Holly Lester (27 page)

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.'

Billings's imagination was racing. What were these ‘some things'? Petty theft? A brief foray into prostitution? Drugs with her brother? Obviously something scandalous, and wounding, and hateful. Perhaps it was abuse – yes, Holly must have been abused as a child. By whom? Her brother? That would make sense, explain the simultaneous bond and distance between them. He remembered Kevin's sudden softening as he left the gallery –
Tell her I looked all right... she always cared about that
. If it were that, Trachtenberg was right – it would not be something she'd want to talk about. Oprah Winfrey might be willing to bare her soul on national television, tell countless millions how she had been raped at the age of nine, but Billings couldn't see Holly Lester, whatever the opportunity for ‘spin', telling Michael Parkinson about the night-time hell of her Brighton childhood.

The waiter brought the bill and left it diplomatically in the middle of the table between them. Billings looked at Trachtenberg. ‘And you think McBain has discovered some of this?'

‘Possibly.'

‘What am I supposed to do about that?'

‘Presumably he knows about you and Holly?'

Billings shook his head. ‘No, he doesn't; he knows I know her a bit, even sold her a picture, but he doesn't know about the rest.'

This was being economical with the truth, so he locked eyes with Trachtenberg as he spoke to reinforce an impression of sincerity. He smelt trouble for his friend McBain, as well as for himself; whether out of altruism or self-interest, he thought it essential to keep McBain out of his affair. He didn't know where the conversation was going next, and he suddenly decided there was small percentage in finding out. He reached for the bill and started to put a credit card on top of it, then thought the better of it and paid cash. Trachtenberg continued to stare at him. Let him stare, thought Billings, as he walked out of the restaurant.

McBain was drinking shorts, so Billings ordered a large neat whisky. In one corner a mangy dog lay scratching itself; in another, a woman in a Virgin t-shirt was groping a man with her hand under the table.

‘Lovely place you picked,' he told McBain.

His friend shrugged. He was wearing a green tweed jacket that made him look even broader than usual. ‘I thought it best to meet somewhere remote, but you never liked pubs anyway. What's so important you needed to see me urgently?'

‘I had lunch with Alan Trachtenberg.'

‘Lucky you. I wouldn't have predicted you two would become mates, but then, you've surprised me in other respects as well.'

It had taken repeated cajoling to get McBain to see him on the same day, but Billings had felt sufficiently panicked by the confusing menace of Alan Trachtenberg to insist that his friend come out after work. ‘We're not friends and never will be,' he said emphatically, then recounted his lunchtime conversation.

When he came to the mysterious secret of Holly's past which McBain was supposed to be probing, his friend's eyes widened and he shook his head. He looked around at the other people in the pub, then leant towards Billings. ‘He's not even close.'

‘What do you mean?'

McBain shook his head. ‘I have no idea what he's trying to do, telling you this. Does he really think you wouldn't say something to me? Of course not. So he wants me to know what he told you. But unless there's some scandal there I've missed, he knows it's not Holly's past I'm checking out. It
his
.'

‘So he's trying to warn you off through me?'

McBain shrugged again. ‘I don't know.' He finished his drink and put his glass on the bar, then signalled for a refill. ‘Do you remember that jerk in the restaurant? The one I finally grabbed hold of?'

‘Not likely to forget him. Why?'

‘His name is Tibbons, Sam Tibbons. He's in advertising now, but I've looked into him, and it turns out he used to be an assistant to an MP.'

‘Trachtenberg?'

‘No. Somebody named Alastair Trevenix. Ever heard of him?'

Alarm bells were ringing so loudly in Billings's head that he looked away, then waved dramatically at the barman for another drink for himself too. When he looked back at McBain he said slowly, ‘Sounds familiar.'

‘He's a Tory, which came as a bit of a surprise. Since if anyone had Tibbons set me up – and that was my assumption – it should have been a Labour person. They're the ones who were pissed off with me. Trevenix's the Chairman of the 1922 Committee – the Tory backbenchers. Pretty much all Thatcher supporters. It didn't make any sense to me. Unless...'

‘What?' asked Billings eagerly, as McBain drank from his new glass. ‘Unless what?'

‘Unless Trevenix was doing the government a favour.'

‘But he's a Tory, as you said. And a Thatcherite to boot.'

‘She never liked the last government, you know,' mused McBain. ‘She felt betrayed by them. They often say right wingers prefer left wingers to Liberals, and vice versa – better the devil you know than some soft ragamuffin in between. If there were some kind of deal between that lot and Labour, it would explain a lot of the “coincidences” that happened during the Election. Any time Labour looked like it might be faltering, or the Tories started to gel a bit, some terrible exposé would come out. And look at poor Scarlatti – with someone like Trevenix you'd have thought a mild fascist attachment on Scarlatti's father's part would have been a plus. Talk about the pot calling the kettle.'

‘So what's the upshot?'

McBain grimaced. ‘There isn't one yet. I haven't got proof of anything. But I have to say, Trachtenberg's conversation with you today makes me feel I'm onto something.'

Billings said nothing, but his heart was pounding. Overheard words came back to him from that evening in Wigmore Street:
We can offer the following... I take it this place is safe enough... It would be good to fix a next meeting.
He felt he could say nothing useful to McBain without pulling part of the Labour house down while he was inside. He noticed McBain looking around them again. ‘For Christ's sakes,' Billings exclaimed, ‘would you quit looking around like that? I've got enough to be paranoid about without you adding your paranoia as well.'

McBain laughed. ‘It's not called paranoia, James. It's called Fairweather.'

Billings started. ‘Is he here?'

‘See? You're jumpy, too. No, Fairweather thinks I'm onto something and keeps showing up in places where I'd rather he wouldn't. And he keeps looking at my notes; I've had to lock my desk at work. Only he thinks I've got something on Labour. He doesn't know anything about Trevenix.'

‘So what happens next?'

‘I'll keep digging around. Then if nothing surfaces, I'll do what true journalists always do. I'll give up.'

When he got home he found a letter from Marla, announcing her imminent return to the UK and declaring that they needed to talk. The tone of the letter was cordial but no more, and Billings found himself chilled by the prospect of some final discussion which, presumably, would be followed by others between their lawyers.

He was confused, he realized, confused about a lot of things. He missed Marla, for however much he enjoyed his life with Holly, he knew it was a limited life and not one he could happily enjoy for years to come. Trachtenberg's sinister insinuations bothered him, and he could not decide if there were indeed a dark secret in Holly's past which McBain was missing, or whether Trachtenberg was leading him down a garden path in the hope of... hope of what? He didn't know.

Neither did Holly, when they went for an unusual walk alone in Regent's Park. Alone, that is, except for Terry the Runt one hundred yards ahead, and Mrs Diamond the same distance behind, in a new blazer which still did not effectively disguise her shoulder holster. Holly was wearing professional clothes – a cream suit with a Chartreuse blouse and pearls. Elegant, but very formal for a walk in the park. Her hair had been recently cut, short with a new fringe. ‘This is nice,' she said. ‘I haven't been out for a walk in ages.'