Neverwhere

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.’ »
Somebody began knocking at the door. The volume in the hallway began to increase. Somebody was saying, very loudly, «Excuse me. Um. Excuse me.» Someone else was informing the crowd that it was a disgrace, quite simply a disgrace, no other word for it. «Executive decision,» said Clarence, suddenly. «I’m letting them in.»
Jessica shouted, «No! If you—»
But it was too late. The doors were open, and the horde was pushing its way into the hall. The expression on Jessica’s face morphed from one of horror to one of charmed delight. She shimmered toward the door. «Baroness,» she said, with a happy smile. «I can’t tell you how delighted we are that you were able to come to our little exhibition this evening. Mister Stockton’s been unavoidably delayed, but he’ll be here momentarily. Please, have some canapes . . . » Over the baroness’s mink-draped shoulder, Clarence winked at her, cheerfully. Jessica ran through all the bad words she knew in her head. As soon as the baroness had headed for the vol-au-vents, Jessica walked over to Clarence and, in a whisper, and still smiling, called him several of them.
Richard froze. A security guard was coming straight toward them, the beam of his flashlight flashing from side to side. Richard looked around for somewhere to hide.
Too late. Another guard was walking their way, past the huge statues of dead Greek gods, flashlight beam swinging. «All right?» called the first guard. The other guard kept coming, and stopped just beside Richard and Door.
«I suppose,» she said. «I’ve already had to stop a couple of idiots in suits from carving their initials on the Rosetta stone. I hate these functions.»
The first guard shone his flashlight straight into Richard’s eyes, then let the beam slide off, skittering over shadows. «I keep telling you,» he said, with the satisfied relish of any true prophet, «it’s The Masque of the Red Death all over again. A decadent elite party, while civilization crumbles about their ears.» He picked his nose, wiped it on the leather sole of his well-polished black boot.
The second guard sighed. «Thank you, Gerald. Right, back on patrol.»
The guards walked out of the hall together. «Last one of these events we found someone had puked in a sarcophagus,» said one of the guards, and then the door closed behind them.
«If you’re part of London Below,» said Door to Richard, in a conversational voice, as they walked, side by side, into the next hall, «they normally don’t even notice you exist unless you stop and talk to them. And