Page 73 of Private Lives

‘Don’t give me that lawyer-takes-the-moral-high-ground crap. I know you lot are only in it for the money. Same as we all are.’

‘Just because you bought a girl a few drinks, it doesn’t mean she has to have sex with you,’ she said, unable to bite her tongue.

‘You one of these feminists, then? You think I was using her?’

Anna stayed silent, and Ryan laughed.

‘She was using me, sweetheart,’ he said, slapping his own chest. ‘Amy was a nobody. Sorry, but she was. She wouldn’t have got her picture in the papers without me. And that’s what she wanted.’

‘I wasn’t aware that she was so press-hungry.’

He flapped a dismissive hand.

‘Ah, they all are. Anyway, her mate told me she wanted to make someone jealous.’

Anna looked at him sharply.

‘Really? Who?’

‘I don’t know, some bloke she wanted to get back at. Look, who cares about whether I was using her or she was using me? The fact is, I just want this gone. It’s been more trouble than it was worth. And I got a reputation to think about, haven’t I?’

‘We’ll do our best, don’t worry,’ said Anna, signalling for the bill. ‘No promises, but I’ll have a quiet word with a few editors, see if we can’t get this hushed up once and for all.’

To her surprise, Ryan reached over and took her hand. He looked into her eyes as he held it.

‘Thanks, Anna,’ he said. ‘No, I mean it. You’ve really helped me out and I appreciate it. Maybe I can pay you back in some way?’

She gently pulled her hand free.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll settle up with Hugh Archer,’ she said.

Ryan just sucked his teeth and made a gesture that clearly said ‘your loss, darling’.

‘So who was Amy’s friend?’ she asked, as they walked out towards the entrance.

He shrugged.

‘Oh, some blonde model. Mandy. Molly. Can’t remember,’ he said, pushing through the door and out on to the street. ?

?She had cracking tits, though, even better than Amy’s. I still see her around at parties, actually. She’s with that modelling agency half the page-three girls are with. FrontGirls. I’ve had a few of them before, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, I think I do,’ said Anna, turning away. And they all have my complete sympathy.

21

She moved across the room, gliding from group to group. Helen was always elegant and graceful, but tonight she was at her shimmering best. Her blond bob shone from a three-hour session with Marcus, her stylist at James Worrall, and her lilac silk dress showed off her figure perfectly. Moving between the rooms of her Kensington townhouse, swapping anecdotes and clinking glasses, she positively glowed. You’d certainly never guess this was her forty-ninth birthday, unless you walked through to the kitchen where, behind the forest of champagne flutes, you would see the huge birthday cake emblazoned with the numbers. Many women of Helen’s age would have kept it quiet or shaved a few years off their official age; they certainly wouldn’t have thrown a glitzy party for their most influential clients and friends. But Helen Pierce had nothing to hide: not in that department, anyway. She was proud of what she had managed to achieve in a male-dominated industry, and proud of how she looked.

The room flickered in the low, flattering glow of candles in silver holders, soft jazz oozed from concealed speakers and the chatter and laughter of her illustrious guests was like a cool stream bubbling over rocks. Still, it was only a select gathering: maybe seventy, eighty people. Next year she’d have to pull all the stops out. That cake would have a big five-oh, but what the hell, you’re only young once. She smiled to herself, wondering idly if she’d ever enjoyed her birthday parties growing up. She could barely remember them. A vague memory of cheap cake and orange squash, the smeared faces of a dozen children crammed into the kitchen of her parents’ small Rochester semi. What were their names? She couldn’t remember. She’d left most of them behind when she’d gone to the local grammar. She’d worked hard to leave them all behind.

Through the crowd she could see the arrival of her newest colleague. ‘Matthew, so glad you could make it. Not brought a date?’

‘Well, I thought I might ask Sandra Bullock, but I think she’s busy,’ he answered, smiling. It took Helen a moment to see that he was joking. It was easy to forget that this was all so new to Matthew.

‘Happy birthday. You look great,’ he said, kissing her awkwardly on both cheeks.

‘Thank you,’ she replied, wishing she could return the compliment. He was wearing chinos and a denim shirt that hung loose over his waistband; it didn’t even look as if he had shaved.

‘So how was the polo?’ she asked, wondering if he’d worn tonight’s outfit to the Guards Club. ‘Did you speak to Leonard Payne?’