Holly Lester by Andrew Rosenheim Page A

private act to the edge of public scrutiny in the form of McBain.
    He turned to McBain, ‘I told you, I doubt I’ll ever see her again.’
    Tara appeared in the galley doorway behind McBain. ‘There’s someone who wants to see you.’
    â€˜I’d better be going,’ McBain declared tactfully.
    â€˜Do they have an appointment?’ Billings asked.
    â€˜There’s nothing in the book.’
    â€˜Then tell them to go away and come back another time,’ he said irritably. He grew more irritated still when Tara didn’t budge. ‘Well?’ he challenged her.
    â€˜Since she’s wearing Lagerfeld today I thought you’d want to see her.’
    â€˜What?’ he asked sharply.
    Tara looked at Billings without emotion. ‘It’s
Miz
Lester,’ she said flatly. ‘Do you still want me to tell her to go away?’
    McBain led the way out, and was discreet enough, as he left the gallery, not to gawk at Holly. Whoever the designer, Holly looked very smart indeed, in a charcoal suit that had sharp angled lapels and a high collar. Her skirt was fashionably short again, and her stockings were a smoky powdered grey.
    She stood in front of a Lawrence Tyson abstract. Hailed in New York as the new Rothko, Tyson was to Billings’s mind an inferior mimic, who revelled in all the colours which Rothko rightly had found too unattractive to feature in his starkly beautiful colour studies. Yet Billings couldn’t complain, for in the first week alone nearly a third of the Tyson paintings had been sold. The large blotted circle of orange went for a cool twelve thousand and had been the second picture sold.
    â€˜If you fall in love with this one too, I won’t let you buy it.’
    Holly turned and flashed a large smile, and any prospective shyness between them melted away. ‘Why not?’ she asked.
    â€˜Too expensive. It’s designed for people who can’t afford the real thing. Rothkos fetch seven figures these days, but that’s no excuse for these prices.’
    â€˜Don’t you set them yourself?’
    â€˜Usually. But this show was a prior commitment. Miles, who used to own the gallery, arranged it. Tyson fixed the prices. I have to hand it to him, he seems to know just what the market will bear; the man’s a virtual limited company. I just stand back and collect the cheques.’
    â€˜I haven’t got long,’ she said suddenly, ‘and I am sorry to barge in like this. Your assistant said you were quite busy.’ Tara, the little imp. ‘I would have rung you at home but I didn’t have your number. And when I rang here for it, she said she couldn’t give it out.’
    What on earth was Tara up to? ‘Next time, you might try the phone book.’
    â€˜You’re listed?’
    The disbelief in her voice amused him. ‘Yes. Probably one of the only people you know who is. And what’s a loaf of bread cost, Mrs Lester?’
    â€˜Excuse me?’
    â€˜Sorry. It’s the sort of question they like to ask presidential candidates in the States – you know, to see how far removed they are from real life. George Bush visited a supermarket and admitted he’d never seen a bar code reader before.’
    â€˜And that’s why Clinton won, I suppose?’
    â€˜The key factor.’ He was enjoying this; his nervousness at seeing her again all but disappeared.
    â€˜We’ll have to remember that when the campaign begins. I can’t believe there are many Tory MPs who know the price of a cob loaf. So it’s a useful tip.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I must dash. The car’s outside waiting.’
    â€˜Terry the Runt.’
    â€˜I’m afraid so. Shall I give him your regards?’
    â€˜No, but you could tell me when I’ll see you again.’
    She laughed outright. ‘What an effect you have on a girl. That was the main reason I came in here, and I almost