The Square (6 page)

Philip likes to think that he, Philip Burrell, is behind every single stage of this Wonderland recreation of the beauty of the links course. Or the suburban course, hell, he doesn’t mind too much where the bloody course is, although he is rather fond of the 18th at Dornoch up near Inverness. And he loves the 6th hole at Clonakilty, County Cork, because it goes over a bloody road. Typical Irish.

Philip walks between the trestle tables, white robe flowing, like a priest preparing for some sacramental offering. He touches his small creations as he does, blessing them. They have propelled him into a life of comfort and pleasure. Cherry blossom is all very well, but for real hard cash you need a proper idea. And recreating famous golf holes for clients around the world who will pay upward of £50,000 per sculpture is it.

And now he has a new idea, a rather wonderful one. He can’t wait to tell Magnus about it. He thinks it will propel him into a new stratosphere of wealth.

The front door slams as Gilda leaves the house in search of the artisan bread.

Chapter Five Philip

Magnus lounges on the doorstep, having rung the bell. Where the hell is Philip, he thinks. He checks his phone for the time, and waits. Magnus hates waiting. Hates it. Magnus is an important dealer with a roster of artists and a clutch of galleries in the UK and abroad. In turn, each gallery has its own roster of smaller dealers, and what used to be called a Rolodex, before it all went digital, of high net worth clients, to whom he sells directly. Then there are the Art Fairs. Magnus enjoys the Art Fairs. There’s Miami, and Basle. And Basle/ Miami, which is when the Basle lot come to Miami. Magnus does a lot of journeying between Basle and Miami. There’s also Frieze, which is accurately named as it is not only in November but also in Regent’s Park, London.

Magnus has a dressing room full of perfectly cut suits for Miami and Basle, and cashmere coats for Frieze. He has a laundry service which delivers immaculately ironed shirts to him on a weekly basis. He has ties. He is about the only person he knows who still wears ties. And handkerchiefs. It goes without saying that his shirts all use cufflinks. He is beautifully turned out. He needs to be. He has dozens of artists, of course, on his books. But Philip is one of his most precious.

Magnus flogs Philip’s sculptures all over the world to golfing fanatics who pay thousands to have their favourite hole immortalised in plywood and paint. Surely he owes it to them to do the deal in a smart suit. He never forgets that Philip is the goose providing the hardware. So he dresses up to see Philip, even though he internally shudders when he thinks of the dust in Philip’s studio and how it will probably cling to the fabric on his jackets.

The door swings open suddenly, causing Magnus almost to fall inside, over Gilda. Magnus is rather fat, and balance is sometimes an issue. She smiles up at him triumphantly, her blue eyelids flashing under the paste jewellery on her head.

Oh why are you wearing a tiara, you crazy old thing, thinks Magnus. Of course, he doesn’t say this.

“Gilda. Darling. You look ravishing. Ravish me!”

“Ah, Magnus,” she cries, her Russian accent even more pronounced, leaning up into his neck, grabbing his whole spherical middle, almost lifting herself off the ground.

“Yes, well not actually on the doormat, darling,” says Magnus through lashings of something he eventually identifies as Joy by Jean Patou. “I mean, ha ha, yes, well.”

Somewhat ruffled, Magnus puts her down. Gilda beams, and adjusts her tiara and a strange neck collar which Magnus thinks might be made of jet but is probably black plastic, sourced from a charity shop. She is wearing flowered cropped trousers, a McQueen top detailed with harlequinesque diamonds, and golfing shoes made by Prada. The entire ensemble looks as if Gilda has just stepped out of a theatrical clothing emporium, or is trying to represent a painting by Watteau. Well, nothing’s changed, thinks Magnus. Gilda always dresses in a gigglish combination of thrift shop and high-end designer. It sometimes works.

“Come through,” says Gilda theatrically. “And see what Philip has in store for you.”

“Lunch, I hope,” says Magnus.

“Oh, there’s more. Much more.”

“Morning,” says Magnus, stepping through the hall and greeting his star artist.

“Afternoon,” says Philip to his dealer. They always talk like this. Philip has changed out of the long white robe and is wearing one of his white boiler suits, and a bow tie raffishly decorated with red hearts. Philip is the only other person in Magnus’ life who wears ties, but they are always bow ties. If you ever ask him why he favours the bow tie, he will always have the same answer.

“For the same reason as a gynaecologist does.”

Today, however, he merely bows solemly and gestures for Magnus to follow.

They walk downstairs through to the knock-through kitchen and sit at a scrubbed pine kitchen table, which is decorated by an array of daisies casually popped into Robertson’s jam jars.

Unlike everyone else on the Square, Philip and Gilda don’t approve of the latest style in contemporary kitchens. They do not wish to live alongside stone counters, islands, bar stools, wine fridges and taps of instant boiling water. Their kitchen is dominated by a giant wooden dresser, displaying bone china tea cups and painted jugs, sourced at bijou flea markets in Sitges or Quimper. The wooden chairs are painted. The floor has rush matting on it. Nothing matches, deliberately.

Along one wall are a set of black and white photographs of Gilda looking titillatingly raunchy, in stockings and suspenders, accessorised with a balcony bra and stiletto heels. One of them also involves a feather boa which she is holding tautly between her legs. They were taken by a
Sunday Times
magazine photographer, when Gilda was quite a lot younger. Everyone on the Square longs to visit Philip and Gilda’s house in order to check these pictures out.

Nobody ever has.

They are therefore spoken about with the hushed reverence usually associated with high religion, or high porn.

Philip stands in front of the black and white photos, and holds up a bottle of wine with a quizzical air.

“Yup,” says Magnus, who has a bad drink habit. Used to have a bad drugs habit too, until he was taken to one side by the director of the Basle Art Fair and told in no uncertain terms that if he carried on giving coke to the artists, he would be banned from the Fair, both in Switzerland and in Miami. For life.

“I’ll get on with the bread and Brie. Bring Magnus back in ten minutes, my dove,” says Gilda, tying an apron around her somewhat solid middle.

“Come up to the studio,” says Philip.

The two men walk into the long, airy room where Magnus is confronted with a new object on the trestle table before him. It is a lot larger than the golf holes. A lot larger. It is higher, too, and altogether more complicated.

“Marathon courses,” says Philip with a flourish.

Magnus stares at the table. He looks carefully. The piece involves a snaking long grey route weaving around various hillocks, skyscrapers and across Tower Bridge.

“The London Marathon,” whispers Philip. “Run by 40,000 people a year, every year. Don’t tell me one of those bastards isn’t going to want to have something like this in their boardroom. Think of the scope, Magnus. Think of it.”

Magnus is thinking of it. He can see the commercial opportunities at all his galleries across the world. Is there a marathon in LA? He fervently hopes so. He knows there is one in Geneva because a former girlfriend once ran it. Christ. She moaned about her hamstrings for about six months before, and six weeks after, until Magnus dumped her.

“Then there’s Berlin and Boston and Chicago. There’s even one in Las bloody Vegas,” says Philip. “Gilda researched them all for me. There are about 200 of these bastards.”

Magnus looks at Philip. Philip returns his look equably.

“How much?”

“Yes, how much?”

“I am a famous artist. Probably the most famous artist in the country. Certainly the most famous artist in this city.”

Yes, well, thinks Magnus. As long as you keep bringing in the money. And there might be quite a lot of money in marathon courses. Maybe even more than in golf holes, frankly. Although the manpower needed to make them, and the time, and the materials… I need to take soundings on this, he thinks. Consult my Board. But Philip is already slapping down virtual figures for Magnus to salivate over.

“£150,000? I think possibly even more. Quarter of a million? Look how fucking big it is, Magnus. It will cost me, though. This took over a week. If I get an order book going, I’ll have to hire not only that boy from the estate but also all his friends to help me build it, you know.”

“It’s tempting. Very good. Very good. Makes golf holes look pretty basic by comparison.”

Philip raises an eyebrow.

“Although basic is what they are, of course, not,” says Magnus hurriedly.

“Let’s talk about it anon. Shall we have lunch?”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Gilda will be expecting us.”

Just as Philip and Magnus have a formal manner of speaking, they also have a formal way of eating lunch together. Magnus knows the routine. Gilda will have laid the table as if for a three course meal. There will be proper cutlery, and napkins, and two glasses per setting. Good, thinks Magnus, for whom eating is an important event.

Before sitting down, guests must stand with the two hosts alongside the chairs, and bow their heads while Gilda recites a humanist prayer.

Magnus and Philip take their places. Gilda takes the tiara off before leaning forward and incanting the prayer.

“As we eat, let us turn our minds to every individual we know and wish them plenty, love and comfort on this day and every day. As we celebrate, let us turn our minds and hearts to love, always love, of everyone in this world.”

Philip and Gilda draw back their chairs, and sit down.

“Excuse me,” says Magnus, stepping back, taking leave to go to the downstairs cloakroom. As he stands before the toilet, urinating, his eye wanders as always over the bas-relief nature of the cloakroom. Tiny sculptures dot the surface of the walls. It was only after he had been going to Philip’s house for a while that it dawned on him these sculptures were not strangely shaped coat hooks, but plaster cast mouldings of Gilda’s genitals. Well, he had always assumed they were Gilda’s. They might be another woman and Gilda together, or another woman/women completely.

This time, as he casually gazes at the assemblages of labia, clitoris and vulva he notes that there is indeed a discrepancy of size. Maybe there are a whole lot of women here, he thinks, washing his hands and drying them on a towel which reads Royal Hotel Newquay. The Burrell downstairs toilet is of course another fevered talking point on the Square, which nobody had seen but everybody wanted to. Jane once called it the Burrell Collection, which she thought was very funny indeed.

Over the Brie and artisan bread, which Magnus pulls apart fastidiously and crams into his mouth rather less politely, Gilda brings Jane into the conversation. She had bumped into her on the way to the bakers’.

“I met Jane on the way to Craven’s,” she announces, putting her small hands flatly onto the table. Magnus notices how perfectly she has painted each tiny nail. Pearl pink, with a shimmering white tip. French manicures. Christ, he hasn’t seen a French manicure for years.

“Oh yes,” says Philip, abstractly.

“Jane?” says Magnus.

“Bitch who lives on the Square. No, not the bitch you are thinking of. Another bitch. Not the one I fancy, ha ha.”

Magnus hates it when Philip descends into bawdiness, but like everyone else, he puts up with it. He looks at Gilda. She is looking down, staring at her hands. She is quite used to the way Philip sometimes insists on talking.

“Anyway, seems as if Jane is organising a big fundraiser for us here. To get new railings or something.”

“Fundraiser! As if there’s not stacks of money in every single bloody household here. Christ Almighty.” Philip grew up on benefits in an impoverished household near Truro, and would like everyone to remember it.

“Nightingale. May I continue?”

“I’m listening,” says Magnus gently, covering one of her tiny hands with his. He’s rather fond of the mad old bat, in her tiara.

“Anyway. The idea is to have a Talent Show.”

There is silence around the table. Philip raises his chin.

“Talent!” he says eventually. “What, what on earth do this lot know about talent? Laywers and bankers, the lot of them. There’s only one real talent in the whole bloody place, and you are looking at him.”

Gilda puts a hand on his cuff. “We know, darling. We know. But you know, sometimes, you have to let people have a go.”

She’s quite clever, thinks Magnus. In terms of dealing with Philip, she vacillates between being a child and the persona of a mother.

Philip snorts. “What did she want us to do, then?”

“Oh, I don’t think anything. She just wanted to let us know it was happening.”

“Nothing? You share a neighbourhood with someone who had their own stand at the Frieze Art Fair, and you don’t want to have a sniff at their talent? She didn’t want me to be involved? Christ Almighty. They are lucky to have me on their doorstep, bloody lucky.”

“Well, I think she is open to suggestions, my shooting star. Why don’t you suggest something? I mean, why don’t you give a talk?”

“Yes, yes,” muses Philip. “A talk, maybe that’s the thing.”

Magnus has had enough artisan bread and Brie. He has also had enough wine. He now has a strong urge to leave this lunch and this chat about the neighbours, and get back to his office where he can have some decent coffee and do some serious thinking about the marathon pieces, how much he could get for them and how the hell he will exhibit them. All of that will be left to him to work out, he knows it. Philip Burrell may have started out in a garrett doing everything himself. He certainly doesn’t do that now. He pays 50% to his dealer and expects his dealer to sweat blood for it. Magnus feels that before he can leave it will be incumbent on him to solve the Talent Show conundrum. Philip clearly wants to be involved.