The Square (19 page)

“I think it’s all this work she’s doing over the road, you know, with that weirdo Philip Burrell. It has made her extremely, well, she speaks in riddles.”

It was true. Since her exposure to Philip, Gilda and their world of the high aesthetic and joke mugs, Belle had regarded her home with increasing volumes of distaste.

“Have you heard of George Rasper?” she announced one evening over supper. “The photographer?”

Tracey, busy turning out the contents of jacket potatoes and adding grated cheese to them, only half-heard the question.

“What?”

“George Rasper, the very famous photographer? Don’t you know his work?”

“No, darling, why?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Five minutes later, Belle tries again.

“Have you ever, ever heard of Jonty Coward?”

“No, darling. Why? Who is he?”

“Another photographer. God, nobody knows anything in this house.”

Tracey turns from the potato, catches Grace’s eye, shrugs.

“Are these friends of Philip Burrell’s?”

“Well, not exactly Mum. I mean, Jonty Coward was alive during the First World War, so I doubt it.”

“Well, I said I didn’t know who he was,” says Tracey patiently. “How is it going with Jas? How are the models progressing?”

“Don’t talk to me about it. You don’t know anything.”

Actually, Belle was rather proud of her work. She was now on her third marathon piece. They had completed Berlin, which had been gently put into the back of a van and driven off to Philip’s London gallery where according to Jas, it had gone down very well. They had also finished Loch Ness, which had been a private commission from an Edinburgh-based millionaire. Now they were onto Tokyo.

Belle didn’t talk much, if at all, to Philip Burrell, but from overhearing brief conversations he had with Jas, it seemed as if Philip was planning to launch all of the marathons at once at a big opening show in his gallery. His dealer, Magnus, had been over to check on the work, and he seemed happy. Magnus was another weirdo, thought Belle. Cold fish in a suit.

The only time she had actually spoken more than standard greetings to Philip was one morning when they were finishing the Loch Ness model. He was still in his robe, and came unexpectedly into the studio while Jas was down in the kitchen having a cigarette and chatting to Gilda. Belle had been struggling with a Scottish hillock and had remained upstairs to see if she could get it right.

“So where do you live then?” asked Philip, after standing watching her for a few minutes. He had a sort of commanding attitude which made her jump.

“Over there. Across the road,” she said directly, pointing vaguely in the direction of her home. “No. 17.”

“Oh,” said Philip, nodding.

“Yes,” said Belle.

“Isn’t that the house of the family who won the Lottery?”

Belle sighed.

“Yes. That’s us.”

“That must have been a shock.”

“Yes.”

“Arriving here, I mean. Where did you live before?”

“Down the road from Jas.”

Philip looks at Belle with actual interest for the first time.

“So your mum is the one with the short skirts and the flash car?” He loves being direct with people, making them squirm with discomfort. It’s one of his deliberately honed characteristics.

Belle sits back on her haunches, puts down her scalpel. She toys with the idea of telling him to fuck off, then remembers the weekly £100.

“Sometimes,” she allows herself to say.

Jas walks in. “Hi, Philip, alright?”

“Yes, yes. Just talking to Belle. About her mama and the family’s fascinating… provenance. Do you know I have never actually seen a Lottery winner outside the pages of a tabloid newspaper? Toodle pip.”

He walks out of the studio, the belt of his robe swishing behind his calves.

“That man is a total wanker,” hisses Belle to Jas.

Jas snorts with laughter, pulls a huge roll of chicken wire over and cuts a length from it.

“He’s an artist. What do you expect? He likes making people feel uncomfortable. He’s alright really.”

It’s Gilda who Belle feels more at home with in the Burrell household. She looks forward to seeing her each morning, wonders what crazy outfit she’ll be wearing, and what mood she has decided to assume for the day. She wonders whether Gilda ever drops the act, but if she does, Belle never sees it. Seeing Gilda every morning in her satins, her frilly knickerbockers, her tutus and tulle and lace in all colours of the rainbow, (but mostly pink), has made Belle begin to reassess the potential of being female.

One day she even got dressed to go to Philip’s studio in a dress with short sleeves.

Her father noticed it immediately.

“My God. Belle in a dress, showing a bit of skin! Steady on, girl.”

“Dad,” said Belle, shooting him a dirty look over the breakfast table. “It’s SUNNY outside.”

“Never mind,” said Larry. “It’s a turn up for the books, actually poppet, seeing you in something unrelated to a sleeping bag. Or a Hobbit outfit.”

Belle got up from the table.

“I have to go over to Philip’s. We’re finishing Loch Ness.”

“Is it bonny Scotland which has turned your mind to femininity, pumpkin?” insists her father. “Is it the company of arty folk, one of whom is a Russkie, which has made such a change in you? Being with Luvvies? Russkie Luvvies?”

“I’ve noticed it too,” pipes in Grace. “You never used to wear that dress.”

“Tell me, is the house as sexy as everyone says?” snorts Larry, putting down his cup of tea. It’s a question he has been keen on asking for some days now, but has never found the right moment. “Is it full of naked pictures and bullwhips and things like that?”

“Yes it is actually. Well, there are some topless pictures of Gilda. By that man who nobody here has even heard of, George Rasper. He’s a very famous photographer, you know.”

“Topless pictures,” echoes Larry. He roars with laughter. “That is hilarious! What, in the downstairs rooms?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Blimey. I don’t quite know how I’d feel, looking at knockers over my soup.”

“Dad!” from Grace.

There is a pause.

“That’s silenced you,” says Belle nastily.

“No, no, I was thinking.”

“What?”

“Whether you with your new contacts and your obvious charm, dumpling, whether you might get your mad arty Luvvie friends to do something for the Talent Show.”

Larry couldn’t really give two hoots any more about the Talent Show, the idea which had once been his, but Jane, who had heard about Belle’s new job, had rung him up and demanded his daughter ask if the Burrells might like to be involved.

“Do you think you might ask them if they’ll do something?”

“I think it’s highly unlikely they will, Dad.”

She does think about reminding Gilda about it, however, later that day. But she never gets round to it.

Chapter Twenty Jane

God, this Mozart is beautiful, thinks Jane. The music is so insistent on its dynamic perfection that she cannot actually do anything other than put down her mobile, on which she had been sending an order to Waitrose, and listen to it.

Anya is playing the Bluthner. She is playing Mozart on the Blüthner in Jane’s music room. Jane is not quite sure how this state of affairs arose so quickly, but here it is, and she felt it necessary to make the best of it.

No sooner had Roberta got home after teaching Belle, than she had called the au pair.

“I saw your book of Bagatelles on the piano at Tracey and Larry’s house,” she said.

She felt warm towards Anya, felt they were on the same side. After all, they both serviced families in the Square. Anya acknowledged that the book of Bagatelles was indeed her property.

“Look, you know Jane and Patrick on the other side of the Square? You know, him, overweight and chatty, her, ferocious and over smart?”

Anya indicated she did know the family, that she had helped at a dinner party they had held last week.

“Well, they have the most beautiful piano. Did you know that? Did you see it when you were there? No? A proper Blüthner. Concert Grand size. Anya, you have simply got to go and practise on it. I mean, Belle’s upright is all very well, but you know, it’s a Berry. So a bit honky tonk. Whereas, on a Blüthner grand, you can really let rip, and it will sound great. Amazing actually. Nobody plays it. The Blüthner. Not properly putting it through its paces. I mean, I teach their little son on it. That’s all.”

About a week had elapsed since this conversation, but Roberta had mentioned it to Patrick after George’s lesson, and when he saw Anya lugging the shopping out of the car one day, he called over.

“Anya! Yoo hoo! Patrick here! Just been speaking to Roberta, you know, our dragon of a piano teacher,” he says, hurrying up and slightly out of breath. He liked Anya. Over and above those amazing cheekbones.

He remembered how solicitous she had been at that disastrous Residents’ meeting when poor old Harriet fell through the chair. Plus, she’d done a great job washing up the other day.

She had a sort of chilly sexiness which fascinated him.

“Actually, Roberta is a lovely girl.”

Anya looks at him patiently.

“Sorry, woman. She’s a very lovely woman.” Patrick coughs. “Great teacher. Anyhoo, she tells me you’re a bit of a whizz on the old ivories.”

Anya looks at him, quizzically.

Patrick looks back at her. He notices the perfect arch of her eyebrows.

“Piano playing. You are a good piano player.”

“Oh, yes. Yes. I have always… I love to play.”

“Well, look, do come round and practise on our piano. I mean, I know Larry and Tracey have a decent old joanna, but… ”

“Joanna?”

“Never mind. English slang. But I have a very large one. Piano, I mean. A lovely one. We love people to come round and play it.”

“Yes, Roberta told me you had a lovely grand piano.”

“Well, please. Otherwise it just sits there as a shelf for photographs. Please do come over and play it.”

She is doubtful, but the next afternoon she knocks quietly at the door. Patrick is delighted, in fact he is rather pleasantly amazed, that she has taken him at his word.

“Marvellous, marvellous. Good, you’ve brought some music. Good, good. Otherwise you’d be playing Boy George’s stuff, which is about Grade Zero!”

She comes into the hall, and he closes the front door behind her. Then, he holds the door of the music room open for her. She walks past him. He is gratified to hear her intake of breath as she takes in the lovely concert grand, smells the polish on it mingled with the scent of flowers on the mantelpiece. The room is immaculate.

“Now, Anya. I’m just going to carry on working in my study. Make yourself at home. Stay for as long as you like.”

“Thank you,” says the Polish au pair.

“No, thank YOU,” says Patrick, backing out.

After about three minutes, Anya begins to play. She does a couple of Bach preludes, then launches into the Mozart study.

Shortly after this episode, Jane opens the front door and walks in.

“Hello?” She opens the door to the music room. Anya immediately stops playing.

“Oh, Jane, good afternoon, Patrick said it was… ”

She is interrupted by Patrick calling to them from the kitchen. He has heard his wife’s entry. He’s damned if she will stop this wonderful moment, the piano taking flight.

“Jane darling, do you remember we invited Anya to play the piano for a bit?”

Jane, finding herself in the unusual position of being in a domestic situation of which she is not in command, backs out of the room, smiling at Anya.

“Do go on.”

As Anya continues her piece, Jane sits down in the hall, on the bottom step where she and Jay had been pulling each other’s clothes off, that time when Patrick came home. God that was a terrible moment. She is cross with Patrick for letting the girl play the piano. Right, she thinks.

I will punish him by thinking about fucking Jay. It’s a punishment only I will know about, but never mind.

So Jane lies back on the stairs and imagines Jay servicing her while Anya plays Mozart on the Blüthner. Would that ever be a possible scenario? Could it be? She thinks it would turn her on. She thinks it would absolutely not turn Jay on. He’d probably want to turn it into a threesome.
That
was quite likely to turn Jay on, actually. She dismisses the idea from her head.

The notes go on and on, fluid, like running water.

She thinks about Jay, his physical beauty. She loves to run her fingers through his full head of hair. Lucky man, still luxuriant in his fifties. She loves his sly sexy smiles to her. His brown eyes. She loves his face, his profile, the back of his head. She craves his unclothed body with an almost palpable hunger. She sometimes wonders whether having a sex drive like this is normal for a woman of her age. A mother. A wife. God. The music goes on. She still wants to punish her husband.

She imagines Jay pushing her legs apart. She fancies him so much. Silly word, fancies. Schoolgirlish. No, what she feels for Jay is pure physical desire. She thinks of his narrow shoulders between her legs. She gets warm.

Jane sits up. This is madness, she thinks. She forces herself to focus on the music. It was, she sourly admitted to herself, of a standard she had never heard before in a domestic house. How had this girl arrived, a fully formed concert pianist, in their midst? The same girl as was doing the washing up at their party the other night. God, that party.

After the fucking incident upstairs in the sitting room, which was a turn on, she admitted, it had sort of fizzled out, Jane thought. Everyone went home well before midnight. Anya had been very helpful, but then she was being paid to be helpful. That was what au pairs did. They did the washing up. They didn’t play music on this level. Frankly, Anya has probably never seen Imogen Cooper, or heard of her, thought Jane. Or Alfred Brendel. Or ever attended a concert with Lang Lang playing as she, Jane, had.

The notes continue to pour out, immaculate.

Would she ever manage to get George playing like this? Very unlikely. She didn’t understand the boy’s soul, she realised. And to play the piano like this, one needed soul. What was Anya’s soul? Where was it? She hadn’t really focused on her during the dinner party. She just relied on her as a body holding a dishcloth. She had not realised that those slim, capable fingers could cope with a crescendo trill as perfectly as they could peel potatoes.