A Desirable Residence (10 page)

‘We’ve got tenants for the house.’ She felt her eyes glitter and her face flush.

‘So I heard,’ said Jonathan. ‘That is good news.’ He went to the door. ‘Alice!’ he called. ‘Come and lay the table!’

‘Is that all you can say?’ demanded Liz. Her voice sounded guiltily truculent to her own ears. ‘After giving me all that pressure about where are these famous tenants?’

‘Of course not.’ He turned back and grinned at her. ‘I’m sorry I was a doubting Thomas. I take it all back. Excuse me!’ He reached past her to the shelf for the tomato ketchup, and Liz had a sudden urge to slap him. She stared at him, at his mild forehead, and narrow shoulders, and bony hands, and felt a mounting frustration fill her body with an unchannelled, pulsing energy.

The kitchen door opened, and Alice shuffled in. ‘Hi,’ she said, in a discouraging voice.

‘Knives and forks, Alice,’ said Jonathan. He opened the oven door and peered inside. ‘Who wants two pieces of fish?’

There was silence. Alice sat down on the chrome stool and began to examine her fingernails. Liz turned her attention away from Jonathan’s thin, jersey-clad back, and gave Alice a wide, motherly smile.

‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘How was school?’

Alice pretended not to hear. She couldn’t stand it when her parents started asking questions. And that was the stupidest question of all. What was she supposed to say? There was nothing about school that was of any interest, except things her parents wouldn’t understand. She stared doggedly down, unconsciously grinding her teeth, waiting for the inevitable moment when she would have to give in, look up and reply.

‘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 space 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.

‘Hello, Mr Witherstone,’ said Liz. She closed the car door and tried briefly to assess 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 assurance 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 passed 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 surreptitiously. 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 passed, 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
. 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.

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
. 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 class, ‘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 embarrassment. She shrugged her shoulders and looked away.

‘S’all right,’ she said, and scraped 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
.’ 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.’