The Square (18 page)

She looks for Belle’s book. But there is another, much more difficult book, open and ready on the piano desk. Beethoven Bagatelles. She turns round with a smile.

“Have you been trying these, Belle? These are terrific. I’m impressed!”

Belle pulls a face.

“Of course I haven’t. They belong to Anya. You know, our au pair.”

“She plays does she?”

Belle shrugs.

“I never hear her. I think she practises when we are out. Obviously she’s much better than I am.”

Roberta puts the Beethoven away, reaches for the Chopin.

“Shall we? I think we might use the metronome today. And in acknowledgement to the counselling session, we should put the practise pedal on, I think.”

Belle nods her head, tosses the giant hood back behind her shoulders, puts her foot on the pedal and begins the prelude.

“Belle, could you possibly roll your sleeves back? Or take off your… robe? I think it’s getting in the way, a bit.”

The girl complies, standing up and wriggling out of the giant striped coat, under which she is wearing a long sleeved sweatshirt and tight running trousers.

“Belle, do you ever let your skin see the light?” asks Roberta, smiling.

Belle shrugs, turns to the Chopin, starts the piece again. The metronome ticks methodically.

Upstairs, Tracey and Alan are sitting on the sofa.

“That’s Belle,” says Tracey. “She always has half an hour piano on Thursday nights. Hope that’s okay?” She looks anxiously at Alan. It’s the first time they’ve met at her house.

He smiles at her, pats her hand.

“Oh, gosh, it’s fine. Love the piano. And your talented children. Wow! She can play, can’t she. Rather quiet isn’t it? Anyway, not a problem.”

They are meeting at Tracey’s house because Alan says that he needs to see how she lives.
You are being depicted as one of the Squeezed Middle, you see
, he had written in an email to her earlier in the week.
So I need to come and see if your house is going to give the right sort of… tone. Alright?

She had agreed to it. He had arrived, wiping his feet on the door mat, his coat slung casually across his arm.

“Hmm. Perfectly middle class,” he had said, walking through the hall, noting the carefully arranged paintings, the flowers, the newly purchased pinboard with rows of keys, a pamphlet showing times of Pilates classes at the private gym, a map from the Paris Metro and other impressive detritus, casually parked behind parking vouchers.

“I thought we would sit down upstairs, because Belle is having her lesson,” she had said.

“Might have to tone this down a bit, you know,” he says, referring to the pinboard. “If people think you are au fait with public transport in Paris, they won’t feel very sorry for you… ”

Alan Makin, TV star and household name bounds into the living room. Tracey stares at him, blinking, trying to reconcile the fact that this person from the television is actually standing in her home.

“Shall we?”

“So, what sort of week have you had, Alan?” asks Tracey.

“Oh, fine. Middling.” This was not quite the case. Several of his key team had announced they were bored with doing financial makeovers and had handed in their notice.

“Been a bit of a personnel shift, actually. Various people have, shall we say, left the ship. Sort of thing that happens now and then.”

“Has all your team gone?”

“Not quite. But a significant minority,” sighs Alan. “They’ve all gone off to L.E,” he says with undisguised loathing.

This television acronym is new to Tracey. She looks at him blankly.

“Light Entertainment. They’ll be back for the autumn run. But at the moment, most of them have gone off to make a Talent Show, leaving a skeleton staff for the rest of this run,” he says sadly. “Talent shows!”

“We’re having one here in the Square.”

“There you are! Sprouting up everywhere.”

“Well, ours isn’t being televised, at least.”

Tracey pauses tactfully.

“How is the Munchkin?”

“Munchkin, oh he’s with me now. We have a cartoon animation team in the room who needed the space he used to have. Apparently he gave some of the team the creeps. For some reason. So he’s come to live with me. His box is in my bedroom.”

Blimey. He really does love that animal.

“So are we still on for my bit on your show?” she says tentatively.

“Certainly are, my dear. Scripts have all been agreed. Next week, we’ll do the filming, I think.”

She nods.

There is a pause. They both listen to the scale of F Major seeping up from downstairs. Belle plays it as if she is typing.

“Now, Tracey, what we have to do is minimise your personal crisis, while making the status quo still seem incredibly disastrous to you and your family.”

“How are we going to do that, then?”

“Simple. We will show how difficult things are, what things you can’t afford, then we have a big graphic sequence in which I show how your money, your remaining money from your… win… can be turned around, the Makin Way. I think it’s going to work. And we’ll focus it here, on your home. So viewers can really understand who you are.”

“Really? I always think my house is a bit chaotic.”

“No, well, maybe. But coming over here, to the actual location. The Square, I mean. When you turn into it. That’s what is so important.”

The truth is that when he had arrived, Alan Makin had driven his car into the Square, switched it off and for a moment or two, had just sat in it at the wheel, mesmerised. All those identical houses. All those neat front doors. It all just seemed so… right, so ideal. He felt as if he had gone back to his childhood.

“You know, it reminds me of
Mary Poppins.
Or that moment in
Oliver!
Where they all start singing with barrows and flowers and leaping over doorsteps.”

“Oh, God. Establishment, you mean.” Well, that was what she had bought into.

“Perhaps. Perhaps it’s something more. Maybe it’s the way we should all live. Next to each other. In and out of each other’s domains. Friendly. Neighbourly.”

He thinks of his neighbours in his central London flat. Realises that the only living thing he really knows there, now, is the Munchkin.

“Mmm,” says Tracey. “My neighbours don’t say that when barbeque smoke is blowing over our wall into their garden.”

“So, Tracey, what I need is all your paperwork. Bank statements, accounts for the last few years. And we need a simple explanation about exactly how you earn your income, and how much is earned. And what selling cosmetics comprises of. At which point I have to call in your favour to me. Can I do that, Tracey?”

He turns to her and smiles, in a manner Tracey recognises from countless chat shows on the sofa. She looks at him, considering him.

“Right away. I’m all ears.”

He looks at her.

“I would like your advice. And even though I said it wasn’t about lipgloss, it is.”

Tracey looks at him.

“Lipgloss?”

“It’s more about foundation, actually. I want you to give me some help with makeup, simply. The minute you explained what your work was, I thought, ooh, there IS a way in which you could help me.”

She looks at him, amazed and slightly disappointed.

“I’m a redhead, right?”

She swallows, and nods. What a comedown. She thought he had the hots for her.

“Well, I would say strawberry blond, but go on.”

“And my skin is very fair. My eyebrows, non existent. What I want is just a few tips, products, help with stuff which is going to bring… a bit of colour into my cheeks. And my hands, I’d like them to be… looked at. You with me?”

She nods again.

“I can’t obviously go into Boots and test the samples. Or a nail bar,” he continues. “But I want to try things out, so the internet is hopeless. I’m not asking for false eyelashes, dear. I don’t want the full… ”

Tracey so nearly says Monty. She almost has the word coming out of her mouth, and then shuts it in time. She senses this is not the time for ribaldry. Maybe there will be a time, but not now.

“… works,” continues Alan. “But I would just be keen to know how to subtly apply it. I thought it would be easier to ask you. Than the girls in the makeup department.”

She is still open mouthed, not knowing what to say. She fears he is bullshitting her.

He looks at her archly.

“Told you there would be no nudity.”

She blushes again. What an idiot.

“Alan, I am sorry about that. I would be… I would be… honoured.” It’s not quite the right word, but it will do.

She hears a door bang downstairs.

“Muuuum, Roberta is leaving,” yells Belle.

“Alright, thank you darling. Thank you, Roberta,” bawls Tracey in response. “See you next week.”

She hears the front door slam and turns back to Alan Makin whom she now regards with, if anything, a little more respect.

“Was this why you thought I could be on your TV show, then?” she says, laughing a little, slightly disappointed.

“That? No. Of course not. You are there for a different reason. Tracey, firstly everyone will be fascinated, because of the Lottery. Secondly, you are the ideal example of someone who spends before they earn. It’s a national disease and you are simply a very sweet exponent of it. So, no, don’t worry. You’ll earn your place on my show alright.”

He pauses, looks at the ceiling, then looks at her, laughing now.

“But I will pay you to show me how to pluck my eyebrows properly. And equip me with the latest in products.”

“Of course. No problem, I’d be delighted. This is my field, after all. I’m an expert in eyebrow plucking. And glueing in false eyelashes, you name it. But… why all the chat before about how understanding I am?”

He shrugs. “I think you are rather understanding, actually. But I needed to see if you were trustworthy without letting you understand why I needed your help.”

God, she is so stupid. She thought he was trying to get into her knickers.

“Sorry, I feel idiotic. Of course, no problem, no problem.” She smiles brightly at him, feeling blinkered and mentally dull.

“I’ve lived here for too long,” she says, gesturing out of the perfectly proportioned window to the manicured lawn outside.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” says Alan Makin. He stands and walks over to the windows, looks out at the scene before him, of entirely well designed, pleasurable entitlement.

“But we are going to need to make this house look a bit more rundown, frankly. As if you are suffering.”

“As if we are suffering?” says Belle. She has just come upstairs and stands in her hooded gown, looking at Alan Makin with a furious expression.

“Ah, Belle darling, this is Alan Makin, the famous TV financial makeover presenter,” says Tracey, stumbling over such an awkward introduction.

“Yeah I KNOW,” says Belle. She turns on her heel.

Alan and Tracey look at each other. They hear Belle’s departing footsteps.

“Belle thinks this whole show is ridiculous,” says Tracey apologetically.

“She’s a good pianist, though,” says Alan. His show isn’t designed for teenagers. He has no interest in them or their values.

“Yes, she’s going to play something for our Talent Show. Oh, Alan,” says Tracey suddenly, clapping her hands together.

“What?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Oh, what’s that? Is it something to do with getting an interest only mortgage, because if so, Tracey, I have seen some perfect products on the market for you… ”

She laughs, loving this. She, Tracey, joshing around with a television presenter. In her house.

“No, God! No! It’s a much better idea than that. But you’ll need to check your diary first. Promise me you’ll say yes if you check your diary, and find that you are free.”

“Okay.”

“Go on then.”

“What?”

“Check your diary!”

Alan reaches into his pocket and brings out an unnecessarily large, bright yellow smart phone. He taps a succession of numbers into it.

“Three weeks on Sunday. Are you free?”

Is he free? Of course he is. If he’s not doing a presentation, he’s free. There is not much else in Alan’s life bar the Munchkin and work.

“Yup.”

“Well, Alan. I know your team have all gone off to F.E, no, that’s Further Education, where did you say they had all gone?”

“L.E. Light Entertainment.”

“And doing Talent Shows?”

“Yeee-ees?”

“And you know I said we were having our own Talent Show here on the Square?”

“Yes? I am supremely untalented. If it’s not the analysis of a balance sheet, my dear, I am hopeless.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s… could you present it for us, here on the Square?”

“Me? Present your Talent Show?”

Tracey suddenly realises she might have made an awful faux pas. Did television people just accept things like this? Was there some sort of protocol in asking them? Should she have spoken to an intermediary?

“Oh, God, would you have to talk to your agent?”

He smiles, pats her on the knee.

“Well, normally, yes, but you know I like your Square. Makes me feel as if I am in a Hollywood set from something shot in the Fifties. Or, as I said,
Mary Poppins.
I’d be delighted to present your show, dear Tracey. Delighted. As long as I am given carte blanche.”

“No problem,” says Tracey, beaming, feeling that reeling in a proper celebrity means her presence on the Square has suddenly been wholly justified.

Chapter Nineteen Belle

“And she was just so rude to him,” says Tracey to Larry. They are lying in bed, awake.

“Well, that’s normal,” says Larry, yawning. “Come and give me a hug.”

“No, I mean really rude. Almost walked out on him. Couldn’t care less, couldn’t give a damn that this was a STAR. A star of daytime television, sitting in our lounge.” She pauses. “Sorry, sitting room.”

“He won’t mind. I’m sure he’s been exposed to worse things in his life. Television is a nasty old world, I imagine,” says Larry, who knows nothing about the world of television but is willing to hazard a guess that it’s chock-a-block with utter arseholes.