Holly Lester (18 page)

She was vehement about the new Downing Street quarters. ‘They're a tip. One always heard about Mrs Thatcher making late night cuppas for herself and Denis – along with the whisky. Well, the reason she did it all herself is there isn't any room for anyone else in the kitchen! It's the size of a galley on a tiny boat.'

‘Aren't the reception rooms nice?'

‘They're okay. A bit tatty. And the bedrooms are ghastly.'

‘Have you
got
to live there?'

‘Funny you should ask. That's exactly what I'm wondering. If we sleep in Primrose Hill, who would be the wiser?'

‘I suppose security would be an issue.'

‘Not if we keep quiet about it. And who's to say Downing Street is any safer? Nobody's thrown mortar bombs at Primrose Hill lately.'

This phone relationship was pleasant, and safe – Billings had no wish to encounter Harry Lester again in his own bedroom. He missed physical contact with Holly, but he found another kind of excitement in the vicarious thrill he got from Holly's account of her new days in power. When Harry Lester's first Question Time loomed, he asked Holly if Harry liked the House.

‘He must do – he bought it. I wanted Islington myself.'

‘I mean the House of Commons. Does he enjoy the debates?'

‘I don't think he cares one way or another. It's not really important anymore.'

‘It isn't?'

‘James,' she said, with the impatience he was beginning to find characteristic when she thought him naive. ‘Where have you been? Do you think people voted for us because of how Harry performs in the House of Commons?'

‘I guess not. It's all television now, isn't it? But Question Time's televised.'

‘Yes, and four people watch, three of them too young to vote. The most exposure it gets is for twelve seconds on the evening news. Unless you fall flat on your face, there's not much that can go wrong.'

And she was right. By the first Question Time, the former Prime Minister had already announced he would stand down as Party leader, and at the despatch box he cut a lone, lugubrious figure, while behind him the few surviving Tory MPs looked around them for a future Leader. The next day, Billings could not even remember the ex-Prime Minister's line of attack, such was the exuberant confidence which Harry Lester brought to his own replies. No dialectic characterized the exchange; the effect instead was presidential, as if the new ‘chief executive' was being prompted rather than challenged by the nugatory queries of his adversary.

Then one evening, close to closing time at the gallery, the phone rang and – like old times – it was Holly. ‘I've ditched the Runt this time. And unless he managed to drive
through
a 36 bus at Hyde Park Corner, he's not going to find me anytime soon. Come on, lock up, I'm almost there.'

‘You must be mad,' said Billings. ‘You should have security with you.'

‘Oh, not you too. Come on, I'm turning off Piccadilly now.'

He switched off the lights and quickly locked the gallery door. He had no sooner turned around towards the street when the Audi pulled up. As they drove away he kept looking in the left side wing mirror. ‘Relax,' Holly commanded.

At the traffic lights at Oxford Street, a young man in worn fatigues, wearing combat boots, and trailed by a mongrel, recognized Holly. ‘It's her,' he shouted, to the crowd crossing the side street with him. ‘It's
Holly Lester
! Look!'

Most people seemed embarrassed by this un-English acknowledgement of celebrity, but a few stared through the windscreen. Holly hit the button for the power locks, then nimbly drove ahead when the light turned green. Only when they had crossed Oxford Street did Billings relax.

‘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.