A Desirable Residence

by Madeleine Wickham

  ‘Who knows?’ he said, in deliberately flat tones. Ginny stared at Piers, suddenly deflated.

  ‘But next week’s the party,’ she said hopelessly. ‘You can’t do an audition on the same day as the party.’

  ‘Of course I can,’ said Piers. ‘Easy. We’ll get everything ready the night before.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘What?’ Ginny stared at Piers silently. She couldn’t tell him that her secret plan had been to announce the news of the part at the party; that she had envisaged buying herself a stunningly expensive dress for the occasion; that she wanted everything to be in the bag this week, not next. ‘I just think it’s really bad, that’s all,’ she said eventually. ‘They should treat you with more respect. I mean, what if you hadn’t been free next week?’

  ‘Then I expect,’ said Piers, ‘they would have given the part to someone else.’ He walked out of the room, and Ginny stared after him with a pounding heart and a clouded face.

  That afternoon, Marcus and Anthea together took Daniel to Bourne for his three-day scholarship. As he neared the impressive gates of Bourne College, Marcus realized, to his amazement, that he was actually feeling nervous. He swivelled around in his seat as they began the sedate drive along the speed-bumped, tree-lined avenue leading to the school, and grinned at Daniel.

  ‘Feeling OK?’ he said.

  ‘Fine,’ said Daniel, clutching his pencil case rather tightly, and grinned back. Marcus felt a sudden, overwhelming stab of painful pride. Daniel had worked bloody hard for this exam. He bloody well deserved to do well. He was a bloody hero. He grinned harder at Daniel, and wished he could give him a hug, there and then.

  ‘Marcus!’ said Anthea. ‘Look out! You’re going into a tree!’ She was sitting next to Marcus, staring grimly ahead, her face taut and her hands clenched in her lap.

  ‘What have they done?’ said Marcus in amazement, as they drew near the school buildings. ‘What’s that building?’

  Anthea replied without pausing. ‘It’s the new arts and media building. I told you about it. You would have seen it if you’d come to the parents’ open day.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Marcus had, for reasons which were obscure to himself as well as to Anthea, refused to go back and walk round his old school as a prospective parent. ‘I know the place,’ he’d said. ‘What’s the point in seeing it again?’ Now he felt an affecting mixture of nostalgia and curiosity at the combination of old, familiar buildings, and new, state-of-the-art constructions. For the first time, with a strange sensation in his stomach, he imagined Daniel wearing the school uniform that he used to wear; playing rugby on the same pitches; perhaps even sleeping in the same dormitory.

  Then it occurred to him that if Daniel did win a scholarship he wouldn’t be in Marcus’s old house. He would be in the Headmaster’s House. He would be one of the élite of the school, who strode around in black gowns and were regularly photographed by the press. One of the chosen few. He would be like Edwin Chapman, who had been a scholar in Marcus’s year and was now a junior cabinet minister. Or William Donaghue, who had been in the year below and was now a rampantly, famously successful barrister.

  Marcus looked at Daniel with a new respect as he parked the car. Could his son really slip into that world of excellence? His own son? The son of a parochial estate agent?

  ‘Daniel,’ he found himself saying, ‘just do your best. Try to remember everything that Mr Chambers has told you. And remember, we’ll be proud of you whatever happens—’

  ‘Have you got enough ink cartridges?’ interrupted Anthea anxiously. ‘Have you got your pencil sharpener? Have you—’

  ‘Anthea,’ said Marcus gently. ‘I should think that the mighty Bourne College could probably come up with the odd ink cartridge if it’s needed.’ He caught Daniel’s eye and they both grinned. Then Marcus leant over and ruffled Daniel’s hair affectionately. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I want to show you my old school.’

  Later on, when Daniel had gone in, he and Anthea strolled around the grounds of the school, arm in arm. Anthea covered up her nerves by talking incessantly: pointing out interesting-looking architectural features; speculating on the number of boys applying for the scholarship; exclaiming at the interior of the chapel; wondering again and again and again how Daniel was getting on. Marcus simply smiled and walked peacefully along beside her.

  They stopped eventually by the man-made lake, which was used for water sports and rowing, and looked back at the school. Marcus put his arm around Anthea’s thin, tense shoulders, fragile like porcelain.

  ‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘if Daniel does get this scholarship, it’ll be completely down to you.’ Anthea looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes. ‘He’s got your intelligence for a start,’ continued Marcus ruefully. ‘I never came near any kind of scholarships. And it’s you who encouraged him to do well. You’re the one who’s put in all the work.’ Anthea stiffened slightly.

  ‘I thought you disapproved of him doing the scholarship,’ she said. She looked away into the distance. ‘I thought it was all such a waste of time.’

  ‘Yes, well, maybe I was wrong,’ said Marcus, after a pause.

  ‘Maybe I was wrong too,’ said Anthea, surprisingly. She swallowed. ‘I know I sometimes work the boys too hard. I know everyone thinks I’m too pushy.’ She pushed a hand through her thin red hair. ‘But I just want them to reach their potential. I’m just doing it for their sakes.’ She looked at him with worried eyes. ‘I do mean well, you know.’ A flood of affection filled Marcus’s heart.

  ‘I know you do,’ he said gently; ‘I know you do.’ He put his arms around her and pulled her slender body towards him.

  ‘Marcus!’ she exclaimed, trying to wriggle free, her eyes darting anxiously about. ‘You can’t do that here!’

  ‘I’m an Old Boy of this school,’ said Marcus firmly, ‘which means I can do whatever I like, wherever I like.’

  Alice was getting more and more panicked about what to wear to Piers’s and Ginny’s party. When they’d originally talked about it, she’d assumed that she was going to wear her usual pair of torn jeans and perhaps her Indian silver necklace. But then, at home, she’d looked properly at the invitation, and seen that it said, ‘Dress: Black and Red.’ Alice had lots of black clothes, but they were all things like faded T-shirts and woolly tights; not the sort of thing you could wear to a party like this one.

  And then, today, Ginny had shown her the dress she had bought for the party. It was bright red silk, very short, with black squiggles on the front. If Alice had seen it in a shop she would immediately have said, Yuck, gross. But when Ginny put it on, Alice had to admit she looked pretty good. And then, twirling in front of her bedroom mirror, Ginny had said to Alice, ‘And what are you going to wear?’ Alice had shrugged nonchalantly, and said she hadn’t thought about it.

  Since then she hadn’t thought about anything else. Black and Red. Black and Red. Black jeans and a red T-shirt? No. Awful idea. Awful. Black jeans and black polo-neck? No. Too dull. She imagined herself at the party. Piers would be there, looking admiringly at Ginny’s shiny squiggles. She had to wear something that he would like. Something grown up.

  She marched into the kitchen, where her mother was leaning against the side, dreamily drinking a cup of tea.

  ‘I need something to wear to this party,’ she said without preamble. ‘I haven’t got anything black and red.’ She looked at her mother without much hope, and waited for her to say that surely Alice had plenty of clothes. But Liz’s face lit up.

  ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘We should get you something nice.’ Alice looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘It has to be black,’ she said. ‘Or red. That’s what the invitation says.’

  ‘Does it really?’ said Liz. ‘Goodness. Well, then, perhaps I’d better get something new as well.’ She beamed at Alice. ‘I think we both deserve a treat, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Alice. ‘Can I have some money, then?’

 
‘We’ll go shopping together,’ said Liz firmly. ‘We’ll go into Silchester on Saturday and each buy something nice for the party and then have lunch out. How about that?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose,’ said Alice. ‘Or I could go on my own, after school,’ she added casually.

  ‘No you couldn’t,’ said Liz. ‘You could come with me on Saturday, or you could go in your black jeans and my red corduroy shirt.’ Alice grinned mistrustfully at her.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Saturday.’

  Silchester on Saturday was always packed. As they strode into the market square, Liz groaned.

  ‘We should have come at nine o’clock,’ she said. ‘It’ll be hell.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Alice, glancing around at the heaving crowds. She looked at Liz and thought that possibly it could be OK going shopping with her. As long as she didn’t try and force her into a pair of disgusting shoes like last time . . .

  ‘Excuse me! Might I have a minute?’ Alice looked up. A young man with a quiff and a clipboard was bearing down on her. She hesitated. Someone at school had said yes to one of these people recently and got to taste loads of different chocolate cake. ‘All right, then,’ she said. She looked at her mother. ‘It won’t take long?’

  ‘No time at all,’ said the man. ‘Just a few simple questions. Do you live or work in Silchester?’

  ‘Yes. Live, I mean.’

  ‘Are you married, single or attached?’

  Alice blushed. ‘Why do you need to know that?’ she said.

  ‘We’re offering a new dating service in Silchester,’ said the man. ‘Lots of lonely people out there, you know.’

  Alice blushed harder. ‘I’m still at school,’ she said. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Oh!’ The man looked more closely at her. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘Eighteen and over only. My apologies.’ He began to walk off. But Liz’s voice arrested him in his tracks.

  ‘Hang on a minute! Why didn’t you ask me?’ The man turned back.

  ‘Well,’ he said uncertainly. Alice gave a flabbergasted look at Liz.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me?’ repeated Liz. ‘You never know; I might be interested in your service.’ The man glanced at her gloved left hand.

  ‘I assumed . . .’ he began.

  ‘Assumed I was married? Assumed I was too old for that kind of thing?’ Liz shook back her hair, and smiled at the man. ‘How do you know I’m not young, free and single? Or, at least, free and single?’ The man grinned back, and patted his quiff.

  ‘I suppose I don’t. Are you?’

  ‘Young? Not very, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said the man gallantly. He winked at Alice, and she cowered inside her collar, hot with embarrassment and outraged at Liz. What was going on with her? Why was she talking like this to a stranger? She must be getting old and eccentric or something. She should have known, Alice thought miserably to herself, that coming out shopping with her mother would be a mistake.

  ‘OK then,’ said the man cheerfully. ‘Let’s start again.’ He turned over to a new sheet of paper with a flourish. ‘Do you live or work in Silchester?’

  ‘Yes. I live here.’

  ‘And are you married, single or attached?’

  ‘Sometimes I feel all three,’ said Liz conversationally.

  ‘Mum . . .’ said Alice in an agonized voice.

  ‘All right.’ Liz relented. ‘I’m married. Attached. Whatever. And I’m not interested in a dating service.’ She paused. ‘But I’ve made you think a bit, haven’t I?’

  ‘So I was right in the first place!’ said the man, in mock-indignation. ‘I knew you were married.’

  ‘Yes, but I might not have been, might I?’ said Liz, raising her eyebrows at him. ‘I’d try that woman over there next,’ she added, pointing to a grey-haired lady pulling along a tartan shopping trolley. ‘You never know. So long!’ She began to stride off, and Alice scuttled after her, giving an apologetic look to the man with the clipboard. Sometimes her mother astounded her.

  By lunchtime she was even more astounded. They’d gone straight to Sedgwick’s, the big department store in Silchester, and up to the designer department. Her mother had talked to the sales assistants as if she was used to buying this kind of stuff all the time, and got three of them to keep bringing clothes to her in the changing-room. In the end she’d bought a pair of black trousers and a red silk shirt and together they came to more than two hundred pounds. Alice couldn’t believe it.

  And then they’d seen a very short black dress, made out of lots of fringes.

  ‘Alice! That’s made for you!’ Her mother had sounded exactly like Ginny when she said that. She’d made Alice try it on, and twirl around in it so that the fringes flew out, and got all the assistants to come and have a look, and then said, ‘Well, of course, we’ve simply got to have it. Haven’t we?’ And they’d wrapped it all up in tissue paper, and there it was, in a shiny carrier bag in her hand.

  And now they were walking into a restaurant full of pink cushiony chairs and flowers and someone playing the piano in the corner. Alice couldn’t believe it. Her mother was acting like another person today. Like Genevieve’s mother, who had once taken her and Genevieve to Harrods, and bought bags and bags full of stuff and then ordered them huge ice-creams for tea. Her own mother never bought expensive clothes. And they hadn’t been to any restaurants for ages. Not since they’d bought the tutorial college.

  ‘A table for two,’ Liz was saying to the head waiter. ‘Non-smoking. Oh!’ She gave a little cry, and Alice looked up. But it was just some men saying hello to her mother. She surreptitiously reached inside the bag and fondly felt the fringes of her new dress. She would wear shiny black tights underneath it, she decided, and polish up her Doc Martens, and perhaps Piers would ask her to dance . . .

  ‘Alice!’ Her mother was looking a bit flustered. ‘Come and meet Marcus Witherstone. He’s the estate agent who let out the house to Ginny and Piers, you know.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Alice politely. She looked interestedly at Marcus Witherstone. Ginny had told her a bit about him, she remembered now. She’d said that he was a bit of a rascal, and his wife was a complete nightmare. He didn’t look like a bit of a rascal to Alice. He looked old and boring, and even a bit angry. She switched her attention to the other man; shorter, with reddish hair and a pink face. Her mother was looking at him too, she noticed. Everyone was looking at him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, giving Alice a horrible sickly smile. ‘I’m Leo Francis. I’m a business associate of Marcus.’

  ‘Leo is a lawyer,’ said Marcus Witherstone quickly. ‘He handles some of our day-to-day transactions. Standard conveyancing. Ordinary stuff, really.’ Bo-ring, thought Alice. Her attention wandered over to a table in the corner, where the waiter had brought over a dish and was setting it alight. The flames flickered blue, and everybody at the table smiled, even the waiter. She wanted one of those, Alice decided. Whatever it was. And actually, she was feeling quite hungry. She looked up at her mother, waiting for her to say, How nice to see you, and move off. But her mother was still smiling at the boring estate agent man. ‘We’ve been buying clothes for the party,’ she was saying rather rushingly. Then, to Alice’s disbelief, she actually pulled open her carrier bag for the two men to look inside. Even Alice knew that men were never interested in clothes. Not even the clothes their wives wore. ‘You are going to the party?’ Liz said. ‘Piers and Ginny Prentice’s party?’

  ‘Yes, I think we are,’ said the estate agent, in tones of surprise. Then he suddenly scowled. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to be going,’ he said.

  ‘See you there, then!’ said Liz gaily. ‘See you there,’ she repeated slowly to his retreating back. Then she turned and looked at Alice with strangely bright eyes.

  ‘I tell you what,’ she said, ‘I feel like some champagne. How about you?’

  As they walked into the foyer, Leo spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘That was a rather flustered d
isplay you gave there. Your mistress, is she?’

  Marcus opened his mouth to make an angry retort. Then he closed it. He didn’t want to get into an argument with Leo. He didn’t want to communicate with Leo any more than he had to. He wanted Leo out of his life.

  His thoughts slid comfortingly to the cheque for two hundred thousand pounds sitting in his inside breast pocket. That was some reward for his anxiety; his worry; the mess of the whole affair. But even now, even now he’d got the money and, as far as he could tell, was safe from discovery, he hadn’t changed his mind. He would never do it again. He’d told Leo over their Dover sole and beurre blanc that he could bloody well find someone else to put their professional reputation on the line next time.

  Leo, of course, had spoken smoothly and reassuringly, then, when he realized that Marcus was serious, switched to a patronizing scorn. But Marcus didn’t care. Neither did he care that he was saying goodbye to what was, in effect, easy money. It simply wasn’t worth the risk. Two hundred thousand pounds—but what, he thought yet again, was he going to do with it? Pay the school fees? But there was a family trust already set up for that purpose. And anyway, he thought, smiling as he remembered Daniel’s excited face last night, if the scholarship exams had gone as well as everybody seemed to think, perhaps he wouldn’t be paying any school fees for Daniel. So what else? A country cottage? A house in France? But the rest of the family would want to know where he’d got the money.

  The trouble with family money, their family money in particular, he thought, was that it was all so transparent; so well documented. They all knew exactly the sums of capital each other possessed; they all knew exactly how much the others had paid for their houses; they knew how the family firm was doing. It would be less scandalous to confess to being broke than to having sudden large amounts of unexplained cash.

  Marcus felt a cold feeling at the base of his spine, as he imagined admitting everything to Miles; watching his honest face creasing into a horrified frown. Dear Miles, who valued family loyalty above almost anything else, who quite clearly wanted to believe the best of Marcus, whatever his suspicions were. Since that phone call on the day of the ECO parade, Miles had said nothing to Marcus about Leo Francis. And yet he must have been wondering, and worrying . . . Marcus shivered. At least some of this money, he suddenly thought fiercely, would go on a long boozy lunch at Le Manoir for himself and Miles. A good bottle of claret, brandy, the works. An all-afternoon job. Just like in the old days . . . the days before Leo. And before Liz . . .