A Desirable Residence (27 page)

It wasn’t that the bank had been wholly negative. Barbara Dean had turned out to be quite a pleasant woman, and had seemed as keen for the enterprise to succeed as they were—or, rather, as Jonathan was. But, as she had repeatedly reminded them, the amount of capital they had invested in the venture was worryingly small. The mortgage on the business had, she explained, been granted on the basis that when they sold the house in Russell Street, they would put another, larger chunk of money into the tutorial college. And, of course, that hadn’t yet happened.

In the short term, she’d told them, she quite understood that renting the house out was the most sensible thing to do. But longer term, they would simply have to sell the house. Simply have to. Otherwise . . . And Barbara Dean’s eyebrows had disappeared above her gilt spectacles, almost into her hair, at the horror of what might happen. Then she’d relented, and the eyebrows had fallen back into place. In the meantime, she’d assured them, things could be a lot worse. And with a bit more work and a few more initiatives, they could soon be looking at a nice profit.

But her encouragement was too late for Liz. She didn’t feel like putting in any more work. She didn’t, as Barbara Dean had suggested, relish the challenge. She would almost rather they’d been forced to give up the ghost there and then, and put the tutorial college back on the market. It seemed preferable to the long slog that inevitably lay ahead.

She looked around her, and shuddered. Somewhere along the line, her entrepreneurial drive, her enthusiasm, her will to make this venture work, had all ebbed away. She felt as though the harness had slipped from her shoulders; as though Jonathan was now singlehandedly powering the business’s progress. And, try as she might, she couldn’t force herself to join in again. It all suddenly seemed pointless; a lot of work for very dubious and uncertain rewards.

Surreptitiously, she fingered the gold bracelet which lay snugly below her sleeve; feeling its heavy links warm against her skin; estimating yet again what on earth it must have cost. When Marcus had, rather sheepishly, produced a small, gift-wrapped box one evening just before Christmas, she had been surprised. When she had seen what was inside, she had been stunned. Proper jewellery, from a smart London jeweller. And she hadn’t even thought to buy him anything. But he had shrugged off her faltering thanks, her promises of a present after Christmas.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just a little something.’ He grinned at her. ‘Just a little treat. To remind you of me.’

She’d told Jonathan it was only gold-plated; a present for Alice which she’d decided to keep for herself—and as far as she could tell, he believed her. So she’d been able to wear it all Christmas, watching its shiny surface under the Christmas tree lights; playing with it as she watched television; careless of the warm, flowered nightie that Jonathan had bought her and the tapestry kit that Alice had bought her and the other assortment of well-meant, ill-chosen, utterly insignificant gifts. Everything suddenly seemed meagre, inadequate, scarcely worth bothering with. Nothing in comparison with the presents that Marcus and his family must surely be exchanging.

Even while she was tearing open the bottle-shaped parcel from Jonathan’s father and wondering loudly, in the traditional family fashion, what on earth it could be, part of her mind was greedily imagining the scenes of gift-opening at the house of Marcus Witherstone. If he had given her a gold bracelet as a little something, what on earth had he given Anthea? Diamonds? Cashmere? A designer handbag? Whatever it was, it obviously wasn’t doing anything for their relationship, she thought a little sourly. Marcus had phoned her the night before, to put off their next couple of meetings. Anthea was getting a bit tetchy, he’d explained. Liz thought Marcus sounded pretty tetchy himself. It must be hell for him.

She’d seen Anthea from afar quite a few times now, coming to pick her son up from his interminable coaching sessions. Liz had normally finished teaching by that time of day, and she would watch from an upstairs window as Anthea’s car came to a stop on the other side of the road; as her long, skinny legs emerged; as she hurried to the front door. She would sometimes spend twenty minutes or half an hour talking to Jonathan, then it was out again, talking over her shoulder to the poor boy; telling him to hurry up and look both ways; bundling him into the car and driving off. What a nightmare she was. No wonder Marcus was unhappy.

A very few times, it was Marcus himself who came to pick the boy up, and Liz would watch wistfully as he marched in and marched straight out again. No hanging around. No time for her to run downstairs and pretend to be passing the classroom. Sometimes she longed to tap on the window, like an imprisoned princess, and see him look up at her; see his smile of delight. But she never did. She would watch as he drove smartly off, then leap up, ready to be engaged in some other activity, far away from the window, when Jonathan came in.

Now she pulled her bracelet out from under her sleeve, and stared at it, turning it this way and that under the light. She wanted more of this, she found herself thinking. More of him. She deserved more. She leant back in her chair, and stared up at the ceiling. Strange thoughts were circulating in her head. Thoughts which had appeared vaguely at the back of her mind before but which she had never articulated. What would she do, she found herself asking herself, if Marcus ever asked her to leave Jonathan and come and live with him in wealthy bliss?

Well, of course, he never would, a loud voice inside her mind rudely told her.

Yes, but what if he did? What if he begged? After all, he’d almost hinted at it already. She remembered with a tremble of pleasure his voice, his exact words in that horrible hotel room: ‘All this lying is getting to me.’ What if he said he’d had enough of deception; he couldn’t live without her? A scene popped into Liz’s head; an image of Marcus entreating her, desperately; arms outstretched, telling her he loved her more than anything else. Telling her that he wanted to walk down the street with her, arm-in-arm, in front of the entire world. That he would be honoured to make her his wife. A glittering feeling of pleasure and excitement fluttered up her body. It was a bit unlikely . . . but it was still possible. Utterly possible. After all, men did leave their wives. They did marry their mistresses. And unlikely things did happen. A year ago, she’d never have thought she would have an affair, and now, look, she was in the middle of one. Incredible. And who knew what could happen next?

Beguiling images entered her mind: of herself, sweeping into a shop full of designer clothes; choosing items for a packed social diary; putting down a charge card on the counter with an air of nonchalant confidence. Or cooking supper for Marcus in an expensively designed kitchen, with terracotta tiles and dried flowers hanging from the ceiling; opening a bottle of rich red wine; leaving the washing-up for the cleaner to put in the dishwasher. They would retire to a thickly carpeted bedroom. With an
en suite
bathroom. Two glossy cars parked in the drive outside. No more work; no more worry. Nothing to do each morning except wake up.

There was a sound at the door, and Liz jumped.

‘Oh hi,’ said Alice, coming halfway into the room and stopping. She screwed up her face and blinked at Liz. ‘It’s a bit bright in here, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ said Liz vaguely. She looked at Alice’s scruffy form, and saw her in a year or two; hair longer and glossy; dressed in casually elegant clothes; conversing with guests across a gleaming dinner table. Smiling at Marcus as he poured her half a glass of wine. She would be able to have her own car as soon as she learnt to drive. She would go to a smart school for her sixth form. Perhaps even be a deb . . .

‘What we should have,’ said Alice with more animation, ‘is lamps. Like, really soft lamps everywhere. With cream shades. Not this old thing.’ She gestured to the beige ceiling light-fitting disparagingly. Liz stared at Alice blankly for a while. Then a look of realization passed over her face.

‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘your friend Ginny has lamps everywhere.’ Alice shrugged, and went slightly red.

‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘A few. One or two.’ She looked around as though to find a new subject. ‘What’re you doing?’ she said eventually.

‘Planning courses for the tutorial college,’ said Liz briskly. She picked up her pen and began to write a series of meaningless sub-headings on her page; fruitlessly numbering and underlining them; anything to give an air of industry. Alice watched silently for a few minutes. Then, with a sigh, she felt around in the pocket of her jacket. She paused, then slowly, reluctantly, withdrew a white envelope.

‘This is for you,’ she said.

‘For me?’

‘Both of you,’ said Alice discouragingly. ‘It’s an invitation,’ she said, as Liz pulled out the card. ‘You don’t have to come,’ she added.

‘We might want to come!’ Liz looked up at Alice. ‘How nice of them to ask us. But won’t we be too old?’ Alice struggled briefly with a desire to say, Yes, you will.

‘Not really,’ she admitted eventually. ‘There will be some oldies there. Like the people Ginny works with.’

‘We’re not exactly oldies,’ began Liz. Then she stopped. ‘Do you mean people at Witherstone’s?’ she said.

‘Dunno. Yes. God, I don’t know!’

‘You know, our house was let to Ginny and Piers through Witherstone’s,’ said Liz, more for her own amusement than anything else. Alice’s bored face remained motionless. ‘Mr Witherstone himself organized it. Marcus, I think his name was. Marcus Witherstone.’ She could hardly believe she was saying his name aloud in her own sitting-room. A dim light came into Alice’s eyes.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I think he’s been invited. Somebody Witherstone.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, you’ll probably be too busy or something,’ she said hopefully.

‘On the contrary,’ said Liz. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ She balanced the white card carefully on the pale blue tiles of the fireplace and stood back to admire the effect. ‘I’m looking forward to it very much.’

In the next three weeks, Jonathan took twenty-three calls enquiring about Common Entrance and scholarship coaching. By the time Daniel came for his last session, two regular after-school classes had been set up, containing most of his form-mates, as well as assorted other eleven-and twelve-year-old boys whose mothers had heard on the grapevine about the Silchester Tutorial College.

Jonathan was in his element. The boys were, by-and-large, an intelligent bunch, he had explained to Liz, which meant that there was something there worth working with. And several of them were extremely promising. Several of them might well win scholarships to major schools. The only slight disadvantage with teaching such clever boys was the high expectations of the parents. They hung around after every class with questions, comments and complaints pouring off their lips, until eventually he had to make a system of consultation appointments—for which, he told Liz, he charged a reasonable fee for his time. All in all, they should do very nicely out of it. And if any of the boys did well—it could only help their reputation.

Liz nodded lackadaisically while he told her all this. She could see that the Common Entrance coaching was a triumph; she had looked at the burgeoning lists of pupils, and could appreciate what it would do for their figures. Barbara Dean would no doubt be thrilled. But still Liz could not drum up any enthusiasm for the tutorial college. It was still a burden. It was still mortgaged up to the hilt. They were still under instructions to sell the house in Russell Street. They were still going to be poor for ages and ages before they started making a decent profit.

In her own mind, she was no longer associated with any of it. She was above the sordid workings of banks and loans and mortgages and repayments. She was on another, more comfortable, more carefree level. Or at least . . . she would be. She would be soon. It now seemed to her that during these last few weeks she had simply been marking time; before long, her real life would begin. She looked kindly at Jonathan as he explained his small success; perused obediently the figures that he thrust before her. But it all seemed irrelevant and footling. A hundred pounds here and a hundred pounds there. When Marcus regularly paid much more than that simply for a night in a hotel room.

She hadn’t seen Marcus since Christmas. That wife of his was obviously becoming more demanding. Poor Marcus. Liz had never met Anthea, but from what Jonathan said, she seemed a neurotic woman; half-blind with love for Marcus no doubt, and beginning to sense that something was wrong. Liz thought of Marcus at home, trying to reassure his nervy, possessive wife, and shivered. It was no good. Things would have to be put straight soon. They couldn’t go on snatching meetings in secret like this. Their relationship was going to have to be put on a different footing. Exactly what, Liz wasn’t sure, but she had a strong, certain feeling in her stomach that things were coming to a head. She would see Marcus at the party. If she got the chance, she thought, she would talk to him about it all then.

Ginny couldn’t believe her ears.

‘What?’ she exclaimed, and stared at Piers in outrage, as though it was his fault.

‘They said it was some admin problem,’ said Piers, attempting to sound cheerful. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘It does mean something! They can’t just mess you around like this! What’s wrong with tomorrow?’ Piers shrugged.

‘Dunno. They didn’t say. Maybe the chief honcho’s busy.’

‘Honestly!’ Ginny pushed a hand exasperatedly through her hair. ‘I thought it was just a formality. I mean, you’ve got the part. They’ve said they like you. Whoever this bigwig is, he’s not going to go against the producer, is he?’ Piers shrugged again.

‘Who knows?’ he said, in deliberately flat tones. Ginny stared at Piers, suddenly deflated.

‘But next week’s the party,’ she said hopelessly. ‘You can’t do an audition on the same day as the party.’

‘Of course I can,’ said Piers. ‘Easy. We’ll get everything ready the night before.’

‘But—’

‘What?’ Ginny stared at Piers silently. She couldn’t tell him that her secret plan had been to announce the news of the part at the party; that she had envisaged buying herself a stunningly expensive dress for the occasion; that she wanted everything to be in the bag
this
week, not next. ‘I just think it’s really bad, that’s all,’ she said eventually. ‘They should treat you with more respect. I mean, what if you hadn’t been free next week?’