Holly Lester (26 page)

Billings was rarely part of other press coverage, though a charity dinner attended at Sally Kimmo's behest resulted in his picture appearing in the
Standard
Friday magazine, wearing black tie and standing between Sally Kimmo and the new director of the Tate. He sent a copy to Marla, thinking it would make her laugh. One evening he went to dinner at Sally Kimmo's house in Chester Square. Her husband was away, which let Sally entertain the Labour politicos, media people, and art world folk she liked most. The hospitality was extraordinary: a sit down dinner for over twenty with champagne and cold lobster, followed by tender veal and wild forest mushrooms, served with very expensive bottles of Margaux. When most of the guests were leaving, Sally asked if he'd stay behind for a nightcap, but he begged off, since he had a long day of picture hanging ahead of him. On his way out the door a maid in uniform handed him a wrapped package. ‘A token,' said Sally, and when he unwrapped it at home, he found a framed aerial photograph of the London One Thousand site under construction, taken and signed by Lord Litchfield. He felt only slightly guilty about hanging it in the loo.

There was a fair amount to do for London One Thousand, but it consisted chiefly of calling in experts in various fields – eighteenth-century furniture, silver since 1600, landscapes of the 1830s – and briefing them to round up the representative best and see it safely installed in the pentagonal buildings going up at some speed six miles south of Downing Street. As September began and October followed, and the air assumed the crisp feel of tart apples, Billings felt confident that his working group was doing its job. Especially for paintings, they seemed well on the way to providing an unparalleled ‘sampler' of London art through the city's history to what he hoped would be an appreciative, if not discerning, public. The launch of London One Thousand at the opening of the site itself was scheduled for early spring, and Billings found the prospect un-worrying. He would have done his part, though it seemed the Prime Minister was less certain as his first appearance at a London One Thousand Committee meeting made clear.

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.'