Page 128 of Private Lives

‘Fabio Martelli,’ he murmured to himself as he tapped the playboy’s name into the search engine. Larry had employed people to do all the legwork of course, but he’d always enjoyed the research part of the job: finding out everything you could about

both adversaries and allies, ferreting out foibles and weaknesses. Screw the law books and precedents, everything you needed to win a case was always in the details of other people’s lives.

Finally he took a long sniff of the bouquet – apples, plums – and slurped up a mouthful, letting the wine run around his mouth.

Larry was certainly enjoying himself, but it only reminded him how much he missed work. Matt was wrong. There had been no sinister ulterior motive when he had given the firm to his son. But while he had loved the craziness of such a sweeping gesture, Larry knew he’d been hasty to retire. At sixty-five, his body had been telling him he couldn’t hack the pace of a young man any more, but his brain still felt pin-sharp. Watching Sky Sports just didn’t give him the stimulation he craved.

Half an hour later, he was sure he had enough. It was amazing how much information you could accumulate these days, but two details stood out. Firstly, it was Fabio’s birthday in three days’ time. According to Paris Match magazine, Martelli held a White Party every year in one of his many homes around the world. Secondly, FBC, his construction company, had begun a major expansion of his hotel and club empire into Dubai. According to reports, work on the site had already begun, with an opening date pencilled in eighteen months hence.

Larry’s mouth curled into a smile as a plan formed in his mind. Yes, with a little luck, his Middle Eastern contacts and a compliant mutual friend, he could pull it off. He sat back in his chair and took a good glug of his wine. He might not have been able to help Matthew with his school fees, but hopefully this would be an education in how to get things done. And how winning was everything.

40

It was beautiful, there was no other word for it. Jessica walked barefoot through the sunken living room and through gently billowing voile curtains out on to the wide marble terrace, its gleaming white surface ending at a bright blue infinity pool. She stopped at the water’s edge and took in the view, an uninterrupted sweep of dramatic volcanic coastline with a crescent of bone-white sand at its centre. Someone knew what they were doing when they made Hawaii part of the United States, thought Jessica with a smile.

‘Here she is, America’s most wanted!’ Jose Silveira, the camp Brazilian photographer came towards her from the other side of the house, his arms spread wide. He was wearing a completely open silk shirt and tiny hipster shorts. ‘How’s this for a location, huh?’ he said, evidently pleased with himself, and rightly so. Jessica had been on Maui for four days already – ‘HQ magazine are paying,’ Sylvia, her publicist, had said. ‘Why not make a holiday of it?’ – and she had fallen head over heels for its lush vegetation and dramatic landscapes.

Sylvia had initially been against the idea of Jessica doing the magazine’s December cover, arguing that her client needed to draw more attention to her acting and less attention to her body, especially after the Joe Kennington incident. But Utopia, the sci-fi action movie that Jessica had shot in last year’s summer hiatus, had been moved to a November release date, and the studio pointed out that Jessica’s contract specified publicity support. It also specified that unless she did it, they were entitled to withhold her fee.

So Jessica, her mother and Sylvia had all flown out just before the weekend. There were only three weeks to go before season five of All Woman began shooting, so this was an ideal chance to recharge and tan. Freshly Botoxed, waxed and eight pounds lighter than she had been at the start of the summer, Jessica actually felt pretty good. She was happy that the magazine had agreed to use Jose for the pictures, too. He had a genius for producing gorgeous, glossy iconic shots of women – ‘I could retouch a baboon’s backside into a thing of beauty’ he boasted – and she loved his over-the-top personality too: no flattery or sycophancy was ever enough for his subjects.

‘Dahling, you are looking so gorgeous today,’ he said, eyeing her up and down. ‘So goddamn hot, I can even feel myself turning for you.’

She giggled.

‘Just make me look even more hot, okay?’

‘Don’t you worry, I make you like the centre of the fucking sun,’ he purred.

Jessica was about to say something else, but she was distracted by raised voices down by the pool.

‘Your publicist, darling,’ pouted Jose. ‘She’s have a blazing row with the creative director. She wants to keep this gorgeous body covered in a sack or something. I say to her, be free! Do not be scared of the sex! Let the world see how sensual my darling Jess is, but she just pull a face like an old cow.’

Jessica stalked over to Sylvia, annoyed that she was causing problems before they’d even started. She knew how mercurial Jose was; if he didn’t feel the vibe was right, he had been known to flounce off the set.

‘What’s going on?’ she said.

Sylvia was having a heated discussion with Daniel Moore, the creative director.

‘The shirt would be closed, just a few buttons open at the top,’ explained Daniel hastily.

‘When we talked about this on the phone, they said shirt dress. Not shirt,’ snapped Sylvia.

‘But this is the sort of mood we were thinking of,’ he said, holding up a film still of Julie Christie in the sixties movie Darling.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to point out that the character in Darling was an unscrupulous model who slept her way to the top?’ said Sylvia coldly. ‘I’m not sure we want to be channelling those undertones after everything that’s happened this summer.’

Jessica looked at the iconic image of Julie Christie.

‘Actually, I think it’s a good idea,’ she said, giving Daniel a coy smile. She knew it was as important to get him on side as Jose. He was just one tiny cog in the machine, but he was a useful cog. All it would take was a little flirting to make him feel wanted, and he would rush back to his dull little office, desperate to please Jessica by choosing the most flattering shot or making sure the retouching was perfect.

‘Look, I know you’re a men’s magazine,’ Sylvia said through tight lips, ‘but Jessica is a respected actress, not some centrefold.’

Jose came behind Jessica and wrapped his arms around her waist.

‘This woman is the sexiest bitch on the planet,’ he declared. ‘She makes all those so-called models look like cheap whores! And I, Jose, will make her look like an angel!’

Jessica laughed and showed the picture to Jose. ‘Can you make me this beautiful, Jose?’