The Square (14 page)

“No.”

“Well?”

“If he had his own way, he would probably stay in his room building something with Lego.”

“But you want to parade him. The Infant Mozart. The Child Prodigy.”

This was true. Sometimes, Jay really did annoy Jane. She loved fucking him, of course. But today that wasn’t on the menu. Today, he is annnoying Jane so much that she deeply resents even the space of air he takes up on his chair. She silently heaps disdain on his head. It was something she sometimes did. Took a sort of savage joy in doing so. She also did it to his irritating wife. Harriet. Who was out of shape, and ate too much.

“Something like that. Why, what are you going to do then? Are you going to do something with Harriet?” says Jane suddenly, terrified he might say he was. She opted to go for sarcasm by means of defence. “Something amazingly contemporary? A piece of modern dance?” she says, snorting.

Jay laughs, ignoring the obvious jibe.

“Actually, I think Harriet is planning to do a Bach Chaconne, in fact. Or something by Corelli. Nice baroque piece, you know. She’s rather good at the violin. Very good, in fact. Grade Seven-ish. Did you know that?”

Jane isn’t prepared for this. Harriet, having a skill. And in something really admirable, like the violin. Why didn’t she know that before?

“La-de-dah.”

“Why on earth does that matter to you? Surely it’s good if we all bring our best talents to the night. I mean, you’re organising it. Have you thought about who will present it, then?”

“Well, I actually thought, as I am taking all this time to organise it, and of course I will know what’s on the programme… then it would make sense… if… ”

She tails off.

“Oh, YOU will?! Of course, of course.”

“Don’t you think so?” she says, anxious.

“Oh no, you must. You’ll be great,” he says, putting an arm around her. “You must.”

There is a pause.

Then, “When did she start learning the violin?” Jane asks. As if she cared.

“Oh, she learnt when she was a child. She’s always played, on and off.”

Jane pokes at some mud on the ground with her smart shoe. She wishes she was still at home in her office. She should really only see Jay if and when they have a prior arrangement, otherwise this sort of thing is likely to happen.

Instead of Jay telling her how fantastic she is, and fantasising about her being naked under a mac, or best of all, making love to her, all he has done is tease her about being Head Girl, and reveal that his wife has inner hidden Nigel bloody Kennedy status. Great.

She stands up. She needs to be made love to by him, but she will have to wait.

Jay stands up too, pecks her cheek.

“Look, darling, I have to go. Main Presenter, Head Girl, it’s been lovely.”

“Yes, so do I,” she responds quickly. “I’m actually very busy.”

“When are you not?” he asks.

Is it over? thinks Jane.

Chapter Fourteen Tracey

Tracey rings the door bell in the converted warehouse.

“Makin’s Makeovers?” says a female voice from the speaker.

“Yes, er, I have a meeting with Alan and his team,” says Tracey into the plastic box.

“Fourth floor,” says the voice.

The door swings open.

She walks up. Four floors. This can be her exercise for the day.

At the fourth floor, another door. Alan Makin is standing in front of it, beaming.

He is in a white suit with a thin beige stripe and a beige tie with thin white stripes. Beige European sandals. Thin cream silk socks. Cufflinks.

“Tracey! Marvellous. Come right in. Drink?”

Tracey finds herself grasping a cup of coffee, and sitting in a large, vaulted chamber alongside Alan’s ‘team’.

Vast pictures of Alan Makin in charasmatic mode grin down from the walls.

She suddenly notices that there is a large illuminated vitrine in the corner. In it is sitting a rather big iguana, on a stick. It does not appear to be moving.

“Oh, God. Is that thing alive?” asks Tracey.

“I should co-co,” says Alan. “Gets through a bag of live crickets a week. The Munchkin, we call him.”

His assistant giggles.

“Now,” says Alan. “This is the Team. Helen, Joseph, Alex, Geraldine, this is Tracey.”

“Hi,” says the Team in unison.

Tracey manages a smile.

“What we thought would be great would be to do a sort of Makin Makeover on you,” continues Alan. “See where you are going wrong, see where you are going right, straighten everything up for you. You know… The Woman Who Won The Lottery… and frittered it away.” There is a pause. Tracey looks at him, eyes widening in alarm.

“In a nice way, of course. Nobody will look at it in a bad way. Really. They will empathise with you. Empathy. Very important in a television programme, isn’t it, Team?”

The Team nods its head.

“Almost as important as Jeopardy. But you have that already,” says Alan, smiling.

Do I? thinks Tracey, bewildered.

“Because,” continues Alan, “there is always the chance that you could lose your house on the Square, lose a foothold in society.”

Is there? thinks Tracey.

“Most importantly,” continues Alan, “we will give you a new blueprint for living. We’ll work out your finances. How to pay off that unsecured debt. And you’ll have a spot on the show. You know you talked to me about the abyss? Well, as soon as you see a plan, you will see light at the end of the tunnel. That’s the idea anyway.”

Everyone laughs.

“We’ve got some scenes already sketched out,” says Alan, steepling his fingers.

“The overall idea is that you, the Lottery winner, come to us with a financial problem, we do a bit of backgrounding, set our minds to erasing that problem, we bring in a few graphics, do a bit of number crunching, the problem is fixed, you sail off into the sunny uplands of credit.”

Is it really as easy as all that? Tracey somehow doubts it. She doesn’t want to be a problem, but money, for Tracey, never seems to be sunny anywhere, let alone on the uplands of credit. It was only uncomplicated once, and that was the night when they learned they had won the Lottery.

She doesn’t want Alan to think she’s wavering, however. Even if it does diddly squat to my finances, it’ll be fun to be on telly, she thinks. The girls will be impressed. Larry will be impressed. As for Jane, Patrick, all that lot on the Square… She opens her eyes very wide and looks straight at Alan.

“Oh, God, could you really do that?”

“I don’t see why not. Do you?”

“But I sell cosmetics. That’s the income stream I have. Unless everyone really really wants to increase their orders, there’s not much… ”

Alan waves his hands excitedly.

“Don’t worry. We’ll give you a day by day plan. It’ll all be great. And it will all look great on screen.”

The wonderful make-believe that is television. Oh well.

Tracey smiles, nods at him.

Alan nods. The Team nods. Everyone sits nodding at everyone else for a few seconds. Any minute now, the Munchkin will start nodding, thinks Tracey.

Over lunch (Tracey: macaroni cheese, Alan: a green salad), Alan looks at her steadily. “I am going to make this work with you. I am going to turn you around.”

“Are you?” she laughs nervously.

“I am. I’m going to make you see what life might be like if you aren’t bouncing from one credit card to the next.”

“That would be nice,” she says sadly.

“It’s entirely possible, and with someone who has been so publicly wealthy as you, utterly doable,” he says, diving into his salad and waving a tomato at her. He smiles encouragingly. Then, he starts confiding in her. Tracey was not expecting this. She eats her macaroni cheese as he talks.

“It’s like this. I enjoy focusing my team and my talents. And my story. How I was once – looking over the abyss, as you might say. Actually, I was in the abyss. I was mired in debt, and I pulled myself out. I think that is a message worth delivering to as many people as possible. That it is possible.” He sighs.

Tracey looks at his neatly combed hair, his button-down shirt, the care with which the tie is married to the suit.

“Oh, of course, everything is fine, but you wouldn’t believe it. Some people find it hard to talk about their finances to me. You are unusually open, Tracey, with your life.”

“Am I?” she smiles. It feels like a compliment, although she’s not quite sure.

“People, I think, ordinary people, they get a bit starstruck around me,” continues Alan loftily.

“What sort of people?”

“All sorts of people.”

He looks at Tracey.

“Do you think I am gay? You didn’t think I was gay, did you?”

“No, no, why on earth would you think that?” she lies.

“Oh, no reason, no reason. I mean, it’s not that I don’t like gay people. I think gay people are great. Some of my best friends are gay,” smiles Alan.

There is a pause.

“But I’m not.”

“So what’s the problem?” says Tracey. She likes these sort of conversations. Sympathy. She’s good at sympathy. Or was it empathy?

“You’re probably just working a bit too hard. Burning the candle, you know.”

“Well, perhaps. It is a tough call, sometimes. You know, driving the whole enterprise. And it would be nice to have someone to chat to about it. All around me, I just have my Team. It’s about finding someone who can understand me. Someone who I can relax with. Who might be able to forget that I am, you know, Alan Makin, and just treat me as if I was just plain old Alan. Someone who could, well, just hear what’s burbling along in this old head of mine. A bit like I’m hearing how your finances are burbling along!”

“Don’t tell me you think I’m that sort of woman.”

I’ve never had anyone say this to me before, thinks Tracey. She feels a bit light-headed.

“Well, I don’t know. But you might be! The way you stood up at the event, spoke out like that.”

She smiles, blushes.

“It was remarkable. Standing up to me, a television personality up there on stage. I like you. I like your forthright manner. You’re open and honest. I think our film about you is going to be excellent. I like your company, very much, and I think our viewers will, too.”

“I’m terribly flattered that you, well, that you want to sort out my finances on your show.”

“You seem like a very special person, Tracey.”

Why is he doing this, she wonders. I bet he’s gone on like this to plenty of women after those live shows. I bet he’s had women longing for him to sort out their affairs. He’s probably had affairs with some of them. Does he want to have an affair with me? thinks Tracey, with a thrill. She knows it’s foolish, but she is flattered nonetheless.

“Thank you Alan.”

“You do.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, you really don’t look like a Tracey.”

“So, how do you envisage my appearance on the show?”

“Right, of course. Let’s talk about work. We will come to your house. Where do you live? Oh yes, how could I forget? The Square.”

“It’s only about ten minutes away.”

“Yes, yes.”

He coughs, adjusts the cufflinks professionally. Tracey is bewildered. It’s as if the entire previous ten minutes haven’t happened.

“So, we come to your house. Do a bit of filming. Understand your lifestyle. You know, are you a TV dinner family or a roast chicken family? Do you grow your own herbs? Are you… married?”

For some reason, Tracey feels reluctant to admit it.

“Yes, yes I am,” she acknowledges.

“Perhaps we could meet your husband, your… children? How many do you have?”

“Two. Girls.”

“Little princesses are they?”

“Well. One is sweet, but a sometimes devious eight year old. The other is a sixteen year old gym fanatic sworn to chastitity and ankle-length robes.”

Alan pauses, attempts to envisage this working well on his show.

“Really? How… surprising. Very interesting. Fascinating. Sworn to chastity? Well, maybe not do the children then. Might not go down too well on Daytime. How’s your husband?”

“Loud.”

“Hmm. Maybe have a rain check on that too. Perhaps it will be best if it’s just you and me. You know. Intense, focused.” He leans forward as if to personify these qualities. “On the sofa together. You know, sorting out your money problems. Of course, a lot of this will be done afterwards. In post production. In a studio. You know, graphics. Swoosh! The Lottery win. Bang! It all gets spent. Spend spend spend. That sort of thing.”

Alan makes a waving gesture with his hand, as if to illustrate the screen cluttered with hosts of glowing mathematical figures, percentages, interest rates, all the panoply of financial advice he is going to gift Tracey with.

“Er, Alan.”

“Yes?”

“Forgot to ask you before. Will there be something of a fee for this?”

There is a pause. Alan bursts out laughing. He almost spits on Tracey’s plate, he is laughing so hard.

“Oh. Okay. Just thought I’d ask. Because, you know, finances are, well, quite tight. Which is why I’m in this predicament in the first place.”

She giggles, embarrassed.

Alan looks at Tracey.

Tracey looks at Alan. She feels herself blushing.

Alan looks away quickly.

“If I siphoned off a nice fee for you, it would mean the rest of the budget would suffer.”

“But my time… I’ll have to give up some work in order to take part. I might have to think about it, Alan.”

He looks at her archly, smiles in a deadly manner.

“No, no. Actually, I think, no actually, I’m sure, really sure that we can come to some sort of… arrangement.”

He sighs, and shifts in his chair.

What does he mean?

“What do you mean? What sort of arrangement? Don’t tell me you want some nail varnish?” She smiles nicely at him, puts a hand out on his arm. Maybe he would, she doesn’t know. Perhaps the man likes to have his hands done nicely. She once did sell some clear nail varnish to a chap. About five years ago, but still.

“Well, Tracey. Funny you should say that, as a matter of fact.”

All at once, he jerks his arm out, looks at his watch.

“I have to go, shortly. But can I just say, as I have said, I think we will have a very fulfilling project together. And over and above the demands of our proposed film, there might be a bit of advice from your area that I could use. In confidence. And we could… invent a payment for your consultation which could represent a fee for appearing on the programme. I think that is known in managment circles as win-win.”