His arrival had not been expected. As usual Richard Bruce was preparing to hand over the chairing of the meeting to Trachtenberg; as usual, no one else was paying much attention to the opening procedures of this weekly affair. Billings, as was becoming customary for him, was unobtrusively observing Canon Flowing’s weekly and only semi-surreptitious assault on the single plate of biscuits. At one weekly meeting he had managed to scoff five; on this particular morning he had already downed a large round chocolate number, and seemed on his way towards ensnaring a pink wafer from the far edge of the plate when the meeting room door opened and in walked the Prime Minister.
At once, the Deputy Prime Minister grew agitated, and stopped the usual handover to Trachtenberg. ‘Welcome Mr Prime Minster,’ he said instead, with as much formal authority as he could.
Sitting down, Harry Lester nodded and smiled at each one of them. ‘Canon Flowing,’ he said, ‘what a pleasure. I wonder if we could perhaps have a benediction on the proceedings before our business begins.’
The Canon looked startled; for once his loquacity was kept in check. ‘For what we are about to receive,’ he intoned nervously, ‘may the Lord make us truly thankful.’ He looked pointedly at the biscuit plate, then pounced on the pink wafer.
Harry smiled gently. ‘Deputy Prime Minister,’ he said to Bruce, ‘don’t let me alter your usual order of business. I’ve just come by to thank you all for your hard work.’
Billings had now been sufficiently involved in politics at close range to wonder what other agenda was at work. He did not have very long to wait. Bruce said, ‘That’s very kind of you Prime Minister,’ then waited, as if on cue for Harry to continue speaking.
At this point Trachtenberg intervened, with what Billings by now recognized as a purely malicious intent. ‘Why don’t you read the minutes, Deputy Prime Minister?’ he suggested. ‘That’s our usual procedure, surely.’
Bruce looked suddenly panicked, like a fat hare caught in a lorry’s headlights. Billings was puzzled. Harry Lester seemed to sense this anxiety and came to Bruce’s rescue. ‘Mr Chairman, perhaps I will say a few words after all.’ Harry was speaking in the higher-pitched tones he usually reserved for speeches. ‘Important as the work you’re doing is, it’s equally important how it is viewed. There’s not much point building something of symbolic importance if the message is read the wrong way.’
The door in the corner opened. ‘Ah Hamish,’ said Harry, ‘just in time.’ Ferguson came into the room, carrying a stack of photocopies which he began to distribute around the table. Billings looked at his; it was a copy of an article in that day’s edition of the Sun. Headlined ARTSY-FARTSY, the article described in the rudest, most caricatured terms the work the Committee was doing. Describing its members as bureaucrats, Labour apparatchiks, or as toffs with airs, the article questioned the committee’s basic enterprise – not on grounds of taste, or value for money, but as an elitist ‘artsy’ conspiracy. A complementary leader was even more forthright: Labour had not won the Sun’s vote to spend a lot of money on abstract rubbish and supposed Old Masters. Labour hadn’t been picked by the Sun to let a lot of fancy boys – ‘with more nance than nous’ – impose their twisted tastes on an all too tolerant populace. If the London One Thousand Committee was to mean anything worthwhile, it should work to celebrate the London of honest working men and women, city of cockles and beer, football and Sundays in the park, Arthur Daley and... blah, blah thought Billings, suddenly unable to read any more.
He sat in silence while the others finished reading. Suddenly, before the Prime Minister could speak, Eleanor Eeley intervened. Usually she was so silent in their meetings that Billings had long ago concluded that her left-wing ferocity was subdued by her complete ignorance of the arts. But she pulled no punches now. ‘I can’t take this crap seriously,’ she declared, waving the article in the air.
Harry’s face turned puce: clearly this was not the reaction he had expected. Hamish Ferguson, standing by the door, looked down at her with contempt. ‘You had better take it seriously,’ he said.
She ignored him and addressed Harry. ‘Prime Minister, surely you’re not concerned about this. It’s just the usual demagogic frothing of the Right.’
‘Yes,’ said Traub the conceptual artist who, like Eeley, very rarely contributed to the meetings, indeed very rarely attended them. ‘Everybody knows the Sun’s view of the arts – they’re pink and queer and an utter waste of time.’
Harry was taken aback. ‘Well,’ he said, quickly treading water, ‘there’s much in what you say, but it’s important to remember that we had the Sun’s support in the Election. We wouldn’t want to lose that, would we?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Eleanor Eeley.
The Prime Minister started shaking his head. ‘I’m not here to argue the toss,’ he said.
For a moment Billings thought Eeley would ask why not, but she bit her lip. The Prime Minister looked at his watch ostentatiously and jumped to his feet. ‘Must dash,’ he said. He looked around at them all with a grin. ‘Good to see you. Keep up the good work.’
When he left, business resumed on the usual footing – Trachtenberg promptly took over. Expecting some conversation about the Sun article to follow, Billings was surprised when Trachtenberg simply ignored the Prime Minister’s awkward intervention, as if it had never happened. He was also surprised that Eleanor Eeley had nothing to say. But then he realized that her earlier bravery had disappeared in the face of her fear of Trachtenberg.
The refurbishment of the Downing Street living quarters entailed no such deadline; Holly made it abundantly clear that as far as she was concerned, he had better help her ensure the place remained unliveable at least until the next General Election. Their relationship, though he would have hesitated to use the term, was becoming an odd mix of hastily seized opportunities for sex (by now Holly was able to lock them in on the top floor of Number Ten) and lengthier but less exciting hours spent in the house on Regent’s Park Road. He knew now that Carrie would return to Melbourne after Christmas, that Mrs Diamond had a son who kept getting into trouble, and that Terry the Runt had a thyroid problem. He felt confident, too, that come the New Year he would persuade Holly to send Sebastian to school – which school didn’t really matter, he insisted, but school nonetheless.
These domestic details occurred against a larger public tapestry which occasionally upset the routine. One week the President of the United States flew in with the First Lady (‘First to whom?’ Billings asked Holly) and there was not even a pretext that their Tuesday or Thursday assignations would go ahead. During the visit a photo appeared in the Daily Mail which Tara showed Billings with glee. Underneath a headline captioned WATCH OUT HARRY! there was a picture, taken from behind, of the Lesters leaving the River Cafe with the President between them. His left arm was high up on Harry’s shoulder, while his right was positioned lower down in the small of Holly’s back.
‘Cameras never lie,’ Holly explained the following week as they lay underneath the Downing Street duvet. ‘But they don’t always tell the whole story.’
‘Meaning what?’ he asked, watching her blow smoke rings up in the air above their heads.
‘Ten seconds later when we were out of camera range his hand was twelve inches lower. I haven’t had my bum pinched since I worked summers on Brighton Pier.’
‘He pinched you? The President?’
‘Who else?’
‘Where the hell was the “Foist Lady”?’
‘In the loo. She’s the opposite of our Royals, you know. They’re famous for holding it in; she did nothing but nip out to pee during her whole stay here.’
‘I hope you slapped his face then,’ said Billings indignantly, feeling cross and prim, he realized with irritation.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous. He shouldn’t behave like that. What would Harry think – did you tell him?’
She inhaled noisily. ‘Don’t be so silly. It’s just
the way the man is.’
Billings remained indignant. ‘Just the way he is? He sounds utterly repulsive.’
Holly nodded with a mouth full of smoke. She sat up, exhaled, and stubbed out her cigarette on the top of an empty Perrier can. ‘Of course he is. But also absolutely charming. When he looks at you with his big blue eyes and smiles, you can understand why so many women have succumbed.’
‘Some of them against their will, it seems.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Holly confidently. She leaned over and poked Billings in the chest. ‘Don’t tell me you’re getting jealous.’
Billings tried to smile, aware that this was precisely how he felt. ‘Jaloux? Moi? Non. I was merely thinking of the “Foist Lady”, as they’d say in New York. I thought you’d take umbrage on her behalf.’
‘Out of feminist solidarity?’
‘Not really. Just basic human empathy. Didn’t you like Madame President?’
Holly spoke without hesitation. ‘I thought she was absolutely ghastly.’
‘But the press said you got on famously.’
She looked at him knowingly. ‘Do you really expect me to rise to that?’ When he shook his head, she added, ‘She reminded me of the Head Girl at school. Helen Cox was her name. She tried smoking and when she didn’t like it she turned in all the rest of us who did. Silly cow.’
‘Who? Helen Cox or the President’s wife?’
‘Both. Same prissiness, same insufferable rectitude, same absolute lack of any sense of humour. No wonder he plays around.’ She was out of bed now, lighting another cigarette and staring down through the lace curtain at Downing Street below. ‘She invited me to Washington. I thought, great, never been there. Do the town. Open their Congress or whatever. Eat terrific food. Meet John Travolta. Have Stephen Sondheim play piano in the East Room. Or Blue Room, or whatever. But no, what the woman really wants is – get this – some free management consultancy for this charity of hers. Single Mothers With Autism.’
When Billings looked sceptical, Holly threw up her arms. ‘Something like that, honest. She’s even written a book. The Heart Is a Lonely Mother – all proceeds to the charity. Apparently it can’t afford to pay any consultants, and if she uses her friends over there they’ll appoint another Special Prosecutor. Honestly, those Yanks. Someone at McKinsey told her what I did, and Bob’s your uncle – an invite right away. Gosh is Harry cross.’
‘Why is he cross?’
‘I guess he reckoned we’d be invited because of his new importance – you know, the Special Relationship and all that twaddle.’ She reached down for her bra on a chair and examined it. ‘Instead he’s going there on my consultancy coat-tails.’ She suddenly laughed with the rich throaty peal that signified she was happy. ‘My bra straps, actually, if the President could have his way.’ She looked again at the bra in her hand. ‘What do you think, should I put this on?’
He looked at the skimpy blouse which she had also draped on the chair. ‘You had better, Holly,’ he said seriously. ‘It’s much too revealing otherwise.’
‘No, stupid,’ she said, and came and jumped with her knees up on the bed. ‘I meant, is there time, or should I get dressed?’ She put a hand under the duvet and began exploring. ‘Don’t you get boring on me as well. I couldn’t bear it if you started a charity too.’
Very occasionally, he bumped into Harry, and Billings gradually lost most of his nervousness about the man, though he continued to feel anxious on the now rarer occasions on which he and Holly slept together. Harry was friendly towards him, inquiring about the progress of London One Thousand or the state of the Downing Street rehab. One time he thanked Billings for playing football with Sebastian, ‘I’m sure it’s a great bore,’ he said knowingly, ‘but the boy does love it.’
Towards Holly, Billings was more fond than ever, if not as erotically drawn to her as in the first months of their affair. He remained sceptical about the long term future of their odd relationship, but found his fear of discovery receding, and a sense of continuity growing.
Until, that is, one day late in October when he received a phone call from an assistant in Millbank, asking him to lunch at Orso’s with Alan Trachtenberg. Five possible dates were offered, and Billings found it impossible to claim he was busy on each occasion. So ten days later, at one o’clock on the first Thursday of November (with the first real frost of the year), Billings went to the restaurant, checked in with the maitre d’, and sat alone (since he was first) waiting in some trepidation to hear what the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff had to say.
Waiting was the operative word. When at ten to two Trachtenberg had not appeared, Billings went ahead and ordered for himself, his relief at the no-show alternating with considerable annoyance.
He ate slowly, savouring the food and slowly adopting to the self-consciousness of eating alone in a restaurant designed for company. The risotto was nutty and glistening; the osso bucco rich and intensely flavoured. Ordering a coffee, he was about to ask for the bill when Trachtenberg suddenly appeared.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said airily, sitting down across from Billings. A waiter appeared immediately with a small plate on which lay a single greenish banana. Billings was puzzled. Trachtenberg couldn’t have ordered it – he’d only just arrived. Or did he eat here so often they knew his tastes, and this was his standard fare – ‘the usual for Signor Trachtenberg’? Coming right up: one unripe banana.
Fascinated, Billings watched as Trachtenberg unfolded his napkin, a voluminous wave of pink linen, and wrapped it carefully around his neck, knotting it carefully, like a mafioso capo dining out in Manhattan’s Little Italy. Taking his knife, he picked up the banana and sliced open the skin at one end, then peeled it back and cut off a small piece. As he chewed this he looked thoughtfully at Billings, who sipped his coffee and tried to look benign, thinking Sam, where are you when I need you?
‘Lunch might have been a bit tricky anyway,’ declared Trachtenberg. When Billings looked questioningly, he explained, ‘I mean, we really haven’t got that much to say to each other, have we?’ He cut another piece of banana and held it up thoughtfully between his thumb and his knife before sliding it smoothly into his mouth.
‘Then why did you want to see me?’
Trachtenberg looked at him with mock-surprise. ‘Want to see you? Have I ever given the slightest indication that I wanted to see you? I think you know perfectly well what I think of you – and of your, what shall we call it?, your liaison.’
‘In your view I’m the guilty party?’
Trachtenberg leant over the table. ‘In my view, you’re a fucking menace. I’m just praying that sooner or later – and let’s face it, the sooner the better – you know who will grow tired of you, and then you can be pushed back into the mediocre obscurity you used to enjoy. Before you do real damage to the people I care about.’
‘You mean party, not people, don’t you? I would never do anything to hurt Holly.’
‘Perhaps not deliberately – I’m happy to give you the benefit of that doubt. But who knows who else knows about it – who else you’ve told. Like that sad little wife of yours.’
‘Marla? How do you know about her? Have you been checking up on me?’
Trachtenberg shook his head contemptuously. ‘What do you expect me to do when someone nobody’s even heard of arrives on the scene? Hope that he’s kosher and can be trusted? Get real. You’re not even a Labour supporter.’
Billings felt as if he had been given a second meal to digest. He exhaled slowly. The waiter came by, offering more coffee, but he shook his head. When they were alone again, he asked mildly, ‘Is this why you wanted to see me? To let me know of your disapproval?’
‘No, though mind you, that part’s been a pleasure.’ Trachtenberg was leaning back now, examining the remains of his repast. ‘The real reason I wanted to see you was to enlist your help in something.’
‘My help? You have a funny way of going about it.’
‘Perhaps, but it’s not for
me; it’s for Holly. She may be coming into a spot of bother, and you’re in a position to help out.’
‘What’s the problem?’ he asked warily.
‘You’re friends with William McBain, aren’t you?’ When Billings nodded he said, ‘He’s been sniffing around – a bit odd, you might think, in that he’s meant to be an arts columnist these days, but I suppose old habits die hard. Anyway, as I say, he’s been being a bit of a nuisance. Nothing wrong with that, of course, it’s only his job, press freedom, blah, blah, blah.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘If it’s anything serious, Hamish and I can soon sort him out.’
‘That’s good to know. So presumably you won’t need me.’
‘I’m afraid I will. Because it’s nothing political, you see. It’s to do with Holly; and her past. McBain’s been ferreting around and he may have found some things out. They won’t damage Labour; they’ll just hurt Holly. Surely you wouldn’t want that, would you?’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Like I said, personal things – about Holly. I can’t say anything more.’
Billings shrugged. ‘I can always ask Holly.’
Trachtenberg nodded. ‘Of course you can. Though you should know it was all long ago, when she and her brother were young. Things happened to Holly, horrible things. Things you’d never want to talk about, let alone have splashed about in the press. So by all means ask her if you want to. But if I were you, I wouldn’t.’
Holly Lester Page 20
