Private Lives

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Actually, I’m glad Matthew’s not here,’ she said, as they sipped the wine. ‘I wanted to raise an issue about the partnership agreement.’

  She watched them exchange alarmed glances – that was only to be expected.

  ‘Donovan Pierce is having a bumper year,’ she began. ‘Every one of us around this table looks set for record fees and I think you’ll all agree that that success is only a reflection of our collective dedication and hard work.’

  They all murmured their assent.

  ‘But I think we all also agree that this firm cannot support unproductive partners.’

  ‘Meaning Matt,’ said Alex. Helen smiled.

  ‘Exactly. Look at what he’s bringing in: roughly the same as our best trainee. Not good for a senior partner.’

  ‘Sure, but he’s only been here a few weeks,’ said Alex. ‘Shouldn’t we give him a chance?’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘Absolutely. I’m not suggesting anything else. I’m merely pointing out the obvious: his area of law is an additional service for this firm, not a core one, and I’m not entirely convinced that a family law solicitor is going to generate the same level of fees that the rest of us do.’

  She paused, letting that particular nugget sink in.

  ‘So our hard work will be rewarding the largest stakeholder in the firm,’ said Edward with a hint of bitterness. Helen had guessed he would be the easiest to sway with the money argument; she had got the distinct impression that his fiancée Caroline was a woman who responded well to extravagance.

  ‘What are you saying, Helen?’ said Will. ‘You want to get rid of him? Larry would be furious.’

  She had prepared herself for this argument; after all, they were Larry’s boys.

  ‘Not at all. We just need to have an agreement that rewards effort equally.’

  She looked at each of them individually.

  ‘Look, Larry was an incredible figurehead and leader for this company, but he’s gone, and if I’m frank, his insistence on keeping his name on the masthead is really confusing the client base. In the last week alone I’ve had two major football agents and one FTSE 500 CEO calling up expecting Larry to represent them. When I told them he was no longer on active duty, they turned very sniffy indeed, thinking we were making excuses, that Larry didn’t consider them important enough. Is it any wonder that they took their business elsewhere?’

  She laid her hands flat on the table.

  ‘I’m not saying that we oust Matt from the company. Simply that we de-equitise him.’

  De-equitisation. It had been a buzz word around the big city law firms since the financial downturn. Getting rid of underperforming partners, cutting away the dead wood. They all knew that to survive in a shrinking marketplace, they needed to stay lean and effective. No one could afford to carry passengers any more.

  ‘So he becomes a salaried partner and not an equity one?’ said Will.

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Helen, although she was quite sure Matt Donovan would leave the firm rather than suffer the humiliation of being demoted. That would force a sale of his equity, and Helen would make damn sure she was in a position to snap it up this time. Pierce’s. Helen smiled to herself. It had a much nicer ring.

  ‘Okay,’ said Edward. ‘Let’s say we all agree this is the way forward. I’m not sure there’s anything in the partnership agreement that allows us to remove someone.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Helen. ‘It doesn’t, not at the moment anyway. But as you all know, changes to the partnership agreement can be made with a super-majority partner vote, so if all of us around this table think we should do it, then we can make it happen.’

  Alex was frowning. ‘I still think we should give Matt a chance.’

  ‘We are,’ said Helen firmly. ‘All we’re doing is adding a clause to the partnership agreement that says that if anyone underperforms, we can reconsider their position as a partner. So if Matt performs as well as he should be – as well as we are – then he should stay. This is simply a safeguard. Many other big firms are doing it, and I think it’s fair and sensible.’

  ‘But the partnership agreement applies to all of us,’ said Will nervously. ‘Surely that will make our own positions more precarious?’

  ‘The three of you are bringing in ten times the fees Matt Donovan is billing, so I really don’t think you have anything to fear. Besides, with Matt out of the equity partnership structure, that leaves more of the profits to be spread around. At the moment, you’re each getting what, three, four per cent? I’m sure you’d all prefer a fairer slice for all the work you’re bringing in?’

  She didn’t point out that once she’d bought up Matt Donovan’s shareholding, they would still only have a tiny percentage each.

  ‘Umm, Helen?’

  Helen turned in her seat to see Sid Travers standing there holding a document case.

  ‘Sid? What are you doing here?’ she snapped.

  The young trainee almost melted on the spot.

  ‘Sorry, Helen, but I’ve got an urgent “By Hand” for you to sign,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a bike waiting for it and I wasn’t sure if you were returning to the office.’

  Helen held out her hand.

  ‘Pass it here,’ she sighed, hoping the girl hadn’t heard anything of their conversation. When Sid had gone, she turned back to the table, her unruffled composure completely returned.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ she coaxed. ‘Are you in or are you out?’

  She watched as they each wrestled with their own internal debates: Alex wondering about the ethics of blindsiding a colleague, but ambitious enough to see that it helped his own career; Will desperate to please Larry, but enough of a toady to follow the others; and Edward, well, she expected that Edward was already rehearsing telling Caroline that they could start looking at houses near Harrods. It was Alex who spoke first, just as she knew it would be.

  ‘Well I think we should go for it,’ he said, glancing up at the others for support. ‘Matt won’t be pleased, of course, but at the end of the day we’re not pushing him out, just levelling the playing field.’

  ‘I’m in if you guys are,’ mumbled Will.

  Finally Helen turned to Edward.

  ‘Me? Oh, you had me at “more money”,’ he laughed. ‘Count me in.’

  Trying hard to hide her joy, Helen signalled to the waiter to fill their glasses, then raised hers in toast.

  ‘To us,’ she said with a flourish.

  50

  ‘Are you out of your friggin’ mind?’

  Sam had seen Jim Parker angry before; in fact it was almost his default setting. He’d once seen his agent grab a waiter by the throat for bringing him the wrong brand of bottled water, and with Sam in the car he’d rammed his Porsche into the back of another expensive sports car he believed had taken his parking space. But Sam had never seen him this worked up before.

  ‘This is fucking insane, Sam!’ he said, stalking over to his office window and looking down on to the traffic of Wilshire Boulevard. ‘Why d’you want to throw away years of hard work? You need to see a shrink, get laid, something, ’cos you sure ain’t thinking straight.’ He threw a rubber stress ball against the wall. ‘Jesus, we’re talking fucking millions here.’

  Of course, Sam hadn’t really expected his agent to do back-flips when he announced he was leaving LA for London to work on a comedy script. On the face of it, it was crazy. Even with the current black mark against him, Sam still had a profile, a track record and a certain notoriety, and with an agent of Jim’s influence, there was always a good chance of finding someone prepared to put him in a great movie. But Sam simply had no interest in going back to all that.

  ‘Jim, you should have been there,’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘That gig in Edinburgh was just incredible. The intimacy of it all, the connection with the crowd. It was like theatre but better.’

  His agent sniffed. ‘Well maybe I could have experienced this transcendental happening if you’d thought to mention yo
u were doing it. Imagine how frickin’ dumb I felt when the phone is ringing red hot with people wanting to talk about your Edinburgh show and I’m like “What show?”’

  Sam placed his hands together.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. But I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d talk me out of it. Sometimes I have to make my own decisions, you know.’

  ‘Sure, and what great choices you’ve been making lately,’ Jim sneered. ‘Cheating on Jess, battering a photographer. Not to mention like three or four separate disappearing acts.’

  ‘This is what I want, Jim.’ Sam’s voice was low, controlled, his eyes locking with the agent’s. He could have reminded Jim who was in charge, who employed whom, but that would only have riled him further. Sam still needed him on side.

  ‘Okay, if you really want to connect with your audience, I can get you something major on Broadway,’ said Jim, exhaling sharply. ‘Arthur Miller, Mamet, some shit like that. To be honest, it might not be a bad idea. With the right play, director, you’re looking at a Tony, no question.’

  Sam placed his hands flat on Jim’s desk.

  ‘I don’t care about a Tony Award and I don’t care about Broadway. I want to write. Those people in Edinburgh thought I was funny, Jim. They were laughing at my words, not just at the way I delivered a line.’

  ‘Of course they found you funny,’ snorted his agent. ‘They were drunk. They were laughing at you. Schadenfreude, my friend. The movie star reduced to some dick-end hole in the middle of nowhere.’

  Not for the first time, Sam thought about firing Jim. Right then he could have told him where to take his ten per cent and shove it. But Jim Parker was the best – a savvy and ruthless power broker who made millions for himself and his clients. At thirty-five he was already being talked about as the new Mike Ovitz; whispers were he was making a pitch for the CEO job at his agency, MTA, and if the board were fool enough not to give it to him, Sam felt sure he would end up running a studio by forty. Jim Parker was not a man you wanted as your enemy.

  ‘Look, Jim,’ said Sam in a more conciliatory tone, ‘I’m not saying I don’t ever want to make a studio movie again. I just want to take a little time out.’

  ‘And do what?’ said Jim. ‘Pretend you’re twenty-three again? You’ve made it, kiddo. You make eight million bucks a picture. You’ve done all the hard work already. No more sucking cock and brown-nosing assholes to get some shitty walk-on. You don’t have to do all that crap again, capisce?’

  Sam frowned.

  ‘This isn’t about money, Jim. It’s about re-prioritising. Changing pace. Getting back to grass roots.’

  The agent looked at him aghast.

  ‘Grass roots? You really think you can go back? You’re not one of them any more, Sammy.’

  ‘But I can be, Jim. I need to. None of this’ – he gestured around Jim’s plush office – ‘none of it is real. I want to find myself again.’

  Jim threw his hands up in frustration.

  ‘Sam, you want to get fucking real. You gonna sell up the place in the Hills and the cars and the jet? You gonna give it all to some orphanage? No? Then you ain’t never gonna be “real” like those stiffs down there on the street. You might have this romantic fucking little illusion going on in your head, but you can’t go back. You can’t become unfamous. Life has changed for you. Permanently.’

  Sam shook his head. He knew there was a certain amount of truth in what Jim was saying – he couldn’t erase the last ten years and go to work in a butcher’s, hoping that no one would ever mention his former life – but he was exaggerating. People stopped being famous all the time, moved on to other things, other places, otherwise Hollywood would be the biggest, most crowded city on earth.

  ‘Anyway, you want to write a script, why d’you have to go to London to do it? We’ll get you a place out at the beach, that way you can still take meetings.’

  Sam was starting to get aggravated by Jim’s refusal to see that something had changed in his life.

  ‘I like it in London,’ he said firmly. ‘Being here a few days has reminded me of that.’

  Jim looked at him shrewdly.

  ‘You fucking some girl there now?’

  Sam needed every bit of his acting skill not to betray himself.

  ‘No,’ he said, feeling disloyal. ‘And anyway, Jim, this is not for ever. I just want to try out a few options.’

  Jim’s mouth curled in distaste.

  ‘You leave this town, I can’t keep you hot.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate,’ said Sam. ‘Look at Demi Moore. Disappears to her ranch for a few years, comes back, bags Kutch, they’re the new King and Queen of Hollywood.’

  ‘With respect, Demi didn’t leave town with the baggage you’ve got.’

  Sam took a deep breath.

  ‘Look, remember when we had that council of war at my place in England? You said that we needed the right vehicle for me to get back in the game. A really great rom-com – that was your idea, you even said I should write it. It was a great idea, Jim, and now’s my chance to do it.’

  Jim pouted, thinking it over.

  ‘You got a plan?’ he said, looking at Sam sideways.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s a cracker. I think it’s got sleeper hit written all over it.’ This was an out-and-out lie, but he couldn’t admit to Jim that his Big Idea consisted of a few illegible notes he’d scribbled on the back of the in-flight magazine on his way into LAX.

  ‘Well I guess Sly Stallone wrote Rocky in a fortnight,’ said Jim, rubbing his chin. ‘Take the rest of the summer off and we’ll talk again when you’ve got something.’

  Sam stood up eagerly, thrusting his hand out to shake. ‘Thanks, Jim, it means a lot to have you on side.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Jim, waving him away. ‘Don’t start getting all kissy on me, it’s only a fucking script.’

  Sam walked towards the door, a spring in his step.

  ‘Hey, Sammy,’ said Jim. ‘This shit better be funny. Because if it’s not, you’re not going to be able to get a job scooping poop on Santa Monica Beach.’

  No pressure, then, thought Sam. But as he walked out into the sunshine, he felt as if someone had given him wings. No more red carpets, no more schmoozing studio heads, no more bloody Hollywood. He was free.

  51

  Larry was feeling proud of himself. Even for someone of his legendary guile and underhandedness, his plan to bring Fabio Martelli and his lovely new girlfriend to heel on Matt’s behalf had come together nicely. A few hours of research, a few calls to some well-placed sources, and Larry had found out enough about Martelli’s business affairs to write his biography. The playboy – Larry scoffed at the term; it was the sort of label they stuck on any Eurotrash with a yacht these days – had made his money in New York nightclubs in the eighties, shifting into the hotel business in the nineties, and now he had a string of boutique bolt-holes around the globe; the Miami Beach Martelli had just opened to great acclaim. But that was just Fabio’s bread-and-butter business. Clearly his ambition stretched way beyond fluffy robes and pillow mints. He had spent the last five years planning, financing and doing the groundwork for a vast billion-dollar leisure development in Dubai that would make the Vegas casinos look like seaside arcades. Larry had seen the 3D computer plans of the site, and he could tell immediately that it was a fantastic, ambitious and risky development – but it was a development that was about to hit the skids if Fabio Martelli didn’t play ball.

  Sitting in the bar at the One Aldwych hotel, Larry looked at his watch. He was early for the meeting, and he certainly didn’t expect Fabio to arrive on time. People like that never did; it was all part of their ‘so busy and important, had to take a call from the Queen’ bullshit image. Glancing around to make sure he wasn’t overlooked, Larry picked up the manila envelope in front of him and pulled out the photographs inside. He almost laughed out loud. Fabio’s mahogany tan would turn white when he saw these babies. Sheryl Battenburg’s photos had been invaluable for Larry�
�s investigation – who Fabio’s friends were, what sort of women he invited to his yacht, the sex and the drugs – but on their own, they did very little, and certainly didn’t give Larry the leverage he needed. So Larry did what he had always done in such situations: he gave them a little helping hand. He had visited an old drinking buddy called Porno Kev, who just happened to work in the adult film industry. Kev had taken Sheryl’s shots and, via the magic of computer manipulation, had overlaid them with hardcore images he had taken with models. Kev truly was an artist, thought Larry, putting the photos back into the envelope. No one would be able to tell; they looked like one set of photos all taken at an orgy on a yacht. Crucially, Larry knew that Fabio wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. He would assume someone had leaked real shots from his White Party and would know this spelled disaster for his development in Dubai. All foreign development in the emirate was controlled by Dubai World, a holding company owned by Dubai’s strictly Islamic government. They would not react well to the revelation that Fabio Martelli held such parties.

  Larry sat back and took a sip of his whisky. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking it, but he’d watered it down with ice, so it wasn’t a real spirit, was it? More like a cocktail, really.

  He realised how much he’d missed this: the drama of meeting powerful men in bars, cutting deals, power-broking, manoeuvring to gain advantage. Wasn’t that the definition of politics? The effective use of power?

  Well today, he held all the cards. The choice for Fabio would be simple: abort his plan to move Kim and Oliver to Miami or give up on his dream to rake in billions in the Gulf. Larry was confident which way he would jump. He had met countless men like Fabio before, and knew that women like Kim Collier didn’t matter half as much to them as their global enterprises.

  Just then, his mobile began to chirp and he snatched it up, half expecting it to be Fabio’s PA saying he was going to be ten minutes late.