A Desirable Residence Part 3

'I'm not thinking that,' protested Jonathan.

'Well then, what are you thinking?'

'I'm going to school now, all right?' interrupted Alice quickly. She pushed back her chair with a speedy urgency and, without looking either of her parents in the eye, clomped out of the kitchen.

'All right,' said Liz, momentarily deflected. 'Have a nice day, darling,' she called to Alice's retreating back.

'We shouldn't argue like that in front of Alice,' said Jonathan, when they'd heard the front door slam below.

'Nonsense, she's fine,' said Liz. 'We're not arguing, anyway. We're having an animated conversation. Which you're trying to get out of.'

'I'm not trying to get out of it,' said Jonathan. 'It's just-'

'What?'

'Well, this business of renting out the house. I mean, you just come back here and announce that's what we're going to do, without bothering to ask me, or talk about it, and you know, that's fine by me, as long as it works out.'

'But?' Her voice sounded rattled to her own ears.

'But, well, it doesn't seem to be working out so far. I mean, does it? Here we are, after more than a week, and we haven't heard anything. Where are these famous tenants you said the agent had up his sleeve?'

'I don't know. I expect he's working on it.' Liz stood up with a sudden movement and began piling bowls and plates together with angry little clashes. 'I'll ring him this morning, all right? Or do you want me to call the whole thing off ?'

'No, no, of course not!' Jonathan spread his hands in a self-deprecating manner. 'I mean, what the h.e.l.l do I know about it? It just seems to me that we should be either trying to sell the house or renting it out, and at the moment we're doing neither. But I'm sure you're right. I'm sure it'll get sorted out before long. Still, it might be an idea to ring the agent. He's probably put our details at the bottom of his pile.' He gave her an encouraging smile, and began to clear away the breakfast things.

Oh, blast you, Jonathan, thought Liz, watching him calmly stack the plates up, put the cereal packets in their cupboard, run a cloth over the Formica counter. She turned away to the sink, began to run the hot tap into the washing-up bowl and squirted a long, thick stream of washing-up liquid under it; then plunged her hands into the scalding water in an obscure need for some sort of penance. Why do you have to be so b.l.o.o.d.y reasonable all the time? she thought to herself crossly. Why can't you shout and yell and get angry? And, more to the point, why on earth do I always have to be such a stroppy old cow?

At the first opportunity she got that morning, she dialled the number of Witherstone & Co. It seemed almost presumptuous to ask for Mr Witherstone himself. But she didn't want to risk being put through to the dreadful Nigel again.

'Which Mr Witherstone?' asked the receptionist, in an unhelpful voice. Liz, standing in the cramped office of the tutorial college, was momentarily flummoxed.

'I'm sorry, could you-'

'Mr Miles Witherstone or Mr Marcus Witherstone?' Liz thought furiously. She knew it began with an M. But that didn't get her very far.

'Marcus, I think,' she said eventually.

'I'm afraid Mr Marcus Witherstone is out of the office this morning,' said the receptionist immediately, in tones, Liz was sure, of some triumph. 'Would you care to leave a message?'

'Yes please,' said Liz robustly. 'Could you say that Mrs Chambers called regarding her property in Russell Street, wondering if any tenants had been procured yet.' She gave the number of the tutorial college, and put the receiver down, feeling pleased with herself. The use of the word 'procured' had been especially satisfying. And now she could stop feeling guilty about the house. It wasn't her problem any more; it was Marcus Witherstone's.

Marcus was at that moment driving along the main road of Collinchurch, the village in which Leo Francis lived. He had begun his journey that morning with a brisk feeling of adrenalin at the thought of his meeting with Leo. This, however, had faded away during the rigours of negotiating the Silchester ring road, to be replaced eventually by a growing sensation of panic.

He could scarcely believe he was really doing it. Taking up Leo's carefully worded invitation; agreeing implicitly to ... what? As his mind scanned vaguely over any number of possibilities, he felt a tremor run through him, a blurred feeling of fear pierced by sharp exhilaration. And, already, guilt. Even though he hadn't set foot in Leo's house yet; hadn't even listened to what he had to say. He was, so far, innocent.

Except that he'd already lied to Miles. Trusting, honest Miles, who had asked Marcus to have lunch with him that day. He'd asked in a conciliatory way, which meant that he felt bad at having brushed Marcus off so peremptorily the week before. He'd suggested Le Manoir. He'd intimated it would be his treat. And Marcus, who usually jumped at Le Manoir and, on principle, never turned Miles down, had panicked.

'Sorry, Miles. I'm seeing a client. That rental case I told you about. Another time, perhaps?' And he'd put the phone down, shaking slightly. Now he winced at the memory. Why the f.u.c.k had he said that? Why not admit he was meeting Leo Francis? An informal meeting between two local professionals: estate agent and solicitor. Nothing could be more respectable.

Except ... except. Oh G.o.d. A twinge of antic.i.p.ation rose in Marcus, filling him with a mixture of horror and delight. Was he really doing this? Marcus Witherstone, of Witherstone's? Better not think about it. Better just get there, and have a stiff drink or two.

It was now three months or so ago that Leo had sidled up to Marcus, at a rather dull party, and murmured a few discreet, ambivalent phrases into his ears. Phrases whose meaning could be taken in either of two ways. Phrases which Miles, for example, would have deliberately-or even unknowingly-misunderstood.

Marcus, however, was not Miles. Nothing like Miles. He'd listened to Leo's bland, innocuous, double-sided words, then, playing for time, put his gla.s.s to his lips. It occurred to him that if the rest of the guests present knew what Leo was indirectly proposing, they would be shocked. Horrified, even. And part of him was also shocked at Leo's seedy suggestions. Of course, he knew this kind of thing went on, but he had never really thought he would come across it. It was the sort of thing other people did. Not respectable professionals like himself.

But that, of course, had been part of the appeal. The idea that he could combine the safe, predictable veneer of a well-established, middle-aged estate agent with something more dangerous, more lucrative, more exciting in every way. Or at least less boring. For life at Witherstone's was, Marcus had suddenly realized, clutching his drink and taking in the implications of Leo's words, boring him beyond belief. He had done all the learning he was ever likely to do; he had tried out all the new plans and ideas he was ever likely to think of. His position was safe; his work not arduous; he was able to pick and choose his clients. There was nothing to aim for; nothing new to try.

Impetuously, he had swallowed his mouthful of wine, turned to Leo, and in a suitably muted voice, murmured, 'I'm extremely interested in what you're saying.' He hadn't actually winked, but he'd certainly given the air that he knew what was going on; that he was a man of the world. And for the rest of the party, he had gone around the room with high spirits and a kind of internal swagger.

Of course, by the next morning, both the high spirits and the swagger were gone, and he was inclined to think he had entirely misconstrued Leo's invitation. He almost felt tempted to tell Anthea the whole story; probably would have done, if he hadn't been convinced she would completely miss the point. And as the weeks pa.s.sed, and he heard nothing from Leo, he'd persuaded himself that the whole thing had been utter fantasy on his part.

But it wasn't fantasy. It was actually happening. Oh G.o.d. It was actually happening.

As he neared Leo's house, Marcus could feel himself almost involuntarily slow the car down, until it was proceeding at a ridiculously snail-like pace. A young mother pushing a pram on the pavement opposite overtook him, and gave him a curious look as she pa.s.sed. s.h.i.t. He was drawing attention to himself.

'f.u.c.k off,' said Marcus quietly. 'Don't look at me.' He pushed his foot down on the accelerator and sped past her, only to brake immediately as he saw the gates to Leo's house on his left. He signalled, with unnecessary diligence, and slowly turned into the drive, crackling the gravel satisfactorily underwheel as he descended the incline into Leo's forecourt.

He got out of the car and slammed the door shut with what he hoped was a hearty gesture. He took a deep breath and gave a confident smile to his reflection in the gla.s.s. Then, as he turned round to stride jauntily to the front door, he saw the girl with the pram peering at him from the other side of the road. His heart began to beat a notch faster.

He gave the girl a craven smile, and she immediately began to push the pram away. Marcus turned and walked, rather fl.u.s.tered, to the house. He wanted to get inside as quickly as possible. As he rang the bell, he tried to stand as close to the heavy wooden door as possible, as if somehow to blend into it. A couple of dogs barked warningly from the recesses of the house; gradually the tapping of feet became audible. Then the door was flung open.

'Marcus!' Leo's cry of welcome seemed indecently loud, and was augmented by the welcoming yelps of two English setters which began to frolic about Marcus's knees. The whole menage immediately filled Marcus with dismay, and he found himself shrinking very slightly back into his jacket. But Leo seemed to notice nothing amiss. He held out his pudgy hand in greeting, and, as they shook, gave Marcus the slightest of winks. Marcus forced himself to grin knowingly back.

'I thought we might as well be comfortable,' said Leo, as he led the way down a flagstoned corridor. 'Come on in.' They entered a large, bright sitting-room, and Leo gestured to a couple of dark green b.u.t.ton-backed chairs. Marcus looked apprehensively around. At one end of the room was a long row of windows looking onto the street.

'Sit down,' said Leo cheerily. 'I've asked my daily to bring us some coffee.'

Marcus sat down, gingerly, on one of the chairs. This was not at all how he had imagined their meeting. He had envisaged a small, discreet room, tucked far away from the eyes of the outside world, preferably locked and bolted before they began talking. Here, in this large, exposed room, he felt vulnerable and uneasy.

'So,' he said, more abrasively than he had intended. 'What's this all about?' As he spoke, he glanced involuntarily towards the window. The sooner this meeting was over, and he was out of the house, the better. He turned back, and stared at Leo, willing him to start talking.

But Leo, sitting on the opposite chair, simply smiled, and placed the tips of his fingers carefully together. He was younger than Marcus by about five or even ten years, but corpulent and already middle-aged looking. Sandy curls waved around his pink face, and as Marcus watched him, his full lips drew back in a smile, revealing small, pearly teeth.

'Well now,' he said eventually. His voice was high, with fruity overtones, and seemed to bounce around the bare-boarded room. There was a moment of silent antic.i.p.ation.

I could just leave, thought Marcus. I could just get up, quickly, before Leo says another word, tell him I'm ill, forget the whole thing. He tried experimentally to move his leg, to flex his muscles as if preparing for a quick departure. But his whole body seemed comfortably weighed down in the chair, heaped with inertia. And as he leaned back again resignedly, watching Leo's complacent smirk, temporarily closing off his professional conscience, he became aware of a new sensation. Right in the base of his stomach, almost hidden underneath the murky layers of unease and guilt, began to thump a small, bright beat of excitement.

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 cla.s.sical, 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 gla.s.s of water, one of them, Charlotte, walked past.

'Hey, Charlotte,' said Alice, 'are you free after lunch?'

'No fear,' said Charlotte. 'b.l.o.o.d.y 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 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 cla.s.srooms 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 cla.s.srooms 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 gla.s.s of cla.s.sroom 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 gla.s.s of water, Alice felt for the rea.s.suring 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 pa.s.sageway. 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. Gra.s.s 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.

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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 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 s.p.a.cious 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 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.' 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 bijou London kitchen in a pose she recognized from a production of London kitchen in a pose she recognized from a production of Les Liaisons Dangereuses 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed five minutes. 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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.