Pulling her iPad off the coffee table, she switched it on, typing ‘Match.com’ into Google.
‘Start Your Love Story!’ it instructed.
‘I need a fag,’ she mumbled, reaching down for her handbag at the foot of the sofa. Rummaging inside, her hand immediately touched something crammed in the top. It was the brown envelope Ruby Hart had given her in Green Park. She’d meant to sift through its contents back at the office, but by the time she’d got back to her desk, Ruby’s claims had seemed more ridiculous and irrelevant to her own life than they had when she had spoken to her.
She lit her cigarette and hesitated a moment before she put the iPad beside her, and tipped the envelope out on to her lap. There was surprisingly little inside. Some newspaper cuttings, a copy of Amy Hart’s post-mortem report and a photograph of a pretty blonde girl, no more than nineteen or twenty. She speed-read the document and immediately saw that Ruby was right: the tabloids had shown some interest in Amy’s death in the days after it happened – ‘Soap Star’s Girlfriend Tragedy’ – but after the inquest there was nothing in the press except a tiny story in the Globe reporting that there had been an inquest into the death of ‘a party girl linked to soap star Ryan Jones’.
Anna looked at the date of the story: the Saturday that the whole world had run with the Sam Charles exposé. Amy Hart’s death was lucky to make page seventeen. Anna knew only too well that the Globe had devoted most of the paper to Sam and Jessica.
She stared down at the newsprint, hearing Ruby Hart’s words in her head. I know what sort of law you do, Miss Kennedy. You cover things up for rich people. She smarted at the memory. She knew she hadn’t gone into media law for any more noble purpose than that it had seemed exciting, well paid and interesting. She was a news junkie – it was one of the things she had in common with Andrew – and life as a media lawyer was a thrilling way to be in the heart of it.
But Ruby had made her professional life sound so immoral; and it embarrassed her to know that that was what the young girl thought of it.
What harm can it do to look into this a little? she asked herself, studying one of the early stories more closely. It had run a photo of Amy walking hand in hand out of a nightclub with Ryan Jones. She was barely recognisable from the natural girlie blonde in the family snapshot. Her hair was longer, a brassier blond. A micro-mini showed off long legs in towering heels. This girl was confident, glamorous, in control.
What a waste, thought Anna, feeling a sudden desire to help Ruby Hart. She stubbed out her cigarette, picked up her iPad and typed ‘Ryan Jones’ into Google. There were dozens of tabloid stories about him: a dalliance with a busty reality TV star, a recent drink-driving conviction, an involvement in a punch-up in a west London pub, even a racist outburst at the Notting Hill carnival.
Hmm, nice guy, she thought, sipping her wine as she read on.
In a rare case of life imitating art, soap bad boy Ryan Jones was accused yesterday of attacking a musician and ‘hurling racist insults’ at her during a fracas at Sunday’s carnival. Ryan Jones, who plays car mechanic Jamie Doyle in Barclay’s Place, has been at the centre of a controversial storyline in the soap following the arrival of an Asian family in the street, culminating in the arrest of Jones’s character for arson following a suspicious fire. ‘People should not confuse what happens on their TVs with what happens in real life,’ said Blake Stanhope, Mr Jones’s PR representative . . .
Anna felt herself miss a breath. She reread the last line of the news item more slowly. Ryan Jones was represented by Blake Stanhope.
Time seemed to stand still as the significance of what she had just read sank in, then her pulse started racing. She Googled Blake Stanhope’s own website and scrolled through his clients section. Ryan wasn’t listed. Then again, Blake would have had hundreds of clients over the years, some of whom he dealt with personally, others who’d be handled by his team.
She stared at the grainy photograph of Amy and Ryan in the newspaper cutting. He was a thug and a bully if you believed the stories about him. But could he have been involved in Amy’s death? Was Ruby Hart right that he’d pushed her down the stairs? And had he instructed Blake to minimise the press coverage of his summons to the inquest?
Her mouth had gone dry as she’d thought it through. If Blake was acting for Ryan and had wanted to bury the story, why not kill two birds with one stone by leaking the Sam Charles story to the press? That way he netted himself a fat fee for the exclusive on Katie and Sam’s sexploits while also ensuring Ryan Jones would be kept out of the spotlight.
Anna frowned. Was she being paranoid? A little voice in her head told her to calm down. But no. This was exactly the sort of win-win PR coup that Stanhope could pull off.
She felt angry, used. A spike of injustice swelled in her throat.
You bastard, she thought, staring at Blake Stanhope’s earnest black-and-white photograph on the website.
Her eyes drifted to the photo of Amy Hart. Pretty, smiling, hopeful.
She hadn’t been able to help Sam Charles, but maybe she could somehow help Amy.
She picked up the phone and called the number that had been scribbled on the back of the brown envelope.
‘Ruby? It’s Anna Kennedy.’
‘I knew you’d get back to me.’ She could almost see the young girl smiling down the telephone.
‘I want to help you, Ruby. I want to help you find out the truth about your sister.’
‘Did you read everything I gave you?’
‘I did,’ said Anna, already wondering how she could achieve her next step. ‘And I think it might be worth me meeting with Ryan Jones,’ she said, realising it was her turn to kill two birds with one stone.
18
He was in a suit. And a tie. God, how long was it since he’d worn a tie? Sam leaned into the bathroom mirror and adjusted the knot. Maybe he should have used a Windsor knot? Or was that too formal? He knew he had to get it right, because tonight was the Big One: his appearance on Billington, his own personal walk into the lion’s den. He had watched the tape of Hugh Grant on Leno over and over, noting how the actor sat, what he said, even what he wore. Hence the suit. Hugh had worn a white shirt and an orange tie like a public schoolboy. He’d looked respectable, respectful. Penitent, that was the word Valerie had used. Do I look penitent? Or just like a cheating love rat?
Uncomfortable in the stifling heat of the hotel suite, he pulled the tie off and undid his top button. What did it matter? he thought defiantly. People had already made up their minds, if the endless column inches over the last two weeks were anything to go by. He was going to get savaged in the press no matter what he said or how he looked on Billington. Wasn’t that what the public demanded of their celebrities these days? They wanted to see him torn apart before they would let him crawl back asking for forgiveness. The only upside was that David Billington was one of the more elegant, cerebral interviewers on the talk-show circuit. Just the other week he’d made a televised chat with Paris Hilton feel like Frost/Nixon.
If there was any man for the job, it was Billington. With a bit of luck, it might even turn into the definitive interview.
‘It’s so hot in here,’ he said, striding back into the suite’s living area, where his manager was sitting. ‘Can’t you do something about the temperature?’
He knew he was just anxious. The show taped at 3 p.m. for a 10 p.m. transmission and they were due to leave at any minute for the Times Square studios.
‘Relax,’ said Eli, flipping through the TV stations. ‘The heat’s fine. Just first-night nerves is all.’
‘First night?’ said Sam. ‘You think I’m going to make a habit of this?’
‘Figure of speech. Sit down, eat some fruit. Jeez, you’re making me nervous.’
Sam paced over to the window, staring out at the Manhattan skyline from his room in the discreet Upper East Side hotel his manager had checked him into. It all seemed so distant, like a city drawn in a child’s storybook.
‘Come
on, Sammy,’ said Eli, coming up behind him and massaging his shoulders like a boxer’s trainer before a big fight. ‘Be yourself. Say you’re sorry, tell everyone how much you love Jess, smile when Dave breaks your balls, then we’re out of there. Just like we practised, huh?’
Eli had hired a media coach called Monica Glenn, an expert in non-verbal communication, and they had spent the past few days doing mock-run-throughs of the interview. Of course, it was one thing being both charming and humble in Monica’s workshop, quite another to pull it off under the bright lights and high pressure of a TV studio.
Still, the Sun interview had gone down well. ‘Sam Charles: I Was An Idiot’, screamed the headline. He’d been humble, he’d said how sorry he was for letting everyone down, he’d said he understood how angry Jess – and his fans – were. But the writer had been sympathetic and much was made of Sam’s previously unsullied reputation and the fact that only one ex-girlfriend had come forward to dish the dirt on him. Actually, that was more to do with Valerie and Helen’s work behind the scenes; the few women who had attempted to sell their stories had been paid off before they’d had a chance to give any damning interviews. He could only hope that David Billington would be equally sympathetic.
‘Guys, news about Billington,’ said Valerie, strutting into the room, waving her BlackBerry.
‘Good or bad news?’
‘I won’t bullshit, it’s not good,’ she said. ‘David Billington was in a car accident this morning. Nothing serious, but he’s going to be off the show for a week at least.’
‘So who’s standing in?’ asked Eli.
Valerie pursed her lips.
‘Neil Peters.’
‘Peters?’ Sam groaned, sitting down on the bed. ‘Fuck.’
‘I know, I know, it’s not ideal,’ said Valerie. ‘But they won’t shift on it. Apparently the network’s got big plans for him.’
Sam felt all hope drain from him. He was screwed. Neil Peters was a British comedian who’d somehow managed to break into TV Stateside. There was no question he was a mover and a shaker; he seemed to have graduated straight from Cambridge into a weekly satirical news show on BBC2, his own anarchic chat show on Channel 4, and after somehow landing one of the top agents at CAA, was now making waves in the States. He’d been branded overly smug by some sections of the British press, but with his irritatingly self-confident manner he was a master at getting headline-grabbing quotes from celebrities. Which was why Sam’s instinct was telling him to run for the hills.
‘Can’t we put the interview back a few weeks?’ he asked.
Valerie shook her head.
‘It’s now or never, Sam. We need to get your public back on side; we need to change people’s opinion of what happened, give your side of the story. Right now the story’s hot and we have a chance to get a fair hearing.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. Is Peters really going to give me a fair hearing? He’s standing in for Billington and wants to impress the executives, so he’s going to go all out to get some fantastic exclusive, isn’t he?’
‘So give it to him,’ said Eli.
‘What?’
‘Give him the old waterworks. Cry your little heart out. That’s what the fans want to see.’
‘I can’t just cry,’ he said. ‘It would look so staged.’
‘It is staged, Sam,’ said Eli. ‘What do you think this whole three-ring circus is about? It’s just entertainment, bud. Give people what they want.’
Sam gaped at them. They made it sound as if he was just some juggling seal who’d been booked to jump through hoops for the amusement of the American public.
‘I don’t know if I can be that . . . dishonest.’
‘It ain’t dishonest, it’s just acting,’ said Eli. ‘And that’s what you’re best at, huh?’
Valerie’s phone was beeping. She glanced at it and then threw it back in her Birkin.
‘Car’s here,’ she said, throwing Sam a look. ‘Showtime.’
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat and gazed at a spot of fluff on his knee. The lights were uncomfortably hot and he was aware of the studio audience collectively holding their breath.
‘She . . . she wasn’t a prostitute,’ stuttered Sam. ‘I mean, she seemed to be a nice girl.’
He knew from the look of triumph on Neil Peters’s face that he had said the wrong thing, but he had to say something. Anything.
‘A nice girl?’ Neil smiled as a ripple of titters went around the audience. ‘This nice girl?’ he said, sweeping his hand up to a video screen behind him.
Sam winced as a picture of Katie the escort was flashed up. It was from a photo shoot she had done for some men’s magazine where she was reclining on a bed clad only in black lingerie. The audience burst out into laughter.
Sam slumped further down in his seat. He knew this was exactly what Monica had told him not to do. ‘Sit up straight, look him in the eye,’ she had said again and again. ‘Look as if you have nothing to be ashamed of and that’s what people will read in your posture.’ He could imagine exactly what people were reading in his posture right now. Guilt. Guilt and shame.
‘Naughty but nice,’ Neil smirked, clearly enjoying Sam’s discomfort.
‘Hell no!’ shouted someone from the front row. ‘Girl’s a ho!’
This brought another wave of titters from the audience.
‘Was she as nice as Jess?’ asked Neil.
Immediately the studio fell silent. This was the killer question; this was why the network rated Neil Peters so highly. On the face of it, the question was innocuous, but everyone knew what he was really asking. Was this girl as good as Jess in bed? Had Sam turned to some pretty escort girl because Jessica, the nation’s sweetheart, just didn’t cut it in the sack?
Sam froze. What could he say? The truth? That she rarely even let him near her bed, let alone into it? No, the American public didn’t want to hear anything bad about Jess, that much was clear. But he had to say something. What? Be charming, that’s what Eli had said.
‘A gentleman doesn’t talk about a lady that way,’ he said, desperately trying to make a joke of it.
‘Come on, Sam. Tell us. Has this sort of thing happened before? It’s lonely at the top, you’re a long way from home. It must be tempting to want a pretty girl to escort you back to your room.’
Peters had a knowing way of delivering that made people want to smile. Sam glared out into the studio audience, squinting in the lights at the sea of faces that all seemed to be laughing at him. He was glad his collar was loose. He could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
‘No. This has not happened before.’
‘So what did you get up to at the Playboy Mansion?’
‘Sorry?’ He’d been to Hugh Hefner’s pleasure palace a few times. With Jess and some of his LA friends. It was a great place for a drink and a catch-up with industry acquaintances.
‘I saw you there about a year ago,’ pressed Peters. ‘Having a good time, as I remember it.’
Sam felt his brittle emotions snap.
‘Hang on. I was invited to a party there.’ His voice was quavering with anger. ‘I went with Jess. You make the leap from that to me being some sort of sleazeball?’
‘That’s not what I said at all.’ Peters gave one of his trademark shrugs: protesting his innocence – hey, he’d only asked a question, right? – but at the same time drawing the viewing public in, making them complicit, making them feel as if they’d all got one over on this dumb Brit actor.
More laughter.
‘What’s your agenda here, Neil?’ Sam snapped. ‘Ratings? David’s Billington’s job?’ He couldn’t help the words pouring out of his mouth. He had a vague thought that Monica, Valerie and Eli would be having kittens about now, but he couldn’t stop himself.
‘Please don’t start jumping on the sofa. Not on my first day.’ Peters’s smug smile seemed to melt into a grotesque mask. The laughter of the audience rang mockingly around the studio.
Sam stood up and ripped off the microphone that had been threaded through his shirt.
‘Sod this.’
‘Come on, Sam.’
‘You think this is entertainment?’
Peters gave another shrug and the audience howled.
A studio manager scrambled from the wings to stop him. Sam swept past her only to run into Valerie. Her expression was frantic.
‘Take a breath and get back out there,’ she hissed.
‘Pull the show.’
Valerie’s hard, usually controlled face was pale with panic. ‘I’ll see who I can speak to.’
Sam knew it was pointless. The show would run. He would be humiliated.
‘You were supposed to protect me,’ he said bitterly, shaking his head. ‘Get me out of here.’ He broke into a jog down the long, narrow corridor as he spotted a fire exit ahead of him.
‘Sam. Wait . . .’ Valerie’s voice faded.
He was at the door. Breathless, he pushed it open and bright sunlight popped in his face as he stepped on to the street. He was surrounded by noise, people, camera lenses being forced into his personal space.
‘Fuck off,’ he shouted, covering his head with his hands.
‘Come on, Sam. Just a couple of shots.’ A photographer pushed his Nikon right into his face.
‘Just sod off.’
The photographer was relentless. The camera smashed against Sam’s ear, the whirr of the shutter echoing around his head.
‘Smile, lover boy,’ leered the paparazzo.
Without thinking, Sam grabbed the snapper by the scruff of his shirt.
‘Get off me,’ Sam bellowed, pushing the man away from him. The photographer staggered back, then crumpled to the floor, his camera clattering to the concrete as he fell.
‘Sam. Stop.’
Someone in the studios was calling him. The crowd was building. A siren roared up to the scuffle and he heard a door slam.
Private Lives Page 17
