Page 74 of Private Lives

‘Yes. He’s a good bloke.’

She didn’t want Matthew getting too close to her top clients. That was her domain.

‘So can we get you a drink? There’s plenty of champagne.’

Matthew shook his head.

‘I’m on the bike. I can’t stay long. My son’s round first thing in the morning.’ He looked around the room. ‘So who else is here?’ he asked with a note of anxiety.

‘From work? Just you. If I invite junior partners, then the associates want to come. If they come, we have to invite the assistants. Then the trainees start getting all uppity. We might as well have the party in the staff canteen.’

‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t,’ said Matthew, looking around. ‘This place is amazing.’

She appreciated the reaction, but she doubted that Matthew had ever been anywhere he could compare it with. His father’s place in Cheyne Walk, perhaps. More spoils of law.

‘It’s a shame Larry couldn’t make it tonight,’ she said.

Matthew shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, I think Loralee will be keeping him away from parties for a little while at least.’

Helen smiled tightly. She had too many fresh memories of Larry careering around her social gatherings insulting people and making a scene. As far as she was concerned, he could stay away for ever. Larry was out of her hair, but now she had to deal with his son. Not that Matthew was anything like as formidable an opponent, but even so, he was a partner and a shareholder. Helen really needed to keep him on side. For now at least.

‘I must go and circulate,’ she said. ‘There are some very eligible women in the room tonight who would just love to meet you, I’m sure.’

Matthew looked at her with surprise, as if he hadn’t been expecting the compliment. Interesting, she thought, filing it away. It never did any harm to keep track of your opponents’ psychology. She moved out through the library, nodding and smiling, then stepped out on to the first-floor terrace. It was a small space, but it had an amazing view of Kensington Gore, and tonight in the balmy evening air, lit by ribbons of twinkling fairy lights, it was magical.

‘Helen, darling! Do come over,’ said a tall woman in a deep-blue backless gown, drenched in jewellery. Fiona Swettenham was the closest thing Helen had to a real friend, possibly because she was married to Viscount Swettenham, the hugely wealthy landowner, with the best house in north Oxfordshire and host of the most fabulous New Year’s Eve parties.

‘You are looking good enough to eat tonight,’ gushed Fiona, fingering the delicate silk of Helen’s dress. ‘Doesn’t she look fabulous, Simon?’

Fiona was standing with Simon Cooper, the managing director of Auckland Communications, the corporate PR giant. He was handsome, tanned and aloof, and Helen felt irritated to see him glance over her shoulder for someone more powerful to talk to. She demanded everyone’s full attention, especially on a night like tonight.

‘I saw you talking to Larry’s son,’ said Fiona. ‘He’s rather delicious, isn’t he?’

‘Fiona!’ said Helen, teasing her. ‘What would Charlie say?’

‘My husband would say I had impeccable taste. Now don’t tell me you don’t think he’s good-looking?’

‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ said Helen. ‘We didn’t hire him for his looks.’

‘You didn’t hire him at all,’ said Simon with a smirk.

Helen flashed the PR a warning glance.

‘Yes, I heard he’d been foisted upon you by Larry,’ said Fiona gleefully. ‘Everyone thought that when Larry retired the firm was going to become Pierce’s.’

Helen didn’t want to make her professional frustrations obvious. ‘Clearly Matthew is a fine lawyer in his own right; we wouldn’t have brought him in as a partner if he hadn’t been very capable . . .’

Simon raised his eyebrows to Fiona. ‘I think that’s what you call “damning with faint praise”.’

Helen was about to reply, but Fiona gave her arm a squeeze.

‘I’m sure he’s very good,’ she said quickly, throwing a look at Simon. ‘Anyway, I love that shabby-geography-teacher-chic thing he’s got going on.’

Helen rolled her eyes.

‘I don’t think it’s deliberate. I think this is his idea of smart. When it’s his birthday I might have to send him to Savile Row. Or at least for a shave.’

‘Is this how you ladies talk about men when we’re not there?’ said Simon.