Page 4 of Private Lives

‘Of course, it would have been a stretch,’ he spluttered. ‘I wouldn’t want to suggest that our fees are overly . . . that is to say, we try to price our services on a par with the—’

Ilina touched his arm, stopping him mid-flow.

‘Did I hear you say you were going to the bar?’ she said. ‘I’d love a cocktail.’

‘Of course, of course,’ he said, backing away, almost bowing as he went.

Ilina laughed as she watched him scuttle off in the direction of the bar. ‘,’ she cursed in Russian.

‘You’re going to have to translate that,’ smiled Anna.

‘“Idiot”. Or perhaps “wanker”.’

‘He does have his moments,’ said Anna tactfully.

‘Moments?’ said Ilina. ‘He has spent the whole night boasting about his brilliant victory with my case. The only time I hear from him is when he sends me bills.’

Anna had grown close to Ilina over the past few months, but even so, she knew it would be unprofessional of her to comment – even if it was true. Officially Nick was her supervising partner, but he seemed to spend all his time on the golf course, leaving her to handle her own caseload. In Ilina’s case, she had been glad to be in sole charge. In the society columns, the Russian came across as frivolous and silly – an oligarchess who looked like Miss Ukraine and who could drop a million pounds on a shopping trip before lunchtime. Few people knew that under the jewels, she was a Harvard graduate who had used her father’s Kremlin connections and her own sharp intellect to succeed in the ruthless, macho world of oil and gas. There was nothing silly about Ilina Miranova. Nothing silly at all.

‘Ilina, I’m afraid I have to go,’ said Anna. ‘I have to meet a client, but thanks so much for inviting me.’

‘Darling, just stay for a few minutes longer. I have prepared a little speech and we have a cake.’

Anna had seen the cake; a confectionery mountain would be a better description. With five tiers and a spun-sugar caricature of Ilina standing on top of a copy of the Globe, it put every wedding cake Anna had ever seen in the shade.

Ilina tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder and mounted a podium by the infinity pool.

‘Darlings,’ she began, ‘thank you for joining me for my victory parade.’

She was an impressive public speaker, delivering her lines with confidence, wit and verve, and she had the assembled captains of industry in the palm of her hand. In fact, Anna was so busy watching the crowd that it took a moment before she realised that two hundred heads were turning to look at her.

‘Anna Kennedy has been my rock in my time of need,’ Ilina was saying. ‘Her expert legal guidance has been second to none and I would recommend her services should any of you make the mistake of attracting the attentions of the gentlemen of the press.’

There was much laughter at this: there was barely a person in the room who wasn’t regularly in the papers, whether in the gossip columns or the political pages.

‘Please join me in toasting my saviour,’ said Ilina, raising her glass towards Anna.

Anna willed the ground to swallow her whole, whilst trying her best to force a smile on to her face. Across the pool she could see Nick Kimble glaring at her, which was a small consolation, and she took it as her cue to leave, heading for the door via the cloakroom.

‘I’m not surprised Ilina’s pleased,’ said a voice as she waited at the desk for her coat. ‘Six-figure damages, a page-three retraction: pretty good work.’

Anna instantly recognised the woman behind her. Helen Pierce was a legend in the legal profession, a formidable partner at Donovan Pierce solicitors. She had often seen the cool blonde click-clacking imperiously into the High Court, but had never dared to speak to her. Donovan Pierce specialised in defamation and reputation management work and had one of the fiercest reputations in the industry – mainly due to Helen Pierce.

‘Thank you,’ said Anna, unsure of what to say next.

‘Personally I always thought the claim was a little spurious,’ said Helen, ‘under the circumstances.’

‘Really? Why would you say that?’

Helen gave a little tinkly laugh.

‘Suing the Globe for suggesting she is a shopaholic?’

‘It was hardly that,’ said Anna, slightly annoyed by Helen’s flippant tone. ‘The Globe printed a sensationalist catalogue of Ilina’s spending, blatantly designed to make her look obsessive, selfish and out of control,

purely for the entertainment of their readers.’

‘Miss Miranova’s spending – out of control? I wonder whatever made them think that?’ She raised her eyebrows, looking pointedly across the room to the caged leopards, the mountainous cake and the circus performers. No wonder she’s such a bloody good lawyer, thought Anna. Even the tiniest of gestures could make you feel guilty or complicit.