A Desirable Residence (25 page)

When the door of the office ahead opened, she gave a nervous start. A comfortable, middle-aged face appeared round the door.

‘Mr and Mrs Chambers? I’m Barbara Dean.’ Liz looked at Barbara Dean and felt relieved. She had hair in a cosy bun and spectacles on a gold chain, and a mild expression. Nothing can be too awful, thought Liz, in a meeting with this woman.

Half an hour later, she felt shattered. The summary financial position of her and Jonathan and the tutorial college stared accusingly up at her in its plastic folder. Barbara Dean’s meticulous assessment of the situation sat snugly underneath. The confident promises they had made in their original business plan lurked somewhere in the middle of the heap of papers in front of her; Liz didn’t want to look.

Now Barbara Dean was talking about cashflow, about overdrafts and restructuring and personal loans. Loans everywhere. Liz hadn’t realized they had so many loans. Just the idea of them made her feel cold. She stared miserably downwards, and avoided the eyes of Barbara Dean. Which didn’t matter, because Barbara Dean was talking directly to Jonathan; it had soon become apparent that Liz either could not or would not join in the discussion. Apart from one voluble outburst at the beginning, during which both Barbara Dean and Jonathan had sat politely waiting for her to finish, she had contributed nothing.

It was Jonathan who was doing all the talking. Liz was amazed; both amazed and ashamed of herself for being amazed. It came to her that she had underestimated Jonathan. She listened, chastened, as he displayed a startling familiarity with the accounts of the tutorial college; as he outlined the improvements in efficiency which had been already made; as he quoted staff – pupil ratios and man-hours and administration costs.

‘And what about the modern languages summer school?’ enquired Barbara Dean, drawing a page from her folder and looking at it over her gilt spectacles. Liz felt a shock of panic go through her body. She had done nothing about the modern languages department. The meetings with the staff; the rhetoric; the sketching out of course outlines, had all disappeared after a few weeks. After the arrival of Marcus in her life. Her mind flew back to the specialized language teaching computers that had been unpacked neatly in one of the classrooms. She had been meaning for weeks to start using them; to start planning a course. But somehow there hadn’t been time . . .

‘That’s your field, isn’t it, Mrs Chambers?’ Barbara Dean said, looking straight at Liz.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Liz faintly. She picked up the folder in front of her and began to flick through the pages as though searching for some vital piece of information. What was she going to say to this woman? What the hell was she going to say? She could feel her lips trembling slightly and her cheeks starting to turn pink, and still she could think of no confident phrases to match Jonathan’s. All her passion and enthusiasm for the tutorial college seemed to have vanished, and with it, so had her eloquence. Jonathan cast a covert, apologetic glance at her, almost as though he knew what was going through her mind.

‘Liz has been doing as much preparation for the languages department as her busy schedule allows,’ he said loyally. ‘She’s even been spending some evenings perfecting her Italian. Haven’t you, darling?’ He smiled at Liz, and for an awful moment she couldn’t think what he was talking about. Then she remembered. Oh Christ. Her pathetic alibi for evenings with Marcus was actually being used to bolster their case at the bank. She felt a small stab of guilt in her chest, and smiled cravenly at Barbara Dean, as though to make amends. But Barbara Dean looked sternly back at her, and Liz felt nettled.
I bet you’d be different with me if I was here with Marcus
, she suddenly found herself thinking.
If I was his wife
. She imagined sweeping into the bank, attired in an expensive coat, Mrs Marcus Witherstone of Silchester. Rich. Well known. Respected. None of this interrogation. It would actually be worth marrying Marcus, she thought, just for all of that.

Ginny spent the afternoon frantically shopping. She bought fresh pasta, wine, garlic, wild mushrooms, a pale yellow suede skirt, some scented bubble bath, and two large pottery plates decorated with tulips. Then she bought a double chocolate muffin to have with her tea, and carried the whole lot home, her energy still not dissipated.

She couldn’t stand the waiting. It was driving her mad. During the morning, it had been just about bearable; a distilled, concentrated version of the exhilarated yearning that she’d carried about with her for the last two months. But as the hour of Piers’s audition drew near, she became more and more jumpy. At half-past one she started looking at her watch; imagining Piers—where? In a studio? In a rehearsal room? In a canteen, waiting for his turn? And at two o’clock she began to feel painful, jolting pangs of nerves, combined with a thrilling, unbearable excitement, all the stronger because it was illicit. She wasn’t supposed to be getting worked up about this audition; she’d promised Piers that she’d really got to the stage where she could see both the advantages and the disadvantages of getting the part.

But it wasn’t true. All she could see was advantage. A new life for them both; the end of uncertainty, the end of money troubles and telling people she found the ups and downs of Piers’s career exciting really, and that, no, they didn’t feel ready for children yet. A new house, with a garden and plenty of bedrooms. A new circle of friends in television. Celebrity status.

And the disadvantages . . . she couldn’t even remember the disadvantages. Some list of moans which Piers had fabricated for himself in an attempt to rationalize the whole thing. Typecasting was one of them. Selling out. Something else about doing too much television. They meant nothing at all to Ginny.

When she got back home, she deliberately put all her shopping away, carefully hanging up her new skirt, and tenderly placing the plates on her little antique pine dresser, before she even looked at the answer machine. Two messages. She sat down unhurriedly, picked up a note-pad and pencil, and began to listen. The first was Marcus Witherstone. ‘Ginny? Something I meant to tell you earlier. The estate you were interested in—I should have mentioned that the owners requested that the sale be kept anonymous.’ There was a pause, and Ginny cocked her head politely, suppressing an urge to scream with impatience and press the fast-forward button. ‘So if you could avoid mentioning it,’ Marcus was saying, ‘. . . I’m sure you understand . . .’

‘Shut up, shut up!’ said Ginny out loud. ‘Shut up!’ And then, all of a sudden, while she was speaking, the beep went, and it was Piers, sounding out of breath and far away. Ginny’s heart gave a painful lurch.

‘Ginny? Are you there? Ginny? Oh, I suppose you must be out. Well . . .’ He stopped, and Ginny jumped. She clenched the pencil tightly, poised over the notebook as though she was about to take dictation. ‘Well, actually, it was really good!’ Suddenly there was laughter in his voice. ‘They liked me! At least I think they did, and the read-through went really well, and so did the prepared bits, and I did a really good scene with the grandmother—you know—in that set out in the summer house. We did quite a lot of it on set. And then we all went for some tea, and they were all really friendly, and, well . . . Oh God, Ginny, why aren’t you there? I want to tell you about it. The phone’s crap. Look, I’m coming straight home. I’ll see you there. Ginny, I love you.’

Daniel was, to his surprise, enjoying his coaching sessions with Jonathan. They happened in a small, bay-windowed room at the front of the tutorial college. Daniel sat on one side of a big table, and Jonathan sat on the other side, and they always spent the first five minutes chatting pleasantly before starting work.

Mr Chambers was one of the best kind of teachers, Daniel decided, because he didn’t spend the whole time talking. And he didn’t get cross when Daniel said something that was wrong, or made a mistake in the work he did. Sometimes he actually seemed pleased. He said things like, ‘I
thought
you had a confusion there. Let’s clear it up straight away.’ Then he always made Daniel tell him what he thought he’d done wrong; and he screwed up his face and listened really hard; and then he smiled and said, ‘Let’s start from scratch, shall we?’

Today they were looking at an old scholarship paper from Bourne. It was the General Paper.

‘Try number six,’ said Jonathan. Daniel’s eyes ran down the list of questions, and stopped.
Swiss cheese has holes in it,
he read.
The more cheese you eat, the more holes you eat. The more holes you eat, the less cheese you eat. So the more cheese you eat, the less cheese you eat. Is this true?
Daniel’s brow creased, and he wriggled around on his chair.

‘No!’ he said eventually. ‘It’s not true!’ He gave a questioning grin to Jonathan.

‘Good,’ said Jonathan. ‘I’m glad you said that.’ He grinned back at Daniel. ‘I would have been worried if you’d said “Yes”.’ Daniel giggled. ‘But you can’t just write “No” on a scholarship paper, can you? You have to present your argument.’ Daniel stared at Jonathan, wide-eyed.

‘I haven’t got an argument,’ he said.

‘Yes you have,’ said Jonathan. ‘It’s in your head. You just don’t quite know how it goes yet. But you will.’ He paused. ‘Do you have lessons on the General Paper at school?’

‘Not really,’ said Daniel. ‘Mr Williams just says, “Use your brains and you’ll be all right.” ’

‘Hmm,’ said Jonathan. ‘Well, I think we can improve on that. There’s an art to these things, you know. And when you’re in an exam, you need all the help you can get.’ He held out a pencil to Daniel, ‘The first thing you do,’ he said to Daniel, ‘is make an essay plan.’ Daniel pulled a face.

‘Essay plans!’ he said. ‘I hate them!’

‘By the end of today,’ retorted Jonathan, who was busily drawing a row of boxes on the sheet of paper in front of him, ‘you’re going to love them.’

Marcus arrived at six o’clock to find Daniel and Jonathan surrounded by sheets of paper, each covered with boxes filled with writing. As he entered the room, he looked curiously at Jonathan, at his narrow shoulders and his threadbare shirt, and his kindly face. So this was Liz’s husband, he thought, working so cosily with his son. He looked at the two of them, and felt uncomfortable. The situation seemed wrong, somehow, even though both Jonathan and Daniel were patently innocent.

‘Look at these, Daddy!’ said Daniel, picking up a sheaf of papers. His cheeks were glowing and there was a huge grin on his face. ‘They’re all my essay plans. You know, you can make an essay plan for any question under the sun. Ask me a question. Go on, ask me.’ Marcus glanced at Jonathan, who nodded.

‘OK then,’ said Marcus. ‘Why do you always look such a mess?’

‘Easy!’ trumpeted Daniel, and began writing the question out at the top of the page in front of him. Marcus smiled at Jonathan.

‘I’ve no idea what all of this is,’ he said quietly. ‘But it’s obviously doing the trick.’

‘We got a bit side-tracked today,’ said Jonathan apologetically. ‘But I think it’s been a very useful session. Knowing how to do a good essay plan is invaluable in exams. He’ll get marks for a good plan even if he doesn’t have time to write the essay.’ Marcus looked at Jonathan blankly for a second, then nodded in what he hoped was an intelligent manner. He gazed around the room. ‘I used to come here,’ he said reminiscently. ‘For O level cramming.’

‘Yes, well, we still offer that,’ said Jonathan. ‘Although it’s GCSEs now.’ His voice was a bit strained, and Marcus abruptly remembered Liz’s phone call. Of course. Today they’d had the meeting with the bank. Suddenly he very much wanted to know how it had gone. He took in the shadows under Jonathan’s eyes, and the banked-up coffee cups on the shelf behind him. ‘Business going all right?’ he risked, and then wondered whether Jonathan would think him impertinent. But Jonathan smiled at him—a charming, lopsided smile that took Marcus by surprise—and shrugged slightly, and said, ‘Everyone’s having it a bit tough at the moment. You know how it is.’ His attention shifted to Daniel. ‘Come on, young man,’ he said. ‘Your father wants to be off.’

‘Nearly finished,’ said Daniel, who was writing furiously. He scribbled in the last box, then leaned back in his chair and dramatically wiped imaginary sweat off his brow. ‘Phewee!’ he said.

‘Take that one home with you,’ said Jonathan, ‘and pin it on your wall, and look at it whenever you want to remember how to do an essay plan.’

‘I’m taking them all home,’ retorted Daniel, gathering up the sheets of paper. ‘I want to keep them all.’

Jonathan showed Marcus and Daniel to the door, and gave a wave as they got into the car.

‘Poor sod,’ muttered Marcus, as they drove off.

‘Why poor?’ said Daniel at once. ‘I really like Mr Chambers,’ he added.

‘So do I,’ said Marcus, to his surprise.

‘Why is he poor?’ persisted Daniel. Marcus indicated and smoothly turned left.

‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘What?’ said Daniel. ‘Is it a secret? Tell me.’ Marcus sighed.

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he said. ‘I suspect there isn’t a lot of business around for them, that’s all. But that’s just my thoughts,’ he added firmly. ‘I’m probably all wrong. They’re probably doing splendidly.’

Daniel looked at his father. He looked down at the pile of essay plans on his lap. Then he looked out of the window and began to think hard.

Two days later, Daniel hurried out of school to see his mother waiting in the forecourt, surrounded by a gaggle of mothers. He paused briefly, to decide exactly what he would say. Then he frowned, nodded, and marched over to the bunch of women. His mother was, as usual, holding court.

‘Of course,’ she was saying, ‘we wouldn’t want to put Daniel under any pressure. After all,’ she gave a little laugh, ‘a scholarship isn’t everything.’

The other mothers nodded earnestly.

‘That’s absolutely right,’ said Mrs Lawton.

‘I quite agree,’ said Mrs Eadie.

‘It’s not worth taking these things too seriously,’ volunteered Mrs Robertson, beaming around the group. Daniel looked at her in amazement. Adam Robertson was in his class, and he’d told them all that his mother made him get up early and read the paper from the front to the back
before
he did his cello practice, just so that he would know about politics and stuff for the interview. Mrs Robertson’s gaze fell on Daniel.