, you do us one.’

  ‘Forget it,’ she said taking a five-pound note out of her purse to pay for her drink. ‘I thought you might want to do the decent thing and help me, I thought you might think you owed me something for the time we spent together at least, but obviously not.’

  She got up to leave, but he caught her arm.

  ‘Don’t go. Please,’ he said.

  Reluctantly Anna sank back into her seat.

  ‘Look, Parliament has closed for the summer,’ said Andrew finally. ‘But I happen to know where Gilbert lives, some chocolate-box village in Sussex. I’ll see if I can set up a meeting, but don’t piss him off, okay?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said honestly. ‘I’ll try not to be my usual offensive self,’ she added with a half-smile.

  She watched her ex-boyfriend’s face soften.

  ‘I’m sorry. For everything.’

  ‘I’m a big girl, Andy. I get it that two people have to move on because their relationship isn’t working, because they meet someone else . . . But why her?’

  ‘Because she was like you, only simpler.’ He looked down and then met her gaze intently. ‘Soph makes me feel good about who I am, not bad.’

  Anna looked at him with puzzlement.

  ‘What did I do wrong?’

  ‘You’re so smart, so always on the money about everything. I guess I wasn’t up to the challenge. You deserve someone in your life who is.’

  She waved her hand to order the bill, feeling lighter and more free than she had in years, because she knew she agreed with him.

  31

  Jessica opened her pale green eyes and sat up, propping herself up on her elbows. God, these hospital beds were uncomfortable, and she’d been lying in it most of the day. Who’d have thought a death scene would need so many takes? She caught a glimpse of herself in a prop mirror: pale make-up, darker around the eyes, a few dribbles of fake blood on her cheek where she’d been coughing it up to dramatic effect. Exactly how I feel, she thought. She was drained, exhausted. For some reason, since Jim Parker had removed Sam’s treadmill and shaving kit, the house had seemed empty and she’d been finding it hard to sleep. Normally she would have taken a Xanax, but she had to stay sharp for the reshoots. Although sharp wasn’t the word. She felt lethargic and moody all the time. Maybe she was coming down with something.

  ‘All right, people,’ said Judd Spears, the director of Slayer, the serial killer thriller that Jessica was filming. He beamed with pride as he stepped away from the monitor. ‘I think we can say that’s a wrap!’ He slapped Jessica on the shoulder. ‘We nailed it, baby. You were a sensational stiff.’

  ‘Great,’ said Jessica, forcing a smile as she slid her legs off the gurney.

  Joe Kennington, the leading man, walked over.

  ‘Good work, Jess,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Thank you.’ She blushed. Joe had a reputation for being exacting with his own performances and consequently very critical of his co-stars, with stories of on-set dust-ups and sub-sequent freeze-outs of the offending actors, so she was chuffed with the compliment.

  ‘Hey guys, there’s a party in the Hills,’ said Judd. ‘Wanna come?’

  Jessica’s heart sank. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her eyes open, let alone have the necessary sparkle at an industry networking gathering.

  ‘Not for me,’ said Joe, holding up a hand. ‘I’ve got some interview with Rolling Stone in the morning.’

  Judd bounded off and Joe turned to Jessica, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘He makes me feel really old,’ he laughed.

  ‘Rubbish. You’re the hottest, fittest guy in Hollywood.’

  It wasn’t strictly true. Joe was pushing fifty; not even a facelift could stop the dying of his looks. But it was never a bad idea to suck up to industry grandees like him.

  ‘How about dinner? Catering wasn’t up to much today, was it?’

  Jessica smiled prettily. What a wonderful idea. And if the paps spotted them, it would only add weight to the rumours of an on-set romance that were already fluttering around.

  ‘That sounds good,’ she said. ‘Just let me wash this blood off first.’

  Maki Soba was a low-key Japanese restaurant off Melrose. Lit inside by glowing pink and yellow paper lanterns, it had the most flattering lighting this side of the studio lot.

  ‘Try the tempura,’ said Joe, pointing to the bowl with his chopsticks. ‘It’s so light.’

  Dutifully Jessica popped some in her mouth and pulled a suitably ecstatic face. ‘This place is amazing,’ she said. ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘I’ve been coming here for years,’ said Joe. ‘It was a favourite of Sia’s.’

  Jessica nodded solemnly. Sia was Joe’s ex-wife. They’d been married for twelve years – a lifetime in Hollywood terms – and only separated the previous spring. Rumour had it Sia had run off with her personal trainer and that Joe was still in mourning.

>   ‘So what do you think about Judd landing Purple Skies?’ he asked, referring to the hot new project their director was attached to.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said honestly. ‘Do you think he’s sensitive enough to pull it off?’

  ‘Ah, so you’ve read it too,’ grinned Joe. ‘I didn’t think anyone else in Hollywood had actually heard of it. I love that book.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ She laughed lightly. In actual fact, she had only read the PEN Award-winning novel because Sam had practically forced her. He had gone on about how clever and moving it was, and she had finally given in.

  ‘Well that’s what I was worried about. Can Judd do it? When you have a property that delicate, that personal, it would be so easy to turn it into some hokey thriller, but I was at Tori Adams’s house at the weekend. Apparently she thinks Judd is the new Spielberg – that he can turn his hand to anything from Schindler’s List to Indiana Jones.’

  Jessica wasn’t convinced. Not if the rushes of Slayer were anything to go by. But if Tori Adams rated him, well, that was a different matter. Tori, who was producing Purple Skies, was one of the most powerful women in Hollywood, notorious for her tight inner circle of influential friends, including studio bosses, directors and, of course, top stars like Joe, who all helped each other.

  ‘How long have you known Tori?’ she said casually.

  ‘Thirty years.’ Joe smiled, picking up a shiitake dumpling. ‘We shared a flat in Venice Beach when we were just starting out.’

  ‘I wonder who they’ll cast?’ she said nonchalantly.

  ‘I think Tori’s keeping a tight rein on it. At least Judd’s ego isn’t so big yet that she can’t still control him. She’s having a party on Saturday, so I’ll get the inside track on what she’s thinking then.’

  ‘What’s the occasion?’

  ‘Oh, you know Tori, she’s just dropped some huge bundle on three Matisse sculptures and she wants to show them off. We’re supposed to turn up and drool with jealousy. Which we will, of course.’

  ‘I never saw you as an art aficionado,’ said Jessica.

  ‘I started collecting five years ago. Mainly Twombly, Warhol, Clemente.’