Holly Lester

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘I suppose Terry does have his uses,’ she said. ‘Last week some poor man tried to open this door while I was sitting in traffic on the Fulham Road. Terry was following in his car and he got to me so fast I thought he’d take the man’s arm off. The poor bloke actually screamed, Terry hurt him so much.’

  Billings remembered his own treatment at Terry’s hands and shuddered. On Wigmore Street Holly found a free meter and swooped in neatly. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that even I’d agree that slightly more discretion is now called for. Why don’t you let me go first? Then come along and ask the porter for Ms Kimmo’s flat – say you’re meeting Alan Trachtenberg.’

  Later they lay in bed while Holly smoked a pink cigarette. ‘Russian,’ she explained when he stared at it. Another trip? he wondered. As if reading his thoughts, she said, ‘I haven’t been anywhere. Though we’ve got New York next month – the UN – then the White House. Sally Kimmo brought these back for me. She’s been in Leningrad discussing plans to modernize the Hermitage.’

  ‘Modernize the Hermitage?’

  ‘Sorry. Renovate the Hermitage. I’d forgotten what a purist you are. Anyway, Sally’s a mate; she’s a furtive smoker, too.’

  ‘I met her that night at the Queen Elizabeth Conference Hall.’

  ‘She told me. You made quite an impression.’

  ‘I did?’ He told Holly about the demonstrators.

  ‘We saw them,’ she said. ‘Or heard them anyway. The police had pushed them round the corner. They are scum.’

  ‘Who, the police?’ asked Billings aggressively, remembering the harsh hoodlum edge to the demonstrating crowd. Rich Bitch.

  ‘No, those people,’ she said.

  He jumped sides quickly, wondering if he was being excessively argumentative. ‘But aren’t they on your side? You sound like a Tory when you say that.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said curtly. ‘Just because I’m Labour doesn’t mean I have to be polite about riff-raff. Maybe it used to mean that, but why be hypocritical?’

  ‘What about “workers of the world unite”?’

  ‘What about it? None of those people were working.’

  He supposed not, but was still surprised by her vehemence. ‘I thought in your scheme of things everyone should be treated equally.’

  ‘How American. Look,’ she said impatiently, ‘there’s always going to be an elite, it’s unavoidable. We just think it should be a meritocratic elite.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Billings, wondering who would be the judge of this meritocracy.

  ‘For one thing it means you can have an educated elite, but it should be a state educated elite. At the other end, we certainly believe in a safety net for the truly poor, but we don’t want it to be a trampoline for people on the make.’

  ‘That’s a good line,’ said Billings. ‘Harry should use it in one of his speeches.’

  ‘Don’t worry. He will.’

  ‘What about Harry then?’ he asked.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I met him Election night, remember? In your bedroom. Didn’t he say anything to you about that? Didn’t he wonder what I was doing there?’

  ‘Rehanging the paintings.’

  ‘He must be awfully trusting. Or very naive.’

  Holly was silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps he thought you were one of Alan’s?’

  ‘One of Alan’s? You mean, like a close “friend” of Alan?’

  She nodded, barely suppressing a smile.

  ‘You mean he really thinks I’m queer?’ He was half-outraged, half-amused.

  Holly shrugged, now smiling openly.

  ‘And where did he get that idea, I wonder? Holly,’ he tried to say sternly, ‘Look at me.’

  But she wouldn’t. Billings got out of bed and walked to the window, making sure the gauze curtain was pulled, for it was still light outside. Across the street two men were standing, talking near a lamp post. To his consternation, he recognized one of them as Fairweather, a politics hack and friend of McBain’s who had once been based in New York.

  ‘Holly,’ he said carefully, ‘there’s somebody out there who shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘What do you mean? Did Terry the Runt catch up with us?’ She sat up in bed and stubbed out her cigarette.

  ‘It’s worse than that. His name is Fairweather. I think he works for the Mail.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ she said.

  ‘If it’s any comfort, I’m sure he wasn’t there when I came in. I looked around pretty carefully.’

  ‘Would he recognize you if he saw you?’

  ‘He’d know my face, certainly, but probably not my name.’ He remembered a long evening in Costello’s Bar off Third Avenue with the man and McBain.

  She said impatiently, ‘What I’m asking is, would he put two and two together if he knew we were both here?’

  ‘How should I know? I shouldn’t have thought so. Still, we can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Damn it. I thought we’d be safe here. We’d better get dressed.’

  As they put their clothes on, Billings felt the same mix of exposure and awkwardness he had experienced the night Alan Trachtenberg had barged in. ‘Perhaps we should cool it for a while,’ he suggested. ‘Confine things to the phone.’

  She was rolling her tights over her thighs. Startled, she looked up at him. ‘Is that what you want then?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said instinctively, and, he realized, a little untruthfully. The complicated machinations arranging their trysts, the fear of being caught, the unspoken complicity of Trachtenberg in their meetings here, and the realistic sense that since the Election the stakes were all too high – these factors were now gnawing at Billings and would, he sensed, start to outstrip the happiness he took from his assignations with Holly. God knows, he still fancied Holly, but – and it was a new but, he must be getting old – he wasn’t sure if that was enough. Time was, to go to bed with a pretty girl he fancied was prospect enough to make virtually any sacrifice worthwhile. Now he wasn’t so sure. He had been enjoying his safe and purely vicarious phone relationship.

  But he hadn’t said this to her, had he? And from the relief that flashed across her face after his reflexive reassurance, he realized that he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint her now. So all he said to supplement his first, only semi-truthful response was, ‘It’s just very risky, isn’t it? This place was probably never safe. And it certainly isn’t now.’

  ‘I guess we have to move to Plan B.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I think it’s time you had a stab at politics.’

  ‘Me? Don’t be silly. I didn’t even vote Labour.’

  Holly looked shocked. ‘You didn’t? Why not?’

  ‘Because I didn’t vote at all. Believe it or not, I forgot to. But anyway, I don’t know anything about politics.’

  ‘That’s no barrier,’ said Holly. She looked distinctly cheerful. ‘I shouldn’t think many of Harry’s appointments do. After all, it’s who you know, not what you know that matters.’ Billings was not surprised to see that she was serious.

  ‘There’s a phone call for you,’ said Tara, interrupting him as he was explaining Reminstein’s theory of ‘partial space’ to a Midwestern man and his wife, who both wore brand-new Burberrys. Kansans, Billings decided, and almost certainly very rich.

  ‘I’ll ring back,’ he said testily; Tara was usually more tactful.

  But she didn’t budge, saying flatly, ‘I think these people will excuse you. It’s Downing Street on the line.’

  ‘As in Number Ten Downing Street?’ asked Mrs Kansas, agog.

  ‘I think it’s number four actually,’ said Tara, and Billings shot her a look before excusing himself and retreating to the kitchen to take the call. Why was Holly ringing now?

  ‘Mr Billings?’ The voice was female, but not Holly’s. ‘This is Cecilia Comfort, the Prime Minister’s social secretary. We were wondering if you’d be free this Sunday for lunch.’

  ‘Of course,’
he said. He didn’t have a clue what he had planned for Sunday, but proceeded on the assumption that whatever it was he could cancel it. The R-As for lunch? Something like that.

  ‘Good. It’s at Chequers. I’ll send you directions. Shall I send them to the gallery?’

  ‘That would be fine.’

  ‘Excellent. The Prime Minister and Mrs Lester will look forward to seeing you then. Shall we say one o’clock?’

  He gave no explanation to Tara, who sadly had no success with the Kansans. ‘You don’t like Americans, do you?’ he said accusingly.

  ‘Not much,’ she admitted.

  ‘I thought your generation was past all that. You know, Vietnam protests, anti-imperialism, anti-colonialism, anti-cultural hegemony or whatever. That’s all past history. When I look around here, young people seem absolutely swamped in American culture. I might as well have stayed in New York for all the difference I see.’

  ‘I don’t like their loudness,’ Tara said quietly.

  ‘That’s all?’ Nothing political about it; no Marxist line, or French-inspired contempt for the land of Dumbo, dickheads, and Disney.

  ‘They dress very badly, too,’ she said, then seemingly embarrassed by this un-PC admission, retreated to the vault downstairs to update the inventory list of un-exhibited and stored holdings.

  He remembered eventually what he had scheduled for the weekend – babysitting Sam for Marla, who was going to Oxford on Sunday to see the Ashmolean’s pre-Raphaelites. He rang her on Friday night and explained he couldn’t look after Sam after all.

  She was not understanding. ‘It’s too short notice to find anyone else.’

  ‘Can’t you leave him in the house? You’re only going for the day.’

  ‘It would be so unkind. And he’d howl – you know that. The neighbours have already complained.’

  I bet they have, thought Billings, and he could imagine Marla’s vituperative response. Marla asked, ‘Why can’t you take him with you?’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’

  Reluctantly he explained, concluding, ‘I don’t think the Prime Minister really wants to meet Sam.’

  He waited, fully expecting a classic Marla explosion. But she said nothing. ‘Marla?’ She was sulking, he supposed, and determined to wait her out.

  But instead she began to cry, something she had never ever done when they had lived together. Howled with rage, yes; sulked silently until he caved in – yes, all the time. But not cried. Now, as her sobs grew louder and louder, Billings found he couldn’t stand it. He felt guilty and sad and in pain, all at the same time. He realized he would do anything to stop her crying. ‘Bring Sam by first thing Sunday morning,’ he shouted down the phone. ‘I’ll look after him.’ Greatly shaken he put the phone down.

  Chapter 14

  He had arranged to borrow McBain’s car, and took Sam in a taxi with a reluctant driver to Highgate on Sunday morning. It was a sunny day, with the fuller light of June, and the buds had turned to leaves and were darkening green. At this time of year, he liked the suburbs, and their promise that the city could be countrified.

  He found McBain outside washing his Volvo with a hose and sponge. ‘I hope you’re not doing that for me,’ said Billings, as he paid off the driver and held Sam with his lead.

  ‘Anything to get me out of the house. Or doghouse.’

  ‘Are you in trouble then?’

  ‘No, not really.’ He handed the keys to Billings.

  ‘I don’t have to leave this early, you know.’ It was only ten thirty.

  McBain shook his head. ‘I can’t ask you in. Whatever’s happened recently to you and Marla, Jackie’s on her side. You know how women are.’

  Billings sighed. ‘All right. I’ll put the keys through the letter box when I’m back. You can ring me a minicab while I stand outside.’

  McBain scoffed. ‘It’s not that bad. I’m sure my wife’s curiosity will overcome her disapproval. We don’t know many people who lunch at Chequers. Who else will be there?’

  Billings shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I’m not even sure why I’ve been asked.’

  McBain looked sceptical. ‘I think I’ll leave that remark alone.’

  Billings struggled to look suitably unruffled. McBain said, ‘I predict an arty assembly. A collector or two, maybe Harold Pinter and Lady Antonia, John Mortimer from over the way. And some Tory they’re trying to woo.’

  ‘Maybe that advertising man from the restaurant,’ Billings said by way of light counter-attack, but immediately regretted it. For McBain’s demeanour changed abruptly, and his face went stern and steely. ‘Not so far off,’ said McBain. ‘I’ve got a lead on that slimy little prick and it’s getting me somewhere not a million miles from Millbank. I told you the whole thing smelled.’

  ‘What have you found out?’

  McBain shook his head. ‘Not yet. I’m not saying anything to anyone until I’m sure. But if my suspicions are correct, then I’ve got the story of the year. And I’m not being paranoid. What they did to me isn’t half as interesting as what I’m digging up now.’

  ‘Well anyway,’ said Billings, feeling defensive for reasons he wasn’t sure of, ‘here’s Sam.’ He held out the lead.

  ‘Don’t give him to me,’ said McBain.

  Suddenly Billings realized he had forgotten to ring McBain and ask him to look after Sam. ‘Oh my God, I forgot to ask you, didn’t I? Jesus. I’m so sorry. But it is all right, isn’t it? You know he’s no trouble.’ McBain had often tended Sam before, and his children loved the dog.

  McBain was shaking his head. ‘No can do. We’re all going to the cinema. We can put him in the basement, but do you really want that? He’ll howl the house down.’

  Billings looked down at his panting dog. ‘Well, Sam,’ he said, ‘it looks like you’re going to Chequers.’

  He put the dog in the rear of the Volvo estate, and was joined by him in the other front seat within sixty seconds of driving away. The two of them headed towards the North Circular, then out on the M40 to the M25. He had allowed himself plenty of time but managed nonetheless to run out of it; reading the map and driving proved difficult, and the precise instructions sent to him by Number Ten were chewed up by Sam just as the two of them moved into the real country of the Chilterns.

  When he pulled up to the gate at the east side of Chequers it was one o’clock; when he left the east gate, having been told it was only for the Prime Minister and Heads of State, it was five minutes past. The guard stared questioningly at Sam, and as Billings drove away towards the south gate, he saw him talking into a portable phone.

  Arriving as instructed at the Bothy Gate, whatever that was, he was met by two guards and then three more arriving in a car, coming from the direction of the house. One of them was Terry the Runt.

  The tollgate guard was sceptical. ‘Are you expected sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and gave his name.

  The guard looked at his clipboard and nodded. ‘May I see some identification?’

  Billings produced a driving licence and several credit cards from his wallet; when he sensed their insufficiency, he offered his London Library membership card and, with mild desperation, a New York health club member’s card, now expired.

  ‘Do you have anything with a photograph, sir?’

  The simple fact was he didn’t. He was well and truly late now – it was ten past one – and he started to feel panicky. ‘Mrs Lester will recognize me,’ he argued, and the guard looked at him cynically. ‘And Mr Trachtenberg – if he’s here.’

  Suddenly he looked over at Terry the Runt. ‘Him,’ he said, ‘he’ll vouch for me.’ The guard waved at Terry, who came over reluctantly.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Terry to the guard, then turned to Billings. ‘But what’s with the dog? There’s no dog on the guest list.’

  ‘Family emergency. I didn’t have any choice. I’ll leave him in the car, don’t worry. As long as he gets some water, he’ll be good as gold.’

&n
bsp; One of Terry’s sidekicks was circling the car, holding a mirror on the end of an aluminium pole. ‘We’ll have to check the dog,’ insisted Terry the Runt. Billings shrugged and walked over to the passenger seat, opened the door, and brought Sam out, holding him gently by his collar.

  Terry took a handheld device from his pocket and circled it in the air around Sam. Near the dog’s collar, which had metal studs, the device emitted a large squeal. Terry studied the collar, rubbing it between his fingers, then continued his scan. When he hovered near Sam’s back quarters with the machine, there was another more muted appeal. Terry moved the instrument closer until it touched Sam directly under his tail. The dog turned and very quickly nipped Terry the Runt on the tip of his nose.

  ‘Shit,’ shouted Terry, and the other men laughed. He scowled, rubbing his nose, which now displayed a small red mark. Billings spoke sharply to Sam, who sheepishly returned to his seat in the car.

  ‘Can I please go now?’ asked Billings, closing the door on Sam. ‘I am very late as it is.’

  He drove quickly down the drive towards the house and pulled into a forecourt with a circular drive in front of the house entrance. There were no other cars parked there; slowing down, Billings was wondering if he should go down around the side of the house to park when Holly came out the front door, waving at him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said with a big smile, coming up to the car. ‘I was worried you’d got lost.’

  ‘I did,’ he said, ‘and then this chap here ate the directions.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Sam. Don’t worry, I’ll leave him in the car. I just need some water.’

  Holly directed him around the side of the house to a cluster of buildings in the back. When he had parked and got out, he found her filling a bowl from an outside tap. He put Sam in the rear of the Volvo with the water, then at Holly’s instruction left his keys in the ignition. He felt oddly naked without them.

  Holly led him into a sort of annexe which contained the kitchen. Here a chef in a toque hat was chopping vegetables while another man stirred an immense pot on a professional range. At a long refectory table in the middle of the room sat Mrs Diamond, drinking from a steaming bowl of black coffee, with a tell-tale bulge under her left arm. She took no notice of either of them, and Holly continued through the room into a small corridor, talking all the way.