Private Lives

‘Once a week. You’re lucky. If Kim goes to Miami, how often am I going to see my Ollie?’

Matt could hear him beginning to sob; a grown man struggling with big, breathless gulps.

‘We can work through this.’

‘How? When the law favours the mother?’

‘Short-term, we can think about a Prohibited Steps Order to stop Kim taking Oliver out of the country. Moving forward, we can fight for a residence order, in custody if you want that battle.’

He didn’t have to tell Rob how high the odds were stacked against him. Right now, his client wanted to hear that there was some glimmer of hope, some slim likelihood that he could at least keep his son in the country after their divorce.

‘I’m ready,’ said Rob with defiance.

‘Then so am I,’ said Matt, ignoring the flicker of self-doubt that reminded him that despite his experience, his talent, his passion, he couldn’t even keep his own son.

20

If Anna was honest, Ryan Jones was a bit of a disappointment. She’d been expecting someone much better-looking, more imposing, a Cockney wide boy dripping with charisma, turning heads and joking with the ladies who lunched in this buzzing Notting Hill restaurant. Ryan’s character in his teatime soap was a ducker and a diver, a lovable rogue, whereas the real-life Ryan Jones looked . . . well, a bit short.

She watched as the maître d’ pointed him towards her table. He was wearing an expensive-looking shirt unbuttoned too far and had flashy sunglasses perched on top of his head. He was cocky too, rolling his shoulders and pouting like a model, clearly expecting people to look up from their linguine. Anna noted his irritation when none of them did.

‘You Anna?’ he said, shoving one hand into the back pocket of his drooping jeans.

Charmed, I’m sure, thought Anna, standing up to shake hands.

‘Yes, I’m Anna Kennedy, I work at Donovan Pierce – I’m sure Hugh filled you in?’

Setting up this meeting had actually been far less difficult than she had expected. Ryan was represented by Archer Dale Management, a company Anna had worked with before, so all it had taken was a tiny white lie to her old friend Hugh Archer, managing director of the agency. ‘People have been whispering about Ryan’s appearance at that dead girl’s inquest,’ she had told him. ‘We should nip this in the bud before the noise gets louder.’ She had no intention of helping Ryan Jones in any way, but it was a plausible excuse to get him where she could ask him about his dealings with Blake Stanhope.

‘What’s all this about?’ he said, sitting down and ordering a beer from the waitress. ‘You’re a lawyer, right? Am I in trouble?’

According to a recent Hello! article Ryan was twenty-eight, but up close he looked at least five years older. The wonders of make-up, she thought. His Facebook fan page had over fifteen thousand members: young girls really did fancy anybody they were told to these d

ays.

‘It was about the inquest you appeared at two weeks ago.’

His eyes narrowed.

‘Shouldn’t Hugh Archer be here?’ He looked tired and truculent; like a teenager woken up for breakfast after a night on the town.

‘Hugh and I have worked together in the past; he trusts me. Besides, this is probably nothing,’ she said, willing herself to remain blank and calm. When she had arranged the meeting, she hadn’t anticipated feeling so nervous in front of him. Ruby had accused him of killing her sister, and while she still thought it was incredibly far-fetched, the connection with Blake Stanhope had made her anxious.

Ryan’s lip curled into an angry sneer.

‘Nothing? This has been a complete pain in the arse.’

‘What has?’

‘Amy bloody Hart.’

He saw Anna frown and sighed.

‘Listen, I’m sorry the girl’s dead and all that, but let’s be frank here: Amy was just a quick fuck.’

Anna struggled to keep her face neutral.

‘She wasn’t even that. She was just some bird I took back to my gaff, then the next thing I know, she’s dead, I’ve got my picture in the papers, and these coppers are asking all sorts of questions. Don’t get me wrong, I like getting press, but I can do without the “Dead Girl” headlines.’