Holly Lester (22 page)

‘What about my private life?' said Billings, starting to sweat. ‘I'm separated from my wife, if that's what you mean.'

Ferguson laughed. ‘Good God no. I meant anything out of the run of the mill. Anything that would embarrass you if it got into the press.'

Embarrass the government is what you mean, thought Billings. He was only slightly tempted to say,
I do know something about Holly Lester
... ‘I don't think there's anything at all,' he said firmly.

‘Good. Then we'll go ahead this afternoon. And we'll hope to see you next week – the Committee's convening for the first time. The Prime Minister's secretary will send you details.'

A note arrived the next day, confirming his appointment and announcing the inaugural meeting of the London One Thousand Committee on the following Tuesday. In the meantime, he read up on the project, taking advantage of a long article in
Prospect
magazine which spoke about it with great seriousness and filled Billings with a sense of high purpose; another, in the
Sunday Telegraph
magazine was gossipy and irreverent, and brought him sharply back to earth. Where
Prospect
clearly saw London One Thousand as a chance to incorporate the symbolic into bricks and mortar, the
Telegraph
saw it as Trachtenberg's chance to keep his name in the news.

Billings had not realized the sheer scale of the project in financial terms, and learned to his astonishment that over £300 million was earmarked for Trachtenberg's twenty-two acres – so £12-13 million an acre. What business did he, a gallery owner delighted with a weekly take of fifteen thousand pounds, have helping dispose of such an unreal sum?

The reactions to his appointment of those close to him only fortified his doubts. Tara in particular seemed perturbed, and only grudgingly agreed to look after the shop on Tuesday while he went to Whitehall. ‘Who's working for whom?' he asked in despair.

‘I have to think of my principles,' she said firmly. ‘I'll do it this time. After that we'll have to see.'

Marla read about it in
The Times
, rang him at home to congratulate him, then cried so hard that he couldn't make sense of what she was saying. After work the next day he found a note from her, slipped under his flat's front door.
You won't have to look after Sam for me anymore. I think it's much better if we don't see each other. M
. Not ‘don't see each other for a while' or ‘I'm going away for a bit', but simply ‘don't see each other'. Billings couldn't fathom it but decided, for the time being at least, he had better leave Marla alone.

On Friday morning he stayed home, ostensibly working on his article about Nash, but in fact procrastinating, reading around the topic in an effort to avoid writing himself. He was going the next day to R-A's in Wiltshire, which he looked forward to, as spring was in full bloom and each day mild and progressively warmer. He went to work at lunchtime, and sent Tara out for an hour, while he minded the virtually visitor-less gallery – the day was too fine for browsers to want to be inside.

The
Professore
came in, and Billings greeted him warmly, but the old man seemed preoccupied. He made a show of looking at the new hangings but soon walked over to Billings at the Cedar of Lebanon, though he refused an invitation to sit down. ‘I would like to ask a favour of you, if I may.'

‘Of course. What can I do?'

The
Professore
was holding a sealed jiffy bag, the kind used to post books. ‘I would like to leave this for someone, who would collect it later today.'

‘Leave it here with me. I'll give it to them.'

But the
Professore
did not hand over the bag. ‘I must tell you there is a sum of money inside. A large sum of money.'

Multiple thoughts raced through Billings's mind, but he didn't sense danger – if something dodgy were at work here, surely the
Professore
would not have told him what the bag contained. And he could not conceive of the
Professore
as dodgy. So he left his questions unasked.

‘It would be a young man who came to collect it,' said the
Professore
. ‘I certainly understand if you would not wish to be involved.'

Again, Billings could not bring himself to ask if the transfer was on the up-and-up. ‘I am happy to do you the favour,' he said and reached for the package. ‘What is the name of the young man who will collect it?'

He was looking at the package, waiting for the
Professore
to release it into his own hand. But he didn't, and when Billings looked up at him, he found a wistful expression on the older man's face, almost regretful. ‘The man's name is Bristow. Kevin Bristow. He is the brother of Holly Lester.'

No one had come by four o'clock, and he sent Tara home early, wanting her out of the way. Since it was not an unprecedented concession, she didn't seem to find it strange at all, but it was sufficiently rare that she accepted with alacrity.

Still no-one came, and when it was almost half past five he went down to put the package in the vault for the weekend. He had just closed the vault door when he heard the gallery door buzz, and he cursed himself for his premature precautions. He shouted hello and left the vault room, only to find a man coming down the stairs. He must have moved quickly, thought Billings, feeling a little alarmed.

The man wore a black leather jacket and black jeans. As he came off the stairs Billings saw that he was a little shorter than himself, but much broader, though he moved lightly and cat-like for his bulk. He had blonde hair, cut very short except for a stub on top that stuck out. His face was conventionally good-looking, though the nose was bordering on bulbous, and it was not a friendly face.

‘No Nicky then?' the man asked softly, walking towards Billings.

‘I'm James,' said Billings, going to meet him, and put out his hand. The man looked at it briefly, then slowly shook it, very lightly. Billings asked, ‘who's Nicky anyway?'

The man looked surprised. ‘Alan's boy. He's the one I always see. Unless you've replaced him,' he said slyly.

Not you too, thought Billings, shaking his head. ‘No. And what's your name?'

The man looked coolly at him. ‘William Bloody Shakespeare,' he said calmly, then added menacingly, ‘what do you think it is?'

Billings shrugged. He felt agitated but was determined not to show it. ‘Bristow is what I think it is. Kevin Bloody Bristow. Am I right?'

Bristow's eyes widened momentarily, then he smiled and nodded. Billings said, ‘I'll just get your package for you.' He left the vault room door wide open so he could keep an eye on Bristow, who must have had the same idea since he stood there watching him. He opened the safe, took out the package, firmly relocked the safe door, then came out and handed the bag to Bristow, who looked around quickly. ‘What if someone came in?'

Billings shook his head. ‘I'd hear the door upstairs – there's a buzzer. Now, if there's nothing else, I've got to be going.'

But Bristow wasn't ready to leave. He walked over to a side table and opened the bag, then extracted three thick wads of notes, each wrapped by a rubber band. He began counting the bills – which were £20 notes – in a loud monotone. When his count hit four thousand pounds Billings grew impressed; by eight he was bored; at eleven he wondered when the exercise would be over. ‘Eleven nine eighty,' said Bristow as he put the last bill down. For the first time since he'd opened the bag he looked at Billings, glaring.

‘What's the problem? Aren't you done? I do have to be going.'

‘She promised me fucking twelve thousand. That's not twelve!' he shouted, pointing at the three stacks of bills on the table.

Billings was bewildered. ‘How much is it?'

‘Eleven nine eighty. She's a pony short! Unless,' he said menacingly, and repeated, ‘
Unless someone else took it
.'

For twenty pounds Billings would not have risked his life, which he was starting to feel was the gamble taken in the presence of this madman. ‘Are you sure it's short?' he asked, trying to sound reasonable.

‘Of course I'm bloody sure it's short.' He paused. ‘There's only one way to be sure.'

Ten minutes later the last bill had been recounted. Kevin was a mix of triumphant and enraged. ‘Eleven nine eighty, I told you. She's fucking welshed on me again. I'm not having that. Ring her now, go on.'

‘Ring who?' asked Billings, acting dumb.

‘My sister, you twat.'

‘I couldn't do that,' said Billings, thinking hard. ‘Anyway, she's away. The Prime Minister's in Brussels and she went with him.'

‘The Prime Minister,' said Bristow in a sneering, mincing voice. He started shaking his head. ‘Then ring Alan. Tell him he's fucked up. Tell him I'm not having it. Tell him twelve grand's only half what I'd get tomorrow from the
Sun
and he can't even fucking deliver that.'

Billings felt at his wits' end. How was he going to get rid of this man? One thing was certain, he wasn't going to ring Alan Trachtenberg. Or ‘Nicky' for that matter. Then he had a brainstorm. He put his hand to his head in a false show of anguish. ‘I just remembered,' he said loudly.

‘What?'

‘They didn't short-change you. I did.' He reached for his wallet. ‘I ran short in a taxi. I took a twenty out to pay the driver and forgot to pay it back.' Thank God he had a twenty pound note in his wallet. He held it out to Bristow. ‘Here. My fault. We're all square now, right?'

Bristow took the note grudgingly, disappointed that he hadn't been victimized. Somehow Billings got him to go upstairs and towards the front door. There Bristow stopped for a moment. ‘Do you know my sister then?' he asked.

‘A little,' Billings conceded.

Bristow appraised him. The madness of his performance downstairs was gone, and the air of cool, controlled menace had returned. ‘A little, eh? You're not one of Alan's, are you? Despite all this,' and he pointed around the gallery, ‘froufrou.'

‘I'm married,' said Billings firmly, worrying not so much about Bristow's view of his sexual preferences as the involvement in it of Holly.

But Bristow ignored this. ‘Next time you see my sister, tell her...' He looked out at the street, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Tell her I looked all right, will you? She always cared about that. And tell her she hasn't got to worry because I've gone back to the States, which in two days' time will be the God's truth.' Then the edge returned to his voice. ‘And tell her,' he said in what Billings saw at once was a passable imitation of his own RP voice, ‘that she's doing a marvellous job for the country. Simply marvellous.' He opened the door. ‘Cheers mate,' he said lightly, and disappeared down the street.

He decided to enter government cautiously, wearing his best suit, keeping a check on his opinions, make his way a step at a time down the garden path his affair with Holly had brought him to. He left the gallery on Tuesday morning and took a cab down to Whitehall, emerging by the gates at the end of Downing Street. He paid his fare, and told himself to keep a level head in this new world of his.

Fat chance: he felt thoroughly sucked into a new world within five minutes of leaving his taxi. He showed his passport to the porter, who was dressed like a superintendent of firemen, then was shown upstairs by a young woman into a room with a long table covered by green baize – like a professional poker table, in other words, or a government meeting room. Others were already present, and while introductions were made more people arrived. He met, among others and in quick succession, a nameless civil servant wearing a Marlborough tie, the Arts Minister Eleanor Eeley, the press secretary Hamish Ferguson, a nameless young woman with a stenographer's pad, Canon Flowing of the white hair and chauffeured Lambeth Palace limousine, a famous conceptual artist named Terence Traub, and Richard Bruce the Deputy Prime Minister. Trachtenberg ostentatiously ignored him; Sally Kimmo was friendly as usual.

Richard Bruce took the chair, sitting at one end of the table without any papers. Everyone else had an agenda before their place. ‘Let's get started please,' Bruce declared, in a bluff Northern voice, but then turned immediately to Trachtenberg on his right, who picked up the agenda and immediately took charge. Peering at his own copy Billings read:

 

1) Objectives

2) Plans

3) Contractors

4) Working party to devise schedule

5) AOB

5) Date of next meeting

 

‘Our objectives,' declared Trachtenberg, ‘seem splendidly clear. We have the advantage, too, that a certain amount of work has been done by the previous government. Not,' he said in a tone of arch irony, ‘that we would wish to let this be known.' Everyone laughed except the civil servant in the Marlborough tie, though even he permitted himself a small hint of a smile.

‘The Prime Minister is happy with the general outline of the project – specifically, the buildings we will see erected on the site. As I'm sure you know, there was a major competition under the last government, and we have chosen Samuel Selinger's design.' He stood up and went to an easel holding flip charts. He rapidly turned the pages, revealing several perspective drawings of the overall design for the site. It was a collection of various-sized buildings, linked by glass-lined passageways in airport fashion, each designed to reflect an epoch in London's history, though in fact the earliest design was Tudor. There was a Jacobean manor house, a Queen Anne brick country house, a Georgian building that looked like a Greek temple, a Victorian monstrosity that could have been designed by Burges, a Lutyens-like Edwardian house, a Miesian International Style pile of black glass and steel, even a post-modernist porthole or two. They formed overall a pentagonal-shaped circumference, with a vast open amphitheatre in its middle.