A Desirable Residence

by Madeleine Wickham

  ‘What about Brinkburn’s? They’re in London. And what about all the journalists? They’re all in London.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ginny. ‘But I can always come up a couple of times a week. People commute from Silchester, you know. And, I mean, I could do all this equally well from home, couldn’t I?’ She gestured around the little office at the computer terminals, the filing cabinets, the piles of property details and press releases waiting to be sent out.

  ‘But you can’t just leave me!’ wailed Clarissa. ‘We’re a team!’

  ‘I know,’ said Ginny, soothingly. ‘And we still would be a team. I just wouldn’t be here all the time. But anyway, don’t worry about it. We probably won’t go.’

  Now she tried to prepare tactful phrases in her mind. There was no point trying to conceal from Clarissa the fact that they were going to see a house. Even if Witherstone’s hadn’t been a client of theirs, Clarissa would have picked it up in no time. Not for nothing was she one of London’s foremost property PR consultants. She had generations of family connections with one of the country’s biggest estate agents, an engaging manner and an ability to wheedle gossip out of people who barely realized they had anything interesting to relate. She was also one of Ginny’s best friends and it would, Ginny realized, be a real wrench to leave their cosy office companionship and giggles.

  But she couldn’t spend the rest of her life giggling in an office. It was all right for Clarissa—she had a rich, cosseting father and a rich, cosseting husband, and a secure future mapped out. According to her, this included a baby at age thirty-two and another at thirty-four and an extra-marital fling at age thirty-six. ‘To prove to myself I haven’t lost it,’ she’d explained to Ginny in her tiny, brittle voice. ‘And to keep myself in shape.’

  They’d shared a thirtieth birthday party the year before, at which Clarissa had confided to Ginny that she was seriously thinking of postponing the first baby until age thirty-three. Or even thirty-four. ‘Then I’ll have to have the fling at thirty-eight,’ she’d said, swaying drunkenly on Ginny’s shoulder. ‘But that would be OK, wouldn’t it?’

  For Ginny, the future was certain only insofar as it existed within the four walls of her career. Several years of marriage to an actor had taught her that a steady job was not, after all, simply an interminable sentence of boredom; an endless dragging millstone to which all the tedious little people of the world chose to manacle themselves. It was a future; an income; in fact, it was a release.

  For the two years before they’d married, Piers had been almost constantly in work. He’d followed a series of badly paid, well-reviewed plays with a stunning television success as Sebastian, the hapless upper-class recruit in the police series Coppers. It was a popular programme, and by the time of their wedding, he’d almost, but not quite, reached celebrity status.

  But then Sebastian started to find police training too hardgoing, and eventually committed suicide. This, admittedly, came as no surprise to anyone, since it had been planned from the start—although it still grieved Ginny that they had not decided to make him a permanent fixture. But after leaving Coppers, Piers didn’t know quite what to do. He was by now, as Malcolm his agent had explained to both of them, slightly too well known to do extra work, but probably not quite well known enough yet to be approached by producers. It might be best if he stuck to stage work for a while.

  Which was all very well, thought Ginny, turning the corner into the street where her office was. But the little company that he’d always worked with had gone bust while he was playing Sebastian. There seemed to be no work around. The parts he did get were invariably terribly paid, or, even worse, profit share. And, for the last six months, there had been nothing at all.

  Ginny was, she thought, entirely reasonable in her demands of life. She didn’t particularly want to be rich. She didn’t hanker after a huge flat in Knightsbridge like Clarissa’s, or a flashy car, or a moneyed life of leisure. But she did want a house and a garden. And a few years at home, in which to have some children, and bring them up, and not feel that they couldn’t still afford nice clothes and food and the odd treat. Other people seemed to be able to manage it, she pointed out to herself, as she mounted the steps to the front door of the building. Other people had houses, with lots of room, and loads of children and still went on holiday every year.

  But then, other people, a small voice whispered in her ear, weren’t married to actors.

  By eleven o’clock, Piers had had a bath, got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and watched an hour of morning television. He was engrossed in a studio discussion on the subject of dangerous dogs when he heard the sound of the post thudding onto the hall floor. It was a sound which always foolishly made his heart leap, even though everything was done over the phone or fax these days.

  He carefully strolled over to the pile, quickly established that there was nothing in it of any interest, and turned his attention to his weekly copy of The Stage. It was laughable to think there could be anything for him in it, of course, he thought, shaking it open. All the best parts were inevitably tied up, through the agent mafia in which his own agent, Malcolm, didn’t seem to figure. The familiar thought that he should really try to get himself a new agent flew briefly through his mind and then vanished, leaving behind a vague, lingering loyalty to Malcolm. After all, Malcolm had got him the part in Coppers. But that was too long ago now. Far too long. And, really, someone like him shouldn’t be having to scan the wanted columns at the back of The Stage.

  To prove to himself that he wasn’t really reading it for the advertisements, Piers carefully turned to the front of the paper and began reading an interminable account of an in-house Equity row. Even when the phone rang, he looked up as though in annoyance at having been disturbed, glanced down at the page again, and finally got up and went over to the phone, still holding the paper.

  ‘Darling! Have you seen what I’ve seen?’ It was the unmistakable voice of Duncan McNeil, the only friend from drama college that Piers had kept up with. Short and camp and excitable, he lived around the corner from Piers and Ginny, just as he had done when they lived in Islington and also when they lived in Wandsworth.

  ‘It’s the zeitgeist,’ he had said plaintively, when they discovered he was planning to follow them for a third time. ‘Something inside me just said, “It’s time to move to Fulham.” All the best people live there, you know.’

  Now his voice was even higher and more agitated than usual.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Piers patiently.

  ‘In The Stage. I take it you have received your requisite copy?’

  ‘Yes. And?’ In spite of himself, Piers felt his heart begin to beat more quickly. ‘Is there something interesting?’ he added casually.

  ‘Well, if you’re that blind, I’ll have to come and point it out to you myself. See you in a sec.’ The phone line went dead, and Piers turned feverishly to the back of the paper. He scanned each page of advertisements quickly, then turned back and scanned them all again. There was nothing remotely suitable for him. Fucking Duncan. This would be one of his stupid jokes.

  The buzzer sounded, and he went to let Duncan in, feeling suddenly weary.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ he said sternly, as soon as Duncan’s bullet-shaped head appeared round the door.

  ‘Right here, dumbo.’ Duncan took the paper and pointed to a large box in the centre of the page. ‘All parts in new West End musical. Open audition next Monday and Tuesday.’

  ‘Yes, and have you seen what it says here? Strong dancing required, bring shoes and music.’ Duncan shrugged.

  ‘Oh well, if you’re going to believe everything they tell you . . . I thought I’d go along, anyway. I’ve never tried for a musical. It might be my forte.’ Piers looked meaningfully at his plump frame.

  ‘I thought you were serious,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘I was,’ protested Duncan. ‘I am. Well, half serious. Heaps of people in musicals can’t dance, anyway. W
e could always just shuffle around at the back together . . . OK.’ He broke off at the expression on Piers’s face. ‘I’m not entirely serious. Shall I make the coffee?’

  ‘There’s no milk.’

  ‘OK then, shall I pay for coffee?’

  The Italian coffee bar which they always went to was beginning to fill up with young mothers and pairs of elderly shoppers.

  ‘Quick,’ hissed Duncan in a penetrating whisper. ‘Nab the window table before that old bat gets there.’ A few moments later, he came over to join Piers, bearing two frothy cups of coffee. Draping his leather jacket and scarf creatively over the two spare chairs at the table, he sat down, took a sip, then looked up, his top lip covered in a white moustache.

  ‘So, what’s new?’ he said.

  ‘We’re moving to Silchester.’ In his annoyance with Duncan, the words came out more brusquely than Piers had intended. He and Ginny had deliberately refrained from discussing their Silchester plans with Duncan, reasoning that it might upset him, that he might try to dissuade them, and that, anyway, it might not happen. Probably wouldn’t happen. Piers, in particular, was fairly ambivalent about the whole thing. Sometimes he thought it was all madness, to move away from London and the hub of the arts world; other times he imagined a carefree provincial existence, and reminded himself that they hardly ever went to the theatre in London anyway.

  ‘What?’ Duncan’s voice cracked slightly, and he gazed at Piers with a shocked expression. Piers reminded himself furiously that Duncan had always been good at the ashen, innocent-betrayed look.

  ‘It’s not definite yet,’ he said. ‘But we’re going down there to look at a house next week.’

  ‘I see.’ Duncan looked down miserably into his cup. Piers stirred his coffee awkwardly. Then Duncan looked up, with an expression of animation on his face.

  ‘Did you say Silchester?’ he said. ‘How extraordinary. I was thinking to myself only yesterday that if I ever moved out of London, it would definitely be to Silchester. Don’t you think that’s curious?’

  ‘Duncan . . .’

  ‘Really, I’ve never believed in coincidences, but this one is just incredible. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Incredible,’ said Piers, giving up. Time enough to tackle Duncan when the time came. If it ever came. He got up, to get another two coffees and a pair of almond croissants. When he got back to the table, Duncan clearly had remembered some gossip.

  ‘I take it you’ve heard about Ian Everitt?’ he said, before Piers had even sat down.

  ‘What about him?’ The intense jealousy which Piers had once automatically experienced whenever their old classmate’s name was mentioned had, over the years, fallen to a muffled pang. He could even watch him playing his part in the tri-weekly episodes of Summer Street without feeling his insides twist up in a morass of envy and regret and missed opportunity.

  Ian Everitt was, like Piers, tall and dark and moderately good-looking. He had taken a tiny, short-term part in a fairly new soap opera, Summer Street, at about the same time that Piers had started on Coppers. But while Piers’s part had blossomed and then withered, Ian’s part had steadily grown and then been made permanent. Summer Street was now the most popular soap in the country, and Ian Everitt had reached exactly the heights of stardom that Piers had so closely missed. But the worst thing of all was that Piers had himself been offered Ian Everitt’s part, and had turned it down for Coppers.

  ‘Hollywood is calling his name,’ said Duncan.

  ‘What, films?’

  ‘Apparently. Rumour has it they think he’s going to be the next Hugh Grant.’

  Piers snorted. ‘Oh, right. Of course he is.’ Duncan shrugged.

  ‘He’s leaving Summer Street in the spring.’

  ‘What are they going to do? Kill him off?’ Duncan was silent for a moment, chewing on a piece of croissant and running his spoon delicately around the rim of his cup.

  ‘Apparently,’ he said eventually, not looking at Piers, ‘they’re considering recasting the part.’

  ‘Shit.’ Piers gazed at Duncan for an incredulous second. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Word on the street. Or, rather, in the Duke’s Head.’

  ‘Oh shit. How can I find out?’ There was a short silence, during which Piers gazed distractedly around the coffee shop. When he looked back at Duncan, he saw a small grin beginning to form at his lips.

  ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered something,’ said Duncan airily. ‘I always knew there was a good reason for reading Rural House and Potting Shed, or whatever it calls itself. Do you know where Ian Everitt’s charmingly decorated Georgian country home is located?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’ Piers looked impatiently at Duncan for a few seconds. Then his expression changed. ‘What? Not . . .’ Duncan shot him a look of triumph.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s the zeitgeist. All the best people live in Silchester.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They had been running the tutorial college for nearly a month now, but Liz was still unsure precisely how she felt about it. She veered continually between a heady, sparkling feeling of power; of boundless energy and control—and a crushing conviction that the enterprise was far too ambitious; that it would ultimately overwhelm, sink and ruin them. On good days she strode about the building proprietorially, making confident snap decisions, speaking with a clear, well-articulated voice, marvelling at the way the place almost seemed to run itself, and even wondering whether they should not think eventually of expanding. On bad days she had to force herself out of the flat, into the exalted, exposed position that she occupied as Co-Principal, and longed to be, once again, a simple teacher; an employee, with a well-defined, limited remit and no responsibility outside the classroom.

  Jonathan, meanwhile, kept an even keel. He had matter-of-factly shouldered this project, for good or for bad, and he took each day as it came; neither reaching Liz’s heights of rejoicing, nor sinking with her into her pits of despair. This evening, Liz was in rejoicing mood, after a particularly successful meeting with the modern languages tutors. Her eyes were flashing, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration. She had begun to peel the carrots for supper, but after she put the knife down for the third time in order to describe, with waving hands, her plans for a trip to Italy, Jonathan quietly took over.

  He was filling the saucepan with water when the phone rang. Liz, in her freshly confident mood, didn’t hesitate, but grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Chambers?’ It was a male voice which she half recognized.

  ‘Yes, speaking.’ Was it one of the tutors? Or the students?

  ‘It’s Marcus Witherstone here. From Witherstone’s.’ Liz’s heart gave a little jolt.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, adjusting her voice to a more friendly pitch. She felt Jonathan raise questioning eyebrows at her, and for some reason, which she would think about later, she turned casually away from him. She shook back her hair and gave a little smile to the cork pinboard in front of her.

  ‘I’ve got you some tenants.’ He sounded animated and rather pleased with himself. ‘Ginny and Piers Prentice. The couple I told you about.’

  ‘How nice,’ said Liz. She allowed herself to dart a triumphant look at Jonathan’s back. ‘That’s wonderful news. When can they move in?’ Jonathan swivelled round, a surprised look on his face, but Liz turned away again before he could catch her eye.

  ‘Sooner than I thought,’ Marcus was saying. ‘Apparently they can leave their place in London in a couple of weeks. And Ginny, the girl, will be in Silchester tomorrow. She wondered if we could meet to sign the contracts and talk about furniture. We thought the best place would be the house itself, some time in the afternoon.’ Liz felt a lurch of disappointment. She was teaching all afternoon.

  ‘Yes, that would be fine,’ she found herself saying. ‘Three o’clock. See you then.’

  Without looking at Jonathan, she quickly dialled the number of Beryl, an eld
erly languages tutor who only worked mornings.

  ‘Beryl? It’s Liz Chambers. Listen, could you take a couple of classes for me tomorrow afternoon? From three o’clock. Something’s come up. Yes, I’ll fill you in over lunch. Really? Oh, Beryl, that’s great. Yes, of course, usual rates. Of course. Bye!’ She replaced the receiver, and turned to face Jonathan.

  ‘We’ve got tenants for the house.’ She felt her eyes glitter and her face flush.

  ‘So I heard,’ said Jonathan. ‘That is good news.’ He went to the door. ‘Alice!’ he called. ‘Come and lay the table!’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’ demanded Liz. Her voice sounded guiltily truculent to her own ears. ‘After giving me all that pressure about where are these famous tenants?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He turned back and grinned at her. ‘I’m sorry I was a doubting Thomas. I take it all back. Excuse me!’ He reached past her to the shelf for the tomato ketchup, and Liz had a sudden urge to slap him. She stared at him, at his mild forehead, and narrow shoulders, and bony hands, and felt a mounting frustration fill her body with an unchannelled, pulsing energy.

  The kitchen door opened, and Alice shuffled in. ‘Hi,’ she said, in a discouraging voice.

  ‘Knives and forks, Alice,’ said Jonathan. He opened the oven door and peered inside. ‘Who wants two pieces of fish?’

  There was silence. Alice sat down on the chrome stool and began to examine her fingernails. Liz turned her attention away from Jonathan’s thin, jersey-clad back, and gave Alice a wide, motherly smile.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘How was school?’

  Alice pretended not to hear. She couldn’t stand it when her parents started asking questions. And that was the stupidest question of all. What was she supposed to say? There was nothing about school that was of any interest, except things her parents wouldn’t understand. She stared doggedly down, unconsciously grinding her teeth, waiting for the inevitable moment when she would have to give in, look up and reply.