The Square

by Rosie Millard

  “She doesn’t look it.”

  “That’s all a front,” says Larry confidently.

  The door bell rings.

  “Excuse me,” says Larry, leaving the room.

  “Help yourself to an olive.”

  Harriet starts eating, dolefully and mechanically putting olive after olive into her mouth, hardly biting the first before following it with the second.

  She is pleased to hear Jay and Brian in the hall, followed by a chatter of other voices from others who have obviously arrived on the doorstep at the same time.

  The living room door opens. Jay, Brian, and the Single Mother all come in, followed by Larry and Grace.

  “Is Alan Makin himself turning up?” asks Jay jovially, to nobody in particular.

  “Of course he is,” says Tracey, coming in behind him with a tray of drinks.

  “Bubble, anyone?”

  At that precise moment, the door bell rings. Grace looks out of the window.

  “It’s Alan!” she says.

  Tracey smiles. She feels triumphant to her fingertips.

  “Well, go and let him in.”

  After a minute or so, Alan strides into the living room.

  “Hello, hello everyone,” he announces. He looks around at the room, in which there are only seven people.

  “Where’s the crew? Is this it?”

  “Oh, no, not at all,” says Tracey quickly as the door bell rings again.

  It is the production crew, four or five muscular and monosyllabic men. They enter the living room as one body and stand by the door, shunning all food and drinking Carlsberg out of the can.

  Eventually there are about a dozen people in the room as the opening titles of Makin’s Makeovers roll on the screen.

  Astonishingly, Jane has arrived. She is last to turn up, with George at her side.

  “Patrick can’t make it, but I couldn’t miss this for the world,” she announces to the room. She has a lot of makeup on. “George was dying to see it, Tracey.”

  She gives Jay a bright, glassy eyed smile. He bobs his head, and then focuses resolutely on the screen.

  Anya quietly slips out of the living room. She’s not too bothered about the show, and she can watch it in her room anyway. But she is very keen to avoid a confrontation with Jane.

  Tracey pops up on screen, smiling nervously.

  “The pre-sequence sequence, folks,” says Alan.

  “I’ll admit it, I had no idea what was in my bank account from day to day,” announces televisual Tracey, walking towards the camera.

  “God I sound stupid,” mutters Tracey.

  “Yes but your legs look great,” says Larry, nudging her.

  “Only 10% of what people say on television actually sinks into the viewer’s mind,” says Grace. “I read that somewhere.”

  Alan Makin coughs, loudly.

  “Shhh,” says Belle. She looks up at Brian, who winks at her.

  “Do we know how many people across the UK are actually watching this?” says George, loudly. Alan does a loud intake of breath.

  “Shhh!” hisses Belle.

  “About four point five,” says Alan.

  “Four point five what?” asks George

  “Million,” says Alan.

  “Will you all shut up? Sorry Alan, I don’t mean you, but everyone else,” says Tracey.

  And so the programme begins.

  Alan is perfect, easy, charming and full of solutions. Tracey is surprisingly entertaining, full of endearing problems but only too ready to be guided. Graphics fill the screen showing how her finances got into trouble, but how easily the problems can be solved.

  “Yeah, if I start working twenty-seven-hour days,” says Larry in a low voice.

  “Dad!” says Belle. “Shut UP.”

  “Thought you only counted YouTube as important broadcasting,” whispers Larry.

  “Dad!” says Grace.

  The door bell rings. Grace looks out of the window.

  “Belle, it’s Jas!”

  “Who?” says Alan.

  “Oh, one of the chavs from the other day,” continues Grace. “He’s been working with Belle and that weird Philip Burrell guy.”

  “What?” says Larry, leaping up out of his chair. “Don’t tell me those wacky artists are here.”

  Alan glances out of the window.

  “No, no. Just one person. Oh yes, that’s Jasper. I remember now, I invited him round. He was very keen to see the show. After the Talent Show he came up. Wants to ask me about getting into television afterwards, you know.”

  Larry sits back down. “Well, if anything happens… ”

  “Don’t talk rubbish, man. These people just need a chance. I do this sort of thing a lot, you know,” says Alan, adjusting his collar.

  “Jasper!” murmurs Larry, astonished. “What sort of name is that for someone from a council estate?”

  “Shhhh!” says Belle. “I worked with him all over the Easter holidays. He works for Philip Burrell, you know. Jas. I was at Primary with him. You know. We made the marathon courses.”

  The bell rings again.

  “Grace, be a dear and let him in.”

  After a few moments, Grace heralds the arrival of Jas. He walks in shyly.

  “’Lo”

  “Jas!” says Belle.

  “Alan invited me,” he says.

  She smiles warmly at him. He is in her house. Without her even having done anything about it. She remembers how nice he had been to her at Philip’s studio.

  “Fantastic. How are the golf holes?”

  “Good.”

  “Marathon courses?”

  “Nah. Magnus thinks we might have ‘saturated the market’ with them,” Jas says. “But Philip’s onto something else now.”

  “What?”

  “Olympic stadiums. Check them out. I’ve put some shots on Instagram.”

  Belle laughs. She is definitely going to kiss him. Screw the Populars and her vow for chastity. Screw being polite and wistful with Brian, too. She can’t be doing with private school boys. She is going to fuck Jas. She knows it. She is going to lose her virginity to him. She will. These thoughts take about three nanoseconds to course through her head. She feels full of exultation.

  The group murmurs a welcome. The programme continues to its entirely predictable conclusion.

  “So from now on, my working week is sorted,” chirps Tracey from the screen.

  “I pay myself every week, I pay into my tax account every week and when the tax bill needs to be paid, ta-dah! The money is already there in my account. Thanks, Alan!” She bounces off screen with a jaunty wave.

  Alan’s face fills the screen as he gets into his car and drives away, the financial superhero coming to your street soon to sort out your money woes. The address for his website is frozen on the screen for a few seconds.

  Everyone in the room laughs.

  Tracey nudges Alan.

  “Thanks Alan!”

  Alan graciously nods his head, accepts the acknowledgement, relaxes in his chair as the credits roll.

  The crew nods sagely as their names briefly appear on the screen. There is a ripple of applause as the last credit, for Makin Productions, flashes up.

  “And now, Family Guy,” says the continuity announcer.

  “Oh pleeese Dad,” says Grace. “Can we watch Family Guy now?”

  “Are you stark staring mad?” says Larry. “We are having a party to celebrate your mum’s programme. That does not involve sitting around watching Family Guy.”

  He snaps the television off.

  “Only because it features a man like you,” mutters Belle, getting up out of her chair and going to stand next to Jas.

  “Hey,” says Jas. “Your mum looked great.”

  “Mmm,” says Belle noncommittally. “Tell you what. Shall we go upstairs? We can watch Netflix on my laptop.”

  Jas looks torn. Forget Netflix, he’s not stupid. But Alan Makin and his promise of a chat is downstairs. He looks at Belle
.

  “Quickly,” she whispers, touching his hand. That does it. Alan Makin can wait. He is going to take this girl’s clothes off in her bedroom in the Square, from whose windows he can just about see his own flat.

  “Excuse me,” says Tracey loudly, as she walks past them with a tray.

  “I shall replenish these, I think,” she announces to nobody in particular. “Then we can all have Harriet’s delicious lasagna.”

  As Belle and Jas walk upstairs, Tracey clicks down to the kitchen in her very high heels. A strand of hair has come adrift from its pin. It snakes softly down the back of her neck. She kicks open the kitchen door, walks in and puts the tray heavily down on the table. The programme is over. She must face the lasagna.

  Someone comes into the kichen behind her. It’s Alan.

  “I honestly feel as if nothing nice is ever going to happen again,” says Tracey, as the phone starts ringing.

  “Rubbish,” says Alan. “Listen to that. That is people ringing to tell you how great you were on the show. You were!”

  “But it’s been, oh I don’t know, it’s been… ” she looks wildly around the four walls of her kitchen, all so carefully styled. The very fact of her expensive kitchen’s existence used to give her so much delight. Now it seems pathetic, inadequate.

  “Don’t worry,” says Alan. “You’ll go on to do other things. And now with all your finances in great shape,” he jokes.

  “I suppose so,” she says, dolefully, rinsing the glasses under the tap. Her notion of a quick exit from Alan Makin suddenly seems rather undesirable.

  “What about… us?”

  Alan puts a perfectly manicured hand onto the island. She looks at his nail varnish. It looks totally wrong in her kitchen.

  “Tracey, you know. You are a lovely woman. You’ve been great. You are great. You were great on the show. You were also great for me, very very helpful. In key areas. And physically, wow.”

  He chucks her under the chin.

  She looks up at him, choked by the almost parental gesture, forgetting about her wish for a civilised, neat ending, forgetting about her independence, wanting to continue being wanted by a celebrity. “And?”

  “And all the other stuff. Wonderful. You are a wonderful woman,” he repeats. “But look at what you have here. It’s…” he spreads his hands wide.

  Tracey looks at him. She suspects he has said this kind of thing before. She thinks of his glorious solitude in his designer flat. Lubetkin. The Munchkin.

  She’s grateful, in a way, for Alan’s manner, but she would rather that she had instigated it, not him. She thinks he is thinking she is emotionally devastated rather than disappointed, and this irritates her.

  “It’s domesticated bliss, is what it is,” she says sourly. “With lasagna for twenty people.”

  “Tracey. Come on. Tell you what, let’s not finish on this sort of note. Are you free tomorrow?”

  She looks up at him, hopefully. Anything not to completely leave the charmed world of production, the fantasy of the perfectly constructed and scripted television show, the notion that life too could be like this, if only one worked just a little bit harder.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Good. Come with me to London Zoo. I’m taking the Munchkin to his new home.”

  “What?”

  He shrugs. “It’s time. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. Ten o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

  They walk upstairs, back to the sitting room. Jane and George have gone. Everyone else, including Anya, is sitting around drinking beer and watching Family Guy. Grace is sitting on her hands, grinning with triumph. Belle and Jas are conspicuous by their absence.

  Chapter Thirty-Three Tracey

  Tracey stretches her body in bed, contemplates the slumbering hillock beside her. Fifteen years. For fifteen years she has shared a bed with this one person. She contemplates the next fifteen years. Without any variation, she thinks. Apart from possibly the hillock growing larger.

  Larry turns over, flings his arm out in order to embrace her. It catches her on the nose.

  “Ow! Fifteen years in bed together, and you still do that most mornings,” says Tracey loudly, her eyes streaming.

  “What? Oh, sorry love.”

  He gives her a fond cuddle.

  “Don’t be dissatisfied. You were great last night. But telly isn’t everything.”

  “I know. I’m alright really, darling.”

  On the landing, she bumps into Anya, who comes out of the bathroom brushing her teeth.

  “Anya, you’re up early.”

  “That’s because I’m leaving, you know that. I must be at Gatwick by eleven. Didn’t you get my message?”

  “What? I thought you were going next week!”

  Anya ducks back to the bathroom to rinse and dry her mouth. She returns out to Tracey.

  “No, no, sorry, Tracey. I decided to get an earlier flight. They have seats.” She shrugs. “My mother says she wants to have me home in Lodz early. My uncles are collecting me from Chopin airport. I did leave you a note in the kitchen.”

  Do they always do this in the middle class world, thinks Tracey crossly. The living conditions between employer and au pair are so intimate that they see you in your nightie, or find (and read) your bank statement. Yet when it suits them they pretend to be distant, and arrange things how they want it. As if you simply didn’t count. Never mind the contract, the fondness for their small charges, the closeness you have shared. Tracey knows there is probably no point in railing against it, being formal, waving bits of paper about. It’s just how it is. It is their final trump card against the English bourgeoisie. You need us, they say. We don’t need you. You, the English employer, can be replaced at any time. There are lots of you out there.

  “Oh, Anya. We will miss you. Have you said goodbye to the girls?”

  “No, but I will. I’ll get them up and have breakfast with them.”

  Of course you will. Eat our food, spend our money, snare the affection of our children and then go home.

  “Well, let me know if you need any help.”

  She wanders back into her bedroom, sits on the bed. She feels rather shocked by Anya’s announcement. At the same time, however, she starts to think about the girl in the past tense. She’ll have to find a replacement. Maybe this time she’ll get one who can drive. And cook decently. Tracey thinks she’d rather have a decent cook than someone who plays the piano, what a minefield that ended up being. Maybe it would be better to get a man. Eastern European, of course. An Eastern European male au pair. That would send shockwaves around here, she thinks. But at least a man wouldn’t get off with one of the neighbours’ husbands.

  She pokes the semi-conscious Larry.

  “Anya’s off. Says she’s booked on an earlier flight.”

  Larry mumbles incoherently.

  “A week early. Never mind the inconvenience for us.”

  “Shame. Yes, I think I saw a note in the kitchen. I liked her. Good girl. And, of course, bad girl, ha ha.”

  “Yes, well I’m thinking of getting a male au pair next.”

  “Ha!” laughs Larry. “Are you bonkers? No way am I sharing a house with some Croatian bodybuilder. Or a Polish builder.”

  “Well, at least it would stop problems with the neighbours.”

  “Not necessarily. It might make them worse. A male au pair might end up in bed with our piano teacher. Or one of your friends. Or you.”

  He nudges Tracey.

  “Would you like to be in bed with a Croatian bodybuilder?”

  Tracey looks at him anxiously. Does he suspect anything, she wonders.

  “Do we need one at all?” continues Larry. “A nanny, that is.”

  Tracey sighs, then jumps up off the bed, anxious to finish the conversation.

  “Oh, Christ. I have to go. I’m going to London Zoo this morning. With Alan.”

  Ten minutes later, he is there, sitting in the car outside Tracey’s house.

  “The Munchkin? He’s
on the back seat. Get in, TV star,” he says, patting the leather passenger seat. Tracey inhales the rich perfume of a recently valeted Mercedes.

  “I got the Overnights,” says Alan, smoothing his hair and smiling.

  “What?”

  “The ratings. Shows us, well, my company, how many people watched the show last night.”

  “And?”

  “Really rather good. Better than average. Four million.”

  The car glides out of the Square.

  “I thought you said it was four point five who normally watched.”

  “Yes, but the Overnights don’t count Catch-up.”

  “What the hell is Catch-up?”

  “iPlayer. Recordings. Sky Plus. Usually adds on a million or so. So it’s good. Very good.”

  “Is it?” says Tracey dolefully.

  “It’s all good,” says Alan firmly. “You’ll be getting more TV work after this, I know it.”

  They pull into the car park opposite the Zoo.

  Alan produces a piece of paper which indicates to the person in the car parking lodge that they don’t need a ticket, since they are here on business.

  He opens the back door, pulls out a large plastic travelling case. Tracey looks into it. In the middle of the case, the Munchkin is squatting balefully.

  “Was it difficult to get him in?”

  “Not really. I sort of got hold of his branch and tipped him off it.”

  “God. Weren’t you worried about being bitten?”

  “I moved very fast. And I wore gloves.”

  They arrive at the public entrance of the Zoo. The ticket booth is shuttered. Alan pulls out his phone, taps in a number, speaks brusquely to the person on the other end of the line.

  “Yes, hello is that the Reptile House? It’s Alan Makin with the iguana. We’re outside the main gate on Prince Albert Road.”

  Presently, a side door opens and a young man wearing a ZSL jumper comes out.

  “Morning!” says the young man breezily. “If you’re quick, you’ll see the camels walking through.”

  Alan and Tracey follow him inside the Zoo.

  “Wait here,” says the ZSL man.

  After a few seconds, four Bactrian camels come swaying past them, led by a small woman, also in a ZSL shirt. The camels walk one behind the other with semi-closed eyes, a towering line of disdain and odour.