Private Lives

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Hey, Dad,’ said a familiar voice.

  ‘Matty?’ frowned Larry. They had not spoken for almost a fortnight. Larry was immediately alarmed. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Matthew cautiously. ‘I just wanted to clear the air since the outburst the other night.’

  ‘Well I was about to call you,’ Larry said guiltily.

  ‘I also wanted to say thank you,’ added his son.

  ‘Thank you? Whatever for?’

  ‘For telling me to think outside the box.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t listen to a word your old man said?’

  ‘Well he’s right about some things. Sometimes you don’t need to use the law. Kim Collier just called me to say she’s not going to take Oliver out to Miami after all.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’ asked Larry, stunned. ‘What did you have to do?’

  ‘I just appealed to her better judgement. I found her when she was on her own and we had a long talk. I told her about my relationship with you. How a son needs his dad, all that stuff.’

  ‘And that worked?’ said Larry.

  ‘Apparently so. She loves her son, and I think somewhere deep down she knows that moving across the Atlantic, uprooting her life to be the trophy girlfriend of a well-known philanderer, might not be the best move.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Larry quietly. He looked down at the brown envelope in front of him. Suddenly it felt grubby in his hand.

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘No, no. Not at all,’ he said, picking up the envelope. ‘I always had faith in you.’ There was an awkward pause.

  ‘How about we try again? Another night. Another pub supper. No arguments this time.’

  Larry felt a wide grin uncurl across his face.

  ‘How about my place? Thursday night. I believe it’s the best boozer in town.’

  He hung up, then rang Fabio’s PA.

  ‘Sorry, my love,’ he said. ‘Just had a call from the Queen, needs her will changing. Tell Fabio I’ll call to reschedule.’

  He paid his bar bill and left the hotel, filling his lungs with the London street fumes as if it was mountain air. Spotting a rubbish bin on the Strand, he dropped the envelope in with a satisfying thud, then walked away, a spring in his step. And his supper date with Matt on Thursday made him feel even better. Somehow it was more of a real step forward even than his phone call to offer him the partnership.

  It was an occasion that called for a cigar. A trip to see Parnell, the head buyer at Davidoff, would round off this fine morning perfectly. Larry marched down the Strand towards Trafalgar Square, the sunshine warming his neck. It felt like today was the first day of . . . of what? Larry had never been the poetic type, but he knew that he was on a new path. To where, he had no idea, but he was sure that his son would be a part of it, and that was a wonderful feeling.

  He was snaking around the back streets of St James’s debating the full flavour of a Bolivar Corona versus the peppery bite of a Montecristo No. 2 when he saw a familiar figure get out of a grey sports car fifty yards in front of him. For a moment he wasn’t sure if it was his wife. The car was certainly unfamiliar, and hadn’t she said she was going to visit her friend Jacqui in Esher? But there was no mistaking the theatrical way she swung that blond hair over her shoulder as she stood, no mistaking that knockout body. It was Loralee all right. But what was she doing here? Immediately Larry felt a sense of unease. He switched his attention to the man climbing from the driver’s seat. Tall, around forty, but in good shape under that expensive-looking suit. He looked like one of those sports stars who advertise razor blades. The man touched Loralee’s back to guide her across the road, disappearing into St James’s Palace, a big stucco-fronted hotel popular with well-heeled Middle Eastern tourists. Larry knew that sort of touch. It was intimate, familiar. He could feel his heart beginning to pound as he followed them inside the hotel. Maybe he was overreacting. After all, there was an excellent Moroccan restaurant in the hotel and didn’t Loralee like Moroccan food? He couldn’t remember.

  Larry turned towards the Gulshan restaurant and, peering around a corner, scanned the line of customers waiting to speak to the maître d’. Loralee and her companion were not there – and in that instant, Larry realised his happy morning was over. He knew with bitter certainty what he was going to find when he turned back towards the reception. His wife and the young stranger would be checking into a suite, grinning like newlyweds. He knew this because he himself had been in this situation so many times before with other women, with other men’s wives. They would be trying to retain decorum, trying not to giggle in case anyone was watching, yet finding it impossible to hide their glee at the thought of the illicit pleasure that lay ahead. Larry didn’t need to see it to know, yet still he followed, watching from behind as Loralee whispered something into the man’s ear, watching as he stroked her arm and chuckled. Watching as the receptionist handed them the key to their afternoon playtime den. Larry stayed there watching, his mouth dry, his hands trembling, until the lift doors closed on them.

  He’d seen enough anyway. There was a pain in his chest and he struggled for breath. For a second he thought it was another cardiac attack, until he felt a single tear dribbling down his crêpey cheek. At which point he knew he did not need to call for an ambulance, because what he was feeling was just the crushing ache of a broken heart.

  52

  To a casual observer, Helen Pierce was her normal glacial self. Smart and crisp in a white shirt and claret pencil skirt, she sat in her usual place in court behind Jonathon Balon’s barrister Nicholas Collins, a woman completely in control. But inside, she was anxious and insecure as Collins stood to address the judge.

  ‘M’lud, I’d like to call Dominic Bradley as a witness for the plaintiff,’ he said.

  This was the source of Helen’s unease. As far as she was concerned, the whole case hinged on this one witness. Dominic Bradley didn’t look much like a star witness as he shuffled to the box. Mid thirties, unshaven and receding, he had obviously tried to dress up for the occasion by adding a tie to a casual checked shirt and tucking it into his jeans. Helen wondered for a moment how someone like Bradley had managed to date someone as connected and pristine as Deena Washington, but years of experience had taught her that when it came to ambitious women, physical attractiveness was way down on their checklist. Dominic Bradley wasn’t bad-looking, but he clearly had something else, something Deena wanted. Connections, an entree into the glamorous worlds of fashion and media, who knew? All Helen cared about was the fact that he had made it to court in time. In the forty-eight hours after her meeting with Deena Washington in the Hamptons, she’d had every private investigator on her Rolodex scrambling to locate Bradley and discover the reason why he hated Balon. Thankfully he’d been easy to find. As Deena had guessed, he was at his parents’ house in Berkshire. The second part of the equation had proved more difficult. Unsurprisingly, Bradley had been extremely unwilling to help. Why, he had asked her, would he want to assist Balon’s legal team and thus anger the powerful Steinhoff publishing house? He was a jobbing photographer; he could lose his entire livelihood. Helen knew Bradley was playing the same game as his ex-girlfriend, angling for a pay-off, but she couldn’t risk being accused of trying to influence a witness. Anyway, in this case, the law provided: no more incentive was needed than a witness summons from the court.

  ‘Mr Bradley,’ said Nicholas Collins, ‘can you tell me about your most recent ex-girlfriend, and what she did for a living?’

  Helen watched every move Bradley made. The deep breath before he spoke, the nervous glances at both Jonathon Balon and Spencer Reed, the hands gripping one another, the knuckles white.

  ‘She was called Deena Washington,’ said Bradley, his voice wavering. ‘We were together for three years before we split up after Christmas. She was a subeditor for Stateside magazine.’

  ‘A subeditor? They check and edit copy, don’t they?’

  ‘That’s right.’
/>
  Jasper Jenkins leapt to his feet.

  ‘Relevance to the case, m’lud?’

  Judge Lazner raised a hand to say he wanted to hear where this was going.

  ‘But subeditors are not generally involved in the commissioning and writing of features, are they?’ said Collins, fixing Bradley with that confident expression that told the court he already knew the answer to the question.

  Bradley shook his head.

  ‘Not on Stateside, no. It frustrated Deena. She wanted to be a writer, or maybe features editor one day.’

  ‘Hearsay, your honour,’ boomed Jasper Jenkins.

  ‘But she told you she wanted to be a writer, isn’t that correct?’ pressed Collins. ‘That she was frustrated that she was simply correcting other people’s copy.’

  ‘That’s right. I saw her spend a lot of time at home coming up with ideas to submit to the features team in the hope of being commissioned.’

  ‘And was she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And how did you assist Miss Washington in her career?’ asked Collins.

  Bradley exhaled deeply, as if he was hesitant about proceeding.

  ‘I knew that the two biggest, most prestigious story slots in Stateside were the true crime and society scandal slots. I gave her a story idea based on something I had heard in London.’

  ‘Which was what?’

  ‘I told her about Jonathon Balon, the billionaire London property developer. He used to be my landlord when I lived in north-east London in 1999.’

  Nicholas Collins held up his hands in an exaggerated shrug.

  ‘What was scandalous about that?’

  Bradley paused for a moment.

  ‘Some of his tenants thought he was a crook. There were local rumours about where he got his money from too. How he was being bankrolled by the Weston crime family. Their financial backing meant he went from a mid-level landlord to a billionaire developer in little over a decade.’

  ‘They were no more than rumours, though,’ stated Collins matter-of-factly.

  Helen was glad he had pointed that out. Jonathon, after all, was their client, and the judge’s patience appeared to be wearing thin.

  Dominic Bradley looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I didn’t have any actual proof they were true, no.’

  ‘And what did Stateside think of this idea?’ said Collins, cutting him off.

  ‘Deena told me she’d submitted it to her friend Joanne Green, the commissioning editor. But she’d turned it down because it was too UK-focused. She also said that Spencer, the editor, wouldn’t go for it.’

  ‘And did Deena give up on the idea?’

  ‘No. She knew it was a great story.’

  Collins looked at Bradley, tilting his head quizzically.

  ‘You didn’t give up on it either, did you, Mr Bradley? You had an idea that might get Joanne Green to change her mind about the story. A little sweetener, if you like.’

  Judge Lazner grumbled, ‘Stick to English, if you please, Mr Collins.’

  ‘Apologies, m’lud,’ said Nicholas Collins, turning to look at the jury. ‘You offered Miss Green a bribe, didn’t you?’

  Helen saw the disapproval cross the faces of the jury.

  ‘Jo and I cut a deal. I told her that if she made the story happen, I’d make sure the rent-controlled apartment I’d been living in would be turned over to her when my tenancy lapsed.’

  ‘But did Miss Green have that sort of power with her editor?’ asked Collins innocently.

  ‘Seeing as she was sleeping with him, I’d say so,’ replied Bradley.

  Jasper Jenkins jumped up, his face pink.

  ‘Hearsay!’ he shouted, looking decidedly angry.

  Helen glanced at Spencer Reed, who had a similar look on his face. As well he might, she thought. She had met Spencer’s wife in New York and she hadn’t seemed the sort of woman who would take this revelation lying down.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m a little confused,’ said Collins. ‘Weren’t you just telling us that you suggested the Jonathon Balon story to Miss Washington as a way of helping your girlfriend get her foot in the door as a writer? And yet the byline at the bottom of this story reads Ted Francis.’

  ‘Joanne agreed to commission the story but wanted a London-based writer to do it. ’

  ‘Who suggested Mr Francis, the author of the piece?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bradley shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Because he knew a lot about Jonathon Balon. And he’s a good journalist.’

  ‘You and Ted Francis are old friends. You’ve worked together many times. You told him that in return for getting him a commission at Stateside, he had to do a hatchet job on Mr Balon.’

  ‘I wanted him to tell the truth about Balon,’ said Bradley angrily.

  Nicholas Collins snorted. ‘The truth? There were some serious criminal allegations in here: money laundering, favours given to known gangsters, and by extension, the insinuation of illegality to the whole of Mr Balon’s operation. And yet, as you acknowledge, as this court has heard again and again over the past weeks, there is not a shred of evidence to support any of these allegations.’

  ‘I just thought it was a great story,’ said Bradley defensively. ‘Rags to riches, mysterious shady benefactors. All I did was tell them about it. If they choose to spin it to make it sound more glamorous, that’s not my problem, is it?’

  ‘Spin it,’ repeated Collins. ‘Interesting choice of words. You mean spin as in “embellish”, spin as in “lies”?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Let me repeat my question for the benefit of the jury. Did you ask Ted Francis to write about the unsubstantiated stories about Mr Balon’s connections to the Weston gangland family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you tell Jo Green when she edited the piece to keep it as incendiary as possible?’

  ‘I don’t have that power.’

  ‘Did Miss Green still get rewarded with your apartment for running the story?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A deal was a deal.’

  ‘Rubbish. You dangled that fabulous apartment in front of her again on the understanding that she keep the Balon story as derogatory as possible. Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why was this story, the tone of this story, so important to you, Mr Bradley?’

  ‘Because I want to see crooks exposed,’ he said fiercely.

  ‘You have a personal interest in this story, don’t you, Mr Bradley? You hate Mr Balon and you bribed Miss Green and Mr Francis to work to your agenda of getting revenge on him.’

  Bradley shifted in his seat.

  ‘What happened to you in 1999, Mr Bradley?’ asked Nicholas Collins, still looking down at his notes. ‘The weekend of September the twelfth specifically.’

  Helen noted the look of alarm crossing Bradley’s face. Jasper Jenkins saw it too and jumped to his feet.

  ‘Relevance, m’lud?’

  The judge sighed.

  ‘Get to the point, Mr Collins.’

  ‘Certainly, m’lud. Mr Bradley was beaten up in an alleyway close to his flat. Beaten up rather badly, sustaining injuries that necessitated admission to hospital for . . .’ he checked his notes, ‘three days, I believe. Is that not correct, Mr Bradley?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bradley said quietly.

  ‘I understand you still bear a scar on your forehead from the assault.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Helen saw the jury crane their necks to look. This was excellent stuff. Libel trials were usually mired in boring detail, and drama like this was all in Balon’s favour.

  ‘Was anyone charged with this serious assault?’ asked Collins.

  ‘No,’ said Bradley, his voice shaking with anger.

  ‘But you called the police about it, didn’t you? You told them you knew who was behind it.’

  His questions had now hardened into statements of fact. Helen could see
the jury sitting forward in their seats, all eyes trained on Dominic Bradley. Slowly he began to speak, as if he had finally decided that it was time to come clean.

  ‘Balon was my landlord. I was a student, I’d got into arrears, so Balon sent round the heavies. I still couldn’t pay. I sort of became a squatter. A few days later, I was jumped on and attacked when I was walking back from the pub.’

  ‘And did the police interview Mr Balon?’

  ‘Apparently,’ said Bradley. ‘But the whole thing went quiet. No evidence, they said.’

  ‘Even so, you were convinced Mr Balon had ordered the attack on you,’ prompted Collins.

  Bradley’s face grew hard.

  ‘Yes, I was. I asked around, I even spoke to the local newspaper. Everyone said Balon was in with these thugs and that this sort of thing had happened before. Apparently everyone was too scared to challenge him, because of his connection with the Weston family.’

  ‘So you were angry.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You wanted revenge.’

  Bradley looked at the barrister sharply.

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  Collins didn’t reply; he simply looked over at the jury.

  ‘Who wouldn’t be angry when something so awful has happened to them?’ he asked. ‘Especially when the person you believe is responsible has escaped prosecution. And who wouldn’t stay angry when they still bear the scar of that attack, reminding them on a daily basis? Wouldn’t you be incensed if you saw the person you regarded as the culprit rising to become a billionaire?’

  He turned back to Bradley.

  ‘They say that revenge is a dish best served cold, and that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it, Dominic? You moved to New York, met your journalist girlfriend Deena, all by happy coincidence. But when she needed a story, you saw your opportunity to finally get back at Balon for what you thought he had done to you all those years ago. No wonder you were so keen for this story to run, why you were prepared to bribe Joanne Green with your chi-chi apartment and force her to use your friend to write the article. A smear story against Mr Balon was your way of getting revenge, wasn’t it, Mr Bradley?’