Holly Lester

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘No, not there,’ she said, and walked past him and opened another door. He stood up and followed, then entered possibly the largest bathroom he had ever seen. He realized after a moment that its size was in part illusion, fostered by a band of mirror on its far wall at waist height, and the presence of white tiles everywhere on the walls. The room comfortably held an enormous standing shower and a long bath spread across the wall in front of him. But what instantly struck him was a Hockney painting from his swimming pool period that hung fifteen feet – it seemed like fifty – across the room above the bath.

  Holly turned and saw him staring at the picture. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked, a little anxiously.

  ‘It’s terrible,’ he said, and saw her face fall. ‘No, I mean the painting’s wonderful, but what’s it doing here? The steam and moisture will kill it. Are you mad?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said firmly, reaching behind him to close the bathroom door. ‘It’s only in here during the day. No one uses this room then – I’m at work. The rest of the time it sits in that space on the wall you just pointed to.’

  ‘A sort of time share painting? Is that what you’re going to do with the Burgess?’

  ‘Why not?’ She stepped forward and opened the shower’s double-width door. ‘I thought I’d put it in here. Come and have a look.’

  Conscious of his shoes, he stepped gingerly up onto the shower’s tiled floor. Holly closed this door behind him, making him feel awkward and absurd – two clothed adults standing in a shower. Nervously he pointed at the only wall of the cubicle that wasn’t glass. ‘You mean up there?’ he asked, pointing above the shower nozzle.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said coyly. ‘I hope I’m not embarrassing you again.’

  ‘Me?’ he asked, feeling himself blush.

  ‘Moi?’ she countered. Then she grew serious. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday, and my guards. Those chaps still aren’t used to me – I’m trying to keep my life as it was. And I suppose I’m not used to them yet, either.’

  ‘Don’t worry. From their point of view, I suppose it’s “better safe than sorry.”’

  ‘You know what I first liked about you?’

  He shrugged, and was momentarily tempted to grab the handle next to them and douse them both.

  ‘I mean besides the way you looked. It was the fact that you didn’t know who I was.’

  She was smiling at him, and her eyes seemed large as – as what? he asked himself self-consciously, trying to convince himself that the wife of the Labour Party leader was doing what he thought she was doing. Large as saucers? Large as sugar beets? Then a question occurred to him. ‘How do you know I know who you are now? If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t,’ she said coolly, and put a hand on his chest. He felt at once strange and strongly attracted. He was also tired of feeling twelve years old. So he leaned down (quite a way in fact as Holly was much shorter without her heels) and kissed her gently on the lips. He was unsure of the reception he would receive, and so confused by the past quarter-of-an-hour that he would have been hard pressed to predict how she would respond, but the alacrity with which she slipped her tongue between his front teeth and swirled it around in his mouth answered his doubts.

  As they continued to kiss, she reached down and felt him through his trousers, though there was little need to arouse him further. He wondered what to do next? Sex in the shower usually involved hot water, lots of soap, and no clothes. He was about to move his mouth carefully but determinedly onto her cheek, to pause for breath and ask her how she wanted to proceed, when a voice echoed around the shower chamber.

  He jerked away involuntarily and tried to step back. She grabbed his arms. ‘It’s the intercom, idiot,’ she said. ‘Ignore it.’ She put her mouth up to be kissed again, when suddenly he heard a howl from the bathroom door. ‘Mummy!’

  Again he started and withdrew. ‘Relax,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve locked the door.’ This time he leant forward to re-enter their clinch, but now the sound of a mobile phone cut through the air, trilling in a high-pitched musical quaver.

  To his relief, even Holly reacted, backing off, then opening the shower door and moving to the medicine cabinet over the loo. From it she retrieved a mobile phone, pressed a button, and said harshly, ‘Yes. What is it?’

  As the child banged on the bathroom door, Billings stepped out of the shower, finding his excitement rapidly disappearing. Holly barked at her mobile, a voice cackled on the unseen intercom, and he thought it prudent to open the door. When he did, the child on the other side had disappeared. He turned back to find Holly putting away the phone. ‘Sorry about that,’ she declared. ‘Why don’t you shut the door and we can start all over again?’

  He looked at her and sighed. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. I’d love to, honestly I would. But I have the feeling that as soon as I lay a hand on you, your son will knock at the door, your office will ring you on your mobile, and the daily will start shouting over the intercom.’

  ‘She’s not the daily,’ Holly said with irritation.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what is she then? Another security guard?’

  Holly stared at him coolly. ‘Precisely.’

  He started to speak, then stopped short. ‘She’s what? MI5? Or is it six? And what happened to Terry the Runt and his friend?’

  ‘She’s Special Branch as a matter of fact. And Terry the Runt, as you call him, covers me when I go somewhere. Mrs Diamond is for the house.’

  ‘Mrs Diamond? Is she Jewish, too? Two minorities for the price of one.’ He sounded petulant, he realized, but was actually feeling very stressed, drawn between his desire for this woman and the apparently hysterical logistics of her household.

  She seemed to sense his anxiety, for she gave him a look of cool appraisal, then smiled suddenly, half-wickedly, half with the radiance that had first attracted him. ‘Come on,’ she said ‘Let’s go.’

  For the nth time he found himself following her through the house, this time downstairs and out of the front door. When the redoubtable Mrs Diamond tried to interrupt their progress, Holly firmly waved her aside with some brief nonsense about the need for a treble hook for the Burgess and their imminent return from a visit to the ironmonger up the road.

  She led Billings instead across the street to her parked Audi, and drove him at speed through Regent’s Park, across Marylebone Road, and into Wimpole Street. Doctor land, thought Billings, who had remained silent during the drive. Parking at a meter, Holly switched the ignition off and turned and faced him. She spoke to him for the first time since they’d left her bathroom. ‘I’m game,’ she said firmly. ‘How about you?’

  He nodded, suddenly hoping, now that the interrupting sources of his anxiety – her child, her nanny, her ‘security’ – were removed, that she meant what he thought she meant. They both got out and he walked with her into a newish brick block of flats, anomalous here, deep in the heart of private medicine. As they walked in, a porter emerged, but he only nodded politely at Holly. ‘Is Mr Trachtenberg in residence?’ she asked without slowing down on her way to the lift.

  ‘He’s away madam,’ said the man, and turned back to his office.

  In the lift she just smiled at Billings, but when they got out on the fourth floor she took his hand and swung it with hers as they walked down the corridor. Opening a door, she said, ‘There will be no interruptions now,’ and as they walked inside what seemed to be a flat – it was certainly not a surgery – she slammed the door shut behind them and put one hand up behind his neck the better to kiss him, the other again on his awakening trousers.

  After which, gentle reader, Billings himself would find it politic to draw a veil over subsequent events.

  Chapter 4

  Like hell he would.

  He followed her through the front hallway into a large sitting room of almost ineffable drabness. The ceiling was low, for like many post-War blocks, the building had been compacted to allow six floors where its Victorian neighbours ha
d five. The room was painted grey, with a brown wall-to-wall carpet and two standing lamps throwing out vectors of yellow, depressing light. On a pair of side tables sat at least a dozen animal miniatures (they looked a mix of Meissen and Staffordshire) which contributed to the overall effect of a 1950s waiting room, probably that of a psychoanalyst, who collected pieces on holiday in aping homage to Freud’s own collecting habits. Surprisingly, the pictures on the wall were rather good – a Glasgow School depiction of geese at the far end, a copy of a Fragonard oil of a reclining nude on the side wall – but they were hung too high and were so badly lit that their presence seemed an accident.

  ‘This is nice,’ said Billings, and immediately regretted it when Holly looked at him sceptically. But in fact the overpowering dullness of the place struck him as quintessentially English, almost historically so, and far from lowering his sexual temperature, it inflamed it instead. A veteran of trendy New York, he thought of the countless all-white living rooms he had encountered, the latest efforts of yet another chic Japanese designer. To Billings the room represented the sheer comforting dullness he associated with ‘back home’. For years he had yearned for it; now to discover it in the company of Holly Lester was tremendously exciting. ‘At least we’re on our own here. You’ve managed to give Security the slip.’

  Holly sighed. ‘Yes, but it’s getting more difficult. God knows what it will be like in future.’

  ‘Whose flat is this anyway?’

  ‘Just friends,’ she said quietly.

  ‘They live here?’ he asked, a little incredulously.

  ‘Don’t worry. They won’t show up.’ After her determined energy taking him here, Holly seemed less animated, almost shy. ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked, pointing to a tray of bottles sitting amidst the miniatures. They were all liqueurs – crème de menthe, Cointreau, Grand Marnier. Never favourites of Billings, who drank wine or whisky.

  ‘Perhaps afterwards,’ he said, then swallowed when he realized what he’d said. ‘So to speak,’ he added weakly.

  ‘So to speak?’ She giggled. ‘You should know that I’m quite literal-minded.’ She looked at him contemplatively before speaking. ‘So afterwards it is,’ and she led the way into the bedroom, going ahead to stand by the window, where she looked out over Wimpole Street through the white gauze curtains.

  He worried that she might be changing her mind, but resisted the temptation to say anything. When she turned around she smiled at him. ‘Well,’ she said, and nodded towards the bed, ‘I’ve seen bigger, but it will have to do. Why don’t you warm the bed up while I pop to the loo?’

  Naked under the covers, Billings felt cold and pale – his arms seemed pallid against the sheets, which were canary yellow. When Holly came out of the bathroom, he saw that she had taken off everything except her bra and pants. Her skin was only lightly tanned, but contrasted vividly with the dazzling white cotton of her underwear. As she unhooked her bra she looked away, then shook her mane of black hair as if just out of the shower. Her breasts jiggled; they were round and full, and as tanned as the rest of her. She leant down and pulled back the covers, then quickly scooped off her underpants and climbed in. Billings moved away and turned on his side to make room. ‘Brrr,’ she whispered, shivering. ‘Warm me up please.’

  He turned and kissed her slowly at first, finding her lips deliciously soft. They tasted slightly sweet, with the faintest hint of peach from her lipstick. When he tried to kiss her harder, her lips seemed to move round his own, frustrating his search for firmness so that he slowed down, and eased the pressure of his own kiss.

  He moved a hand up and gently rubbed her breast. She shivered again, this time not from the cold. Moving lower, he brushed his palm lightly down her stomach, which was flat and extraordinarily smooth.

  She moved her own hand down and touched him, stroking lightly while they continued to kiss. Then she broke her lips away. ‘Soon,’ she murmured.

  He pulled his head back gently and looked at her. ‘Is it safe? I haven’t got anything with me.’

  She thrust her head back against the pillow, puffed her cheeks, then blew the air out. ‘You’re right.’ She lifted back the sheet and swung out of the bed. Going to the chair by the window, she rummaged in her handbag. ‘Here,’ she said, flipping a small foil package at him in bed. ‘This should do.’

  He inspected the package and found it covered in Oriental lettering. On the back he found, in small print, MADE IN KOREA. ‘A Korean condom?’ he said, as she got back into bed. Where had she found it? Had there been an Opposition fact-finding tour of the Far East – or Asia as he was now supposed to call it? He thought of his Uncle Harry, his mother’s brother and family black sheep, who claimed to have received a postcard in the 1920s from a friend visiting Shanghai. IT’S TRUE is all it had said.

  A light caress across his belly interrupted this contemplation. ‘Sorry,’ she said lightly. ‘But it’s probably best to be careful. Though there may be a slight problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  She tried to stifle a giggle. ‘Koreans aren’t always the biggest of men. And you seem more than a little Western in your measurements.’

  Like saying he was good looking, this struck Billings as flattering, largely (so to speak) untrue, and deeply pleasing. Using his teeth, he ripped open the foil, uncurled its pink contents, and lying on his back drew the sheath on.

  She was right. The pink covering extended all of an inch and a half down his shaft, and gave the impression that someone had wiped a pink paint bush lightly against the top of his member, creating a visual effect not unlike those of old-fashioned ice lollies, made in the shape of a Flash Gordon rocket, with a tip the colour of strawberry ice cream.

  She looked down at him and burst out laughing. ‘I guess I’ll have to take the risk – I’m on the pill anyway. And it’s not as if I met you in a pub or something.’

  ‘Cork Street serves as a form of protection?’

  ‘Should I be worried?’ She was trying to sound unconcerned, but there was some urgency to her voice. ‘Are you bisexual or something?’

  ‘I’ve never been to bed with two women at the same time.’ When she smiled only perfunctorily, he spoke more seriously. ‘Don’t worry. I’m both straight and relatively inactive. No one else since my wife, and I married her seven years ago.’

  She said nothing but looked considerably relieved. Suddenly reaching down, she put her hand around the condom, which was flagging now along with Billings’s ardour. ‘Fuck it,’ she declared, peeling the awful item off. Pushing the covers back, he got up on his knees and gently straddled her. As he looked down she smiled up at him with such a captivating look of enjoyment that he did nothing for a moment but simply watch her. Then she said, ‘Now,’ and he slid slowly into her.

  He started to smile down at her, but she put her hand behind his neck and drew his mouth down to hers. She felt wonderfully soft inside, moving her hips slowly in time with his thrusting. ‘Sorry,’ he said to her, and her eyes widened, ‘but I’m not going to last much longer. It’s too exciting.’

  She stopped moving. ‘How flattering. For a minute I thought something was wrong. Go on. Whenever you like.’ She kissed him, this time more passionately, and suddenly put both legs around his back and crossed them until he felt her ankles pressing against the small of his back. As he began to climax, he suddenly felt her squeeze him inside, milking him as he enjoyed an orgasm that seemed to roll his spine.

  She held him inside, resisting his efforts to withdraw and lie beside her. ‘Stay as you are,’ she said, with a mock air of command. ‘This is the best bit. For me that is,’ she said, her eyes dancing. ‘It seems fair to say you’ve had your fun.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s been so long I couldn’t wait. Next time I’ll be longer.’

  ‘Next time?’ She looked at him teasingly. ‘I’m late as it is. I’m due to host a fundraiser in an hour’s time.’

  He felt disappointment, but wasn’t sure why – he could hardly have
expected to stay all night in this grim love nest. He must have shown how he felt, for she looked at him intently. ‘What’s the matter? Why are you looking like that? Post-coital tristesse?’

  He disengaged gingerly, and lay beside her. ‘Maybe,’ he said, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Or guilt.’

  ‘Guilt? Why?’

  Yes, why guilt? Once, years before, he had slept with Ona Winkler, sister of the famous 57th Street dealer, herself married to a well-known venture capitalist. But the husband had beaten her, or so Ona had claimed; moreover, Billings had been one of many, as her subsequent messy divorce proceedings had revealed. This seemed very different; from what little he knew of Harry Lester, Billings could not see him bashing Holly about.

  ‘Is it my marriage you’re worried about,’ she said, sitting up. ‘Or is it yours?’

  ‘Neither,’ he said emphatically. ‘Though I do keep forgetting who you are.’

  ‘Who I am? Or who my husband is?’

  ‘I suppose it is your husband.’

  ‘My husband,’ she said carefully, ‘is...’ and she stopped short. She will now tell me how wonderful her husband can be, Billings decided, and how much the Labour Party means to her, and that only Harry’s contracting cancer of the scrotum has forced her to look elsewhere for the satisfaction of physical needs which even the stuffiest Victorians expected to occur in marriage.

  But all she said was, ‘Not in this bed,’ and it took Billings a moment to connect this with the beginning of her sentence.

  ‘That’s for sure,’ he said, ‘unless he’s one of those people who seem larger than life on screen but turn out to be tiny in person. You know, like Tom Cruise.’

  ‘He’s six foot three in his stocking feet.’

  ‘Tom Cruise?’

  ‘No, idiot. My husband.’

  ‘Then we can be confident he’s not here. But tell me about the fundraiser. What’s it for?’

  She tittered. ‘Sometimes I don’t know about you. Either you’re very naive or just having me on.’