Zero History

She’d actually seen suits like this worn to very good effect once, but only once, and in
Cannes. It had all depended, she’d thought at the time, on the way in which the two
pieces resolutely refused to conform to the body. Now she saw that each garment had
been threaded through with a slender steel cable, coated in transparent plastic. “Are they
very valuable?”
“Hoping so. She found them in an estate sale in Sydney. They were made in the early
Eighties, for the wife of a very successful property developer. Couture, exclusive fabrics.
The sellers had no idea, but in order to do really well with them, it’s either here, now, or
Tokyo. And the significant Japanese buyers are all here, today, and Paris adds a certain
symbolic leverage. They were made here.”
“She was tiny,” Hollis said, reaching out to touch a fabric-covered button, but stopping.
“Would you like to see a photograph of her wearing one?”
“Really?”
“Mere found them in the papers, in Australian city glossies. Even a bit of video.”
“No, thanks,” Hollis said, the eight brightly suited dress forms feeling suddenly like
tomb statuary, power objects, the fetishes of a departed shamaness, occultly cocked and
ready.
“There are handbags too, purses. Like new. She has them here but decided not to
display them. Because they’re a bit more affordable, she’d just have to show them
repeatedly. Doesn’t want them pawed over by the punters.”
“Did Clammy tell you what I’m after, George?”
“Not exactly, but now you’re here, I’m guessing it’s about your jacket.”
It felt odd, hearing someone outside of Bigend’s circle, other than Clammy, reference
Hounds. “How much do you know about that?”
“No more than Clammy, I imagine. She’s very closely held, Mere is. Business like this
is more about keeping secrets than advertising.”
“How’s that?”
“There aren’t that many serious buyers. Quite a few serious dealers, though.”
She’d liked him, when they’d met at Cabinet, and found she liked him now. “Clammy
says that Mere knew someone, when she was at that footwear college in London,” she
said, deciding to trust him. As usual, she surprised herself in this, but once in, you rolled
with it. “Someone associated with Gabriel Hounds.”
“That may be,” George said, smiling. The proportions of his skull were oddly reversed,
jaw and cheekbones massive, brows heavy, forehead scarcely the width of two fingers,
between a unibrow and his densely caplike haircut. “But best I don’t speak of it.”
“How long have you been together?”
“Bit before Clammy met her in Melbourne. Well, that’s not true, but I already fancied
her. She claims it wasn’t mutual at all then, but I have my doubts.” He smiled.
“She’s living back in London? Here?”
“Melbourne.”