The Square

by Rosie Millard

“Roberta reminded me that music always looks good on a Personal Statement, you know.”

  “I thought you couldn’t afford it.”

  “We can always afford things for your education, dumpling,” admonishes her father.

  Anyway, things might be on the upturn, thinks Tracey. With the blessing of a television show.

  Belle pushes past Anya who has returned and is silently tidying up the marble island. Belle glares to nobody in particular.

  I could be at the gym right now, she thinks. Rather than doing bloody Hanon. La-de-dah. Why does Mum even want me to play the piano? It’s stupid, stupid. A nineteenth century leisure pursuit. Not a single one of the other Populars plays an instrument. Honestly, not one. Well, Cathy plays the clarinet. And Maria the trumpet. But those are fashionable. Jazzy. Portable. Accessories, really. In boxes with shiny hinges and a handle. Whereas, the lumbering old piano. It’s like playing furniture. She enters the living room.

  “Hello, Belle. Shall we start with Hanon?” says Roberta, in her deceptively cool manner.

  Belle pulls the stool out and settles down, huffing slightly.

  Downstairs in the knock-through kitchen, Tracey hums as she hears the familiar patterns once more. Her phone buzzes. It’s an email from Alan. I’ve just been working things out. How about a meeting with the production team next Tuesday? 9.30? That would suit me fine. All directions on the website www.MoneywithMakin.com.

  She answers it with a single word, then snaps the phone shut with a happy sense of progress.

  Chapter Twelve Belle

  The door bell rings.

  “Mum!” she shouts. “Muu-uum!” Where the hell is she, thinks Belle, before remembering about Tracey’s ‘Production Meeting’ at Makin TV. She puts the quotation marks around it even though she is only thinking the words.

  She walks to the door, opens it. She blinks at the person several times before she realises who it is. Christ, it’s Jas. What the hell does he want, is her first thought. Why am I wearing a flowery top, is her second thought. Belle does not like being seen in obviously female clothes.

  “’Right, Belle?” says Jas.

  She eyes him suspiciously. Hates the way he says her name. He seems to put a W into it. Bewul. Ugh.

  “Jas.”

  “Er, Belle, I got something to suggest to you. Now, I don’t know if you’re interested in this, what with your house, and everything.”

  “But?”

  “But, well, I wondered if you’d like to earn some money?”

  Emboldened by her eyebrows rising, he continues.

  “It all depends on, like, how good you are at making things.”

  Three minutes later, Belle and Jas are sitting at a bench in the middle of the Square. Jas is smoking. He knows better than to light up indoors, so they have come outside to talk. He’d rather, anyway.

  Belle looks up at the vast canopy of the London plane above them. About 20,000 leaves are about to unfold, all at once, on the tree, but at present, there are just bright green buds on the dark twigs and branches, giving the sensation of a verdant mist. It is a spectacle which only lasts about a week.

  Even though she is in her huge black astrakhan coat, she shivers, wrinkling her nose at the bitter smoke.

  “Tell me again what you need me to do.”

  “I want you to be my assistant, for a week or so at least. At Philip Burrell’s studio. You know, just over there, at No. 32. I want you to help me make models of famous marathon courses around the world.”

  “What? Like a sort of Lego thing?”

  “No, out of wood and papier mâché and paint.”

  There is silence under the plane as Belle tries to envisage the plan.

  “Why? Does he think this is art?”

  “Yes! Not just him. He does this sort of stuff. It’s his scuplture, his thing. He has a dealer, and collectors, and, like, art fairs. His stuff goes for a bomb, Belle. There’s a lot of money involved. A lot. It is art, anyway,” Jas continues, seeing Belle’s incredulous face. “Sort of,” he concludes quietly.

  Belle would quite like to know how much money Philip makes out of this venture, but realises, correctly, that Jas wants to have his pitch without being quizzed on it. She lets him continue.

  “I am Philip’s main assistant. I help him make golf holes. Like solid replicas of famous golf holes. In miniature.”

  Belle is getting a bit confused. “I thought it was marathon courses, a minute ago.”

  “Yeah, well he does golf holes, mainly. They sell all over the world. I mean all over. For a lot. Tens of thousands of pounds. Then he had a brainwave and thought he should escalate to marathon courses. Why not?” Jas pauses.

  When Philip is doing it, explaining everything in his studio, it sort of makes sense. He’s not sure he is making sense to Belle, but he badly needs to convince her.

  “Belle, Philip is an artist. One of the most important artists in the country. And this is his latest idea. Anyway, people want to buy his stuff. And I don’t have enough time for it all. I need someone to, like, help me make it.”

  He does not want Philip to ask anyone else for help. Particularly that arsey dealer Magnus. Jas doesn’t want the work to leave his grasp. He can see the amount of money hovering over the project, like the green mist above them. He intends to have some of that money. And why not? He’s earned it, turning up three times a week and having lunches with Philip and Gilda. That’s another card to play.

  “You know Gilda? His girlfriend? Russian? Well, you’d meet her and see their house. It’s pretty awesome.”

  “Is it true the place is full of porn?” says Belle, not wanting to seem too curious about it, but as a matter of fact, the porn at her arty neighbour’s house was something that the Populars had urged her to find out about for months now, that would be something to have up her sleeve.

  “Yep.”

  That did it.

  “I’m in. When do we start?”

  “Really?” He’s really pleased. “Great. Belle, I knew you’d be up for it. I think you’d be great. Remember that project on the River Thames that we did together in Year Five? It’s going to be a bit like that. It’s going to be a blast.”

  She laughs. “What, with papier mâché?”

  “Yeah, and chicken wire. Do you know anything about marathons?”

  “No. Only that they are bloody long, and all the traffic stops for a day.”

  “Well, pretend you do. And when you meet Philip, don’t, for fuck’s sake, mention the Tate Gallery.”

  “Why? Artists like the Tate, don’t they?”

  “Nah. Not this one.”

  Belle looks at Jas. He lifts his chin, smiles back at her merrily. He is pleased that his plan seems to have worked out.

  She thinks about how they were together, working on art projects in their aprons at school. She wonders how different she would feel now, if a big hand marked Money hadn’t picked her up and moved her away into the Square and private school, what she would be like now.

  Jas looks at Belle. Success in one field has given him a notion about success in another. He wonders vaguely when he might be allowed to fuck her.

  “Right, so tomorrow. I’ll call for you. Nine? Philip likes an early start.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll have all the materials. We’ll go to the studio and we’ll start working. I think tomorrow we are going to start on Berlin.”

  “Right.” She’s quite excited.

  “When do you go back to school?”

  “I have two weeks. It’s half term.”

  Blimey, thinks Jas. She has to pay for school and they hardly turn up. Two weeks! Well, that’s a blessing, actually. They might get Tokyo done as well.

  “Er, Jas, what’s the fee? I am getting paid for this, right?”

  He hadn’t thought about this too closely. Philip would need to be consulted about how much this new assistant was going to be paid. He’d have to feel comfortable with this new person in his world. Philip was a man who di
dn’t like surprises. He wanted to be surrounded by people who weren’t going to criticise him. He liked to be able to glide about in his robe and not have people laugh at him, or roll their eyeballs at him. He was the unopposed king of his world.

  “Philip will sort that out. But it won’t be nothing. Honestly, Belle, you’ll enjoy it. Just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t laugh at him. Take him seriously.”

  “Right.”

  He stands, grinds the stub onto the ground, clasps his hands together almost as if he is praying.

  “Thanks, Belle. I knew you’d like the idea. Knew you’d be up for a challenge. So. Tomorrow, nine, right?”

  “Right.” She has already turned away, waves a hand behind her.

  It’s going to be hard to get into her knickers, thinks Jas. But he’s sure he can manage it. At this particular second, he feels as if anything and everything is possible. He gives a little skip as he walks towards Philip Burrell’s house where the chicken wire and wood are already marking out the course of the Berlin Marathon.

  Belle shivers from the morning chill as she comes into the softly warm house, and almost collides with Anya. She is carrying a large bag of rubbish.

  “Oh, sorry, Belle.”

  Belle decides she will smile at the au pair as she edges out with the sagging black sack. She’s in a good mood. She’ll get quite a lot of money from this venture. Money earned, rather than given to her. Is it different? Apart from the time spent getting it, probably not, thinks Belle. It’s all numbers. But at least this means she’ll be able to buy what she wants, when she wants it, and not have to bother being nice to her mother, or clear up her plate after breakfast, or tidy her room, all things which her parents seem to think go hand in hand with a monthly allowance.

  Plus, it will be quite a laugh, working with Little Jas. That’s what everyone used to call him at school. Alright, he’s not so little now, but she’ll still make sure he does most of the work. It’s not going to be too arduous, she thinks. Bit of sticking and painting, it will be like being back in primary school again.

  And then there’s all that stuff in the house, she’ll enjoy nosing around there. Belle is very pleased. What looked like a rather dull period of time, stretching ahead of her, was going to turn out to be rather entertaining. And she would get paid for doing it. Belle tosses her large coat onto the bannister as she walks upstairs. It promptly slides off onto the floor. Well, Anya can deal with that.

  Chapter Thirteen Jane

  Yes, but if it’s going to go ahead, the Talent Show needs planning. Really good planning. Proper production. It must be smooth. Professional. Impressive. If a thing’s worth doing. And so on. Which is why Jane put herself forward, volunteered for the position of Talent Show Producer. Yes, she wanted to be seen as a volunteer. However, now that she was in charge, had been given the task of organising it by Larry, whose idea it had been, it would be so awful if it was a damp squib.

  She thinks of the event. She thinks of the audience. What happened if nobody turned up? If everyone just couldn’t be bothered? That would be dreadful. That would be like nobody turning up to your birthday party.

  Plus, there is the talent part of it. She thinks of George. George has a fairly fixed set of parameters for his enthusiasm and talents, thinks Jane with a frown. What could he do? Dressing up? She can’t quite see him reciting a poem, plus it would be so dreadful if he forgot his lines, she doesn’t think she could cope with the stress of that. Yet she wants to show her son off. I pay enough for his bloody education, she thinks. He’s got to do something impressive. She only has one child. He has to fulfil all her dreams. Maybe he could play the piano, if I can dragoon Roberta in to teach him something which sounds complicated but is actually very simple. She remembers hearing Jools Holland say this about playing boogie-woogie. Somehow she can’t quite see George mastering boogie-woogie in the matter of a month.

  She has bought a large block of lined paper. On the frontispiece, she has written Talent Show. She looks at the pad. She’s quite excited about the project. It’s like being back at school when she was Head Girl. Since when, her expectations of power were somewhat thwarted.

  It took her several years after arriving there, at her job in Freshfields, to realise that the City was not like an all-girls school. At the beginning, she was full of confidence, short skirts and swear words. After a while, she got bored with matching people drink for drink at the bar. It began to dawn on her that the City was not really a place to throw your weight around, if you were female. People, i.e. the men, simply didn’t include her in the action. Women were acknowledged, but only on a token basis.

  She hated to admit it, but she felt far more in control at home. In terms of a domestically-based event, something in the Square, people expect a woman like Jane to be in charge. They’ll be looking to me to organise it, she knows that is why Larry had emailed her to ask if she could do. “Where’s Jane?” people would say, if she wasn’t in evidence. At least, she hopes they would say it.

  She drums her fingers. Maybe she needs to talk over the options with Jay. The more she thinks about this, the more this seems like a good idea.

  She once met a woman in her seventies who had had a rather racy younger life. This old woman had once said to her, apropos of having an affair, that she couldn’t imagine how it would be done in the modern world.

  “You are just so likely to get found out, that’s the problem,” she had said to Jane. “What with everything going on a screen on your phone.”

  The seventy year old woman had explained to Jane that her affair, being conducted in the days of the Poste Restante, took place via individual letters.

  “Much safer,” said the woman.

  What a time waster, thought Jane. Imagine all that incriminating evidence. And what torment it must have been, all that waiting for the letter telling where and when to meet. God! Weeks could go by. Weeks in which day rooms could have been booked, and enjoyed. She had been polite to the woman, but some of these sentiments had clearly leaked out onto her face. The woman had smiled at her sympathetically, thinking of the hoard she now treasures. The shoeboxes in her attic, the yellowing papers, the ribbons, the faded napkins from forgotten cafes and lingered-over coffees, the short scrawled lines of erotica. My darling. The softness of your thighs. She allows herself to look at them, occasionally.

  Jane doodles slightly on her pad.

  Surely there cannot be an easier time or place than the present, in which to conduct an affair? Modern technology simply lends itself to it, so much so in fact that it could almost have been invented for it.

  At any time of night, or day, there are so many ways to link up with Jay. She stares out of the window, looking without seeing the naked branches from the plane trees, outlined against the white sky.

  Right from the beginning of the day, Jane is engaged in a virtual conversation with her neighbour and lover. She thinks about it as soon as she wakes up. I can message him while taking my morning shower, she muses. I shall tell him I am naked. He might respond with a silly something which will make me smile as I am on my way downstairs for breakfast. Sometimes, he will even text me while I am having a cup of tea with Patrick. I might text him back.

  There is only one awkward moment. She doesn’t much like him to text her while she is dressing George and getting his bag ready, that makes her feel uneasy and a little guilty.

  But texting her while she is smiling at her husband, that is fine. More than fine. It makes her feel sexy and alive. Wasn’t this how a modern woman was meant to be?

  Of course the audacity of it is part of the excitement. And is it any worse, Jane thinks, almost as if the seventy year old woman is sitting right in front of her, is it any worse than writing secret letters in lavender ink and sending them to a Poste Restante, and keeping the replies, tied in a ribbon, in a shoebox forever? Of course not. It’s just a bit more technical. And there are no incriminating replies to be kept in the technologic
al age. She never keeps anything, of course.

  She deletes absolutely every single sentence from Jay that arrives on her phone. Every one. She never emails. She never writes. He used to drop cards round, before she demanded he stop. She has nothing in her Prada bag, nothing in her knicker drawer, nothing in her wallet which might provide excitement and a household drama. She used to write things down in code, but when she came to re-read them, she had forgotten the code. She found she was just looking at a whole lot of silly scribbles, which made her feel sad as she had no idea how to understand them.

  Birthdays, Christmasses, trips abroad; they all must go unmarked. Jane never sends cards, they never exchange presents. The quotidian stuff of love; the photographs, cherished letters, gifts, boxes full of memorabilia from set piece events, these are forbidden. Affairs must happen right in the middle of the slip stream, and must leave no permanent trace. Those are the rules. They must be washed away by life. They are not about posterity. That is their pull, and their pain. Hey. What’s going on? she texts.

  To her satisfaction, he replies immediately. She hates waiting for him to respond.

  Jane. What the devil are you up to? Sorting out the Talent Show. Very bored. Head Girl To Action. Would you like a helping hand?

  She looks at the text, helpless. She puts away the pad. Since the fucking in the corridor, she has been counting the days until her next fix. After about nine days of chaste married life, she is desperate for a day room.

  But she has no day room booked today. She feels like a cross child whose offer of play has just been snatched away. Thought you were busy today. Darling. We have no room booked. Never mind. Let’s have coffee then. And a chat.

  Jane doesn’t want coffee, or a chat. She wants to be back in the corridor, being screwed up against the wall. Alternatively, she wants to be carried across the bland Travelodge bedroom, legs wrapped around his body, intoxicated. She wants him sucking her body. She wants to be delivered into him. Or he into her. Instead, she must look forward to a cup of coffee.

  She feels like pouting. Oh. Ok then.