A Desirable Residence (31 page)

Eventually she told Alice to look in the mirror. Alice stared at herself in agreeable surprise. She couldn’t put her finger on what was different, but her face seemed much brighter than usual. Even her hair looked shiny.

‘Go and put on your dress,’ said Liz, beaming at her. ‘You’re going to be the belle of the ball.’ Alice stared at her mother. Usually she told Alice she was too young to be wearing such a lot of make-up. But today she seemed really keen for Alice to wear it. And actually, thought Alice, looking more carefully at her mother’s face, she herself was wearing a lot more make-up than she normally did.

‘You look nice,’ she offered. ‘Your make-up.’

‘I had it done at Sedgwick’s,’ said Liz gaily. ‘At one of the counters.’ Alice stared at her mother, flabbergasted.

‘You sat on one of those little chairs? In front of everybody?’

‘Yes,’ said her mother. ‘Why not? It’s free. And I can’t afford to buy all those expensive things myself.’ Not yet, anyway, she added to herself.

When Alice had disappeared to her room, Liz pulled out her new party clothes from the wardrobe. She dressed carefully, brushed her hair until it was gleaming, and then looked at herself appraisingly in the mirror. Was it her imagination, or did she already give off a slight veneer of being well-to-do? Was she picking up Marcus’s confident bearing; his easy manner with luxurious things? She walked up and down a few times in front of the mirror, admiring the way her new silk shirt skimmed gracefully over her trousers. All her bulges seemed magically to have disappeared.

When Jonathan knocked on the door, she looked over unhurriedly, and in an elegantly enquiring voice, said, ‘Yes?’

‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ said Jonathan, heading for his bedside cabinet and picking up a book. He turned back and looked admiringly at Liz.

‘You look wonderful!’ he said. As if you’d know, thought Liz scathingly. ‘I’ve just been speaking to Daniel Witherstone’s mother,’ added Jonathan. ‘I haven’t managed to get through to Geoffrey yet.’

‘Oh, what, this scholarship thing?’ Liz paused. ‘What time are you phoning the . . . the parents?’ she asked carefully.

‘I’m not. They’re coming here. It turns out they’re going to this party too.’ Jonathan smiled at Liz. ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it? Mrs Witherstone said they’d be able to give us a lift. But they’re very keen to find out the result first.’

‘Oh gosh,’ said Liz. Her heart began to flutter. She didn’t want to see Marcus yet. Not here. Not with his wife.

‘Actually,’ she said rapidly, ‘it’s probably more sensible if Alice and I go separately.’ A stroke of inspiration hit her. ‘After all, we’ll need to have the car there to get back.’

‘That’s true,’ said Jonathan thoughtfully. ‘And, now I think about it, I didn’t mention Alice. There may not be room for all of us.’

‘I shouldn’t think that would be a problem,’ said Liz tersely. ‘I mean,’ she amended, ‘that Witherstone boy seems to get picked up in huge cars. They seem pretty well-loaded to me.’ She lay the statement down like a challenge. Jonathan shrugged.

‘I guess they are.’ Liz looked at him crossly. Wasn’t he even going to express the smallest amount of jealousy?

‘In fact,’ she said, ‘I can’t think why they need a scholarship at all.’

‘It’s not just the money,’ said Jonathan mildly. ‘A scholarship to Bourne is very prestigious in academic terms. That’s partly why I’m staying behind to telephone. I’d very much like to know how young Daniel has done. You know,’ he looked at Liz, ‘if he does well, it could be very good for us. For the tutorial college. News travels fast in Silchester.’ But Liz wasn’t listening. She was suddenly anxious to be gone, before Marcus and Anthea rolled up in their smart car and smart clothes and smart veneer of togetherness.

‘OK then,’ she said. ‘You come along later.’ She picked up her bag, and went out onto the landing. ‘Alice,’ she called, ‘are you ready yet?’ Jonathan sighed. He looked at her clothes strewn in careless haste around the room. He picked up a crumpled shirt and gazed at it. Then he shrugged, threw it back onto the floor where it had lain, followed Liz out, and stopped in amazement. Alice was coming out of her bedroom, looking like a twenties flapper in a short, flirty dress and dark-lashed, shining eyes.

‘You look beautiful!’ said Jonathan with conviction. ‘Really stunning.’ His eyes rested on her Doc Martens. ‘I take it those are part of the ensemble?’ he added humorously.

‘Yeah,’ muttered Alice. She looked at him, at his battered grey trousers and faded shirt. ‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ she began in alarm.

‘No,’ said Jonathan patiently. ‘I’m going to change. Don’t worry, Alice,’ he added, in a light, toneless voice, ‘I won’t embarrass you in front of your friends. I’m not going to come as a duck.’ He tried to catch her eye, but Alice flushed and looked away. Liz, who had been applying a last coat of lipstick and not listening, looked up.

‘Right, come on, Alice,’ she said. ‘See you there, Jonathan.’ And with a schoolgirl-light step, she hurried down the stairs. Alice followed slowly, dragging her feet, half wanting to smile at her father and say, ‘See you there!’ and half hoping he would decide at the last minute not to come. She turned at the bottom of the stairs, and looked up, thinking she could compromise by saying a friendly, ‘Goodbye!’ But he had gone.

When Alice and Liz arrived at twelve Russell Street, the lights were on, and music was pounding through the walls. Liz hesitated momentarily.

‘Is this my sort of party?’ she said, more to herself than Alice.

‘Of course it is! Come on!’ Alice looked crossly at Liz. She was feeling a bit nervous, too, and didn’t need her mother making her feel worse.

But when Duncan opened the door, suddenly everything seemed OK. He was dressed, like Liz, in a red silk shirt, with rosy cheeks to match. Music flooded out and around him like a warming wave of water, and he kissed each of them elaborately before allowing them past the threshold.

‘Welcome, welcome!’ he exclaimed. ‘Some honest Silchester residents! You’re the only people from Silchester so far,’ he added in a stage whisper.

‘Who are all those people in there, then?’ asked Alice, giggling.

‘Horrible Londoners,’ replied Duncan confidingly. ‘Not our sort at all. But they insisted on coming, so what can you do . . . ?’ As he led them into the crowded sitting-room, Liz looked at Alice and laughed.

‘He’s quite a character!’ she said, raising her voice above the music.

‘I know,’ said Alice, feeling suddenly superior. These were
her
friends. She looked around for Piers. But although there were plenty of men in the room who looked a bit like Piers, he didn’t seem to be one of them.

‘Hello, you two!’ Ginny bore down on them, eyes glittering. ‘Have a drink! Have two!’ Alice looked at Ginny uncomfortably.

‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ she began.

‘Oh that!’ Ginny waved her hand rather manically in the air. ‘No problem! No problem!’ She grinned fiercely at Alice.

‘What happened? At the audi . . . meeting?’

‘They’re still in conference,’ said Ginny airily. She thrust the bottle she was holding at Alice. ‘Here, help yourself. I must just go and say hello to my business partner.’ She strode off, and Alice looked at Liz helplessly.

‘Well!’ said Liz. ‘What’s with her? Is she on drugs?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Alice puzzledly. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong. She’s not normally like that.’

Ginny felt as though she was about to fall over the edge. As she swooped down on Clarissa, glamorous even in pregnancy, shrieked over the sight of her swelling stomach with unbearable gaiety and engaged in the obligatory treble kiss, her eyes were darting feverishly around the room. She wanted to scream. Bloody Duncan seemed to have invited everyone they knew to this party, friends and enemies alike. They’d all come down from London in a convoy of cars, and all the property people were yelling about provincial house prices, and all the actors were asking if it was true that Piers was up for a part in
Summer Street
.

And still the phone hadn’t rung. For a while, Piers had come down and talked to people, always with one eye permanently on the telephone, parrying questions about
Summer Street
until people gave up. Now she didn’t know where he was. And that bloody little Alice, with her dowdy mother, turning up and asking so blatantly about the audition. If she’d asked any louder, somebody might have
heard
. Ginny looked across the room at Alice, already being chatted up by some flash London friend of Clarissa’s, and suddenly regretted having been so confiding with her. One way and another, she had basically told Alice everything—about the audition, about Piers’s career, even about wanting to start a family, for Christ’s sake. She’d told all her secrets to a bloody
schoolgirl
. It was too much.

Alice looked over at Ginny and wished that she would come across and talk to her. The man she was talking to had a balding head and a pony-tail and looked really old and gross, but he kept trying to make out to Alice that he was really cool, and going on about what labels were in and had she been to any gigs recently? She’d already told him that she couldn’t afford to go to gigs, she was only fourteen, but he didn’t seem to understand. And now he was talking about club life in New Orleans. What did she know about New Orleans? She really felt like having a cigarette, but no-one else seemed to be smoking and it would be really obvious if she started. Perhaps, in a minute, she could get away and have one in the garage. If she could make sure her mother wouldn’t see her. Alice hadn’t acknowledged her mother’s existence since those first few minutes of the party. It was bad enough only being fourteen. But having your
mother
at the same party . . .

As Marcus pulled the car up in front of the tutorial college, Anthea suddenly clutched his arm.

‘Perhaps we should wait,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should just let them phone us.’ Marcus looked at her. Her face was drained of all colour, except for two patches of blusher carefully applied earlier in the evening.

‘Come on,’ he said comfortably. ‘Now we’re here, we might as well know.’

‘I can’t bear it,’ whispered Anthea. Marcus leant over and kissed her neck.

‘Whatever happens,’ he said, ‘we love Daniel and we love each other. Don’t we?’

‘Yes,’ faltered Anthea.

‘Well then,’ said Marcus, ‘nothing else is really important. Come on!’ And he opened the car door.

Jonathan was waiting for them. He had just tried Geoffrey’s number, only to be rewarded with the engaged tone.

‘I’ll give him a couple of minutes, then try again,’ he said. He looked at Anthea, in her smart coat and sheer tights; at Marcus, solid and opulent. He swallowed.

‘Could I offer . . . ?’ he began. ‘Could I offer either of you a drink?’

As they entered the flat, Marcus looked about him with an appalled fascination.

‘It’s not much,’ called Jonathan from the kitchen, ‘but it keeps us warm. Here!’ He ushered them into the sitting-room and poured out three little glasses of sherry. Anthea sat down delicately on the sofa; Marcus strode to the far corner of the room. It only took him three strides. He couldn’t believe the cramped size of the rooms in this little flat; the awkward corners and the dingy atmosphere. No wonder Liz was miserable here.

‘I’ll have another go, shall I?’ said Jonathan cheerfully. ‘The phone’s out on the landing.’ As he left, Marcus looked at Anthea for a reaction similar to his own. But she was staring broodingly into space.

‘Delicious sherry,’ he said out loud. ‘Could I have a top-up?’ He suddenly wanted to see more of this grim little dwelling.

‘Help yourself,’ said Jonathan. ‘In the kitchen.’

The kitchen seemed, to Marcus, even worse than the sitting-room. He peered at the Formica counter; noted the packets of breakfast cereal on the side, and wondered which mug was Liz’s. But then Jonathan’s voice galvanized him.

‘Hello, Geoffrey? Jonathan Chambers here.’

Marcus couldn’t bear to listen. He rejoined Anthea in the sitting-room and closed the door.

‘If it’s bad news,’ he said rapidly to Anthea, ‘try not to be too disappointed. Especially to Daniel. I mean, he worked bloody hard for it. He worked as hard as he could. And it’s not the end of the world, is it? It’s not . . .’ He stopped abruptly.

‘I see,’ Jonathan was saying. ‘Well, thanks very much, Geoffrey. Thanks for letting me know.’ Marcus and Anthea looked at each other. A premature feeling of disappointment began to spread over Marcus’s chest, and he gave Anthea a broad smile to compensate for it. She looked at him mutely, pale and shaking.

The door opened. Jonathan stood, a curious expression on his face.

‘Your son,’ he began. Anthea gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Your son,’ he continued slowly, ‘has been awarded the honour,’ he swallowed, ‘the honour . . .’ There was a short agonized pause. ‘Of this year’s top scholarship to Bourne College.’

When she saw Marcus arriving at the party with Jonathan and Anthea, Liz didn’t move. She carried on her conversation with the rather dull young surveyor who had offered to get her a drink, and waited for Marcus to come to her. She knew he would come to her. It was inevitable; part of the power she had over him. So she relaxed into her chair—literally her chair, it suddenly occurred to her, since she was the one who had bought it—and greedily drank her glass of wine, and laughed loudly at the young surveyor’s jokes, and waited.

And when Marcus caught her eye over the nodding, bobbing heads of Ginny’s friends, and jerked it surreptitiously towards the garden, she smiled to herself in confirmation, and left it a full three minutes before she interrupted the young man’s lecture on subsidence. As she made her way towards the back door, she was careful not to catch the eye of Jonathan. She didn’t want to have to talk to him; introduce him as her husband; adopt the wifely role. She was beyond all of that.

She had expected that Marcus would catch her in a desperate embrace as soon as she appeared outside. It had, after all, been weeks since their last union. But instead, he hissed, ‘What happened at the bank?’