Page 17 of Private Lives

sipped green tea as she collected her thoughts. She had to get this right. No loose ends, no variables. No prisoners. Slipping on her Armani jacket, she strode down the corridor into the boardroom, where her team were waiting for her, their expressions eager but anxious. They were all sharp graduates, the pick of the bunch, chosen not for their intimate knowledge of torts and case history, but for their commercial ruthlessness.

Anna Kennedy was in the seat beside her.

‘How’s Larry?’ she asked as Helen sat down, voicing what everyone was thinking.

‘He’ll be fine,’ said Helen briskly. She had no time for small talk right now. ‘Change of plan. The Balon case is happening in three weeks’ time, so you can all kiss goodbye to any holiday plans you might have had for the next few weeks.’

She watched their faces closely for signs of dissent. She knew for a fact that one of them had booked a trip to Jordan, and another was planning to attend his brother’s wedding in California. They all knew the golden rule: Donovan Pierce came first. If any of them were perturbed by the news, they didn’t show it. That was good; she had trained them well.

‘Susie, I want you to go over all the witness statements, find the gaps.’

A trainee raised a nervous finger. ‘Witnesses?’

‘All of the people interviewed in the article,’ said Susie, slightly impatiently. ‘Plus Balon’s Stateside staff, and friends, family, enemies and employees past, present and future.’

Helen gave a half-smile. She liked that ‘future’; it showed her team were making sure everything was covered, even the unlikely scenarios. The unlikely was the one thing that was sure to screw you in court.

She turned to David Morrow, the handsome senior associate who had worked most closely with her on the case. ‘David, by tomorrow I want a brief on my desk outlining all the weaknesses in the case. We don’t want to be left exposed on any point.’

She gave each of them a rigorous task with a tight deadline, impressing on them her desire to leave no stone unturned, then stood and walked out. There was no time to waste for her either, as she closed the door on her office and took the first file from one of the stacks. The clerk’s call had put the stop on her own weekend trip to Ravello, but that didn’t bother her. She led from the front and her priorities were always with the firm.

Flipping through the pages, she speed-read the file, scribbling notes as she went. The truth was, she trusted no one but herself to spot all the holes, to exploit any weakness in the other side’s case.

She looked up with irritation as the phone chirped.

‘Lucy, I said no calls.’

‘It’s Eli Cohen from Cohen Simons.’

‘I see. Put him through.’

Cohen Simons was a small but influential management company with a roster of ageing Hollywood stars and a couple of exciting young ones; besides, any phone call from Tinseltown always piqued her interest. They were usually very high-profile, and high-profile was good for the firm.

‘Eli,’ she said. ‘How’s tricks?’

‘Not good, Helen,’ said the manager. ‘This is a confidential matter. Can you talk?’

‘Of course.’

She flipped her notebook to a new page.

‘A client of mine is about to have a matter exposed in one of the nationals. Naturally we want to keep it under wraps.’

Helen allowed herself a small smile. She knew the pattern: this was going to be a juicy case.

‘Okay, we’ll start with the what, rather than the who. Tell me what’s happened.’

‘An actor client, a major star with a long-term partner, had a one-night stand a couple of weeks ago. Girl’s blackmailing him. She wants a truckload of money or else she’s going straight to the press.’

‘Has she got any evidence?’

‘Evidence? You talking man jam?’

‘Man jam?’ She winced.

‘You know, a DNA sample from a sexual encounter. Although to be honest, he can barely even remember the sex, he was so wasted.’

Helen quickly scribbled ‘Other parties?’ If this actor had been drunk, there was always a chance other people could corroborate. A sloppy drunk on the pull didn’t usually care too much about covering his tracks.