Zero History

answered. “Yes?”
“George? It’s Hollis Henry. We met at Cabinet, when Reg was still there.”
“Yes,” he said. “Clammy rang. You’re needing to speak with Mere.”
“I’d like to, yes.”
“And you’re here?”
“Yes.”
“Afraid it’s not possible.” George sounded much more like a young barrister than the
Bollards’ keyboard player.
“She doesn’t want to discuss it?”
“Not at all.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No, really,” he said, “not at all. She’s closing a deal on the Chanel she brought from
Melbourne. Tokyo dealers. Taken her out to lunch. Left me minding the shop.”
Hollis held the iPhone away as she sighed with relief, then returned it to her ear. “She
wouldn’t mind talking with me, then?”
“Not at all. Loves your music. Mother’s a great fan. Where are you?”
“Second floor. Not far from the stairs.”
“Did you see they’ve a picture of you there?”
“Yes,” she said, “I noticed.”
“We’re at the very back. I’ll look out for you.”
“Thanks.” She walked on, passing a display of denim work clothing she doubted was
Eighties. All of it older than its dealer, she guessed, and she judged him to be in his
forties. He watched her sharply as she passed; the Hounds jacket, she thought.
She found Olduvai George beyond an archipelago of transparent inflatable orange
furniture which didn’t look Eighties to her either. He was smiling, natty and attractively
simian, in jeans and a khaki raincoat.
“How are you?”
“Well, thanks,” she said, shaking his hand. “How are you?”
“Haven’t had a nibble since the Tokyo mob took Mere away. I don’t think I have the
retail gene.”
Oxford, Inchmale had said of George, when she’d pressed him the night before. Balliol,
graduated with a starred first PPE. Which she supposed she remembered perfectly now,
because she had absolutely no idea what it might mean, other than that George was
assumed to be monstrously overeducated for present employment. “And please don’t tell
anyone,” Inchmale had added.
“Good thing you don’t need it,” she said, considering eight very petite, identically cut
Chanel suits, displayed on austere charcoal-gray dress forms, that seemed to be the whole
of Meredith Overton’s stock. All cut from some thick fabric that resembled a highly
magnified houndstooth check, in color combinations on the order of hot orange and
mustard. She vaguely remembered oven mitts made of a similar material, similarly thick.