Page 208 of Private Lives

How dare he suggest that? Helen felt her hands shaking and tucked them under her arms. She hated the way Simon was looking at her. No one ever made her feel stupid, no one. And yet the thin, disdainful line of her boyfriend’s mouth cut her to the core.

‘What does she know exactly?’

Everything, she thought. She knows everything.

‘She knows about Amy’s affair with Peter,’ she said. ‘She knows she was blackmailing him. She knows that the Dallincourt senior executives, including Peter Rees, were aware that they had botched a repair job at the rig and that it was highly dangerous for it to keep operating.’

‘And the rest?’ said Simon. ‘Does she know about Peter’s involvement with Doug Faulks?’

Helen nodded.

‘Shit.’

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p; Helen turned away and took a deep breath, fighting to control her emotions, wondering where it had all gone wrong. She knew, of course. When Simon had asked her to bury the story of Amy Hart’s inquest, Helen had hesitated. The quickest way of doing it was to use a big, big story to push everything else out of the headlines. And as the final day of the inquest coincided with the Sam Charles injunction return date, she knew she had the perfect opportunity to help Simon. It would mean sacrificing the best interests of a wealthy and high-profile client and breaking every code of professional conduct. But Simon had been persuasive, in the bedroom and out of it – reassuring Helen that he would make it worth her while, that he would send millions of pounds of legal work her way from his roster of powerful international companies. And it was hard to say no to someone you were in love with.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Simon, pacing up and down the terrace. ‘Why didn’t you just destroy the bloody computer?’

‘You know why,’ she said, watching his face. She didn’t need to spell it out. She had kept it as insurance. When you were dealing with men who thought nothing of sacrificing lives like pawns in a chess game, sometimes you needed your own leverage.

‘Did they kill her, Simon?’ she asked suddenly. It was a question she had not dared ask when Simon had pleaded with her to help him.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, not looking at her. ‘It’s not my problem.’

She stepped forward and grabbed on to his arm.

‘But it is our problem, Simon,’ she said. ‘I need to know everything if I’m going to work out what we can do next.’

He shrugged her off.

‘Nothing is ever a problem,’ he said, his eyes cold. ‘Not if you are prepared to do what it takes to fix it.’

He stomped back into the house and slammed the door. When he was gone, Helen sank to her knees, covering her mouth with her hand. It’s all over, everything is gone, she thought desperately. My life is at an end. For a moment she gave into it, letting the fear and the despair wash over her, consume her.

But she was Helen Pierce. Helen Pierce did not give in to anything for long. And so, slowly, she pulled herself to her feet. Simon was right. You had to be prepared to do what was needed to fix things. She walked back into the house and picked up her phone.

‘Peter,’ she said, trying to keep her voice even. ‘It’s Helen Pierce.’

A warm breeze fluttered through the trees as Helen descended the stone steps into the sunken garden in Bloomsbury. She had been surprised when Peter Rees had suggested meeting here, because she had thought she was one of the few people in London who knew about it. Years earlier, when she had lived in a large apartment behind UCL, she had come to this hidden oasis often. It had been her private sanctuary, a place to clear her head. I could do with a little of that today, she thought, walking along the gravel path.

It was not yet 10 a.m. and, as she had expected, the green space was almost deserted. Just a man walking his dog and two young lovers entwined on a bench who looked as if they had been up all night partying and were loath to leave each other even now. She wondered if they felt as tired as she did. She’d left Seaways immediately after her argument with Simon, arriving home at 2 a.m., and had lain awake, turning things over in her mind, until the sunlight cut across the ceiling.

Across the garden, Helen could see a slim, silver-haired man sitting on a bench, one long leg crossed over the other. She had only met Peter Rees once before, introduced by Simon, of course, but even at this distance she could tell it was him.

‘So, the cat’s out of the bag?’ he said with a small smile as she sat down next to him. ‘I don’t suppose it’s in my interests to sue you for professional negligence.’ His expression lacked the anger that Simon had displayed the night before. Instead he seemed sad, worn down. He looked up and tapped Helen’s knee; almost a paternal, reassuring gesture.

‘In a way, I think I’m glad that this has got out.’

‘Glad?’ said Helen.

‘You can keep the headlines out of the newspapers, but you can’t hide the truth from yourself,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s not been easy living with what has happened. I loved Amy, you know, in my way. She made me feel young, clever, handsome, and that doesn’t happen much these days, let me tell you.’

‘But you couldn’t commit to her?’

Peter held his hands open.

‘I couldn’t give her what she wanted from me. My children would never have forgiven me.’

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