A Desirable Residence

by Madeleine Wickham

  That day, Alice had a double free period after lunch. She was supposed to spend it in the senior library, doing her prep and starting on her background reading lists. The week before, because they were now starting their GCSE courses, they’d all spent a lesson being shown how to use the library by sixth-formers. The teachers had chosen the most lumbering, conscientious prefects for this task, who had explained laboriously how to use the filing system, and what to do with returned books. While she trailed around, pretending to listen, Alice had seen girls sitting at each gleaming wooden table, writing out neat essays, or frowning over lists of vocabulary. The atmosphere had been tranquil and ordered and obviously designed to be conducive to work. But that was all wrong for Alice. She liked doing her homework curled up awkwardly on the floor in her bedroom, or at the kitchen table with the radio on, or, best of all, in front of the television, so that any free moments between writing or working out problems could be spent looking at something interesting, not just the wall.

  Besides, only the real losers did what they were supposed to and went to the library. A gaggle from her year spent all their free periods behind the trees at the end of the rounders pitch, sitting on the leaves and whispering and smoking. Another lot would bunk off and go to the nearest McDonald’s. They’d already once been frogmarched back to school by a teacher, but they still went. A few people went to the music study room, where you could listen to compact discs through earphones. They were supposed to be classical, but no one ever checked.

  As Alice queued up for lunch with her tray, she considered each of these options. But none appealed. It wasn’t so much doing those things, it was doing them with the people who did them. Alice pictured herself sitting on the leaves with Fiona Langdon flicking her hair everywhere, and shuddered. She would really have liked to hang out with a couple of girls who were in her English set. She didn’t know them very well, because they were in the other form. But they seemed OK.

  As she sat down with a plate of lasagne, an apple, and a glass of water, one of them, Charlotte, walked past.

  ‘Hey, Charlotte,’ said Alice, ‘are you free after lunch?’

  ‘No fear,’ said Charlotte. ‘Bloody double biology. Dissecting the worm.’

  ‘Gross,’ said Alice. Charlotte walked off to find a place, and Alice dug disconsolately into her lasagne with her knife.

  She stared ahead, and munched, and eventually supposed that what she was feeling was lonely. I’m lonely, she thought to herself, with a certain gratification at having identified the experience. It had always surprised her that people gave names to feelings so easily. How did they know everyone felt the same?

  She could remember once sitting in the back of the car on the way to a birthday party with jitters in her tummy, and saying, ‘What’s it called when you’re not looking forward to something and you think it’s going to be awful? What do you feel?’ ‘Depressed,’ her mother had replied. So Alice had said, ‘I feel depressed.’ But of course she had meant she felt nervous. And for ages after that, whenever she felt nervous, she’d said, ‘I feel depressed.’ She couldn’t remember when she’d discovered her mistake, but she must have done sometime.

  And now she definitely felt lonely. She prodded around her feelings. Not bad enough to want to cry, but heavy-making around her head and eyes. What she felt like doing was curling up in front of the television, or better still in bed, with a cup of hot chocolate. Her thoughts circled comfortably around images of pampered cosiness at home, taking her briefly out of the school canteen clatter and bustle, into the sitting-room with a fire burning and a good film on the telly.

  Then she realized her mistake. Stupid. She’d been thinking of twelve Russell Street. But that wasn’t home any more. Home was the Silchester Tutorial College. She pictured in her mind the small, dark, uninviting sitting-room in the flat above the tutorial school. Her grotty little bedroom, still cluttered with boxes of stuff. And all those awful classrooms downstairs.

  She’d already made the mistake last week of going home during the day to pick up some music she’d forgotten. As she’d gone through the gate, she’d suddenly realized that the tutorial college would be in action, and they’d be having lessons everywhere. Before that, she’d only ever seen the classrooms empty, full of a musty holiday smell and posters peeling off the walls. But as she stealthily turned her key in the lock of the front door, she could hear voices and sense people everywhere. Behind the frosted glass of classroom doors, she could see blurred faces; from one she heard her own father’s voice, intoning some Latin phrase. She had run quickly, quietly, and with a mounting sense of panic, up the stairs to the flat and into her own room, irrationally terrified of being spotted by someone, of having to explain her presence. Even though this was her own house.

  Now she had taken to leaving the house in plenty of time every morning, so that she didn’t risk overlapping with the arrival of any of the students or teachers. And in the afternoons she dawdled home, usually stopping off for a cigarette or two. Draining her glass of water, Alice felt for the reassuring cardboardy feel of her cigarettes in her pocket. She would go and have one on her own.

  As Marcus drove back to Silchester, he felt invigorated and energetic. He sped along the motorway with the radio on loudly, humming along, slapping the steering wheel from time to time, and marvelling to himself how easy it was all going to be. The meeting with Leo had been a doddle. All he’d had to do was sit there, listening to Leo speaking. At intervals he’d given a nod, or made the odd affirming sound, but otherwise he had contributed practically nothing to the meeting. And yet now, after no particular effort on his part, he was firmly inveigled in an arrangement which, in all honesty, could only really be described as . . . as . . .

  As the word ‘fraud’ flashed across his mind, he felt a small, predictable shock leap through his body, which he firmly quelled. It wasn’t such a big thing, really. In fact, fraud was far too strong a word. It was just a business arrangement. Out of which he should do very nicely. On this one deal, he should make at least a couple of hundred thousand. Easy money.

  But then, the money wasn’t really the point—for either of them, Marcus suspected. Everyone knew Leo had been well set up on his father’s death. And Marcus wasn’t exactly short himself. It certainly hadn’t been the thought of financial gain which had made him listen when Leo first made his invitation. And even now, thinking about the deal, it wasn’t the money which excited him. It was the thrill. The novelty of the illicit. Anyone can play by the rules, he thought. But how many people have the brains, the nerve, the gall to do what he and Leo were planning?

  As Marcus slowed down on the approach to the ring road, the whole car seemed filled with his thumping adrenalin. He’d actually done it. He’d said yes to Leo. He was into another world; a different league. The thought made him feel powerful and confident. Cosmopolitan and sophisticated. And energetic. Far too energetic to go back to the office. He felt like striding around a few fields. Or even striding around a property. Anything, rather than going straight back to provincial little Witherstone’s.

  The thought of sitting in his dreary office, leafing through interminable bits of paper, filled him with a sudden horror. And then, of course, there was Miles to consider. Miles, who would quite possibly come into his office that afternoon and ask how the meeting had gone. The so-called meeting with the client. At this thought, Marcus felt a stab of something that was suspiciously like alarm and he irritably shook his head. It was pathetic. A sophisticated player like him shouldn’t worry about what his parochial cousin might think. He was above all of that, for Christ’s sake; he was into a new league. Big business; his own boss; unaccountable to anybody.

  But on the other hand, it might be useful to have some sort of story ready. Just in case. Marcus indicated, and pulled onto the ring road, trying to recall the details of the client he’d given as an excuse. The rental woman. Perhaps he could go and have a look at the house now. It was something he needed to do, anyway, having promised to
look after her case. He couldn’t remember her name, but he recalled perfectly the expression on her face when he’d volunteered to sort it out for her. She’d been so grateful, and he hadn’t actually done anything about it. An irrational wave of guilt went through him, and he tried to remember where it was. Somewhere in West Silchester . . . His mind went blank.

  But it would be on the updated property list he’d slung into his briefcase the night before. Leaving one hand on the wheel, he groped with the other for his briefcase, twisting his wrist awkwardly to open the clasps. He scrabbled for the paper, and eventually wrenched it out, a little crumpled. Diverting his eyes from the road, he scanned the list. He would recognize it when he saw it, he thought, running his eyes down the page. He would recognize it when . . . Yes! Twelve Russell Street. That was it. And, fortuitously, the turning was just ahead.

  As he parked the car outside number twelve, Marcus thought he saw a smallish figure disappearing down the side of the house, towards the garage. He got out of the car, took a few steps forward and squinted at the passageway. But whoever it was had gone. Probably someone local taking a short cut. Or his imagination. He turned to survey the house itself. A rather nice family semi-detached Victorian villa. Not huge, but big enough. Big enough for Ginny Prentice and her husband, he was sure. And she’d definitely said she was thinking of renting a place in Silchester. There seemed no reason why she shouldn’t take this house.

  He pushed open the gate, and made his way cautiously up the garden path. He’d have to come back with the keys; have a proper look round. But at least now he could get an idea of the place. He walked slowly round, peering in through dusty sash windows. The predictable knocked-through double-purpose reception room, with two fireplaces, possibly period, possibly reproduction. Plain white walls; dark red carpet. Not bad. Round to the back, and a nice-sized kitchen. Harmless pine units; stripped wood floor extending out into the hall. No doubt there was a little study on the other side of the staircase. And upstairs there would be, what, two or three bedrooms. And a bathroom or two. In fact, probably only one bathroom, he decided. But that was OK.

  He turned round and studied the garden. Grass and a few bushes. Nothing fancy. Still, that was ideal for renters. And a useful garage. He wandered over, and gave the door a hearty thump. The lock seemed to be broken, but the door still held surprisingly fast. The wood had probably got damp and stuck, he thought. They’d have to sort that out. And tidy the place up a bit. But from first impressions, the house seemed perfect. Perfect for Ginny and that actor husband anyway, he thought. He would phone her as soon as he got back to the office. It gave him something to take his mind off the other stuff, anyway.

  Alice waited until she’d heard the car start up and drive away before she relaxed her position, braced against the garage door. She didn’t know who had been poking around their house. But the idea that whoever it was had got so close to her without even realizing she was there gave her a certain satisfaction. She looked at her watch. Only twenty past one. She had until twenty past three. And no one even knew where she was.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘ “A desirable family residence, situated in a sought-after West Silchester street.” ’ Ginny Prentice looked up from the piece of paper she was holding, and giggled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think West Silchester is remotely sought after.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ said Piers. ‘Among the lower echelons of society. You’ve spent too long talking to hacks at Country Life, that’s your problem.’ He leant luxuriously back on his chair, pulling the folds of his dressing gown around him, and took a sip of coffee from the hand-painted Italian mug in his hand. ‘Go on, what else does it say?’

  ‘ “A spacious Victorian semi-detached house, benefiting from a large reception room and many period features. The property has a good-sized kitchen-breakfast room, three bedrooms and an attractive Victorian-style bathroom.” Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.’

  ‘It sounds great,’ said Piers. ‘Let’s take it.’

  ‘ “To the rear is a lawned garden, with several mature shrubs, and to the side is a single brick garage.” ’

  ‘Great. Mature shrubs. Just the thing. Phone them up today and tell them we’ll have it.’

  ‘I’ll tell them we’ll look at it,’ said Ginny in mock reproval. ‘I’ve got to go down to Silchester on Tuesday for a meeting, anyway. You can come down too, and we can go round it.’

  ‘I don’t need to go round it,’ said Piers nonchalantly. ‘I know what it’s like. Three bedrooms and a Victorian bathroom. It’ll be one of those huge baths with claw feet and room for five people.’

  ‘No it won’t,’ said Ginny. ‘It’ll be tiny and cream coloured, with gold taps and wood panelling.’

  ‘Great,’ said Piers. ‘I love gold taps.’ He grinned annoyingly at Ginny.

  But Ginny was not in the mood for feeling annoyed. It was a bright, crisp October day, and she was feeling slim and energetic. And it looked as though they really were going to move to Silchester. She beamed at Piers, who was sitting languidly in the bay window of their bijou London kitchen in a pose she recognized from a production of Les Liaisons Dangereuses two years ago, and poured herself some more coffee. She was dressed for the office, in smart shoes, and tights, and a new amber-coloured suit, which went rather well, she thought, with her wavy blond hair. Piers, meanwhile, was attired for loafing. He would, Ginny knew, dress at some point in the morning, and with some care. But with an entirely free day stretching ahead of him, it was hardly reasonable, she supposed, to expect him to compress the dressing process into a snatched five minutes.

  Ginny, on the other hand, had a full day ahead, conducting a big press trip to a new property development some way out of London. She snapped open her briefcase to check everything was in order: the agenda for the day, the list of journalists who had promised they would attend, the shiny press packs. She checked the pile of photographs, fanning them out quickly to check that each attractive feature of the development was represented. The landscaped gardens. The picture windows. The built-in fireplace seats.

  Clarissa, her business partner, had been particularly scathing about the fireplace seats. She never touched modern developments, and couldn’t understand how Ginny could bear to spend a day enthusing about them to the press.

  ‘Little boxes, for little executives,’ she’d mocked, in her tiny, clipped, baby voice. ‘Full of drip-dry suits.’ But Ginny had smiled, and looked at the pictures, and immediately conjured up an image of herself, the happy wife of just such an executive, keeping the carpet hoovered and making jam tarts and even wearing a flowered pinny. A nice, cosy, unexciting sort of life.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ she’d said to Clarissa. ‘And they’re a very good client.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how you can,’ said Clarissa.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Ginny.

  But Ginny did know. She knew that she had somehow a strange ability to find an attraction in almost any kind of residence, be it a tiny flat or a manor house. Confronted with the meanest little house, she was always able to construct in her own mind a charming hypothetical life there, imbuing on it a vicarious, often quite undeserved appeal. Scores of journalists would listen entranced as she stood at the gates of a dull rural development, painting a glowing picture of country family life, or in a hard hat on the site of a derelict city warehouse, enthusing about open-plan apartments and a London existence so fast-paced there was barely any need to build in a kitchen. It was really, she supposed, a gift, this ability of hers. And it made her ideally suited to a job in property PR.

  The Mozart stopped, and the pips began. Ginny came to, with a little flurry.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’m off.’

  ‘Have a good one,’ said Piers.

  ‘I’ll try,’ Ginny said brightly. She’d given up asking Piers what he thought he might do during the day. He’d begun to think she was getting at him; they’d actually had a row about it. She kissed him quickly, then
stood up straight, brushed down her jacket and checked her tights for ladders.

  ‘Ginny,’ Piers said suddenly, catching her offguard. He had an extraordinarily deep, resonant voice, which he used to great effect in shops and in restaurants, causing old ladies to back away nervously and waitresses to blush, and scribble more quickly.

  ‘Yes?’ she faltered. His voice still, ridiculously, could make her feel quite lightheaded, even after four years of marriage.

  ‘Tell them we’ll both be down to look at the house in Silchester.’ He grinned at her, and pushed his dark, springy hair back off his forehead. ‘I’d love to see it.’

  ‘Oh, brilliant.’ Ginny’s natural enthusiasm bubbled over. ‘It’ll be a day out. We’ll go and have lunch somewhere nice, shall we? I’ll have to go into Witherstone’s for my meeting, of course, but you’ll be able to find something to do in Silchester, won’t you?’

  ‘I bloody hope so,’ said Piers. ‘If we’re going to live there.’

  Prentice Fox Public Relations was based in a tiny office in Chelsea, just about walking distance from the flat which Ginny and Piers were currently renting. As Ginny picked her way through the sodden autumn leaves on the pavement she wondered how to break the news to Clarissa that she was looking at a house in Silchester on Tuesday. She had already warned Clarissa that she was thinking of moving out of London; that she’d had enough of the city; that she’d fallen in love with Silchester . . . but Clarissa had scoffed at her.

  ‘You’ll never move,’ she’d asserted. ‘You’d miss London too much.’

  ‘But I spend half my time out of London anyway,’ Ginny had pointed out. ‘Nearly all the clients I look after seem to be in Silchester. Witherstone’s is a really big account now, and there are those two property relocation companies near by.’