A Desirable Residence (11 page)

‘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 space 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 hellishly 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 entitled 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 surreptitious 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 hassle 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
.’ She swallowed and pushed her hair back. ‘I don’t think I could ever just
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.

‘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 breasts, 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 sexual 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 breasts, and run his hands over the folds of her stomach, and bury himself inside her.

‘I don’t give a fuck 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 anticipation rising inside her.

‘Hello! 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.

‘Fuck 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.

‘Hello 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 God,’ said Liz. She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. ‘Am I looking very red?’

‘No,’ began Marcus. ‘Well actually, yes. You are a bit.’ He grinned wickedly at her, and Liz’s legs started to feel shaky again.

‘I can’t get in! The door’s closed!’ It was Ginny’s voice, wafting up to them from outside.

‘I’ll go,’ said Marcus quickly to Liz. ‘You come down when you’re ready.’

‘No!’ said Liz. ‘That’ll look really obvious.’ She smoothed down her skirt. ‘We’d better go down together.’

As Marcus opened the front door, Ginny burst through like a puppy ready for a walk. She kissed Marcus on both cheeks, and smiled in a charming, shamefaced manner at Liz.

‘Mrs Chambers, I’m so sorry! Oh my goodness, you must be freezing, waiting here so long!’

‘Oh no,’ said Liz gaily. She felt dishevelled beside this glossy girl. ‘We had a bottle of champagne to keep us going,’ she added, foolishly.

‘Really?’ Ginny looked from Liz to Marcus with bright eyes. ‘How nice! Is there any left?’

‘Sorry,’ said Liz. ‘It’s all gone.’ She gave a sudden giggle, and Marcus quickly took Ginny by the arm.

‘We always give our clients a bottle of champagne when a deal goes through,’ he said firmly.

‘Yes, I knew that,’ said Ginny, eyes sparkling. ‘But I didn’t realize you always drank it straightaway.’

‘We don’t normally,’ said Marcus tetchily. Ginny looked at him, and back at Liz. She gave a little grin.

‘Well, no,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’

On the third Saturday in October, Ginny and Piers collected the keys to twelve Russell Street, and supervised the arrival of the removal van containing their things. It took an hour to unload the futon, the kilims, the huge wrought-iron candlesticks, the chests full of clothes, CDs, pictures, and books. Then, leaving everything piled up in the sitting-room, they locked the door and went off to Wales for a week, where Piers was filming a tiny part in an obscure children’s fantasy drama.

By the next Saturday, Alice still hadn’t noticed anything different. She had pared down the route from the school gate to the door of the garage to an efficient minimum, and, with her Walkman pounding loudly in her ears, she rarely looked right or left. She would have had to peer hard in at the window of the sitting-room in order to see the pile of boxes on the floor; the rolled-up rugs against the fireplace. And, despite having been told the good news by her parents, it had not actually registered with her that the house had been let out. Conversations at home about the tenants moving in had passed as effortlessly over her head as did the morning radio news bulletins which her parents put on every breakfast so that she would grow up aware of current events.

The garage was quite cosy now. She’d bought a couple of cushions from a charity shop and put them in the corner, and she’d taken the spare torch from home and rigged it up on a shelf so it was almost like a lamp. There wasn’t a heater in the garage, and it was getting colder and colder in there as the weeks went on. But just sitting there, listening to music and smoking and munching on sweets and sometimes trying to read a magazine, she felt a strange happiness; an obscure sense of achievement.

As soon as she had pulled the door behind her, she took out a Marlboro from the packet in her top pocket, pulled out her lighter with her other hand and flicked the tiny flame alive in a familiar, instinctive action. She’d got into the habit of always lighting up before she sat down. It was almost a matter of principle; a superstitious routine.