Ginny couldn’t decide if she was more angry than excited, or more excited than nervous.
‘For Heaven’s sake, Piers,’ she said, dragging a couple of empty tea chests into the hall and staring at them distractedly. ‘Look at the state this place is in.’
‘What?’ said Piers. ‘It looks lovely.’
‘With empty packing cases everywhere? And piles of books all over the place?’
‘It looks Bohemian,’ said Piers. ‘Artistic.’ He caught her eye. ‘You’re not getting too worked up about this, are you?’
‘Of course not,’ said Ginny briskly. ‘I just want the place to look tidy. That’s all.’
He caught hold of her, and drew her near, bringing her face up so that she couldn’t avoid his gaze.
‘Look,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not even sure if I want the part yet. I mean, I didn’t go through years of dramatic training just to end up in a soap opera.’ Ginny opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again. ‘I’m just going to play it by ear,’ continued Piers. ‘Now, calm down and relax. As if a few packing cases have got anything to do with it, anyway.’
‘OK,’ said Ginny, as he released her wrists. ‘I’m calm. I’m so calm I’m falling asleep.’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Piers. ‘How about a drink?’
‘After you’ve taken those tea chests out to the garage,’ said Ginny. She raised a hand before Piers could protest. ‘Now I’ve got them this far, you might as well. And Duncan’s bike. He’s not keeping it in the hall!’
‘All right,’ said Piers agreeably. ‘I suppose that’s fair enough. And then a drink.’
‘And then a drink,’ conceded Ginny.
As Piers began to drag the chests along the floorboards of the hall, Ginny waited for a few seconds, then bounded upstairs. She went into the bathroom, shut the door and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shining. ‘Calm down,’ she instructed herself rather hopelessly, and she tried to adopt a relaxed expression. But a sparkling excitement was filling her body with pulsing adrenalin, and she could barely stand still.
Ever since Piers had first told her about the Summer Street part, she had tried desperately not to let him know how much she wanted him to get it. She had sat casually nursing a cup of cocoa while he and Duncan told her between them just how much Ian Everitt was reputed to earn, and how talentless he’d always been, and how they must be looking to recast and how perfect Piers would be. That evening, they had all been consumed with an air of hilarity; of boundless optimism and hope.
By the next morning, of course, Piers had completely changed his mind. They would probably get rid of the role altogether, he said gloomily; if they didn’t, there would be incredible competition; and the current producer hated him—he’d already once turned him down for something else. After several years of marriage to Piers, Ginny knew better than to contradict him or display unwanted optimism when he was in this mood. But in her own mind it was too late to go back. Her mind was entirely overtaken by the part; she could think of nothing else.
On the way to work the next day she’d calculated the mortgage they would be able to afford on that kind of salary, and she’d spent the rest of the morning looking through details of big country houses with a mounting exhilaration. Since then, she’d begun to scour the papers for mentions of Summer Street and its stars; had noted with a jolt the appearance of Ian Everitt among the guests at the latest minor Royal wedding; had gazed, consumed by envy and wishes, at a glossy colour spread of a female Summer Street star and her new baby.
‘That could be us,’ she said quietly to her reflection. ‘That will be us.’ Her reflection smiled back knowingly at her. She sat down on the edge of the bath, closed her eyes and briefly indulged in her favourite fantasy. She would switch on the television, she would hear that famous, catchy, unavoidable tune, she would see the familiar credits . . . and then she would see Piers on screen. A delicious, glowing sensation stole over her. He would be perfect. He would look gorgeous. He would steal the show. Thousands of people all over the country would fall in love with him.
But she wasn’t allowed to think about it too often. She had to be sensible. She knew the rules. If you want something too badly, you probably won’t get it. If you tell anyone you want it, you certainly won’t get it. Ginny stood up, took a deep breath and pressed her burning cheeks against the cold pane of the mirror. She had to cool down; calm down; put on a casual front. Piers already thought she mentioned Summer Street too much. She would have to be careful, stop herself from bringing it up. And it was especially important to be nonchalant tonight.
Oh God, tonight. She could hardly believe Duncan had had the nerve to invite Ian Everitt round. Only he could be so . . . so brazen. But perhaps he knew what he was doing. Perhaps this would turn out afterwards to be the night that changed everything. They would recall it when Piers wrote his autobiography. Oh God. Oh God. Stop thinking about it.
Ignoring the bounding feeling of excitement in her stomach, Ginny opened the bathroom door with a confident gesture. She sauntered to the banisters, looked down at the empty hall, and hummed a few throwaway lines of a cheerful tune; checking first that she wasn’t about to sing the theme to Summer Street. Then she walked unhurriedly and carelessly down the stairs, one casual foot after the other, swinging her hair unconcernedly; practising a nonchalant expression for the rest of the evening.
Alice didn’t discover that her lighter was missing until it was after supper and she’d gone to her bedroom for a quick cigarette out of the window. She patted the pockets of her jacket, then felt inside each one; first methodically, then with alarm. Her lighter wasn’t inside her jeans pockets, neither was it in either of the carrier bags she’d carried all the way back home. She must have left it in the garage.
At first she told herself she could go and find it the next day. It would be light then, and those people probably would have gone out, and she’d probably see it straightaway. She had a vague recollection of seeing it lying on one of the cushions; whether that was from today or some other time, she couldn’t be sure. At any rate, it had to be there. And it wasn’t as if anyone was going to pinch it in the meantime.
But the thought of it worried and worried at her. It was all very well, to tell herself she’d find it more easily tomorrow. But she wanted it now. She wanted its smooth, comforting contours in her hand. She wanted its familiar weight in her pocket. And she wanted to get rid of the slither of fear in the back of her mind, which persisted however hard she tried to get rid of it; the niggling, panicking thought that she might perhaps have lost it for good.
‘I’m going out,’ she said at the sitting-room door, avoiding her parents’ surprised looks; trying to sound as if this was just confirmation of something they should have known already.
‘At this time?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m meeting some people from school. In McDonald’s. Just for a milkshake.’ She paused. ‘Like I used to with Genevieve,’ she added, in a pathetic voice. She saw her mother give what was supposed to be a secret look to her father, then turn round and beam at Alice.
‘That sounds lovely,’ she said. ‘Do I know them?’
‘No,’ said Alice vaguely. She fingered the door frame. ‘So I’ll see you later,’ she said.
‘Yes. Be back by eleven, won’t you?’
‘Do you need some money?’ added her father, feeling for his wallet.
‘Do you want a lift?’ Her mother sat up suddenly. ‘I’ll run you into town, if you like.’
‘No. No!’ Alice’s voice came roaring out. ‘Thanks,’ she added. She could feel her face turning pink. Why were they being so nice all of a sudden?
When she got to Russell Street, number twelve was lit up from the inside. The curtains were drawn and, as she crept cautiously over the grass towards the garage, she could hear music playing in the sitting-room. She edged down the side of the house, quietly pushed open the garage door a
nd walked confidently into the blackness. She knew the garage so well, by now, she could have walked straight to her pile of cushions and sat down without opening her eyes.
Which was why the howl she gave when, a couple of seconds later, she tripped awkwardly over an anonymous bicycle lurking in the darkness, was as much from affront as it was from pain. For a few moments, the sheer outrage of being taken by surprise like that prevented her from moving. She sat helplessly, tangled beneath the unforgiving metal shape, until it fell further down on top of her, bashing her shin and causing her to yelp. Suddenly she was filled with a panicked claustrophobia. She began to struggle furiously with the bicycle, trying to work out which way it went; grunting with annoyance as she reached for what she thought must be the handlebars only to find her hand falling on a softly spinning wheel. If only she had a torch; if only she’d waited until it was light; if only—
‘Hello there.’ A deep voice interrupted her thoughts. Alice jumped in genuine terror, and then gasped as one of the bicycle’s brakes went sharply into her ribs. For a moment she considered freezing; if she played dead perhaps whoever it was would go away. Like grizzly bears. ‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you,’ the voice continued, in ironical tones. ‘It’s not worth very much.’
‘What?’ Alice turned round in a fury of indignation. ‘Do you think I’m trying to steal it?’
The door of the garage was open, and a silhouette was standing just outside. Alice couldn’t see his face, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that he might be able to see hers.
‘I’m not a thief,’ she added for emphasis.
‘Oh really?’ Alice felt herself blushing red; her bravado was about to slip away. She had to admit to herself, she must look a bit weird.
‘I’m just getting something,’ she said, looking away. ‘I used to live here.’
‘Aha.’
‘I did!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m Alice Chambers. I used to live here. Ask anyone.’
Suddenly a torch flashed on, and wavered over her face. She screwed up her eyes and gave another push at the bike.
‘Oh dear.’ The voice was amused. ‘You are in a bit of a state, aren’t you? Here.’ The silhouette loomed towards her, and she felt a strong hand under her arm, hauling her free of the bike. It fell with a clatter to the ground, and suddenly she was standing up, next to the voice.
‘Are you OK?’ he said. The torch flashed over her face again. ‘No, you don’t really look like a bike thief. So, what were you after? I didn’t think there was anything in here.’
‘My lighter,’ muttered Alice.
‘What, cigarette lighter?’ His voice held surprised amusement. ‘How old are you?’ Alice was silent. ‘All right then, what does it look like?’
‘Silver. I think it’s over there.’ She pointed, and his torch beam followed, picking out the saggy brocade of her pile of cushions, the old magazines, the Mars Bar wrappers littered around her corner.
‘Looks like you were quite at home in this place,’ he said conversationally. Alice said nothing, but followed the path of the beam anxiously. She couldn’t have lost it, couldn’t . . .
‘There!’ Her voice rang out, with an excitement she would rather have hidden. ‘On that ledge. Beside the torch.’ And suddenly, as though she’d known all the time, she remembered putting it there while she fiddled with the nozzle of the torch, trying to get it to point downwards.
The figure beside her stepped forward, reaching effortlessly across the piles of stuff that were now blocking the path to Alice’s corner, and retrieved the lighter.
‘Thanks,’ she said, as her hand clasped its friendly shape. ‘God, if I’d lost it . . .’
‘Your mother would have killed you?’ he suggested. Alice giggled, and looked up. She could just about distinguish dark hair, dark eyes, not much else . . .
‘Well, thanks again,’ she said, and began to make a move towards the door.
‘Not so fast.’ A hand clamped on her shoulder and a sudden burst of panic ran through Alice’s body. This was what rapists did. She’d seen it on the telly. They pretended to be friendly and then suddenly they changed. ‘You don’t get away that easily,’ he continued. ‘I want you to come inside and say hello. Since you used to live here.’
‘I’ve got to get home, really,’ muttered Alice, thoughts of escape fluttering around in her mind.
‘Everyone would love to meet you,’ he insisted. ‘They sent me outside to see what the noise was and if I come back empty-handed they’ll be most unimpressed.’
‘Well, I dunno.’ Actually, he sounded as if he might be normal. But perhaps that was the trick.
‘And I’m sure you’d like a cup of coffee. Or a glass of whisky?’
Alice paused, and glanced at the shadowy face. There were other people in the house. She’d heard them. And if he tried to rape her she’d flash her lighter in his face and scream really loudly.
‘All right,’ she said slowly.
‘Good!’ They began to walk towards the house, and Alice’s fears started to recede as they approached the familiar back door.
‘I’m Piers, by the way,’ the man was saying. ‘And you’re Anna, did you say?’
‘Alice.’
They went swiftly through the kitchen, through the hall, and into the sitting-room. There they stopped, and Alice blinked, and looked bemusedly around. It was the same room as before, with the same walls and the same fireplace and even the same sofa. But now it was full of strangers, and it smelt different, and somehow it looked foreign. There was a strange rug on the floor, and there were loads of candles everywhere, and there was a high-tech-looking sound system in the corner.
‘This is Alice,’ Piers was saying, in an amused voice, ‘who used to live in this very house and, to my great regret, wasn’t trying to steal your bike, Duncan.’ A man sitting on the floor gave a sort of high-pitched squeal, and Alice jumped.
‘That’s Duncan,’ Piers began to say. ‘Don’t take any notice of him. And this is my wife Ginny, and . . .’
But Alice wasn’t listening. She was staring at the man sitting on the sofa. His face was so familiar, she gave a sort of sigh of relief, and all thoughts of rape went out of her head. She knew him from somewhere. But where? School? He wasn’t a teacher and he was too young to be a father. Did he live in Russell Street? Was he one of those neighbours they’d never really got to know? Suddenly his name came into her head.
‘I know you,’ she began. ‘You’re Rupert . . .’
She stopped, gasped, and reddened. As she said his name, she suddenly knew where she recognized him from. In spite of herself, she began to tremble, and a sense of unreal awe percolated through her body. It was him. Rupert from Summer Street. Sitting there in front of her, smirking complacently at her. Oh God, he must think she was so stupid.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ she mumbled.
‘My dear girl!’ He sounded a bit different from the way he spoke on television, she thought confusedly. But it was definitely him. ‘Don’t apologize. And do call me Ian.’
‘You will stay for a drink,’ said the girl sitting in front of the fire. She smiled warmly at Alice, and Alice gazed in silent admiration at her shiny blond hair and tight white T-shirt and big leather belt holding up torn Levis. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. I’ve met your mother, of course.’
‘What do you want?’ interrupted Piers. ‘We’re all on the whisky, I’m afraid. But I could make some coffee.’
‘Have a whisky,’ piped up the stocky man sitting on the floor. ‘It’s good for you.’
‘And sit down here beside me,’ said Ian-Rupert. He smiled winsomely at her, and Alice crossed the floor in a trance. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Any of it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The first time Liz and Marcus made love, Liz insisted that the lights stay off all the way through. The second time, she allowed one heavily shaded bedside light to remain on. The third time, Marcus sprang on her unawares in the bath, and there was no time for her t
o lunge at the light switch. He hauled her, sopping and protesting, out of the geranium-scented bubbles, onto the thickly carpeted hotel bathroom floor, and shut her cries up with a firm pair of lips on her mouth and a firm hand between her legs.
Afterwards, Liz sat happily at the dressing-table, smearing body lotion from a small, complimentary bottle all over herself, and ignoring the thought that although it was free, it was also disappointingly thin, and smelt rather nasty. When Marcus came and put a proprietary hand on her shoulder, she looked at his reflection in the dim, glowing dressing-table mirror, and smiled. She enjoyed his proprietary air, just as she enjoyed his easy, confident driving, his assured voice, his expensive overcoat, and even, perversely, his utter ignorance of and lack of enthusiasm for modern languages.
They had first visited the hotel the week before, ostensibly for dinner. When Liz discovered, during the course of the evening, that Marcus had also thoughtfully booked a room with a four-poster bed, she had been amazed and exhilarated.
‘What if,’ she’d demanded, later on, as they drove back to Silchester, ‘what if I’d just eaten my dinner and said thank you very much, let’s go home now?’
‘Then,’ Marcus replied calmly, ‘I would have paid the bill and taken you home.’ He paused, and put out one hand to caress the nape of her neck. ‘But I was pretty sure that wouldn’t happen.’ Liz tingled briefly at the touch of his fingers, then sank back blissfully into the cushy seats of Marcus’s Mercedes. She felt warm, cherished, and protected.
Now she put down the bottle of body lotion, and looked at the picture the two of them made in the mirror. Marcus was broader built than Jonathan, with thick dark hair on his legs and chest, and sturdy arms and wrists. He stood upright, with a relaxed, unconcerned posture, and Liz found herself making a brief disloyal comparison with Jonathan, who would always hunch un-healthily over his books until he suddenly remembered to sit up straight and jerked his shoulders back with an abrupt movement.
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