Holly Lester (31 page)

‘That's something of an understatement if you ask me.'

Billings stopped on the stairs and looked at the man. ‘Are you telling me the Deputy Prime Minister can't read?'

The Marlborough man looked around them; there was no one in sight. ‘I am entirely certain of it. Not that I would wish to be quoted about the matter.'

‘Isn't that a mild drawback in how he does his job?'

The man shrugged. ‘That's one way of looking at it. I suppose this government would see it as a triumph over adversity – you know, if you consider his disadvantages, he's come a long way.'

‘I'm starting to think that's true of the government as well.' They were back now on the ground floor and Billings looked around at the portraits lining the stairs that went to the upper floors. ‘Good luck with the work upstairs,' he said, gesturing towards the living quarters above them.

‘I think the builders will be with us for some time to come. There's not much danger of anyone living there for at least a few years.'

‘I did that job well, then. My legacy is prolonged building work.'

‘Believe me,' said the Marlborough man, ‘that will be far from the worst legacy this government leaves behind.'

The ball, felt Billings, was clearly in the opposition's court. He stayed away from the gallery and went home, deciding not to buy the newspapers since they were certain to depress him. He listened to Radio Three and looked for the first time in months at his Nash article. The little he'd written wasn't too bad, he decided, and he was able to muster some enthusiasm at the prospect of having the time to work on it again.

He wanted to ring Holly but wished he didn't. Still, when the phone rang shortly before two that afternoon he hoped for a split second it was Holly on the line. Or Marla.

Instead he heard the harsh tones of Hamish Ferguson. He should have guessed; the press was the worry now, from a government point of view, so Hamish was the natural candidate to handle things.

‘I gather you had a problem with our statement,' said Ferguson. ‘We've seen yours and I'm afraid the feeling's mutual.'

‘Snap.'

‘That's not very helpful.'

‘It's not meant to be. What does Trachtenberg think?'

‘Actually, that's why I'm ringing. He proposes a meeting. You can return the package Nicky delivered, and he'll modify our statement. Not perhaps strictly along the lines you've proposed but not far off. What do you say?'

‘He wants to meet with me?'

‘That's right. In the flat – he said you'd know what he meant.'

‘I won't meet with Trachtenberg. I could return the package,' he said, choosing the noun carefully since he assumed the call was being recorded, ‘but then he might “lose” it. Which would mean I was in the same trouble I'm in now.'

‘You don't trust him?' It was not a question worthy of a reply. When Billings stayed silent, Ferguson continued, ‘Who would you meet with? Who would you trust?'

‘Mrs Lester,' Billings said quietly. ‘I could trust her. I'll meet her there at half seven. Tell her I still have my key.'

 

As a mild fan of the early Le Carré, Billings appreciated his own feeling that he was operating in enemy territory even in his home city. He had arranged to meet Tara in a wine bar on Marylebone High Street, and when he left his flat at six o'clock, he took three different taxis to arrive at his destination.

Tara didn't hang about. She handed him the wrapped painting, wished him luck, and left. He walked slowly across to Wigmore Street, wondering if he were walking into a trap. It would be easy enough to have him arrested right there on the pavement, carrying the painting he said he'd never seen before. He hoped his knowledge of Alastair Trevenix's connection to Trachtenberg would prove adequate insurance against three years in Pentonville, though he could catch up on his reading there, he thought ruefully.

There was no sign of anyone lurking on Wigmore Street. The porter recognized him in the hallway and simply nodded. He took the lift up and opened the door to the flat, then stood there for a moment, listening carefully. Nothing.

Inside he went through all the rooms. Nothing much had changed: there was the same revolting brown carpet, the same dreary grey walls, the Fragonard copy and the Glasgow School geese. He poured himself a small sherry from the same bottle he had brought one night so many months before, then went to wait for Holly in the bedroom. He stood there thinking of their very first assignation here – the tremendous excitement he'd felt, the affection too, which had grown and grown. Why had she let him down so badly?
It's all politics
, she had said to him once, talking about something he hadn't found remotely political, and he supposed that whatever alternative life and whatever alternative
view
of life he had represented to Holly, it was always going to be an option she would not, chips down, seriously contemplate taking.

He heard the door to the flat open and close quietly. Holly walked lightly across the sitting room floor, just as she used to, almost sliding it seemed sometimes, as if she were wearing slippers instead of shoes. ‘Holly,' he began to exclaim as the door to the bedroom opened and Harry Lester walked in.

Billings sat down with a thud on the bed as Harry took the chair. The Prime Minister was wearing a grey suit of soft wool, beautifully cut, with a Jermyn Street shirt of Caribbean blue and a red checked Hermès tie. He was smiling grimly. ‘Holly sends her best,' he said lightly. ‘But we thought it best for me to come.'

Billings nodded and said nothing, not least because he was not confident about his physical ability to speak.

‘Sorry if I surprised you,' said Harry brightly. ‘I'm sure you'd have preferred the missus,' he said with the common man's diction he was becoming renowned for – it usually sounded particularly bogus against the background lilt of his public school voice, and it did now. Hearing it, Billings felt the irritation he felt watching Harry on television, and this irritation gave him a small sliver of confidence.

Harry was shaking his head lightly. ‘And to think I thought you were one of Alan's,' using that awful phrase again. He smiled wistfully at Billings, as if they were two middle aged men recounting the ones that got away in their teenage years.

‘So,' said Billings, ‘what happens next?'

Harry almost looked bored as he began to speak. ‘You give me the picture. I give it to Sally Kimmo. Sally drops charges. You resign – I've told Hamish to work the language out with you, but I think you'll find it acceptable – and you promise to stay south of Regent's Park and west of Downing Street. Not literally, perhaps, but I'm sure you know what I'm getting at. Then you can go back to your rarefied little world and let us all get on with the important stuff.'

‘Is that what Holly wants?'

Harry looked at him coldly for a moment. ‘Put it this way. That's what Holly will discover she wants.'

‘It's nice to know she cares,' said Billings, not without bitterness. ‘Thank her for the solicitude. And for landing me in it.'

Harry opened both hands to the air in one of his now-famous gestures. So at least
that's
real, thought Billings. Harry said, ‘What did you expect? You became a threat to us all. Even Holly could see that. You were messing about with things you know nothing about. You're just jolly lucky the police didn't find the painting in your gallery. It was supposed to be in the vault.'

‘Sorry about that. But what exactly was I messing about with? Alastair Trevenix?'

Harry nodded. ‘Precisely. Not that I'm ashamed of the connection. They helped us, for whatever reason, and I have no cause to be anything but grateful.'

‘The press wouldn't see it that way. And this “help” you're talking about wasn't exactly above board. Think of Jock Nichols' widow. She won't share your sense of gratitude.'

‘Jock Nichols' widow? Do you honestly think it came as a surprise to her that he kicked the bucket in some totsy's arms? He'd shag
anything
.' There was a vein of admiration in Harry's voice. ‘It couldn't have come as news to Lady Cecily, believe me. But that's not the point. You can't choose your bedfellows in this game on the basis of ideology.'

‘Quite,' said Billings coolly with a smile. For a second he thought Harry was going to lose his temper, and he watched with pleasure as the Prime Minister struggled to control himself. He did, though not without effort.

Billings stood up and handed over the Giacometti. ‘In a funny way you're right. I never should have expected Holly to act differently. I have to admit the
Professore
was a disappointment, though.'

Harry shrugged. ‘He's not as rich as people think. He's into Sally too. I mean financially, as well as...'

‘I know,' said Billings, cutting him short. He didn't want to know any more about the man. ‘I'd better leave first,' he declared. ‘Then you can get back to your important things. Give my love to Holly. And Sebastian. Tell him to practise his right foot more.' He struggled to think of something momentous to say but could not. As he moved to the door a thought came to him and he looked back at Harry, still sitting in the chair. ‘One thing.' Harry looked up at him curiously. ‘When you learned about Holly and me, did you mind?'

Harry clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair, looking at Billings. ‘If I did, I would never give you the satisfaction of saying so.'

He doesn't give a bugger
, Billings suddenly realized. And as his resentment towards Holly suddenly melted, he felt instead overwhelmingly sorry for her, as he would for anyone – lover, friend, or mere acquaintance – who was married to this man.

He walked for well over an hour, gathering his thoughts as he struggled to re-enter an un-political world. In the morning he would call Hamish Ferguson and negotiate the language of his – his what? His release, he suddenly realized, feeling he had re-entered a world he knew and liked but had abandoned for the ephemeral allure of novelty, power, and... what? Love? He
had
loved Holly, and he hoped now that whatever she had done to him, it had been
in extremis
and with no motive except fear. Fear and the resulting feeling of safety gained – when scared – by closing ranks.

Buying a
Standard
from Mr Ali, he read its headline with a growing sense of hilarity and detachment.
Is Alan T Next to Go?
The story was by Fairweather and began:

In a belated declaration, MP and ‘Chief of Staff' Alan Trachtenberg admitted that he had been ‘given' a flat, valued at over £320,000, by Mrs Sally Kimmo, member of the London One Thousand Committee and noted philanthropist and patron of the arts.

‘Only media mudslingers will find anything wrong with this,' declared Mr Trachtenberg. But Westminster pundits and MPs alike suggested that receipt of the gift and failure to declare it were evidence of a serious lack of judgment that might cost Mr Trachtenberg dear.

Holly's revenge, thought Billings with the private satisfaction that if she did not still care about Billings she would not have gone after Trachtenberg. She had been a reluctant betrayer of Billings after all, coerced by her husband and Trachtenberg. And now Trachtenberg had paid. Doubtless he would think he had been double-crossed by Billings. It was a good thing Billings had returned the painting and resigned. He was out of harm's way now, or at any rate out of the sight of Trachtenberg's murderous scope. Billings had escaped alive, if not unscathed.

He entered his flat just as it was growing dark and sniffed carefully. Something was different; as in Wigmore Street he went through every room and as there he found nothing to alarm him. But then in the sitting room he saw a package propped against his favourite chair. He opened it carefully, though it was far too big to be the Giacometti. Inside he found a picture of familiar colour, the rich blue he had known and loved. Holding the frame up he found himself face to face with the Burgess painting he had sold to Holly so many months before.

There was a note taped to the frame and in the faint light by the window he read in Holly's familiar hand,
I never loved it half as much as you did. But it brought us together, which makes me love it now. Hang it somewhere that lets you think of me each day. XXXXX H.

He thought for a minute, then smiled to himself and took the picture with him to the loo. He took the Litchfield photograph from its peg and gently put the Burgess in its place. Returning to the sitting room he looked out the window at the darkening street. In the distance he could see Marla approaching, half leading, half led by Sam. Pouring himself a small whisky, Billings decided to sit and read in his chair. But first he went to the front door, and this time he left it wide open.

Andrew Rosenheim was born in Chicago and raised there and in Michigan. He attended Milton, Yale, and Oxford University as a Rhodes Scholar, and has lived in England for the last thirty-five years. He worked in publishing for many years, at Oxford University Press, and then at Penguin Books, where he was the Managing Director of Penguin Press. He has written for many publications, including the
Times Literary Supplement
,
The Times,
the
Guardian,
the
Telegraph,
the
Independent
,
The New York Times Book Review,
and the
Spectator
. The author of eight novels, including
The Informant
and
Fear Itself
, and a memoir,
The Secrets of Carriage H
, Rosenheim lives with his wife and twin daughters near Oxford.

This electronic edition published in 2016 by Bloomsbury Reader

Copyright © 2016 Andrew Rosenheim