Holly Lester

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Holly shrugged. ‘Of course not. But then, as the Americans would say, it comes with the territory.’ She smiled straight at the camera.

  ‘Do you know where he is right now?’

  Holly shook her head, leaving Billings perplexed. I’m here, he wanted to shout at the screen. Where else would I be? Christ, he thought, there were probably reporters waiting outside. He was surprised they hadn’t already rung his bell.

  ‘Would you describe the relationship as strained?’

  How dare he, thought Billings, suddenly hating the otherwise benign figure of David Frost. Holly was shaking her head again. ‘Absolutely not. We’ve had our ups and downs, of course.’

  Billings suddenly felt immense relief – he’d not known Holly long enough to have their relationship described this way. Holly was saying, ‘But we’re close, and always will be. Anyway,’ she went on, ‘it’s for him to speak about his own history. I won’t defend everything he’s ever done.’ What had Harry done wrong? Billings thought. Had the papers found out he was unfaithful, too? Holly looked defiantly at Frost. ‘I am not my brother’s keeper,’ she declared. ‘I am just his sister, and like any sister, I’ll always be there for him.’

  Her brother! Billings remembered her account of him: He lives in America and does drugs. So had he been found?

  Billings listened incredulously as Frost switched the subject, traded a few more predictable banalities with Holly about the General Election, then turned to a remote correspondent for a report on Russia’s latest currency collapse. And that was that. With a baffling mix of emotions he could not understand – part immense relief not to be exposed, yet part a curious irritation that he wasn’t part of the newspapers’ story – Billings left the flat. There were of course no reporters waiting outside. He walked to the newsagent, feeling simultaneously reprieved and relegated.

  His attempts to disguise the purchase of the News of the World by buying three quality Sundays as well did not fool Mr Ali, who disinterred the offending paper with a censorious raising of eyebrows before ringing it up. Billings tucked the paper back again amidst the higher-brow pages of the Sunday Telegraph, and only drew it out when well clear of the shop. The headline put any lingering fears of his own role in the apparent scandal firmly to rest:

  HOLLY LESTER’S BAD BAD BRO

  The agenda of the article was apparent in the opening lines:

  Labour Party Family Values came unstuck last night with revelations about Kevin Bristow, younger brother of Holly Lester, £300,000 per year consultant wife of Labour Party Leader, Harry Lester. The Black Sheep of the Bristow family is a mystery to the British public. Just who is the brother-in-law of the man most people think will be Britain’s next Prime Minister?

  Now an exclusive News of the World investigation can reveal the true story of Holly Lester’s younger brother. We have discovered the following facts about Kevin Bristow:

  - arrested in the state of California for possession of cocaine with intent to sell

  - tried and CONVICTED and sentenced to 12 months imprisonment

  - returned to Britain last June and has since been OFFICIALLY CAUTIONED by London police in the notorious drugs-ridden Kings Cross area

  There was more, little of it informative. A neighbour from his childhood days in Brighton remembered Kevin as ‘cheeky’ and ‘a bit wild’. An unnamed ‘friend’ of Holly said the Leader’s wife was ‘mortified and humiliated’ by her brother. A pundit otherwise known for his opinions about the Royal Family stressed the damage that news of Kevin’s infractions would cause the Labour Party.

  ‘Why on earth are you reading the News of the World?’

  He looked up to find Marla in front of him, holding Sam firmly on his lead. The dog lunged happily at Billings, tongue lapping. ‘Down Sam,’ she said firmly.

  Billings ignored her query. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked sharply, then softened as he saw hurt creep into Marla’s face. ‘Sorry, it’s just that you startled me.’

  ‘I was walking Sam,’ she said, ‘and thought I’d get a paper. Not the News of the World.’

  He shrugged. ‘Take this,’ he said, handing her the Observer.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll stick to the Torygraph. You know me.’

  She said nothing to this, pulling Sam back since he was keenly sniffing a rubbish can.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the corner,’ he said, and joined her as Sam tried to pull ahead. Marla began talking about recent events in her life, while Billings thought about the News of the World article. Surely it couldn’t do much damage to Labour – why should Holly be held to account for her brother’s misdoings? Siblings of famous people were notoriously maverick: he thought of Churchill’s younger brother Jack, Jimmy Carter’s awful brother Billy, Clinton’s rock n’ roll half-brother, even John Major’s curious sibling Terry.

  ‘There are some wonderful views near the cottage,’ Marla was saying. ‘Hard to paint though.’

  He ignored this, too, nodding politely to keep Marla talking while he thought some more about Holly. Presumably this scare would make any future meetings with her difficult – no, impossible. Yet he felt even greater impatience for the General Election – now ten days off – to be over and done with. After which, Holly would be back in London. And then? What was he thinking of – cosy rendezvous on Wigmore Street, tea with nanny on Regent’s Park Road? He must be mad; he realized with a heavy heart that the closest he would get would be a snatched glimpse as he pressed his nose against the barred gate at the end of Downing Street.

  They arrived at the corner of Goldhawk Road. Sam turned and looked at Billings expectantly. ‘Well,’ he said, looking down at the dog, ‘I’d better be going home.’

  Marla stared at him with an expression he could not at first make out. She said, ‘You haven’t been listening to a single word I’ve said, have you? Go on, admit it.’

  He saw a tantrum brewing and cursed his inattention. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said wearily.

  No outburst ensued. He noticed instead that her eyes were welling with tears. She tightened her grip on Sam’s lead and turned and marched away. ‘I am sorry,’ he called after her, but Marla kept walking.

  In the afternoon he dug out the mobile number Holly had given him and rang her. There was a long wait before she answered; in his new-found paranoia, he wondered if some sort of security vetting was at work.

  ‘Holly, it’s me. James.’

  The mobile line crackled. Then she said, ‘How nice of you to call.’

  Nice of him to call? ‘I saw you on Frost. You were excellent. I just wanted to ring and see if you’re all right.’

  ‘We’re just coming to Sheffield now. I’m afraid I’m losing you.’ She sounded clear as a bell. ‘I’ll have to get back to you about that, I’m afraid, once I’ve checked my appointments diary.’

  He suddenly clicked. ‘Ring me tonight if you can,’ he said. ‘I’ll be home all evening.’

  ‘Goodbye. Thank you for ringing.’

  He kept off the phone and waited, as patiently as he could. She rang him back a little after seven o’clock. She sounded elated. ‘Sorry about before, but that pig Ferguson was in the car with me.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Absolutely rushed off my feet. My son looks at me like I’m a stranger – I’ve probably slept all of two nights in my own bed since the campaign began.’

  ‘Is this brother business all right now?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. Last thing I know he was living in Venice California. When the tabloids tracked him there, they discovered he’d left last month and come back to England. But there’s been no sign of him. I can only hope I hear from him before the News of the World does – God knows what he’d say for a bribe from them.’

  ‘Let me know if I can help,’ he said, feeling at once foolish and sincere.

  ‘You are sweet, but actually you shouldn’t worry. If you read the papers tomorrow, I think you’ll find it’s no longer much of a story.’<
br />
  ‘Why is that?’

  She laughed richly. ‘Something’s going to be taking its place. Alan’s spent the last three hours feeding the story to the right places. Hang on,’ she said, ‘hang on. I’ve got to put some more money in.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Outside the hall. In Sheffield. I’d better go in a minute. The rally’s about to start.’

  He felt panicked by the prospect of her suddenly ringing off. ‘I miss you Holly.’ He felt miserable about their fleeting conversation, and gloomily certain that he would not be talking with her again soon.

  Something of this seemed to communicate itself to her. ‘Listen,’ she said urgently. ‘I’ve no idea when I’ll be able to ring again. But I’ve had an idea – call it an inspiration, maybe.’ She suddenly laughed richly.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, hopes rising.

  ‘I don’t want to spoil it until I know it will work. But if you get an invitation soon – not to an opening, I mean – make sure you accept. And attend.’

  ‘What kind of invitation?’

  ‘I have to go. I can hear the warm-up man and I have to get backstage.’

  ‘Will I speak with you soon?’

  ‘See me more likely. Just remember to RSVP.’

  Chapter 11

  When with varying degrees of decorum the next day’s papers announced that, far from expiring peacefully at home, Jock Nichols, M.P. now deceased, had died in the flat (and also in the arms) of a blonde research assistant thirty-two years his junior, Billings was unsurprised but still impressed by Trachtenberg’s deft placement of the story. Deft placement? – hell, it was everywhere, relegating Holly’s small fraternal difficulties to the innermost pages in some cases (The Times and Telegraph), and to no pages at all in the rest.

  He remembered the conversation he had overheard in the flat: Let’s just say that when he died, he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He remembered, and took note, but found himself more occupied by the recent fact that business was bad, very bad – in the past week Billings had sold literally nothing at all.

  This had never happened before, but he could not honestly feel surprised, for in opening the gallery the year before what had he really expected? He was no longer altogether sure. After the manic highs and depressive lows of the New York art world, he had at the very least expected sanity. He hadn’t thought of thriving, but nor had real failure struck him as a likely prospect. He supposed he had been planning, in classic national fashion, to muddle through. Not rich, not poor. Just English.

  Times had certainly changed. In America, where materialism mattered most, people reacted against the supremacy of Mammon by seeking alternative values in extremes – Taoism, acupuncture thrice daily, survivalist sects, sexual ‘addiction’. When contemplating his flight from this growing lunacy, Billings had imagined that the UK remained a place where people felt no such need. A coherent anti-materialist life had long been in place – a world of church and school, family and friends.

  Dream on, he thought now bleakly, hearing again the Brooklyn-bred voice of Ratner the dealer. ‘Why is nobody buying?’ he heard Tara ask him, but he had no answer to give. His concern was only partly abated by learning that comparable colleagues were in the same dire straits. ‘Nada doing,’ said R-A languidly over lunch at Brooks’s, his club. ‘Not even the Chinese are spending any money.’

  It was the Professore who two afternoons later supplied the answer. ‘I was thinking of buying a peecture,’ he said, wearing a suit of soft green moleskin and hand-made shoes.

  ‘From me?’ asked Billings, astonished.

  ‘Why not?’ said the Professore. ‘You have sold the one I like, but there is a watercolour by the same artist downstairs, is there not?’

  The Burgess. ‘Yes. It’s still there.’

  He knocked 10% off the £750 asking price, which seemed to please the man. As he wrapped the watercolour, the Professore smiled at Billings and said, ‘You seem surprised, my friend, that I am buying this. Is business that slow?’

  ‘At a complete standstill.’

  ‘Ah, the people – they are awaiting. People like me. Overseas people especially. People of means, yes, but people who are careful. I think you will find things improve after this Election of yours.’

  ‘Really. Even if Labour gets in?’

  ‘Especially if Labour gets in. Which I think must be a certainty now. Do you not agree?’ He looked at Billings quite penetratingly until Billings nodded in agreement. The Professore continued, ‘It may not be what one wants, of course. But it seems the likely way to go.’

  ‘So how will that help sales?’

  ‘Simple. Everybody will tell you that certain items sell when the people is confident. Consumer confidence, no? But actually, it is not confidence that sells them – it is the removal of fear. Labour wins and, how do you say it?, the roof does not collapse. It shakes a bit, perhaps a tile falls off – but it does not cave in. And so, people like me, or Mr Yamomoto, or Herr Duseldorf, or’, and his voice assumed a comic smorgasbord effect, ‘Lars Sonnenegrad, they all – that is people of international sort, people of means – say to ourselves, “England is safe for now. Buy there and it will be... okay.”’

  ‘How can you be so sure life will be safe under Labour?’

  The Professore looked at him with ill-disguised impatience. ‘You are asking only for the sake of asking, my friend. You know as well as I do,’ and for a disturbing moment Billings thought the man knew all about his relationship with Holly. ‘You have only to look at the people they are, the people they like, the things they like to do, to know they are no danger.’ He paused and suddenly laughed. ‘Not to us fat cats anyway.’

  Occasionally the gallery got a second post, and Thursday afternoon brought three bills and an unusual invitation.

  The Directors of the Confederation of British Industry

  request the pleasure of your company at an address

  NEW BRITAIN, NEW PARTY

  by Harry Lester MP

  Tuesday 7 May at 7.30pm

  Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre, Westminster

  ‘Who on earth asked you to that?’ inquired Tara from behind his shoulder. ‘You’ve never voted Labour in your life.’

  ‘Mind your own business. Anyway, how do you know how I vote? Don’t jump to conclusions.’

  Tara snorted. ‘It’s all since Madame Hoity-Toity bought that picture. I think you’re positively smitten.’

  He tried to laugh this off. ‘Smitten is a middle-aged word. Honestly, how am I going to keep up with the younger generation if you’re talking like a matron? Anyway, tell me more about your feminist exhibition.’

  The diversion worked, and Tara rattled off her latest list of the women painters she proposed to show in autumn. He had been most reluctant when she had first broached the idea, having strong preconceptions of what Tara’s preferred painters’ work would look like – nails hammered onto phallic outlines, or minimalist collages of paperclips – but he had been very pleasantly surprised by the quality of her proposals for inclusion. There were eight artists chosen so far, out of some forty-odd whose work they had looked at. And agreeing on the eight had proved possible, indeed enjoyable – Tara and he seemed to appreciate the same degree of abstraction, which was to say little or none. ‘You’re more conservative than I realized,’ he had remarked. Clearly taken aback, Tara had thought about this, then put a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t tell anyone, okay?’

  From the limousines outside and the number of arriving taxis, Billings felt he must have been the only man in attendance who had taken the Underground to come and hear Harry Lester. He handed over his card of invitation at the door and was directed to a mezzanine level, where several hundred people already stood talking and drinking wine. Most were smartly dressed in suits and evening dresses, though a few younger people wore the drab costume of black polo neck and black trousers that seemed mandatory for people under thirty years of age.

  He recognized many f
aces, which served at first to reduce the mild anxiety he felt at any party of strangers; his unease increased, however, as he realized that he didn’t know any of these people – he had simply seen their faces on the box or in the papers. White, the Shadow Chancellor, was joking in a corner with three younger women. He looked less rough, and less big in person than on television. Bruce, the one symbol of Old Labour still prominent in Shadow Cabinet politics (he was Shadow Secretary for Trade and Industry) was eating nuts by the handful and taking great gulps of wine while a young reporter wrote down what he intermittently said. He was wide-shouldered and square-faced, but surprisingly short – Billings would have guessed him to be very little more than five feet tall.

  There were other prominent Party figures and several television reporters Billings found familiar but could not have named. But there was no sign of Holly – not even Terry the Runt seemed present. He moved slowly across the room, excusing himself as he moved through the crowd, as if he were going somewhere with a purpose, when in fact he simply wanted a corner to stand against from which he could survey the crowd and pretend to be comfortable with his utter lack of personal acquaintance with anyone there.

  Suddenly things changed. ‘Mr Billings?’ A tall young man suddenly appeared at his side. He was either completely bald or had shaved his head to epidermic perfection. He had three spikes in his left ear and wore a gold chain necklace over an open-necked purple shirt. His manner nonetheless was conventional and polite. ‘I’m Nicky. Would you come this way please?’

  Puzzled, Billings followed the man back through the crowd to another corner of the room. They came up behind a couple talking intently; when Nicky tapped the man on the shoulder and stood aside, Billings was face to face with him. It was Alan Trachtenberg.

  ‘Hello stranger,’ said Trachtenberg with a flourish, then turned sideways and introduced Billings to the woman he had been talking to. ‘This is Sally Kimmo, and this is James Billings, our new convert to the cause.’

  She extended a hand, saying, ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’