Page 2 of Private Lives

‘I think you’d better leave.’

Devon remained seated. ‘Believe it or not, I’m here to help you.’

She hated the note of sympathy, the pity she could hear in his voice.

‘Take my advice,’ he said slowly. ‘Accept the money, move somewhere new, forget what’s happened and just get on with your life. It’s the smart thing to do.’

‘It’s never that easy though, is it?’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Not when you love someone. Now please, just go.’

Devon hesitated, then put his chequebook back in his briefcase and stood up. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Could I just use the bathroom?’

She nodded without looking at him. ‘Upstairs.’

Her bedroom was on a mezzanine platform over the living space below. She watched him disappear towards her en suite, his sensible brown shoes clumping up the glass staircase.

His briefcase was still on the table. How much would he have paid? A decent amount, that was for sure. And Devon was right, it was the smart thing to do. Her own money wouldn’t last long in this place. A person could quickly get used to expensive linens, parquet floors and stainless-steel kitchens. Nice things. Pretty things. Things that made her feel safe, secure, smart, successful. This was the life she’d always wanted. Still . . . for once, she had been telling the truth. It wasn’t about the money this time. All she wanted was him – and she couldn’t have him. No amount of lovely sheets would make up for that.

She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands to stop the flow of tears. Taking a few deep breaths, she tried to compose herself. Maybe she would call Peter herself, apologise for what she’d said, explain that he’d taken it all the wrong way. Yes, that would do it, she thought, feeling a little better. Maybe this was a test; when Mr Devon reported back that she had turned down the money, he would see that she truly loved him, not his credit cards.

She glanced up the stairs, frowning. He’d been a long time in the bathroom.

‘Mr Devon?’ she called. ‘Is everything all right up there?’

There was no reply. Shrugging, she walked up the stairs towards the mezzanine platform. ‘Mr Devon?’

At the top, she tapped on the bathroom door but couldn’t hear a sound inside. ‘Are you all right? Mr D—’

The door opened and Jack Devon stepped out. ‘Yes. I’m fine.’

‘Oh, good,’ she stuttered, flushing with embarrassment as she turned to walk back downstairs. She felt a hard push from behind and her body jerked forward. Instinctively she reached for the banister, but she was moving too fast and momentum carried her on, her head slamming against the wall. Her body twisted as she fell, her shoulder cracking into the glass steps, her torso pinwheeling over, snapping her neck, her body landing splayed and broken like a puppet with the strings cut. It had been mercifully quick. Aside from one moment of air-sucking terror as her hand missed the rail, she had felt nothing.

She lay there staring up, her body motionless except for the faint flutter of her eyelids, barely aware as Jack Devon walked slowly down, and stood over her, watching the life ebb out of her body. He took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, put them on and moved methodically around the house, making sure everything was in place for whoever found her. Sometimes he had to create a story: the jilted lover who had taken their own life, the break-in gone wrong, but here she had done the job for him. The half-empty bottle of wine. A simple case of a tragic accident, slipping on the steps after too much alcohol.

Satisfied with his work, he pulled out his phone and made the call. ‘It’s done,’ he said simply, then hung up. Removing his glasses and putting them in his pocket, he picked up his briefcase and let himself out. Out of her flat, on to the street, as if he’d never been there.

1

Six months later

As the man in the white leotard dangled from the trapeze and poured Krug into the top saucer of the champagne fountain, Anna Kennedy realised she had never seen a party quite like this. Not in the movies or in the pages of Hello! magazine. She had certainly never been to anything this grand, so spectacularly over the top she didn’t know whether to get drunk and enjoy it or just stand there and watch it like she would a Tim Burton movie or the Cirque du Soleil.

She took a gold macaroon from a waiter on stilts and popped it in her mouth.

A little celebratory soirée, that was how her friend, the Russian businesswoman Ilina Miranova, had described the party to her. Just a few close friends, nothing too extravagant.

Ilina’s definition of extravagant was certainly different from most people’s – no surprise if her collection of ‘close friends’ was anything to go by. Her Holland Park home was packed with the great and the good: royals, billionaires, celebrities, at least one hundred of them milling around the house and the manicured gardens in couture and diamonds.

If I threw a party at three days’ notice, I’d be lucky to get my best mate and a groceries delivery from Ocado, thought Anna, smiling to herself.

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; Not that any of this should have surprised her. Ilina, recently described by Forbes magazine as one of the world’s wealthiest self-made women, had always been among her more colourful clients. As an associate in the media department at London law firm Davidson Owen, Anna had spent the last twelve months advising the Russian as she set about suing the British tabloid the Globe for a libellous story they had printed about her financial affairs. They had settled the case earlier in the week, when the Davidson Owen team had make it clear that they were prepared to take it all the way to the High Court. It wasn’t as if Ilina couldn’t afford to celebrate.

Across the pool someone waved at her. Anna waved hesitantly back, although she didn’t recognise the handsome man in the navy suit. Was he a client? Or another lawyer perhaps? Maybe he was even calling her over for a drink. She was wearing her best black trouser suit after all, Italian, expensive, more expensive than she could afford.

The man turned as one of the butlers walked past, taking a glass of champagne from the tray.

Of course, she thought sheepishly. He thinks I’m a waitress.