The Men in her Life

Colette had a bloody-minded side to her.
    ‘No, I think I’ll stay in town. D’you think anywhere will have a television on?’
    ‘Bar Italia does. You could stay here, but don’t fall asleep on my bed because I’m feeling lucky...’
    Holly kissed Colette on both cheeks and clattered down the stairs.

    Louis Gold’s was the kind of house that had framed posters by David Hockney in the kitchen, but when you looked closely you realized that they weren’t posters, but originals. It was a house just like her father’s, which she had visited only once as a child but dreamed of living in ever since.
    ‘White or red?’ Louis asked.
    ‘Oh, I think red tonight,’ Holly smiled at him.
    The kitchen was a balcony overlooking a spacious airy living area filled with modem furniture, art and plants. Most of the guests were crushed together around a small television. In a far corner, standing slightly aloof from the party, she spotted the man she was having an affair with looking up at her. She took a step back, trying to work out whether the angle was sharp enough for him to have seen up her dress. A cheer went up as the screen went red.
    ‘We’re predicting a landslide...’ the presenter announced.
    Everyone started grabbing each other’s hands, dancing and kissing as if it were New Year. Holly was dragged down the steps and into a ragged conga. As she passed him, Piers indicated with an almost imperceptible shake of his head that he would like to leave. She frowned at him and let herself be pulled by the kicking, singing snake of people through the open door and down more steps into the garden. A tall apple tree was suddenly ablaze with coloured lights, all red, as if luscious, glowing fruit had miraculously appeared. There was a collective gasp, followed by a hush, as each person felt a pang of unease, a flashback to 1992, that they might be celebrating too soon, tempting fate.
    ‘The Exit poll couldn’t be that wrong, could it?’ Holly said to Louis, as people began to push back into the house to watch the television again.
    ‘One hopes not,’ he said. ‘Holly, do you know Freddy?’ He introduced her to one of his most illustrious producer friends.
    Holly smiled and held out her hand.
    ‘Holly O’Mara,’ she said.
    ‘How nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you...’
    The boss’s election parties were a good barometer of the progress of her career. In 1987, when she had joined the company as secretary to the director of the media division, her invitation had been issued with the request that she come along early and help with the preparations. Handing round nibbles is such a good way of meeting people, Louis’s wife had told her, dropping a very heavy silver tray into her arms and pointing her towards the throng. It sounded good to Holly, until she realized that nobody who goes to election parties in large houses in Hampstead, even if they have the most impeccable left-wing credentials, expects to engage in conversation with the girl who’s offering the chicken satay. By 1992 she had become an assistant agent selling film and television rights in the books the agency represented. At the election party Holly had been free to mingle, but she had found it so difficult to engage with any of the tight little groups of People that she had been almost tempted to grab a tray of tapenade crostini to make it look as if she had a function. It had been a dismal evening, with everyone leaving stunned by the revelation that it wasn’t time to change after all.
    Now a director of the agency, Holly knew how to work a room with confidence. But although she had become adept at handling small talk with the movers and shakers in the media, she had not forgotten the women who had stared over her shoulder when she had nervously tried to join in their conversation, and the men who had waved away her platter of canapés, dismissing her like a servant, who now shook her hand warmly and loudly expressed their delight in meeting her at last.
    As Holly took a scallop wrapped in bacon from a passing tray, Piers sidled up beside her.
    ‘Why don’t we slip away somewhere more comfortable?’ he whispered, an inquisitive finger trying to ascertain whether she really wasn’t wearing knickers.
    ‘No, I’ve only just got here and, anyway, I want to see the results coming in,’ she said with her mouth full and shifted her bottom away from his furtive grope.
    ‘They’re all safe Labour for the first couple