A Desirable Residence

by Madeleine Wickham

  There was a streak of fatalism in Liz which Jonathan found, on occasion, rather alarming. But experience had taught him not to argue with it. So they had moved out of their house and into the little flat above the college, and left the house empty, waiting to be sold. Liz had been, during the days since the move, almost maniacally cheerful, as if to prove to herself and everybody else that they’d done the right thing; Jonathan already dreaded the tumble in her spirits, which would surely come.

  For himself, Jonathan really didn’t know whether they’d done the right thing or not. They’d both given up steady teaching jobs, a comfortable life and a secure future, to take on a business which, while not exactly declining, had certainly seen better days. If Liz was right, they would, between them, easily kickstart it into vitality, growth and profit. If Jonathan’s occasional pessimisms were right, it was foolish for the two of them, with no business experience, to take on such an enterprise. But since they’d moved in, he had only once confided his worst fears to Liz. She had reacted savagely, as though he were accusing her of dragging them down into ruin; as though he were blaming her for a disaster which hadn’t even happened.

  ‘For God’s sake, Jonathan,’ she’d shouted. ‘Why do you have to be so negative? I mean, you wanted to buy this place, too, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course I did—’

  ‘And now all you can do is worry about money all the time. Oh God!’ Liz gave the tea chest she was unpacking a little shove with her foot. ‘This is all hard enough, without you being miserable the whole time.’

  And so Jonathan had postponed telling her that he was going to have to take out an extra loan. The original loan they’d been given to get the business going was running out, and they still hadn’t ordered all the equipment they wanted. They needed money for the beginning of term. They needed a bit extra for emergencies. Another five thousand should cover it. Or maybe ten, to be on the safe side.

  The bank had agreed immediately, pointing out in the same smooth letter that the interest rate on such a loan would necessarily be, as Mr Chambers must be aware, higher than that on the previous loan. Whilst we are confident in your ability to pay back this loan, we would point out that your total debt is now far in excess of that originally agreed. In particular, we are concerned that you are still maintaining two mortgages. Perhaps you could update us on the proposed sale of your property in Russell Street?

  Jonathan clenched his pen slightly harder, and stared out of the window. If only he could. If only he could get shot of that house, once and for all.

  Liz could feel her cheeks burning hotter and hotter. Both the young estate agent and the older man in the doorway were looking at her expectantly, obviously waiting for her to explain her outburst. She glanced at the twitchy young estate agent to see if he was going to say anything, but he was staring morosely downwards. It was up to her.

  She looked up, and smiled shamefacedly at the man in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry I shouted like that,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ exclaimed the man in the doorway. ‘Sod the property market! I couldn’t agree more. What do you think, Nigel?’

  ‘Well yes, perhaps it would be nice,’ said the young estate agent, a craven half-smile appearing on his face. ‘Sod the lot!’ He began to laugh, then abruptly stopped, and cleared his throat.

  ‘And now,’ said the man in the doorway, turning to Liz, bestowing on her a charming smile, ‘do tell me: were you just making a general observation, or did you have something specific in mind?’

  ‘Mrs Chambers—’ began Nigel.

  ‘Can tell us herself what’s on her mind,’ cut in the older man.

  ‘Yes,’ said Liz hurriedly, before she lost her nerve. ‘I’m sorry I got so cross,’ she began, ‘but really, it seems an impossible situation. We put our house on the market ten months ago and it hasn’t sold, and now we’ve moved and we really need to sell, and . . .’ What was the boy’s name? Oh yes, Nigel . . . ‘Nigel tells me that we’re going to have to drop our price by fifty thousand and put in a power shower to attract buyers. But, I mean, we can’t afford to do that. We’ve just bought a business, you see, and we promised the bank we’d pay off the mortgage on the house by the end of the summer. And here we are in September . . .’ She spread her hands out helplessly. If she hadn’t been distracted by Nigel’s obvious growing discomfiture, she might have burst into tears.

  ‘What I said was—’ began Nigel, as soon as she stopped talking. The older man cut him off with an upraised hand.

  ‘We’ll return to the power shower in a minute, Nigel. Awful things, don’t you think?’ he added confidingly to Liz. ‘Like sticking needles in your back. Give me a good old-fashioned bath.’

  ‘I’ve never been in a power shower,’ admitted Liz.

  ‘Well, my advice is, don’t bother. Now, tell me, what is this business you’ve bought?’

  ‘We’ve bought Silchester Tutorial College,’ said Liz, unable to stop her mouth curving into a smile. They had actually bought a tutorial college. They were the owners of a business. It still gave her a thrill to articulate it; to watch for the reaction on people’s faces. This time it was even better than usual.

  ‘No! Really?’ The debonair, amused expression slipped from the man’s face, to be replaced by a disarming enthusiasm, and his eyes focused on Liz anew. ‘I was crammed for my O levels there. Wonderful place.’ He paused. ‘Actually, what am I saying? I still failed them all. But I’m sure that was my fault. I was a hopeless case.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘I was taught English by Miss Hapland herself. I think she hated me by the end of it.’

  ‘She’s dead now,’ said Liz cautiously.

  ‘Really?’ His face fell briefly. ‘I suppose she must be. She looked pretty ancient even when she taught me.’

  ‘It only happened last year,’ said Liz. ‘That’s why the tutorial college was put up for sale.’

  ‘And you bought it. That’s wonderful! I’m sure you’ll have a much better calibre of pupil than I was.’

  ‘But you’re a graduate. You’re a qualified surveyor,’ objected Nigel, who was leaning back in his chair, staring gloomily at the ceiling. A cloud had passed over the sun; suddenly the room seemed colder and darker.

  ‘Oh, I got a few exams eventually,’ said the older man impatiently. ‘Anyway, that’s not the point. The problem here is what to do about your house. Where exactly is it?’

  ‘Russell Street,’ said Liz.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I know. Nice family houses. Got a garden, has it?’ Liz nodded.

  ‘Well, from what you’ve said, I would have thought one of your best bets might be to try and rent out your property for a while, just until prices pick up. Are you on a repayment mortgage?’ Liz nodded. ‘Well then,’ he smiled, ‘the rental income should cover at least part of your monthly repayment. Maybe the whole lot, with any luck!’

  ‘Really?’ said Liz, feeling a flicker of hope rising inside her.

  ‘And there’s no shortage of prospective tenants at the moment, especially for a nice, well-located house like yours.’ He gave her a warm smile, and Liz felt suddenly overcome, as though his compliment were to herself. ‘We can handle all the arrangements here, draw up a shorthold tenancy agreement, and then, when the market seems right, try and sell again. I certainly wouldn’t be tempted down the route of power showers,’ he added, flicking an almost imperceptible grin at her. It’s you and me against that idiot Nigel, his look said, and Liz gazed back at him, feeling ridiculously warmed.

  ‘I only suggested installing a power shower in the context of my first mooted option,’ said Nigel, clearly not quite daring to adopt the defensive tone he would have liked. ‘I was about to proceed onto the rental option.’

  ‘Yes, well, perhaps you should have mentioned that first,’ said the older man, a steely note creeping into his voice. Nigel’s back stiffened, and Liz wondered for the first time who this stranger was. Someone important, obviously. ‘In fact,’ the man added, turning back to Liz, ‘I
might even know some people who are interested. A very sweet girl and her husband. She does PR for us—you know Ginny Prentice,’ he said to Nigel, who nodded. ‘Lovely girl, husband’s an actor. I’m sure she said she was thinking of taking a place down this way. Your house would do them perfectly.’

  ‘Gosh, that would be wonderful,’ said Liz. ‘But actually, I’m not sure about renting it out. I mean, we’re supposed to be selling to pay off our mortgage. The bank might not like it if we have a mortgage on the house and a mortgage on the business as well.’ She stared at him, mutely pleading, willing him to pull another rabbit out of the hat. He looked down at her consideringly. There was a moment’s still silence.

  ‘Who’s your lender?’ he suddenly said.

  ‘Brown and Brentford.’

  ‘Main Silchester branch?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a pause, and Nigel looked up, a look of utter disapproval on his face.

  ‘I’ll see if I can sort something out,’ said the man. ‘No promises, of course. But I’ll try.’ He looked kindly at her, and Liz gazed back, pink-cheeked, gratitude filling her body like a balloon. She suddenly wished, foolishly, that she had bothered to put her contact lenses in that morning. Then abruptly the man looked at his watch. ‘Christ. Must fly. Sorry, I’ll be in touch. Nigel will give me your details.’ He gave her another crinkle-eyed conspirator’s smile.

  ‘But wait!’ cried Liz, her voice sounding shrill to her own ears. ‘I don’t know your name!’ A look of amusement passed afresh over his face.

  ‘It’s Marcus,’ he said. ‘Marcus Witherstone.’

  As Marcus proceeded down the corridor to his own office, he was filled with a glow of benevolence. It was so easy to help people, he reflected; really, very little effort for the reward of such self-satisfaction. Sweet woman; she had been so touchingly grateful. And it had been worth it just to put that dreadful Nigel in his place. Marcus frowned as he pushed open the door to his office. It was his cousin, Miles, who had hired Nigel—poached him from Easton’s, the rival estate agency in Silchester. Said he was a young dynamic talent. Well, perhaps he was. But no amount of talent, in Marcus’s opinion, made up for that horrible nasal voice and smug young face.

  Nigel was just another of the topics on which Marcus and Miles disagreed. Only that morning, Marcus had spent a fruitless half-hour trying to persuade Miles that they ought to be branching out into property abroad. Setting up an office on the south coast of France, perhaps. Or Spain.

  ‘All the big boys are doing it,’ he said, waving a collection of glossy brochures in front of Miles. ‘Look. Villas worth half a million, a million. That’s the kind of business we should be handling.’

  ‘Marcus,’ said Miles, in the dry, deliberate voice that he’d had since he was a small boy, ‘what do you know about French property?’

  ‘I know that it’s an area we should definitely be going into,’ said Marcus with determination. ‘I’ll go over there, make some contacts, suss out the market, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Miles firmly. He spoke in much the same way as he had when, aged seven, Marcus had tried to persuade him to climb out of the window of their grandparents’ house and go to the village pub to buy Coke and crisps for a midnight feast. He hadn’t had any guts then either, Marcus thought crossly. And just because he was three years older, he wielded a tacit authority over Marcus that neither of them could quite abandon. Even though they were supposed to be equal partners.

  He stared angrily at Miles, so bloody staid, in his ridiculously old-fashioned three-piece suit, puffing away at his stupid pipe. A pipe, for God’s sake.

  ‘Miles, you don’t live in the real world,’ he said. ‘Expansion’s what it’s all about. Diversification.’

  ‘Into areas we know nothing about? And at which we’re bound to fail?’ Miles took his spectacles off and began polishing them on his handkerchief. ‘I think it’s you who doesn’t live in the real world, Marcus.’ He spoke kindly, and Marcus felt a series of angry retorts rising. But he kept his mouth closed. If there was one thing Miles couldn’t tolerate, it was conspicuous family rows at the office. ‘This is the time to be consolidating,’ Miles continued. He replaced his spectacles and smiled at Marcus. ‘If you want to go to France, why don’t you go there on holiday?’

  Now Marcus looked aggrievedly at the glossy brochures still sitting on his desk, tantalizing him with photographs of blue skies, swimming pools, bougainvillaea. And his own inspired jottings: Witherstone’s Abroad. Spread your wings with Witherstone’s. Weekending abroad with Witherstone’s. He hadn’t even had a chance to show his slogans to Miles. But perhaps it was just as well. He opened his bottom desk drawer and stowed the brochures inside. Maybe he would bring the subject up again in six months’ time. But now he had to go. He glanced at his watch. Five twenty already, and he had promised to pick up Anthea and the children from outside the library at half-past.

  He glanced hurriedly at the fluttering yellow post-it notes decorating his desk. They would just have to wait till tomorrow, he thought, gathering up his briefcase, stuffing a few random papers inside. But as his eye ran automatically over the messages, one suddenly stood out and grabbed his attention. He stared at it silently for a minute, then looked around as though afraid of being observed, and sat casually down on his leather swivel chair, from where he could see it better without actually touching it. It was written in the same innocent, rounded handwriting as all the others, in the turquoise ink that was the trademark of Suzy, his secretary. It sat benignly between a request for details of small country estates by a Japanese businessman and a cancelled lunch appointment. And it was unremarkably short. Could you please ring Leo Francis, tel: 879560.

  Marcus looked at his watch. Shit. Nearly twenty-five past. Anthea would probably already be standing outside the library, looking anxiously up the road, wondering loudly to the boys whether Daddy had forgotten to leave the office early. He looked at the phone for a torn, undecided second. Either way, the longer he sat there, the later he would be. But the thought of leaving it; of spending the whole evening wondering whether Leo had phoned about that—or for some other, innocuous reason; listening to Anthea’s chatter while a secret anticipation filled his mind and body—was unbearable. With a small surge of excitement, he picked up the receiver and dialled the number.

  ‘Francis, Frank and Maloney.’

  ‘Leo Francis, please.’ God, even his voice was shaking.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Francis has left for the day. Can I take a message?’ Marcus stared at the phone for a moment. Leo wasn’t there. He would have to wait until tomorrow to find out. A sudden, surprising sensation of relief went through his body.

  ‘Just say that Marcus Witherstone called,’ he said, and put down the phone. Shit. Oh shit. What was he getting himself into?

  He closed his briefcase with slightly trembling hands, peeled the post-it with Leo’s number on it from his desk, folded it in two and put it in the breast pocket of his jacket. He would get rid of it in the kitchen rubbish bin at home. Although why on earth should he not legitimately have a message from Leo on his desk? Leo was, after all, a well-known local solicitor with whom Witherstone’s had often done business. He was being paranoid, he told himself firmly as he closed his office door behind him. And anyway, he hadn’t actually talked to Leo yet. He could still change his mind.

  Feeling calmer, he strode through the outer office, nonchalantly pushing a hand through his hair, saying a cheery good night to the remaining staff, smiling kindly at a young couple sitting in the waiting area, leafing anxiously through a pile of details. Outside, he nearly bumped into a woman unlocking a bicycle from the forecourt railings.

  ‘Oh, hello!’ she said, giving him a slightly tremulous smile.

  ‘Hello there,’ said Marcus in a jovial voice, bleeping open the locking system of his Mercedes.

  ‘I just wanted to say thank you,’ she continued in a rush. Marcus turned round to look at her again. Of course. It was the woman from Nige
l’s office. She gazed at him in beseeching gratitude, and brushed a few locks of dark hair from her face.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, in his charming, all-part-of-the-service manner.

  ‘No really,’ she insisted. ‘It was terribly kind of you to take an interest. And I had no idea who you were,’ she added, glancing up at the illuminated ‘Witherstone & Co.’ above the office. ‘I’m sure you don’t normally go around organizing people’s problems for them.’

  Marcus shrugged disarmingly. ‘I’m just an estate agent, like all the rest of them.’

  ‘Rubbish. You’re nothing like most estate agents!’ Marcus let out a laugh in spite of himself.

  ‘That’s about the biggest compliment you could give me,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘But don’t tell anyone I said so.’

  ‘OK,’ she grinned back, and wheeled her bike down to the pavement. ‘Bye-bye, and thanks!’

  Marcus was still smiling as he got into his car. It just showed. People like Nigel, however bright and talented, simply weren’t popular with the customers. He would relate the whole story at the next weekly meeting, he decided, including the comment from the customer that he, Marcus, was nothing like most estate agents. That would get Miles worked up, all right. Not to mention the precious protégé. ‘I’ve decided, Nigel,’ he would say, in a kind voice, ‘to oversee the rest of this case myself. I’m not convinced you’ve grasped the best manner of dealing with the client. We can’t afford to have our customers upset, you know.’ He grinned to himself. That was precisely the reprimand Miles had used on him years ago when he told that obnoxious old couple they wouldn’t be able to sell their bungalow because it smelt disgusting. It would be highly satisfying to see Miles’s face as he said exactly those words to Nigel. And the best thing was that Miles was so hidebound by ideas of family loyalty, and presenting a united front to the staff, that he probably wouldn’t say a word in Nigel’s defence.