Private Lives

‘So less of an acquaintance and more of a close, valued colleague,’ replied Helen tartly. There was no point in mincing words. The defence team would say exactly the same thing.

‘Paul is Australian and he’d worked in corporate PR over there, where industry is more closely aligned with the legislators. He suggested a move into politics might be good for me – good for the business.’

‘And London mayor is perfect for an ambitious businessman like you,’ said Helen. ‘Someone who has no intention of working their way up through the lowly ranks of MPs but who could stand as an independent mayoral candidate and have a good chance of winning one of the most powerful public offices in Europe. Like being PM without any of the hassle.’

Anna couldn’t help admiring her boss. She was talking to Balon as if he was back on the stand. It was the quickest way to break down his defences and get the truth out of him, no matter how uncomfortable the atmosphere in the room, no matter how many millions he was paying her in fees.

‘It was only an idea, for Christ’s sake!’ said Balon. ‘It was just one conversation over a round of golf or drinks, I really don’t remember. Yes, for a minute I was interested in the idea, but then we won the contract for a huge build in Russia and all those plans for diversification were shelved.’

Helen stood looking at him, clearly trying to process the information, trying to get one step ahead.

‘So where’s Paul Jones now?’ she asked.

‘He lives between London and Sydney.’

Helen looked at Anna. ‘Paul Jones,’ she said. ‘Get everything you can on him. Names, dates, inside leg measurement, I want everything: everything.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Anna, with what she hoped sounded like confidence. Helen was already pacing again.

‘Thankfully Paul Jones is a common enough name. If he’s not still on the Balon payroll’ – she looked enquiringly at Jonathon, who shook his head – ‘then maybe the defence team won’t be able to make the connection.’

‘And if they do?’ asked Balon uncomfortably.

‘The fact that you’re a potential mayoral candidate, however vague those ambitions might be, gives Stateside a case for publishing the story in the public interest.’

Anna raised her pencil.

‘Provided they knew about it,’ she said, and was relieved when Helen gave her a thin smile of acknowledgement. The magazine could only claim they were reporting in the public interest if they had known about Balon’s political ambitions when they published the article. In which case, why hadn’t they mentioned it in the feature?

‘Precisely,’ said Helen. ‘And that’s what we’re going to spend the next forty-eight hours working on.’

35

Matt sat back in the cream leather passenger seat of Carla’s Range Rover and smiled.

‘Why are these windows tinted?’ he asked, watching as the wide-open moorland outside the car was slowly swallowed by the tall trees of the New Forest. It was Jonas’s birthday, and every year they did something as a family, even after the divorce. Usually it was just a meal at a local burger place or a walk around the park, but today Carla had suggested getting out of the city.

‘Privacy glass,’ said his ex-wife vaguely as she overtook a Porsche, the speedometer hitting eighty. ‘I’m sensitive to the sun and I hate it when people peer into the car as we’re driving. It unsettles Jonas.’

‘Unsettles Jonas?’ teased Matt. ‘It makes me feel like a pimp.’

She took her eyes off the road and looked at him with annoyance.

‘A pimp?’ she huffed, glancing in the rear-view mirror. Thankfully Jonas was watching a DVD and had his headphones on.

‘All right, not a pimp,’ said Matthew, laughing at her reaction. ‘Maybe a rap star.’

‘And I suppose that makes me your ho?’ she replied tartly.

Four years of marriage and Carla had never quite got Matt’s sense of humour. She always took things so literally, he couldn’t help winding her up. In her preppy white jeans, navy T-shirt and a silk scarf tied loosely around her neck, she couldn’t have looked less like a gangster’s moll if she had tried.

She looked particularly beautiful today, he thought glancing at her. Of course he didn’t flatter himself that she had made a special effort for his benefit. In fact these days Carla dressed like she’d just stepped off the catwalk: the cocktail dresses that cost as much as his car, the little fur coats, the cavernous leather handbags, all very Chelsea, darling. But today she looked just like the girl he had met in a bar in Fulham almost ten years earlier, the girl he’d fallen in love with and who he couldn’t quite believe had fallen in love with him.

Obviously feeling his critical gaze, Carla glanced up at him.

‘What are you looking at?’ she said nervously. ‘Is it my hair?’

‘No, nothing,’ chuckled Matthew. ‘Just keep watching the road.’