Page 88 of Private Lives

‘Your boss fucked me over.’

Anna stopped in her tracks, surprised to hear Wayne Nicholls’ voice as she walked into Strawberry Studios just across the road from the Roundhouse in Chalk Farm. Nicholls was sitting in an office behind the reception, his feet up on the desk, cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth.

‘Slumming it a bit, aren’t you?’ smiled Anna, putting her head around the door. ‘I didn’t think you left trendy Clerkenwell these days.’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ said Wayne. ‘That snake of a boss of yours has done me out of an exclusive.’

Anna perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Okay, what’s your beef this time?’

‘Kim bloody Collier,’ said Wayne, stubbing out his cigarette angrily. ‘Ten measly grand for following that bag around for a couple of days. I’d have asked for fifty times that if I’d have known it was heading for this.’

He tossed a copy of the Evening Standard on the desk bearing the headline ‘Kim And Rob Love Split: Exclusive’.

Anna crossed her arms and smiled. ‘Like you’re not rich enough.’

‘That’s not the point. I feel stitched up.’

He looked so dejected, like a little boy being denied his favourite toy, that Anna couldn’t help herself: she cracked up with laughter.

‘Hey, it’s not funny, this is my reputation here.’

‘Come on, Wayne, even you must have guessed there was something going on. Matthew Donovan, a divorce lawyer, asking you to follow Kim Collier, see who she talks to?’

‘Course I twigged,’ said Wayne, pouting. ‘But there was no story – she didn’t meet with anyone, only her leg-waxer and a couple of fruits. I thought it was just Rob getting paranoid or something.’

‘And you didn’t think to tip off the papers about that? That’s very principled of you, Wayne.’

He looked down at his waste basket. ‘Yeah, well I’d signed one of them confidentiality wossnames, hadn’t I? Had to stick to it. As I told Donovan, you’re a tough old bitch.’

‘Well at least you’re in my good books.’

‘Then how about dinner?’

‘How about you show me where the shoot is?’

He sighed, shook his head, then got up from behind his desk. Anna had to grudgingly admit that she did owe Wayne Nicholls. He’d been true to his word the day before and called with the time and place of the shoot Mandy Stigwood had been booked for. In the meantime, Anna had sent Ryan Jones a photo of Mandy to confirm that she was indeed the girl he had met with Amy Hart that night in the club.

‘See?’ he had replied. ‘Told you she had great tits.’

Anna glanced at her watch as Wayne led her along a white corridor. Ten thirty already. Helen would be wondering where she was. Anna had managed to fob her off, saying she had urgent work of her own at the office, but she knew that Helen would be watching her time sheets like a hawk. Certainly if she wasn’t in court within the hour she’d have some serious explaining to do. Even so, Anna was prepared to risk her boss’s wrath. Over the past week, since her meeting with Ryan, she’d been unable to shake the thought of Amy Hart’s death from her mind.

She might know her case law inside out, but Anna knew that what made her a really great lawyer was her instinct, and it was her instinct that was telling her that there was more to Amy’s death than met the eye.

‘Check this shit out,’ said Wayne proudly, pushing through two massive double doors.

The studio was enormous, like an aircraft hangar. You could easily have fitted three double-deckers and Evel Knievel inside.

‘It’s huge,’ gasped Anna.

Wayne winked. ‘That’s what they all say, darlin’. But enough about me. The studio’s thirty thousand square feet of space, all within London’s Zone Two. It’s full every day. Catalogues, magazines, corporate work. No fashion yet; they’re so up their own arses they’re snooty about what studio they use, let alone the models and photographers. But they’ll come around when they realise how close we are to Soho.’

‘Remind me not to feel too sorry for you next time I get a two hundred thousand damages settlement out of you,’ said Anna slowly.

‘Yeah, well, the Heat years have been good to me, haven’t they? Everyone’s mad for celebrities. You know people slag off the pap agencies, but I’m just providing a service, satisfying a demand.’

They opened the door of Studio 5 on the top floor. Dance music was blaring out and the whole room was full of stylists fussing around rails of clothes, make-up artists laying out their wares and a whole crew of technical staff setting up lights, reflectors and camera triggers.

One end of the room had been decked out in red drapes, at the centre of which was a huge circular bed covered in black satin sheets. Nice, thought Anna. Classy. Wayne’s voice boomed across the studio.