Free Holly Lester by Andrew Rosenheim

can’t.’
    â€˜Why not? It’s not as if I’d tell anyone – or have anyone to tell.’ He dismissed McBain from his mind slightly guiltily.
    Holly went and sat on the bed, crossing each leg in turn while taking her heels off. ‘How do I know that? For all I know, you might be a Tory spy. Or Liberal Democrat – even worse.’
    Billings sat down on the chair in the corner and untied his own shoes. ‘Of course. That makes perfect sense. I’ve been given several hundred thousand pounds to return from New York, buy a gallery, and establish myself in the West End. This in the uncanny foreknowledge that out of all the galleries in Mayfair, the wife of the Leader of the Opposition would somehow pick mine; then manage to fall in love with one of the pictures in the gallery;
and
ask the owner to deliver the picture; and finally take him to bed. What planning. What a conspiracy!’
    She was laughing by the time he finished. ‘All right. You win. I
will
tell you what happened. Nichols did die yesterday, but not in the right place.’
    â€˜Meaning?’
    â€˜We don’t know for sure. All we knew is that he had died, but that news of it wouldn’t come out until today. This gave the Tories twenty-four hours’ head start.’
    Part of him understood perfectly the words Holly was using; part of him felt she was talking in code. ‘What do you mean head start? On what?’
    â€˜On a General Election. Nichols’s death means the Tory majority is only one. It can’t be long before it’s nought and they
have
to call an election. Someone will die, or get sick. Two’s much more than twice one.’
    Most of Holly’s clothes were off by now. Billings looked at her appreciatively, then realized that, caught up in her account, he had stopped undressing. He pulled off his tie and nodded understandingly. ‘So naturally everybody had to meet and figure out what to do if an election were called.’
    â€˜Precisely,’ said Holly, as she deftly unhooked her bra and placed it carefully on the neat pile of clothes that was rising on the floor in front of her.
    â€˜And I suppose you had to get the house ready,’ he said, picturing her lining up all those chairs in the Primrose Hill downstairs sitting room, laying a table of cold ham and tinned beer, making coffee in a percolator last used at a church fete.
    â€˜I beg your pardon.’ Holly’s eyes were flashing, not rapturously but in anger. Her fierceness was somehow augmented by her nudity: naked anger, thought Billings dumbly. She snapped at him: ‘You think I was “hostess” for the meeting? Preparing tea? Taking the coats? Showing the way to the loo?’
    She shook her head and lay down on the bed, then tucked herself under the covers. She put one hand to her brow and exhaled sharply. Billings said, ‘I suppose I’m being a little sexist.’
    â€˜A little?’ She laughed loudly. ‘I’ll say. And you have no idea how welcome it is. The press spends half its time portraying me as some Svengali figure, a sort of Hillary Clinton behind the throne.’ She gave a rolling giggle. ‘It’s an enormous relief to have someone think I’m making tea for everyone. Now will you please get undressed? It’s cold in here without you.’
    This time they made love slowly, unhurriedly, as if the explosiveness of their first encounter made them more relaxed. Billings pushed the covers off them, and a breeze ruffled the lace curtains through the open window and cooled the room. As he slowly grew more excited, Holly responded in kind; suddenly, as he neared climax, she took her hands off the back of his neck and threw her arms back against the pillow. Then she – what? thought Billings. Yelled? No, not the right word. Screamed? No again, there was too much delight in her voice. She
whooped
, he decided, remembering the apt American term for a