She was impressed. Lara liked can-do people, but Ortega was on another level.
Lara sat forward eagerly. Perhaps it was the aspirin she had dry-swallowed, but the moment Eduardo mentioned the meeting, she felt her headache ease; this was what she needed. Energy and forward motion.
‘So what do we know about him?’
‘Bain is an operator. Always on the lookout for business and feathering his contacts with the press.’
‘No wonder he’s in Monaco this weekend,’ noted Stefan.
Eduardo continued. ‘He runs his own corporate PR firm, but he functions more like an old-school lobbyist, a middle man between politicians and finance. Lately he’s moved heavily into reputation management.’
Lara hadn’t heard of Jago Bain before the previous night, but reputation management was something she knew all about. She’d seen Felix Tait’s spin doctor go into action during the trial, portraying him as a virtuous philanthropist, sending out press releases emphasising his charity work, making sure he was photographed at the right sort of events – benefits and gala dinners. It was the same all over the corporate sector. The energy company liable for a disastrous oil-spill had careful strategies to rehabilitate its image, the billionaire who had made his money in arms threw lavish parties to launder his reputation – all of them had teams of strategists, lawyers and publicists to deflect, distract and in some cases, punish journalists who sought to reveal the truth.
‘Do you know him personally?’ asked Lara, the sweet, cold tea soothing her gravelly throat.
‘We are slightly acquainted,’ said Eduardo, with a hint of discomfort. ‘But I can tell you that Bain has a reputation for getting results. And a reputation for being something of a hedonist.’
‘To put it politely,’ said Stefan.
‘Hedonist?’
‘Party boy. Word around town is that Jago has an escalating drug problem.’
‘Is that why he was kicked off Jonathon Meyer’s boat? Bad behaviour?’
Eduardo sat back in his chair and looked at Lara.
‘Perhaps you can ask him that tonight.’
Lara tipped her sunglasses forward.
‘I see,’ she smiled. ‘So that’s my role? To sweet-talk Jago Bain?’
Stefan laughed.
‘Lara, your reputation precedes you. You’re the best at getting answers from reluctant subjects.’
‘I’m flattered,’ she said sceptically, searching their faces. ‘And what if he won’t speak to me?.’
Stefan looked at Eduardo, who shrugged.
‘Then we’re screwed.’
As her taxi rolled down through the hills and out onto the coast road, Lara turned her face towards the open window, feeling the rush of sea air, a faint tang of salt and sand and cut grass; she was at least feeling human again. She was sorry to leave Roquebrune behind. After Eduardo and Stefan had gone, she had gone for a walk around the old town, a rambling hill settlement of steps, cobbled squares and red slate roofs. In the local coffee shop, someone had told her how Coco Chanel had once lived in the village, and pointed out an olive tree that was over a thousand years old. Lara had taken a seat beneath its branches and read a pulpy novel she’d found in the little post office. It felt like the first time since leaving the Law Courts that she had actually allowed herself to relax. Even her argument with Alex seemed to have faded into the distant past, a mere irritation.
Now the car was weaving through the back streets of Monte Carlo, down past gated dwellings, neon-lit cafes and endless lines of parked scooters, finally reaching the Buddha-Bar, the restaurant/nightclub where a bottle of champagne could set you back 10,000 euros. No big surprise that someone like Jago Bain had chosen it for their meeting.
Walking up the grand steps to the building, Lara suddenly felt exposed in her green dress. This was the playground of the super-rich and she suspected there weren’t many people who were wearing what they’d had on the night before. Even so, the receptionist-cum-host took Lara’s name and told her that her party was already here, leading her into a magical Eastern-style indigo-lit space, heaving with the glamorous crowd. She crossed the floor towards where Eduardo and Stefan were already waiting.
It was still early in Monaco terms but already the place was rammed; refugees from the casino next door, middle-aged men with slightly too-small shirts and willowy women in slinky dresses. And then she saw him coming into the bar: Jago Bain. He was forty-something, good-looking although slightly going to seed, with a heavy tan, swept-back, thinning hair and a blue shirt beneath a light grey suit. Bain spotted them and walked over.
‘Heyyy, Eduardo, looking good,’ he cried, faking a punch.
Eduardo actually flinched, but he did his best to cover it up. ‘Join us Jago, please.’
‘You’ve met?’ asked Lara.
‘Only once,’ smirked Bain, raising an eyebrow at Eduardo. ‘Your brother’s 40th at Annabel’s, wasn’t it? What a night that was.’