‘Good weekend, then?’
‘Actually, yes.’ She smiled playfully, her clever grey eyes not meeting his.
His curiosity was piqued. Anna Kennedy did not seem the type to go crazy at the weekend. She was hands-down the most attractive girl in the office. It was a fact, as her employer, he had tried not to notice, although he hadn’t been shocked to hear that her sister was that fit chef off the telly. Anna didn’t have that minxy over-sexiness that got Sophie Kennedy on the front covers of the Sunday supplements, but then Matt found those sorts of women quite intimidating. Actually, Anna was if anything prettier than her sister; it was just that she looked more clever and officious and . . . what was it? Sad, he thought suddenly. He’d never noticed it before, but she always seemed a little sad.
‘So what did you do?’ he asked, suddenly eager to find out more.
‘Just went away for the weekend,’ she said vaguely.
‘Boyfriend?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ she said, beginning to blush. He felt bad for embarrassing her and changed the subject, keen to carry on talking.
‘What are you working on so feverishly?’
She rattled at the keyboard for a few more seconds, then hit the return button and sat back, letting out a long breath.
‘Just a ton of stuff for Helen. The bloody Balon case is still going on, and now I’ve got to go and babysit Chantal Elliot.’
Matt chuckled. ‘What’s she done this time?’
‘Nothing, actually,’ said Anna, getting up to feed paper into the printer. ‘She’s been quite well behaved and I think that’s what’s troubling her management; they’re expecting an explosion any minute, which could scupper some big deal in America.’
‘But she’s won a Grammy, hasn’t she?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ explained Anna. ‘The record industry is screwed at the moment and they want dull safe bets, not aspiring artists who are going to be trouble.’
She took a long swig of coffee, tapping a press release on her desk.
‘Chantal’s singing at some all-day charity thing near Richmond today, loads of celebs, and that means . . .’
‘Loads of paparazzi.’
‘So I’ve got to go and make sure they keep their distance.’
‘Surely that’s a job for security, not a solicitor?’ said Matthew.
Anna shrugged. ‘I’m taking no chances.’
Matthew picked up the press release as she prepared to leave.
‘Is this it? The Fallout Festival?’ he read. As his eyes scanned the musical line-up, one name jumped out at him. ‘Kim Collier’s going to be there?’
‘One of many.’
Matthew looked at her.
‘Can I come with you?’
Anna eyed him cynically.
‘Why do I have the feeling it’s not to see Chantal sing?’ she said.
‘Who’s the boss around here, Kennedy?’ he chided.
‘Well don’t dare try and bill it to my client.’ She smiled, grabbing her sunglasses and slinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘And it’s going to be full of young people,’ she whispered playfully. ‘So if you insist on coming, you’d probably better lose the tie.’
The festival was being held at Parkstead House, a Palladian mansion on the fringes of Richmond Park, a thirty-minute cab journey from the office. The front of the house reminded Matthew of the White House, with curly Ionic columns and marble steps facing the estate’s park, which had been transformed into a music festival enclosure with a stage at one end and a fairground off to the right.