The Square by Rosie Millard Read Free Book Online Page A

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