‘Well, no,’ admitted Marcus. And neither have you, he refrained from adding. ‘I just don’t want to see Daniel get into a state about it,’ he said instead. ‘You know what he’s like. Gets worried about everything.’
‘Yes, well, there’s no need for him to get worried,’ said Anthea shortly. ‘Not if he does all the work he’s supposed to. He’s a very clever boy. You don’t seem to appreciate that.’
‘I do,’ said Marcus indignantly. ‘I’m sure he can get a scholarship anywhere in the country if he wants to. I’m very proud of him,’ he added, in gentler tones. He drained his coffee, stood up, and reached for the cafetière. Anthea gave him a half-smile as he poured more coffee into her cup, a sign of temporary reconciliation.
And as he sat down again, he realized that it would be really quite irrational to expect Anthea to behave in any other way. Her academic success; her scholarship to Oxford; all the things that had attracted him to her in the first place, had been achieved with exactly the pushy determination that she was now displaying over poor old Daniel. It would be impossible for her to act otherwise. And in many ways, it would make all of their lives easier—at least in the short term—if he were just to leave her to get on with it.
CHAPTER THREE
A week later, Alice finally remembered to bring up the subject of the school skiing trip, which had been mentioned at assembly on the first day of term. She was eating breakfast in her school uniform at the time, sitting uncomfortably on a chrome and mock-leather stool in the tiny kitchen above the tutorial college.
It was a grim little room, with an ancient brown lino floor, grey-doored units and no space for a table. Really, it would have been more sensible for them all to take their breakfasts next door to the sitting-room, where at least there was a small dining table. But, as a family, Alice, Liz and Jonathan were used to breakfast in the kitchen. At Russell Street, there had been a big pine table and comfortable wicker chairs. Here, there was none, so they unquestioningly arranged themselves every morning on whichever stools and surfaces were to hand. Jonathan had taken to wedging himself in beside the fridge, from where he could reach the toaster on the peeling Formica counter opposite. He was a prodigious breakfast-eater, cramming in as many as eight or ten slices of toast every morning—and still, as Liz often complained, keeping his thin, bony shape. Alice had inherited his skinny figure, and ate similar effortless quantities of food. Liz, on the other hand, was getting quite concerned about the width of her hips. This morning, she was leaning against the sink, carefully munching a banana, and trying not to exclaim as Alice helped herself to another huge bowl of cereal.
It was as she poured milk over her second lot of Grape Nuts that Alice remembered about skiing. Closing the carton, she suddenly said, with no preamble, ‘Can I go skiing with the school? It’s in January,’ and began spooning cereal into her mouth. She had no particular desire to go skiing, which she imagined, rather abstractly, to be an effortless and boring slide down a hill. But they had been told to ask their parents about it, so she did. Jonathan put another piece of bread in the toaster and looked at her.
‘Is it very expensive, Alice?’
‘Six hundred pounds.’ Jonathan drew in his breath sharply.
‘Well, we’ll have to see,’ he said. ‘Mummy and I will talk about it. You know we haven’t got an awful lot of money at the moment. But if you really want to go—’
‘What do you mean?’ Liz’s voice cut across his. ‘What’s there to talk about? It doesn’t matter if she wants to go or not; we can’t afford it. Sorry, Alice.’
‘OK,’ said Alice.
‘We may be able to, for something special.’ Jonathan raised meaningful eyes to Liz’s. He looked exhausted, she thought. And she felt shattered herself. The first week of term at the Silchester Tutorial College had been a frantic round of lessons, administrative hiccups, meetings with parents, and unforeseen hassles.
‘Don’t be silly, Jonathan. We haven’t got a spare six hundred pounds. And a skiing holiday is hardly a priority at the moment.’ Jonathan ignored her.
‘Are all your friends going?’ he asked Alice. Alice shrugged.
‘Dunno.’ She wasn’t entirely sure who her friends were, now Genevieve wasn’t there any more. At the moment she was spending her break-times hesitantly hanging out with the crowd that she and Genevieve had sometimes dabbled in. But really, they’d been Genevieve’s friends, not hers. And she was beginning to think she might prefer to go around with a couple of the others. But their set was already pretty much established. And she wasn’t part of it. It was all a bit difficult.
‘This could be a real opportunity for Alice,’ Jonathan was saying to Liz.
‘Rubbish,’ said Liz brusquely. ‘An opportunity to learn how to ski? Send her to a dry ski slope, then.’
‘S’all right,’ said Alice. ‘I don’t really want to go. I just thought I’d tell you.’
‘It won’t be like this for ever,’ Jonathan said to Alice, in what seemed to Liz an unnecessarily weary-sounding voice. ‘I promise, you’ll be able to go skiing next year. When we’ve sold the house.’ He shot a look at Liz. ‘Or whatever it is we’re doing with it.’
‘You know perfectly well what we’re doing with it,’ said Liz, in a voice which sounded more assertive than she felt. ‘We’re letting it out until the market picks up.’ She stopped, and racked her brains for something else to say. Every time they talked about letting out the house, she tried to recall the confident phrases which that nice estate agent had used; tried to think of words which would inspire Jonathan with the same enthusiasm for the plan. But they seemed to have vapourized, leaving her with only the bare facts to cling to. They were going to let the house out. Beyond that, nothing. She had heard no word from the estate agent since their first meeting; the tenants whom he had promised had so far failed to materialize. Even she was beginning to have sneaking doubts about the project.
Jonathan was deliberately silent. He took a piece of toast from the toaster, and began to butter it carefully. Liz watched in mounting exasperation. Eventually she could bear it no longer.
‘Stop looking like that!’ she exclaimed.
‘Like what?’
‘Like, I’m not going to say anything, even though I’m thinking what an idiot my wife is.’
‘I’m not thinking that,’ protested Jonathan.
‘Well then, what are you thinking?’
‘I’m going to school now, all right?’ interrupted Alice quickly. She pushed back her chair with a speedy urgency and, without looking either of her parents in the eye, clomped out of the kitchen.
‘All right,’ said Liz, momentarily deflected. ‘Have a nice day, darling,’ she called to Alice’s retreating back.
‘We shouldn’t argue like that in front of Alice,’ said Jonathan, when they’d heard the front door slam below.
‘Nonsense, she’s fine,’ said Liz. ‘We’re not arguing, anyway. We’re having an animated conversation. Which you’re trying to get out of.’
‘I’m not trying to get out of it,’ said Jonathan. ‘It’s just—’
‘What?’
‘Well, this business of renting out the house. I mean, you just come back here and announce that’s what we’re going to do, without bothering to ask me, or talk about it, and you know, that’s fine by me, as long as it works out.’
‘But?’ Her voice sounded rattled to her own ears.
‘But, well, it doesn’t seem to be working out so far. I mean, does it? Here we are, after more than a week, and we haven’t heard anything. Where are these famous tenants you said the agent had up his sleeve?’
‘I don’t know. I expect he’s working on it.’ Liz stood up with a sudden movement and began piling bowls and plates together with angry little clashes. ‘I’ll ring him this morning, all right? Or do you want me to call the whole thing off ?’
‘No, no, of course not!’ Jonathan spread his hands in a self-deprecating manner. ‘I mean, what the hell do I know about it? It just
seems to me that we should be either trying to sell the house or renting it out, and at the moment we’re doing neither. But I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure it’ll get sorted out before long. Still, it might be an idea to ring the agent. He’s probably put our details at the bottom of his pile.’ He gave her an encouraging smile, and began to clear away the breakfast things.
Oh, blast you, Jonathan, thought Liz, watching him calmly stack the plates up, put the cereal packets in their cupboard, run a cloth over the Formica counter. She turned away to the sink, began to run the hot tap into the washing-up bowl and squirted a long, thick stream of washing-up liquid under it; then plunged her hands into the scalding water in an obscure need for some sort of penance. Why do you have to be so bloody reasonable all the time? she thought to herself crossly. Why can’t you shout and yell and get angry? And, more to the point, why on earth do I always have to be such a stroppy old cow?
At the first opportunity she got that morning, she dialled the number of Witherstone & Co. It seemed almost presumptuous to ask for Mr Witherstone himself. But she didn’t want to risk being put through to the dreadful Nigel again.
‘Which Mr Witherstone?’ asked the receptionist, in an unhelpful voice. Liz, standing in the cramped office of the tutorial college, was momentarily flummoxed.
‘I’m sorry, could you—’
‘Mr Miles Witherstone or Mr Marcus Witherstone?’ Liz thought furiously. She knew it began with an M. But that didn’t get her very far.
‘Marcus, I think,’ she said eventually.
‘I’m afraid Mr Marcus Witherstone is out of the office this morning,’ said the receptionist immediately, in tones, Liz was sure, of some triumph. ‘Would you care to leave a message?’
‘Yes please,’ said Liz robustly. ‘Could you say that Mrs Chambers called regarding her property in Russell Street, wondering if any tenants had been procured yet.’ She gave the number of the tutorial college, and put the receiver down, feeling pleased with herself. The use of the word ‘procured’ had been especially satisfying. And now she could stop feeling guilty about the house. It wasn’t her problem any more; it was Marcus Witherstone’s.
Marcus was at that moment driving along the main road of Collinchurch, the village in which Leo Francis lived. He had begun his journey that morning with a brisk feeling of adrenalin at the thought of his meeting with Leo. This, however, had faded away during the rigours of negotiating the Silchester ring road, to be replaced eventually by a growing sensation of panic.
He could scarcely believe he was really doing it. Taking up Leo’s carefully worded invitation; agreeing implicitly to . . . what? As his mind scanned vaguely over any number of possibilities, he felt a tremor run through him, a blurred feeling of fear pierced by sharp exhilaration. And, already, guilt. Even though he hadn’t set foot in Leo’s house yet; hadn’t even listened to what he had to say. He was, so far, innocent.
Except that he’d already lied to Miles. Trusting, honest Miles, who had asked Marcus to have lunch with him that day. He’d asked in a conciliatory way, which meant that he felt bad at having brushed Marcus off so peremptorily the week before. He’d suggested Le Manoir. He’d intimated it would be his treat. And Marcus, who usually jumped at Le Manoir and, on principle, never turned Miles down, had panicked.
‘Sorry, Miles. I’m seeing a client. That rental case I told you about. Another time, perhaps?’ And he’d put the phone down, shaking slightly. Now he winced at the memory. Why the fuck had he said that? Why not admit he was meeting Leo Francis? An informal meeting between two local professionals: estate agent and solicitor. Nothing could be more respectable.
Except . . . except. Oh God. A twinge of anticipation rose in Marcus, filling him with a mixture of horror and delight. Was he really doing this? Marcus Witherstone, of Witherstone’s? Better not think about it. Better just get there, and have a stiff drink or two.
It was now three months or so ago that Leo had sidled up to Marcus, at a rather dull party, and murmured a few discreet, ambivalent phrases into his ears. Phrases whose meaning could be taken in either of two ways. Phrases which Miles, for example, would have deliberately—or even unknowingly—misunderstood.
Marcus, however, was not Miles. Nothing like Miles. He’d listened to Leo’s bland, innocuous, double-sided words, then, playing for time, put his glass to his lips. It occurred to him that if the rest of the guests present knew what Leo was indirectly proposing, they would be shocked. Horrified, even. And part of him was also shocked at Leo’s seedy suggestions. Of course, he knew this kind of thing went on, but he had never really thought he would come across it. It was the sort of thing other people did. Not respectable professionals like himself.
But that, of course, had been part of the appeal. The idea that he could combine the safe, predictable veneer of a well-established, middle-aged estate agent with something more dangerous, more lucrative, more exciting in every way. Or at least less boring. For life at Witherstone’s was, Marcus had suddenly realized, clutching his drink and taking in the implications of Leo’s words, boring him beyond belief. He had done all the learning he was ever likely to do; he had tried out all the new plans and ideas he was ever likely to think of. His position was safe; his work not arduous; he was able to pick and choose his clients. There was nothing to aim for; nothing new to try.
Impetuously, he had swallowed his mouthful of wine, turned to Leo, and in a suitably muted voice, murmured, ‘I’m extremely interested in what you’re saying.’ He hadn’t actually winked, but he’d certainly given the air that he knew what was going on; that he was a man of the world. And for the rest of the party, he had gone around the room with high spirits and a kind of internal swagger.
Of course, by the next morning, both the high spirits and the swagger were gone, and he was inclined to think he had entirely misconstrued Leo’s invitation. He almost felt tempted to tell Anthea the whole story; probably would have done, if he hadn’t been convinced she would completely miss the point. And as the weeks passed, and he heard nothing from Leo, he’d persuaded himself that the whole thing had been utter fantasy on his part.
But it wasn’t fantasy. It was actually happening. Oh God. It was actually happening.
As he neared Leo’s house, Marcus could feel himself almost involuntarily slow the car down, until it was proceeding at a ridiculously snail-like pace. A young mother pushing a pram on the pavement opposite overtook him, and gave him a curious look as she passed. Shit. He was drawing attention to himself.
‘Fuck off,’ said Marcus quietly. ‘Don’t look at me.’ He pushed his foot down on the accelerator and sped past her, only to brake immediately as he saw the gates to Leo’s house on his left. He signalled, with unnecessary diligence, and slowly turned into the drive, crackling the gravel satisfactorily underwheel as he descended the incline into Leo’s forecourt.
He got out of the car and slammed the door shut with what he hoped was a hearty gesture. He took a deep breath and gave a confident smile to his reflection in the glass. Then, as he turned round to stride jauntily to the front door, he saw the girl with the pram peering at him from the other side of the road. His heart began to beat a notch faster.
He gave the girl a craven smile, and she immediately began to push the pram away. Marcus turned and walked, rather flustered, to the house. He wanted to get inside as quickly as possible. As he rang the bell, he tried to stand as close to the heavy wooden door as possible, as if somehow to blend into it. A couple of dogs barked warningly from the recesses of the house; gradually the tapping of feet became audible. Then the door was flung open.
‘Marcus!’ Leo’s cry of welcome seemed indecently loud, and was augmented by the welcoming yelps of two English setters which began to frolic about Marcus’s knees. The whole ménage immediately filled Marcus with dismay, and he found himself shrinking very slightly back into his jacket. But Leo seemed to notice nothing amiss. He held out his pudgy hand in greeting, and, as they shook, gave Marcus the slightest of winks. Marcus fo
rced himself to grin knowingly back.
‘I thought we might as well be comfortable,’ said Leo, as he led the way down a flagstoned corridor. ‘Come on in.’ They entered a large, bright sitting-room, and Leo gestured to a couple of dark green button-backed chairs. Marcus looked apprehensively around. At one end of the room was a long row of windows looking onto the street.
‘Sit down,’ said Leo cheerily. ‘I’ve asked my daily to bring us some coffee.’
Marcus sat down, gingerly, on one of the chairs. This was not at all how he had imagined their meeting. He had envisaged a small, discreet room, tucked far away from the eyes of the outside world, preferably locked and bolted before they began talking. Here, in this large, exposed room, he felt vulnerable and uneasy.
‘So,’ he said, more abrasively than he had intended. ‘What’s this all about?’ As he spoke, he glanced involuntarily towards the window. The sooner this meeting was over, and he was out of the house, the better. He turned back, and stared at Leo, willing him to start talking.
But Leo, sitting on the opposite chair, simply smiled, and placed the tips of his fingers carefully together. He was younger than Marcus by about five or even ten years, but corpulent and already middle-aged looking. Sandy curls waved around his pink face, and as Marcus watched him, his full lips drew back in a smile, revealing small, pearly teeth.
‘Well now,’ he said eventually. His voice was high, with fruity overtones, and seemed to bounce around the bare-boarded room. There was a moment of silent anticipation.
I could just leave, thought Marcus. I could just get up, quickly, before Leo says another word, tell him I’m ill, forget the whole thing. He tried experimentally to move his leg, to flex his muscles as if preparing for a quick departure. But his whole body seemed comfortably weighed down in the chair, heaped with inertia. And as he leaned back again resignedly, watching Leo’s complacent smirk, temporarily closing off his professional conscience, he became aware of a new sensation. Right in the base of his stomach, almost hidden underneath the murky layers of unease and guilt, began to thump a small, bright beat of excitement.
A Desirable Residence Page 5