The Square

by Rosie Millard

  “So, same again, only on Sunday. Midday?”

  “I’ll come over on my way back from church. Do you go to church?”

  “Good God no,” says Patrick, with feeling.

  “Well, see you then. Lovely.”

  “Lovely,” echoes Patrick.

  She slams the door behind her, walks lightly down the steps and into the sun-filled Square. She knows just how Sunday lunch will be. Too much food, too much wine. The heat and smell of roasting meat suppurating through the house. She imagines being back in Lodz for her parents’ Sunday meal. She feels homesick when she thinks about it. Without question it would be wholly provided by food from the family smallholding on the opposite side of the road. Potatoes, beets and cabbage all grown by her mother. They might have some meat from the family pig which would have been slaughtered earlier that week. Or just thick Borscht soup and homemade bread, followed by jellied quince. Her father would drink beer. Everyone would have gone to church, caught up on local gossip and had a chance to see friends.

  “Tell us, Anya,” her mother’s friends would say. “What is London really like? What is the family like who you look after? Are they nice to you? What do they eat?”

  “They waste their food,” she would tell them. “They complain about having no money, but then they throw everything away.”

  Anya throws nothing away. The fridge at Tracey’s house is evidence to it. It is full of tiny jars of cooked broccoli, small portions of rice and hard boiled egg. Half an onion, carefully wrapped in tin foil. A bowl of soup. A glass half-full of milk. It’s how she has been brought up. She hopes she might have influenced Belle and Grace not to waste all the food she cooks for them and puts on their plates, but she doubts it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five Belle

  She shakes Philip Burrell’s hand. He is standing before her, smiling, clasping her other hand tightly to his, trying not to look down her top. He has already paid her, several crisp notes stuffed into an envelope.

  He is very pleased.

  “Darling. It’s marvellous. The whole thing.”

  Belle blushes, smiles. She puts the money quickly away in her bag.

  “Thank you Philip. I’ve had a good time here. It’s been great.”

  She means it. She’s enjoyed working at Philip’s studio more than she had anticipated, not just because there was a satisfaction in doing the work itself, but because she realised Philip and Gilda had offered her a different view.

  Things that she had considered unsayable, undoable, were said and done at the Burrells’, just as if it was completely normal. Normal to have mouldings of genitalia in the downstairs loo, and topless pictures in the kitchen, normal to talk about long, long drinking sessions, and hint at other, more dangerous activities.

  Gilda had even once implied very strongly to Belle, over the Brie sandwich at lunch, that she had, a long time ago, seriously toyed with the notion of having sex with an animal. And made it seem like a totally rational choice.

  That was what fascinated Belle. She also loved the way Gilda played with the female dress code. Sometimes she was girly, other times butch. Her hair seemed to undergo almost daily transformations. Almost unconsciously, Belle had been influenced by this. It was a liberation of sorts to get out of her chosen uniform, dive into her mother’s or sister’s wardrobe and treat each day as an experiment.

  Today, she is wearing a frilled, low cut dress scattered with tiny embroidered cherries. It is down this low neckline that Philip longs to gaze.

  He feels he has the right to, anyway, because he has just been profiled in Frieze magazine. And he has just sold his first marathon course, which went for £150,000 at Basle Miami. He’s been told that will be reported in the Evening Standard, possibly with another, much more readable profile, certainly with a photograph of him on the gallery’s yacht which they had hired for the event. Ha. Let those johnnies at the Tate suck on that.

  “It was your Amsterdam model,” Magnus had told him, about the sale. “They loved the fact that it involved the sports stadium.”

  Why the hell is that of any importance? Philip has no idea. Still. What matters is that he, Philip Burrell, has had an idea. Marathon courses. He must get Magnus to patent it. He’ll sue anyone who copies him. Even without a patent, he’ll sue them. He can afford it. He can afford anything.

  Jas is hovering behind her, shoulders squared, smiling at Philip.

  “So, what’s next, Sir?” he says.

  “A knighthood,” says Philip. His jaw hardens. “That’ll be the day.”

  “No, I mean what course shall we do next?”

  Philip raises a hand.

  “Let them wait. Let them wait. Anticipation is all. I’ll see. In the meantime, yet more golf holes beckon for you, dear boy.”

  He ostentatiously draws a pocket watch out from his waistcoat and consults it.

  “Goodbye,” he announces. “Off to the gallery.”

  Jas wanders around the studio, tracing a finger along the table. He doesn’t want to do golf holes for Philip any more. After the giant glories of building the London, Berlin, Loch Ness, Tokyo, Amsterdam and New York marathon courses, he thinks golf holes might seem a bit pathetic. He sees how it will all play out. Patrick will spend his days at the gallery with Magnus. Belle will be back in her posh house. He will be in the studio, doing golf holes again.

  “Will you come back here and help me?”

  “Sure,” says Belle. “I liked it. I liked working here. Makes my house look catatonically dull.”

  “You know, after this, we could do all sorts of other things.”

  “Sure,” repeats Belle.

  “Belle!” comes a light voice from downstairs. “Yoo-hoo! Jas, has she gone?”

  “Not yet,” yells Jas.

  It’s Gilda. Belle smiles. She runs down the stairs to the kitchen.

  “Oh, Gilda, I was just off.”

  Gilda is wearing an old pair of fishnets and leather shorts, a Breton top and chandelier earrings. A brunette bobbed wig finishes the look. Belle puts her arms around Gilda, feels her bony shoulderblades. She kisses her cheek.

  “Love the wig.”

  “Thank you. Would you like some tea?”

  “Lovely. As long as it’s not in the Snail Horror Mug.”

  They sit convivially at the table, perched on ancient school chairs.

  “I was thinking Belle, about the Talent Show in the Square. It is next Sunday, is it not?”

  “Er, yes, I think it is,” says Belle, hoping to be vague.

  She has a sudden burning desire to protect Philip and Gilda. The earlier notion of offering guided tours around their house, so that people could point and laugh at Gilda’s topless pictures, now offends her.

  Philip, he’s a vain old thing. Let him fight his corner. But Gilda has a childlike vulnerability which Belle is anxious to defend.

  “Would you like us to take part, kitten? It’s been so lovely to… get to know the neighbours, by which I mean you, of course. So lovely. Whom should we contact? I think Philip and I should paticipate. After all, we are the only working artists on the Square!”

  Belle considers the situation. She doesn’t want to deliver Gilda and Philip up like something on a plate, an exhibit. Mad Artist and his Soviet Wife.

  “I could sing a song,” says Gilda slowly. “A Russian folk song. Philip might accompany me. He’s great on the harmonica, you know.”

  “Why don’t I talk to my mother about it,” says Belle. “She’ll know. Actually, yes, she’s working with the presenter, she’ll have some great ideas about what you could do.”

  She glances at her phone, gulps the rest of the tea.

  “Gilda, I have to go now. I’ll bring my mother over and we can have a chat about it.”

  She runs up the stairs, remembers the time when this house seemed threatening, and perverse. How could she have ever thought that, considers Belle. I hope they forget about the Talent Show, is her second thought.

  Gilda hears the front door close and
wanders around her kitchen. She looks at her black and white photographs on the wall without really seeing them.

  “Well I hope she doesn’t just disappear back into her life of Ordinariness,” she says out loud.

  Jas pops his head around the door.

  “Bye, Gilda. That’s me done. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

  She waves a hand. The tips of her fingers are decorated with golden nail varnish.

  Alone in the house, Gilda walks over to the window, looks out at the Square. The giant plane tree is fully covered in bright green leaves. It looks almost overburdened with foliage. She turns, runs upstairs to her bedroom, pulls out a sheaf of paper from her dressing table.

  It is a song book, entitled More Than A Woman. She stands, smiling in her room, flips through the pages, hums a little, her foot tapping.

  Suddenly, she tosses the book onto the bed and goes to an adjoining room. Her dressing room. There are boxes of shoes, with photographs on the front to indicate what is inside. There are rails and rails of coats. One chest of drawers only contains matching sets of underwear. Another only contains stockings. She opens a giant wardrobe, rifles through the beaded, glittering, satin dresses which hang in separate plastic sheaths. Gilda had a five year tussle with moths and is not going to enter onto that battlefield again.

  She suddenly finds what she is looking for, and pulls it out. A vast sequinned gown with puffed sleeves, and a wasp waist leading to a giant, long skirt with train. She carries it reverentially to the bed. The stiff, beaded sleeves wrap around her neck, like the arms of a sleepy child.

  Chapter Twenty-Six Sunday Lunch

  When Anya arrives to play the Blüthner grand for Patrick and Jane’s Sunday lunch party, the household is in a frantic state.

  “I mean, they grew up with rationing, darling,” says Jane to Patrick, having explained why she is not going to bother with summer pudding, will not bother with summer pudding, and was never going to bother with summer pudding. She has knocked out a crumble instead.

  “They just don’t have the tastebuds. Good old fashioned food is what they like. Nursery style. Believe me, it’s what they want!”

  Sunday lunch has none of the pleasures of a dinner party, thinks Jane as she opens the door quickly to baste the lamb, and flinches from the heat of the oven. She thinks about the demanding necessities of Sunday lunch, of the table, food, timing. Plus, the food needs to be ready at once. And there is never a starter. Also, it’s only her parents-in-law. So it’s not really worth having food for showing off; Badoit water, mange tout, home made ciabatta rolls, that sort of thing. No point at all. They won’t appreciate it.

  Patrick, who knows his parents rather enjoy the exciting fodder they are occasionally granted by Jane, and in particular are very fond of summer pudding, merely raises his eyebrows and walks into the music room where he comes across George.

  His son looks instantly guilty.

  “George.”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Just waiting.”

  George smiles beatifically at his father and ostentatiously picks up a book. It is a copy of The Boy Pharaoh, by Noel Streatfeild. An appropriate choice, thinks Patrick.

  The door bell rings.

  “Answer it!” yells Jane from the steam-filled kitchen.

  “Alright, alright,” mutters Patrick.

  He opens the door, expecting to be enfolded within the sudden enthusiasm of his parents, relieved to have arrived on time. He jumps. It’s Anya on the doorstep, volumes of sheet music in her arms. Oh, God. He had forgotten that he’d arranged for her to come and play for them.

  He suddenly panics that it’s the wrong thing to do, that it’s going to look odd, having someone paid to play for just four people. Five, if you count the Boy. But here she is. He can’t disinvite her now.

  “Ah, Anya, great, great. Top stuff. Come in. Come in,” he says awkwardly.

  She senses the moment is wrong.

  “Have I come on the right day, Patrick?”

  “Oh God yes. Yes! Perfect. Come in. Now, you know the piano is here,” he says, idiotically opening the door to the room. She walks in calmly.

  “How lovely. Hello George.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I am to play for your guests. Won’t that be nice?”

  “But it’s only Granny and Grandpa. They aren’t guests. They don’t even like music!”

  “George!” interjects Patrick. “Your grandmother loves music. Take no notice of him, Anya. May I get you a drink?” he says courteously, his equilibrium regained.

  “Oh, just a coffee,” says Anya, unused to being treated like a guest.

  “Let me help you.”

  Patrick descends into the kitchen where Jane is coping with industrial quantities of boiling oil and roast potatoes. Anya follows him.

  “Was that your parents? Unlike them to be on time.”

  “No, it’s Anya, actually. Wants a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh, God, the au pair. Playing to us. Have we really confirmed her?”

  Anya suddenly appears at Patrick’s elbow.

  “Oh, Anya hell-lo, what a treat that you’re coming to play. Makes me feel like we’ll be having cocktails at the Ritz! Would you like some coffee?”

  “I’ll get it,” says Anya, who knows where everything is after helping Jane at the dinner party. She reaches up for the canister of coffee beans.

  “Oh no, not those, Anya, if you don’t mind,” says Jane, barging past her to the same cupboard.

  “Would you mind having this instead?” she says, getting down a jar of Nescafé Gold.

  Anya smiles graciously. “Of course not.”

  You give me instant coffee, she thinks. I am going to fuck your husband.

  Unaware of his new status as future sexual partner, Patrick has filled the kettle and is now pacing the kitchen.

  “When would you like to start, Anya?” he says.

  “How about now, for about twenty minutes,” says Jane, smiling so widely her cheeks hurt.

  “My parents have got to turn up first, Jane.”

  “Have they? Oh, right. Yes, I suppose they have. Well at least it’s a novelty. I suspect this will be the first time they have heard live music since you were in the school orchestra.”

  He ignores the slight, pours the water and gives the mug to Anya. She walks gravely upstairs and sits down at the Blüthner. That woman is so rude. She starts with her jazz repertoire which she used to trot out every Saturday night in a wine bar in Lodz, before she left for Britain.

  To Patrick’s delight, she kicks off with ‘In the Mood’. It instantly lifts Patrick’s heart. How did she know his parents would feel intimidated and overawed by Bach or Beethoven? Burt Bacharach was much more their style. He runs upstairs to tell her.

  “They’ll love this, Anya.” She looks up at him, eyebrows raised in question.

  “My parents. This is great. Top stuff.”

  After about five minutes of ‘In the Mood’, slipping expertly into some Simon and Garfunkel, the door bell rings.

  George advances on the door, throws it open with a flourish. There are kisses and exclamations about George’s amazing height as Patrick’s parents come into the house.

  “Darling,” says his mother Joy. “The Square is looking perfect this morning. Just beautiful. And George, he’s so big these days!”

  “I say!” says Norman, his father. “Who’s this?”

  “Oh, this is Anya,” says Patrick, beaming.

  Anya breaks off from a rendition of ‘Feelin’ Groovy’ and stands up.

  “Sit down, sit down,” says Patrick. “She’s a keyboard maestro, and only lives next door, so I thought she might play for us a bit before we eat.”

  Jane comes into the room, wiping her hands on the back of her jeans. No point in dressing up. It’s only Sunday lunch. It’s only my in-laws.

  “Hello Joy, Norman, lovely to see you. Yes, Patrick’s idea for us to have a
bit of music. Otherwise this piano just sits here, you see.”

  “Ahem!” says George.

  “Well of course there is you, George, but Anya is the person around here who plays it properly. We are all in awe of her,” says Jane, in a wholly unawed way.

  The family sit around bolt upright on the sofas, listening to the au pair play. Patrick’s parents are politely holding glasses of gin and tonic from which they take an occasional sip. Patrick and Jane are drinking wine, quite quickly. George is drinking juice, loudly, with a straw.

  After a while, Joy comments on this. “Gosh, that straw is noisy,” she says, frowning at George. She believes fervently that children should be seen and not heard. Very spoilt these days, children. Think the whole world revolves around them. She taps her foot impatiently. Patrick sees the gesture, realises that his mother is probably starving.

  He stands up. “Ah Anya, thank you. That was just wonderful.”

  “But I haven’t finished yet, I’ve only just started my programme.”

  “Well, we’ve really enjoyed it! Honestly, it’s been great.”

  He sees that he needs to get rid of her, shepherd his parents downstairs and give them some food.

  “Let me play on. Or maybe play for you after your meal.” She is anxious he gets his money’s worth.

  Patrick hovers, unsure what is now socially proper to do with Anya.

  “Great! Great! Well, why not come down and eat with us?”

  On the way downstairs, Jane murmurs to her husband in that truncated way that married couples specialise in.

  “What the hell? I don’t want lunch with an au pair!”

  “Well I could hardly leave her upstairs. Could I? George,” he says loudly. “Could you lay a place for Anya?”

  Oh God, thinks Patrick. Now we are going to have to cope with Anya all through the meal. Oh well. She’s probably experienced worse. And it will give him a chance to look at those wonderfully arched eyebrows a little longer.

  He foresees the forthcoming conversation. He knows exactly how it will play out and prepares himself to witness one of those moments in which middle class English people try to find common ground with agrarian Eastern Europeans who were born during the Cold War.