A Desirable Residence Part 5

'Alice?' Liz ruffled Alice's silky dark bob, and Alice tried not to flinch. 'We've had good news,' she said gaily. 'The agent's found someone to rent the house.'

'Oh, right.' As Alice spoke, she felt as though the words were being torn from her. She tilted her face very slightly away from Liz, so that there wasn't any danger of meeting her eye. Sometimes she felt as though she could hardly bear to occupy the same s.p.a.ce as her parents.

'I'm going to meet them tomorrow,' Liz continued, in a tooloud voice. 'The tenants.'

'Tomorrow afternoon, wasn't it?' said Jonathan, carrying a jug of water past. 'You know, I don't have any teaching tomorrow afternoon. I could have gone. Alice, where are the knives and forks?'

'Really?' said Liz casually, watching Alice haul herself sulkily to her feet. 'Oh well, it's arranged now.'

The next afternoon, Liz twice found herself uttering complete gibberish to her students. When her first lesson was over, she dashed upstairs to the flat and threw her books down on the double bed in their gloomy bedroom. She went over to the window and stared at herself in the mirror. If she put on some make-up, she would look more attractive. But she might also look as if she'd made too much of an effort. Visions of well-groomed women who thought nothing of wearing full make-up every day went through Liz's mind in quick succession, as though gliding past on a catwalk. But she had left it far too late in life to join their ranks. And, more practically, it was already ten to three. For a panicked instant she stared, immobilized, at her reflection. Her face was full of rosy colour, at least. And she had put in her contact lenses. And her hair would look all right if she gave it a quick brush in the car before she got out.

But as she turned into Russell Street, she saw the estate agent already leaning against the gate of number twelve. He peered at her car, then gave a cheery smile. Liz smiled back, and hoped he couldn't see her hairbrush lying on the front seat. She parked neatly and quickly in front of the house in a series of familiar manoeuvres, lining herself up instinctively with the end of the brick wall that bordered their garden; opening the car door with automatic care, to avoid bashing it against the steeply rising pavement. Everything looked the same, she thought, getting out. It was almost as if she'd never left. Except that in front of her, gleaming obtrusively, was an expensive-looking Mercedes. And there, beside it, was Marcus Witherstone. He was holding a bottle of champagne.

'h.e.l.lo, Mr Witherstone,' said Liz. She closed the car door and tried briefly to a.s.sess her appearance from a fleeting reflection in the window.

'Please, do call me Marcus,' he said, giving her his crinkle-eyed smile. Liz smiled back nervously.

'And I'm Liz,' she said, forcing herself to let go of the car door handle and walk forward naturally. A sudden picture of herself and Marcus standing together in the street popped into her head, and for the first time in her life she wondered what the neighbours would think if they were watching. Certainly, she felt very noticeable. The street seemed strangely empty, and her voice sounded thin and high to her own ears. She looked hurriedly away from Marcus and up at the house.

'Well, this is it,' she said.

'Yes,' said Marcus, kindly. 'I suppose it's a bit strange for you, letting out your old family home.'

'Well, yes,' said Liz. 'But it's better than selling it ...' She stopped, and blushed, suddenly remembering her outburst at the hapless Nigel. 'I mean, we really did have to do something with it. But I prefer it this way.' She gave Marcus a hesitant smile. 'It was very good of you to fix all this up.'

'Not at all!' Marcus waved the champagne bottle at her cheerfully. 'All part of the service.'

'But finding tenants so quickly!'

'No trouble.' He smiled at her, an easy, relaxed smile, and Liz gazed back in admiration. She wanted him to keep talking; to transfer some of his effortless a.s.surance to her; infuse her with the same airy confidence. He was holding his bottle of champagne with an impressive casualness; no doubt he would be the sort to open it with one deft movement and not a drop spilled.

Marcus saw Liz's eyes on the bottle, and gave a start of recollection.

'What am I doing still holding this?' he exclaimed. 'It's for you!' Liz's fingers closed over the cold bottle neck in bewilderment. 'It's a new custom at Witherstone's,' he explained. 'A bottle of champagne for every sale.'

'But ...'

'In your case, since we failed so dismally on the selling front, I thought this could count.'

'Goodness!' Now Liz felt even more noticeable. Russell Street wasn't the sort of place where champagne bottles pa.s.sed without comment. Nor strange men in expensive cars. You're being ridiculous, she told herself. He's not a strange man, he's an estate agent. She eyed Marcus surrept.i.tiously. But in his smooth tweed jacket and polished shoes, he looked nothing like an estate agent. He had resumed his leaning position against the gate, eyes narrowed against the wind. From where Liz was standing, his broad shoulders obscured completely her view of the front door. His hand rested confidently on the front wall. She didn't quite dare look at his face.

A few moments' silence pa.s.sed, and Liz began to feel awkward. She cast around in her mind for something to say.

'That's a very smart car,' she ventured at last, then immediately chastised herself. Oh what a boring, unsophisticated remark Oh what a boring, unsophisticated remark. But Marcus turned and looked at his car in agreeable surprise, as though he'd never really noticed it before.

'Nice model, isn't it?' he said. 'I do prefer it to the new one, I think.' He looked questioningly at her, as if expecting her to disagree. But Liz was stumped by the subject of car models. She transferred the freezing-cold bottle from one hand to the other and wondered what she could say next.

'I wonder where Ginny is.' Marcus looked at his watch and smiled apologetically at Liz. 'I'm sorry to keep you hanging around like this. If you'd rather go, and leave it to another day, I'm sure Ginny would understand.'

'Oh no,' said Liz breathlessly. 'I mean, I might as well wait, now I'm here.' She looked at her own watch. 'It's only quarter past.' She put the champagne bottle on the pavement and rubbed one icy palm against the other. Despite the over-bright sunshine, the afternoon air was getting colder and colder, and a chill breeze had begun to blow. 'But if you like,' she added slowly, 'we could always go and wait inside the house.'

'Of course we could! Why didn't I think of that?' Marcus suddenly took in Liz's ungloved, chafing hands. 'You look freezing!' he exclaimed. 'I'm terribly sorry, keeping you out here. Of course we should be waiting in the house.' He pushed open the gate and led the way up the path.

Liz groped in her pocket for the doorkey. She felt automatically for the ridges as she pulled it out, put it in the lock and heaved up before turning in one, seamless, unthinking movement. The door swung open with the familiar creaking moan that she'd stopped noticing years ago; the smell of floorboards came rushing out at them, and Liz, to her utter horror and surprise, burst into tears.

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At four o'clock, Alice came silently into the kitchen, opened the fridge and took out a yoghurt. She reached past Jonathan, who was pouring out a cup of tea, to get a spoon from the drawer, and he jumped in surprise.

'Alice! Just in time for tea.'

'I hate tea.' Alice hovered noncommittally by the door, unable to decide whether the indignity of staying in the kitchen with Jonathan was worse than the aloneness of taking her yoghurt off to her bedroom. She watched as he carefully poured milk into his cup, put the bottle back in the fridge and wiped the surface with a jay-cloth. Both her parents, she had noticed, were always cleaning this kitchen, and sweeping crumbs off the floor and arranging the mugs neatly. As if they could make it look any nicer by keeping it tidy. In their old kitchen at Russell Street, everything had just mounted up in a cheerful profusion until someone decided to clear up, usually Jonathan. But then, even when that kitchen was tidy, it had always been full of stuff; of plants and books and Oscar's basket and his toys all over the floor. There was only room for one plant in this kitchen, and that was already looking pretty dismal.

Jonathan turned round and smiled.

'You're home early.' Alice chose to take this as an accusation.

'No I'm not.'

'Home by four?' Alice rolled her eyes and sighed loudly.

'I had a free lesson. We're allowed to go home. I can show you my timetable if you don't believe me.'

'Of course I believe you.' Jonathan carried his tea through into the sitting-room, and Alice followed, unwillingly, at a distance.

'A free lesson,' mused Jonathan, sitting down on the sofa, next to a pile of essays. 'How can it be called a lesson if it's free time?'

'Lesson,' said Alice, through gritted teeth. 'Lesson. Like, lesson on a timetable. Not lesson where you learn things.'

'I see,' said Jonathan. 'But you do have some lessons where you learn things, I take it?' He gave her an amused smile.

'Of course we do.' Alice gave her father a scathing look. Sometimes he behaved as if she was still about nine.

'And tell me, how's your Greek going?' Alice spooned yoghurt into her mouth, and thought of her Greek lessons, of the strange symbols and rhythmic incantations. Alpha, beta, gamma, delta Alpha, beta, gamma, delta. She had only been doing the subject since the beginning of the term, but already she was enchanted by it. Her teacher had marked her first piece of homework Very Good, and said in cla.s.s, 'Do give my regards to your father, Alice, and tell him I think you're doing very well.' But the thought of relaying any such message filled Alice with a horrified embarra.s.sment. She shrugged her shoulders and looked away.

'S'all right,' she said, and sc.r.a.ped noisily at the bottom of the plastic pot. When she had finished, she leant back on the sofa and reached for the television remote control.

'You will throw that pot away, won't you?' said Jonathan.

'Yes,' said Alice irritably. Why did he have to tell her? Why couldn't he have just waited and seen if she threw it away herself? She flicked on the television, and a cheery voice greeted her fractionally before the picture cleared, to show a man with blond hair wrestling with a furry puppet.

'And now,' he gasped to the camera, 'it's quarter-past four, and time for Nina's Gang Nina's Gang.' The screen was filled with psychedelic graphics, and a loud guitar riff began to wail. Jonathan winced slightly, and got up.

'Quarter-past four,' he said. 'I expect Mummy's on her way home.' He bent down, and picked up the yoghurt pot. 'I'll go and make some more tea.'

Liz was not on her way home. She was sitting on the floor in her old bedroom, propped up against the wall. On one side of her was the champagne bottle, now half empty. On the other side of her was Marcus.

It was Liz who had insisted on opening the bottle. Although her tears had only lasted for a momentary flurry, she still felt upset and shaky as she walked around the house, explaining in a wobbly voice that they'd left the pine table behind because there was no room for it at the tutorial college, and that the cat flap had been for their tabby, Oscar, but they'd given him away when they moved.

'And this is our bedroom,' she'd said, opening the door onto a sunny room at the front of the house, with a large square mark in the middle of the carpet to show where their double bed had rested. 'Was our bedroom.' She squinted at the shafts of light which pierced the dusty air, and landed on the dark red carpet in pools of pink. 'We took our bed with us,' she explained, unnecessarily. 'There was one in the flat already, but we didn't want to leave ours behind.'

'I'm not surprised,' said Marcus. 'I think a bed is the most important piece of furniture in a house.' It was almost the first thing he'd said since entering the house, and as he listened to his words hanging in the still, empty air, he had a sudden strange feeling of surrealism. This appointment was not turning out the way he had expected.

First there had been the tears at the door. Then she had composed herself, but seemed to want to tell him all about the house. He had followed Liz patiently from room to room, listening to her halting, irrelevant explanations; building up a picture of what their family life in this house must have been like. And now, from what he could gather, they were squashed into some appalling little s.p.a.ce at the top of that tutorial college. No wonder the poor woman was upset.

'Why did you do it?' he asked abruptly. 'Move away from here?'

'We had to,' said Liz. She turned to him. 'It was too good an opportunity to miss,' she said, with more energy in her voice. 'We've got the chance to really make something of that place. It's got such potential. We're going to expand into modern languages, run courses in the holidays, gradually do the place up so it looks really smart ...' She ran a hand through her hair with a determined gesture and looked briefly around the room. 'Of course I miss this house,' she said, with a slow emphasis. 'I'm only human. But you've got to think ahead. Things will get better. We won't be in that little flat forever.'

'It must be difficult,' said Marcus cautiously. Liz swept round and fixed him with suddenly burning eyes.

'Of course it's difficult,' she said, her voice rising slightly. 'It's h.e.l.lishly difficult. And sometimes I wonder why we didn't just stay put, with our nice comfortable lives. But, you know, life's about more than just being comfortable, isn't it?'

'Well, yes,' said Marcus. 'I suppose it is.' He gazed at Liz's bright eyes and animated face, and couldn't help but feel impressed.

She walked over to a patch of sunlight on the floor, and sat down in it luxuriously, like a cat.

'I always liked this room,' she said, closing her eyes. Marcus cleared his throat uncomfortably and walked over to the window.

'I can't see any sign of Ginny,' he said. 'Perhaps I should phone the office.'

'Perhaps we should open the champagne while we wait,' said Liz, still with her eyes closed. Marcus frowned.

'Surely you'd like to keep it, and drink it with your husband? And ...' What was the daughter's name? 'And with Alice?' Liz opened her eyes.

'What I would really like to do,' she said deliberately, 'is to drink it now.' She held it out to him. Marcus hesitated, and then, giving an inward shrug, began to untwist the metal cap. It was only a bottle, after all. She was ent.i.tled to do with it what she liked. And, after that outburst of weeping at the door, it seemed a good idea to go along with whatever she wanted.

So now they sat companionably against the wall of the bedroom, taking swigs from the bottle. Every now and then, Marcus got up to check whether Ginny had arrived yet, but after a while, he gave up. Perhaps she'd got the day wrong, or the address, or had been held up by some catastrophe. At any rate, it was unlikely she would turn up at this late stage. It would have been sensible for them to give up and go home.

But Marcus didn't want to go home. He had begun to enjoy the atmosphere of the tranquil room, the warmth of the sunshine on his face and the cold, sparkling champagne in his mouth. Liz had insisted he share the bottle with her, although he was pretty sure he'd only drunk about half the amount that she had. Nevertheless, it was enough to have given him a pleasant glow. Liz also looked as though she was glowing. Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed and there were two vivid spots of colour on her cheeks.

Marcus looked aimlessly around the room, and became aware again of the square patch of flattened carpet; a testimony to the marital bed which once lay there. Liz and her husband had slept there and woken up there. Argued there. Made love there. They'd made love just feet from where he was sitting. Liz probably made love with the same vigour with which she talked and argued. And afterwards, she probably lay, head thrown back and cheeks flushed, just as she was doing now. The thought began to excite him. He gave another surrept.i.tious glance at her pink cheeks.

Marcus had promised to be faithful to Anthea, forsaking all others, as long as they both should live. And, in his own mind, he had kept that promise, more or less. He did have a longstanding arrangement with an old girlfriend of his, also married, which involved one or perhaps two brief but satisfying reunions a year. And he had also made the mistake, a few years ago, of bedding a secretary at Witherstone's. The liaison had only lasted a couple of weeks, but the ha.s.sle afterwards had gone on for months, and culminated with him finding her, at her request, a job in a prestigious estate agency in New York.

All in all, though, Marcus considered himself to have kept to his side of the promise. He had never had what he would consider to be a proper affair. To be honest, he hadn't really had the opportunity to have one. Most of the women he saw from day to day were colleagues or old friends or chums of Anthea's. The clients he saw were generally rather grand and, more often than not, male. And the sorts of well-groomed women he did occasionally find himself ushering into his office were, in his opinion, almost too perfect to be attractive.

But this woman, with her flushed, unmade-up face, and her flashing eyes, and her infectiously energetic manner, was stirring in him an attraction which was as powerful as it was surprising. As though drawn by an invisible string, Marcus found himself silently leaning nearer to Liz. She seemed unaware that he had done so. He moved closer, tantalizingly closer still, and looked at her eyelids for signs of reaction. Her lashes flickered slightly. But her eyes remained closed. Surely she could feel his breath on her cheek? Surely she could hear the rustle of his jacket? Was she asleep?

Liz sat perfectly still, and willed Marcus to come closer. The champagne had robbed her of enough responsibility to let her sit in a happy stupor and wait and see what would happen. It wouldn't really be her fault, she thought hazily, if she kept her eyes closed and pretended she didn't know what was coming.

She could feel him moving towards her; could sense his face looming up in front of hers, and imperceptibly, she tilted her face towards his and very slightly parted her lips. Nothing happened, and for a second she thought she might have been completely mistaken. Perhaps Marcus had got up to check for Ginny again; perhaps he'd even left the room.

But then, suddenly, with no warning, she felt a strange pair of lips landing roughly on hers, and a hand cupping her cheek, and the exhilarating, shocking sensation of a warm, sweet, utterly unfamiliar mouth opening up and exploring her own. For a few delicious, seemingly endless moments, she responded blindly and pleasurably to his kiss; her mind blank and her body tense with delight.

His hands began to move down her body, and she began to shiver with pleasure. But the more his hands moved, the more her stupor faded, giving way to a hard, cold feeling of misgiving.

'Actually,' she murmured, as a hand began to circle her right breast; 'actually ...' The hand stopped. Liz opened her eyes. She was looking at Marcus's left ear.

'Is something wrong?' he whispered. His breath was hot and moist against her neck, and suddenly Liz felt constricted. She struggled out of his grasp, and leant back against the wall, with a damp patch cooling beneath her ear and her hair uncomfortably askew.

'No, nothing's wrong,' she said, and had a sudden desire to giggle. She looked at Marcus. He was panting slightly, and looked concerned. 'It's just that, I don't know ...' She made a helpless gesture with her hands. 'I just feel a bit strange, doing this. Apprehensive.'

'Don't be.' Marcus spoke firmly. 'We're not hurting anyone. You mustn't feel guilty.' He spoke almost as though he was trying to convince himself. Liz thought about this for a few moments.

'Actually,' she said, 'I don't think I do. Feel guilty, that is. I think I deserve this.'

'Well then.' Marcus bent his face over hers again, and Liz moved to meet his mouth eagerly. His hand found its way beneath her jersey, unzipped the top of her skirt and began to finger the top of her tights. Liz gasped, and sat bolt upright.

'I'm sorry,' she panted. 'I don't know what's wrong with me.' She gave a frustrated wriggle. 'Everyone else seems to do this with no effort at all. You know, suddenly we found ourselves making love suddenly we found ourselves making love.' She swallowed and pushed her hair back. 'I don't think I could ever just find find myself making love. I think I'd have to decide to do it. And ...' Marcus gazed at her with an impatience tempered by curiosity. myself making love. I think I'd have to decide to do it. And ...' Marcus gazed at her with an impatience tempered by curiosity.

'What's wrong? Is it this room?' Liz shrugged hopelessly.

'Maybe. I think it's more the thought of you seeing what I'm really like. Under all this.' She tweaked her jersey disparagingly. 'I bet you're used to women with perfect bodies. Not all droopy like mine.'

'Rubbish,' said Marcus. His mind flicked abstractly to Anthea's slim figure; her small, well-shaped b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her smooth, pale skin and elfin shoulders. Making love to her was making love to a thing of beauty; an aesthetic experience as much as a s.e.xual one.

'I wasn't exactly expecting to be seduced this afternoon,' Liz was saying. 'I expect I've got my grottiest bra on.'

Marcus stared at her, mesmerized. He couldn't believe how much he wanted to undress her, there, down to her old bra, and no doubt unglamorous knickers. He wanted to cup the pendulous, ripe curves of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and run his hands over the folds of her stomach, and bury himself inside her.

'I don't give a f.u.c.k what you're wearing,' he said, in a voice husky with desire. 'I've just got to have you.' Liz stared back at him, her eyes wide, her breath coming quickly, a delicious antic.i.p.ation rising inside her.

'h.e.l.lo! Is anyone there?' A cheerful female voice calling from outside broke the silence, followed by the sound of the doorbell. Marcus and Liz stared at each other for an agonized second. Then Marcus spoke, in a hissed, angry whisper.

'f.u.c.k it! It's Ginny.' He struggled to his feet, and smoothed back his hair. Liz felt like crying. Marcus strode to the window and leant out.

'h.e.l.lo there! We've been waiting inside.'

'Marcus, I'm so sorry! Is Mrs Chambers still there? Have you been waiting long. I can't believe how late I am!'

'No problem,' replied Marcus slowly, as he retreated inside.

He looked at Liz, pushing his hand back through his hair in shaky disbelief. 'We'd better go and let her in,' he said.

'Oh G.o.d,' said Liz. She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. 'Am I looking very red?'