Neverwhere(58)

Neverwhere





NINE


Jessica was under a little pressure. She was worried, and nervous, and jittery. She had catalogued the collection, arranged with the British Museum to host the exhibition, organized the restoration of the prime exhibit, assisted in hanging and exhibiting the collection, and put together the list of invitees to the fabulous launch. It was just as well she didn’t have a boyfriend, she would tell her friends. There’d be no time for one even if she had one. Still, it would be nice, she thought, when she got a moment: someone to go to galleries with on the weekends. Someone to . . .

No. She did not go to that place in her head. She could no more pin it down than she could put her finger on a bead of mercury, and she refocused on the exhibition. Even now, at the last minute, there were so many things that could go wrong. Many a horse had fallen at the final hurdle. Many an overconfident general had seen certain victory turn to defeat in the closing minutes of a battle. Jessica was simply going to ensure that nothing went wrong. She was wearing a green silk dress, an off-the-shoulder general marshalling her troops and stoically pretending that Mr. Stockton was not half an hour late.

Her troops consisted of a head waiter, a dozen serving staff, three women from the caterers, a string quartet, and her assistant, a young man named Clarence.

She inspected the drinks table. “We’re fine for champagne? Yes?” The head waiter pointed to the crate of champagne beneath the table. “And sparkling mineral water?” Another nod. Another crate. Jessica pursed her lips. “What about plain mineral water? Bubbles aren’t everybody’s cup of tea, you know.” They had plenty of plain mineral water. Good.

The string quartet was warming up. They were not quite loud enough to drown the noise coming from the hallway outside. It was the noise of a small but affluent crowd: the grumbling of ladies in mink coats, and men, who, were it not for the NO SMOKING signs on the walls—and perhaps the advice of their doctors—would be smoking cigars; the grumbling of journalists and celebrities who could smell the canapes, vol-au-vents, sundry nibbles, and free champagne.

Clarence was talking to someone on his portable phone, a slimline piece of fold-out engineering that made the Star Trek communicators look bulky and old-fashioned. He turned it off, pushed down the antenna, put it into the Armani pocket of his Armani suit, where it did not even make a bulge. He smiled, reassuringly. “Jessica, Mister Stockton’s driver’s phoned from the car. They’re still running a couple of minutes late. Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about,” echoed Jessica. Doomed. Doomed. The whole thing was going to be a disaster. Her disaster. She picked up a glass of champagne from the table, emptied it, and handed the empty glass to the wine waiter.

Clarence tipped his head on one side, listening to the grumbling reverberation from the hallway outside. The crowd wanted in. He looked at his watch, then looked at Jessica questioningly, a captain querying his general. Into the Valley of Death, then, boss? “Mister Stockton is on his way, Clarence,” Jessica said, calmly. “He has requested a private viewing before the event begins.”

“Shall I go out and see how they’re doing?”

“No,” she said, decisively. Then, just as decisively, “Yes.” Food and drink dealt with, Jessica turned to the string quartet and asked them, for the third time that evening, exactly what they planned to play.

Clarence opened the double doors to check on the crowd. It was worse than he had thought: there had to be more than a hundred people in the hall. And they weren’t just people. They were People. Some of them were even Personalities.

“Excuse me,” said the chairman of the Arts Council. “The invitations said eight o’clock sharp. It’s twenty past eight already.”

“We’ll just be a few more minutes,” reassured Clarence, smoothly. “Security arrangements.”

A woman in a hat bore down on him. Her voice was stentorian, bullying, and decidedly parliamentary. “Young man,” she announced. “Do you know who I am?”

“Not really, no,” lied Clarence, who knew exactly who all of them were. “Hold on—I’ll see if anyone in here does.” He shut the door behind him. “Jessica? They’re going to riot.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Clarence.” She was moving around the room like a green silk whirlwind, positioning her serving staff, with their trays of canapes or drinks, in strategic corners of the hall; checking the public-address system, the podium, the curtain, and the pull-rope. “I can see the headlines now,” said Clarence, unfolding an imaginary newspaper. ” ‘Geritol Billionaires Crush Marketing Babe in Museum Canape Dash Horror.’ “