A small exclamation came from the outer office and Marcus went swiftly to the door. His heart began to thump. Ginny was holding the Panning Hall estate details. She looked up and beamed at Marcus.
‘This is a good story!’ she exclaimed. ‘Just right for the New Year.’
‘What’s that?’ said Marcus, adopting a falsely jovial manner. He felt a rather sick smile cross his face.
‘A chance to buy a property on a country estate!’ said Ginny. ‘Or even the manor house itself!’ She beamed at Marcus. ‘I’ll do a load of separate press releases. The weekend sections will love it.’ She looked down again. ‘And look at these lovely low prices! I always thought anything in Panning cost the earth.’
‘It’s a very realistic valuation,’ snapped Marcus before he could stop himself.
‘Is it?’ Ginny looked once more at the details. ‘I’m amazed. I mean, Panning is such a pretty village. I’d love to buy somewhere there myself.’ She flipped idly through the papers again, and Marcus felt a sudden urge to whip them from her grasp. The door of the office was open; Ginny’s voice was loud and insistent; anyone might wander in. Tiny waves of panic began to run through him.
‘The thing is,’ he said, in an elaborately casual voice, ‘that the estate’s been sold.’
‘Really?’ Ginny looked up in dismay. ‘Gosh, that’s quick! Oh, what a shame. It would have made a lovely feature!’
‘Yes well,’ said Marcus briskly. ‘Never mind. I’m sure we’ve got lots of other things on our books that would make interesting press releases.’ He held out his hand for the papers. But Ginny, infuriatingly, was still leafing through the details. And he didn’t dare interrupt her, with Suzy sitting there. Suzy wasn’t the brightest of girls, but even she might start to wonder why he was so bothered about one set of property details. She might take it upon herself to mention it to Miles. Or, even worse, Nigel. He leaned casually against the door frame and forced himself to smile at Ginny.
‘I love Panning,’ she said dreamily. ‘If I ever had a lot of money, I’d definitely think about moving there.’ She looked down again, and a pink tinge crept across her face. ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘look at this lovely farmhouse. Only a hundred thousand pounds.’
Marcus clenched his fists. That farm house was worth at least half as much again. But he’d had to scale everything down a bit. Perhaps he’d been too drastic.
‘Yes, well,’ he said quickly, ‘the market has dropped. As well you know.’
‘Who bought it?’ said Ginny abruptly. ‘Perhaps we could interview them.’
‘No!’ shouted Marcus without thinking. ‘I mean,’ he added, ‘I don’t think they’d be very keen on the idea. There were some complications. I think you’d better forget all about it.’ He leant over, and, fighting the urge to snatch, gently lifted the Panning Hall papers from Ginny’s hand.
‘Could I have some coffee please, Suzy?’ he managed to say, before disappearing into his office.
He sat down heavily at his desk, swivelled his chair so he was facing away from the door, and looked unwillingly at the details. While he’d been writing them up, he’d practically managed to convince himself that his valuation was accurate. Taking a fifth, or a third, or even half off every figure had become an automatic calculation, almost as though he were deducting some unavoidable surcharge or tax.
But now, seen in the cold light of day, it was obvious that the asking prices were far too low. When Leo came to sell the place on, he would get at least his extra million. Perhaps a couple of million. Marcus’s thoughts flickered uncomfortably to the beneficiaries of the estate. The unsuspicious daughters in America. Between them, he and Leo had done them out of a good chunk of their inheritance. Did he now feel guilty? he wondered. Remorseful? He gingerly tested his feelings. But the only emotion he could identify was alarm. From having once seemed utterly failsafe, the whole affair now seemed wrought with holes.
He told himself firmly that Ginny had probably already forgotten about the whole thing. But in a small part of his mind, a stream of worrying pictures had started to flow. Ginny exclaiming to the world over the price of Panning Hall. Miles asking interestedly to see the details. That dreadful old character from the village deciding to phone the police. Miles would find out. Miles would be devastated. Marcus felt his shoulders hunch uncomfortably. Once, that thought would have spurred him on even further. But now it only made him feel more anxious.
He stared out of the window at the cheerless grey sky, and felt a shiver go through him. Suddenly he wondered why he had agreed to it in the first place. The money wasn’t worth it; really wasn’t worth it, he suddenly thought with fervour. His income from Witherstone’s was ample; he had enough capital to be comfortable; what did he need more for? And how, it occurred to him for the first time, was he going to spend this sudden windfall? Nothing went unnoticed in Silchester, not a new car, nor a glamorous holiday, not even a new suit. Besides, he thought tetchily, he didn’t want a new suit. Nor a new car.
‘Your coffee, Mr Witherstone.’ Suzy’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
‘Thank you, Suzy.’ Marcus waited until she had left the room before he swivelled round to face his desk and took a sip of coffee. The solution was simple and obvious, he told himself. He could just turn down his cut. Turn down the twenty per cent. Let Leo sell the estate at a huge profit, and if anybody started asking questions, blame the markets. No one would be able to pin anything on him.
He sat for a couple of seconds, trying to convince himself that this was what he would do; trying to make up his mind to write a quick note to Leo; trying to conjure up a feeling of relief at extricating himself from the situation.
But he couldn’t do it. He simply couldn’t turn down that kind of money. It wasn’t humanly possible to let a sum like that just go, even if it did come with associated guilt and worry.
Abruptly he opened a drawer of his desk and shoved the details inside. The sooner the place was sold and he’d received his cheque and the whole business was closed, the better. He glanced at the closed door of the office, then hurriedly dialled the number of Leo’s office.
‘Leo,’ he said, as soon as he was put through, ‘what’s happening?’
‘In regard to . . . ?’ Leo’s voice was smoothly questioning.
Marcus gritted his teeth. ‘The sale,’ he said irritably. ‘You know.’ He took a breath. ‘Have you found a buyer? You’re not planning to delay things for any reason?’
‘It will go through in due course.’ Leo’s voice was bland and courteous, and Marcus wondered whether someone else was in his office with him. He suddenly felt annoyed by Leo’s calm.
‘Yes, well, people have been asking questions,’ he said curtly. That might galvanize the sod, he thought.
‘What?’ Suddenly Leo’s voice had an edge to it. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, really,’ said Marcus quickly. He lowered his voice. ‘Just some PR girl poking around in the files.’
‘What fucking PR girl? Marcus, I don’t like what I’m hearing.’ Leo paused, and Marcus felt his face growing hot. He shouldn’t have said anything. ‘If you’ve fucked this up . . .’ added Leo, in light, menacing tones.
‘It’s fine,’ said Marcus. His heart was thumping. ‘No harm done. Honestly. It’s all under control.’
‘It had better be,’ said Leo shortly. ‘For your own sake.’ And the line went dead.
Marcus put the receiver down and distractedly took a gulp of lukewarm coffee. He felt shaken up by the exchange, in spite of himself. He had sought reassurance that everything was under control; that he’d soon be safe. But he didn’t feel safe. He felt exposed; vulnerable to discovery at any moment. The phone rang, and with a foolish pang of fright he picked it up.
‘Hello?’ Christ, even his voice was shaking.
‘Marcus, it’s Liz.’
Marcus closed his eyes. A vague resentment filled his body. Liz. His mistress. Phoning him at work. More deception; more trouble; more risk of discovery.
It came to him that Liz was just another part of the whole mess he’d got himself into.
‘Marcus, we’re about to go to our meeting with the bank,’ she said. She sounded tense.
‘Oh yes?’ he said unhelpfully.
‘Have you managed to speak to anyone there?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Marcus shortly. Her voice grated on his nerves, and he felt suddenly restless, as though the receiver of the phone had been pressed against his ear all day. ‘Was that all you wanted?’ he said.
‘I suppose it was.’ Liz sounded crestfallen.
‘Well, I’m afraid I’m rather tied up at the moment. Can I call you back on that one?’
There was a puzzled pause. Then Liz said, ‘Oh, is someone in your office?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Marcus, looking around the empty room.
‘Oh dear. Well, I’ll call you later if I can. Wish us luck!’
‘Goodbye,’ said Marcus formally, and was about to put the receiver down.
‘Marcus, wait!’ Suddenly her voice was soft and tremulous. ‘I just wanted to say thank you again. For your lovely Christmas present.’
‘I told you. It’s nothing.’
‘It’s not nothing! It’s beautiful!’
‘Yes, well.’ He did nothing to disguise the impatience in his voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll go. I just wanted to say thank you.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Marcus, and thrust down the receiver before she could reply.
He pushed the phone away and stood up. He didn’t feel pleased with himself. Neither did he feel pleased with Liz. She seemed to be encroaching more and more on his life; a life that seemed to be getting complicated and secretive where once it had been safe and blameless. The present had been a mistake, he saw that now. He paced over to the door and looked out through the glass panel at Ginny and Suzy, both now sitting happily on the floor, leafing innocently through endless details of properties. Suddenly he wished he could join them; join their pleasant chat and simple, guiltless existence. He doubted a single worry ever entered Ginny’s head, let alone Suzy’s.
And suddenly his thoughts turned to Anthea. Anthea, who was, in her own way, as simple and innocent as those two. He pictured her pale face, turned to him in a frown of anxiety; her thin hand, pushing its way uncertainly through her newly shorn hair; and a fierce affection filled his heart. He turned on his heel and went back to the phone. When Hannah answered he didn’t hesitate.
‘Tell my wife,’ he said, ‘that if she likes, I’ll pick up Daniel from his coaching, and then we can go out to dinner.’
‘Wow!’ Hannah’s strident voice travelled down the phone lines and hit Marcus’s ear drum with some force. ‘That sounds nice! I’ll ask her. She’s just in the other room.’ As he listened to Hannah loudly relaying the message, Marcus could imagine Anthea wrinkling her brow in annoyance. She was forever telling the boys to use their legs rather than their voices, and hoping that Hannah would take the hint. But even this thought made him smile.
‘She says that’s fine,’ said Hannah. She lowered her voice. ‘Actually, I think she’s quite chuffed.’
‘Good,’ said Marcus. He felt suddenly happier. ‘So am I.’
Liz and Jonathan arrived at Brown and Brentford ten minutes early, and sat silently side by side in a small waiting area on brown foam-upholstered chairs. Liz felt wary and anxious. She had never really believed that Marcus wouldn’t provide a solution for them; had not given any thought to what would happen if he didn’t. She had no idea what to expect from this meeting; no idea of what she was going to say.
When the door of the office ahead opened, she gave a nervous start. A comfortable, middle-aged face appeared round the door.
‘Mr and Mrs Chambers? I’m Barbara Dean.’ Liz looked at Barbara Dean and felt relieved. She had hair in a cosy bun and spectacles on a gold chain, and a mild expression. Nothing can be too awful, thought Liz, in a meeting with this woman.
Half an hour later, she felt shattered. The summary financial position of her and Jonathan and the tutorial college stared accusingly up at her in its plastic folder. Barbara Dean’s meticulous assessment of the situation sat snugly underneath. The confident promises they had made in their original business plan lurked somewhere in the middle of the heap of papers in front of her; Liz didn’t want to look.
Now Barbara Dean was talking about cashflow, about overdrafts and restructuring and personal loans. Loans everywhere. Liz hadn’t realized they had so many loans. Just the idea of them made her feel cold. She stared miserably downwards, and avoided the eyes of Barbara Dean. Which didn’t matter, because Barbara Dean was talking directly to Jonathan; it had soon become apparent that Liz either could not or would not join in the discussion. Apart from one voluble outburst at the beginning, during which both Barbara Dean and Jonathan had sat politely waiting for her to finish, she had contributed nothing.
It was Jonathan who was doing all the talking. Liz was amazed; both amazed and ashamed of herself for being amazed. It came to her that she had underestimated Jonathan. She listened, chastened, as he displayed a startling familiarity with the accounts of the tutorial college; as he outlined the improvements in efficiency which had been already made; as he quoted staff – pupil ratios and man-hours and administration costs.
‘And what about the modern languages summer school?’ enquired Barbara Dean, drawing a page from her folder and looking at it over her gilt spectacles. Liz felt a shock of panic go through her body. She had done nothing about the modern languages department. The meetings with the staff; the rhetoric; the sketching out of course outlines, had all disappeared after a few weeks. After the arrival of Marcus in her life. Her mind flew back to the specialized language teaching computers that had been unpacked neatly in one of the classrooms. She had been meaning for weeks to start using them; to start planning a course. But somehow there hadn’t been time . . .
‘That’s your field, isn’t it, Mrs Chambers?’ Barbara Dean said, looking straight at Liz.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Liz faintly. She picked up the folder in front of her and began to flick through the pages as though searching for some vital piece of information. What was she going to say to this woman? What the hell was she going to say? She could feel her lips trembling slightly and her cheeks starting to turn pink, and still she could think of no confident phrases to match Jonathan’s. All her passion and enthusiasm for the tutorial college seemed to have vanished, and with it, so had her eloquence. Jonathan cast a covert, apologetic glance at her, almost as though he knew what was going through her mind.
‘Liz has been doing as much preparation for the languages department as her busy schedule allows,’ he said loyally. ‘She’s even been spending some evenings perfecting her Italian. Haven’t you, darling?’ He smiled at Liz, and for an awful moment she couldn’t think what he was talking about. Then she remembered. Oh Christ. Her pathetic alibi for evenings with Marcus was actually being used to bolster their case at the bank. She felt a small stab of guilt in her chest, and smiled cravenly at Barbara Dean, as though to make amends. But Barbara Dean looked sternly back at her, and Liz felt nettled. I bet you’d be different with me if I was here with Marcus, she suddenly found herself thinking. If I was his wife. She imagined sweeping into the bank, attired in an expensive coat, Mrs Marcus Witherstone of Silchester. Rich. Well known. Respected. None of this interrogation. It would actually be worth marrying Marcus, she thought, just for all of that.
Ginny spent the afternoon frantically shopping. She bought fresh pasta, wine, garlic, wild mushrooms, a pale yellow suede skirt, some scented bubble bath, and two large pottery plates decorated with tulips. Then she bought a double chocolate muffin to have with her tea, and carried the whole lot home, her energy still not dissipated.
She couldn’t stand the waiting. It was driving her mad. During the morning, it had been just about bearable; a distilled, concentrated version of the exhilarated yearning that she’d carried about with her f
or the last two months. But as the hour of Piers’s audition drew near, she became more and more jumpy. At half-past one she started looking at her watch; imagining Piers—where? In a studio? In a rehearsal room? In a canteen, waiting for his turn? And at two o’clock she began to feel painful, jolting pangs of nerves, combined with a thrilling, unbearable excitement, all the stronger because it was illicit. She wasn’t supposed to be getting worked up about this audition; she’d promised Piers that she’d really got to the stage where she could see both the advantages and the disadvantages of getting the part.
But it wasn’t true. All she could see was advantage. A new life for them both; the end of uncertainty, the end of money troubles and telling people she found the ups and downs of Piers’s career exciting really, and that, no, they didn’t feel ready for children yet. A new house, with a garden and plenty of bedrooms. A new circle of friends in television. Celebrity status.
And the disadvantages . . . she couldn’t even remember the disadvantages. Some list of moans which Piers had fabricated for himself in an attempt to rationalize the whole thing. Typecasting was one of them. Selling out. Something else about doing too much television. They meant nothing at all to Ginny.
When she got back home, she deliberately put all her shopping away, carefully hanging up her new skirt, and tenderly placing the plates on her little antique pine dresser, before she even looked at the answer machine. Two messages. She sat down unhurriedly, picked up a note-pad and pencil, and began to listen. The first was Marcus Witherstone. ‘Ginny? Something I meant to tell you earlier. The estate you were interested in—I should have mentioned that the owners requested that the sale be kept anonymous.’ There was a pause, and Ginny cocked her head politely, suppressing an urge to scream with impatience and press the fast-forward button. ‘So if you could avoid mentioning it,’ Marcus was saying, ‘. . . I’m sure you understand . . .’
A Desirable Residence Page 19