The Square by Rosie Millard Read Free Book Online Page B

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