A Desirable Residence (21 page)

As they moved off, shuffling in an unsteady mass towards the gates of St Catherine’s, Daniel felt as though he was going to expire with humiliation. He felt boiling hot and achy inside his owl head, and although he wasn’t actually crying, he knew that if anybody else addressed a remark to him, he would probably start.

It was just so unfair.
So
unfair. It had been Andrew who had been naughty. And it was Andrew who had got the reward of not having to look stupid. A painful shudder of injustice ran through Daniel and he eyed his mother’s back with a hateful resentment. He’d been the one who struggled into his owl suit, even though it was definitely too small; he’d been the one to do what his mother said. And it was he who was being punished.

He eyed Andrew, happily walking along, talking to Mr Chambers, secure in the knowledge that he didn’t look like a nerd. He was sure Andrew had torn that costume on purpose. Andrew always got what he wanted, even if it meant doing really naughty things; things which Daniel wouldn’t be able to bring himself to do. He didn’t ever seem to feel worried about being caught and he didn’t ever feel guilty. At least, not guilty like Daniel felt. Even when Andrew was in big trouble and really told off, he cried for a bit and then forgot about it. When Daniel was in trouble, it haunted him for days.
I’m disappointed in you
, his mother would say, and his heart would squirm inside him, and his chest would heave, and he would feel a slow, dull mortification creep over him.

As they turned into College Road, Andrew came dancing up to Daniel, who scowled at him before remembering that his face was hidden.

‘Mummy’s talking about your scholarship,’ said Andrew cheerily. ‘To Mr Chambers.’ Daniel’s heart sank. He didn’t want to be reminded of his scholarship. ‘She said if you didn’t win, you wouldn’t be able to go to Bourne,’ said Andrew. Daniel’s head jerked up.

‘Really?’ His voice shook slightly. ‘Daddy said it didn’t really matter.’

‘She said the fees were terribly high,’ reported Andrew. He gave a little skip, and stretched his yoghurt-pot beak out from his face on its pieces of elastic.

‘D’you think you’ll win?’ Daniel gave a hopeless shrug.

‘Dunno.’

‘Jack Carstairs says his brother is going to win it,’ said Andrew. ‘He says his brother can do long division in his head. Really big numbers.’

Daniel slouched down in his costume, feeling suddenly defeated.

‘When I’m in your form,’ said Andrew, suddenly slipping off his plastic beak and swinging it at his side, ‘I’m not going to do any scholarships.’ They passed a rubbish bin, and Andrew deftly slung the beak into it.

‘They’ll make you,’ said Daniel, without any conviction.

‘No they won’t,’ said Andrew confidently. ‘I bet you they won’t.’ He pulled a piece of chewing-gum out of his pocket and began to unwrap it. As he put it into his mouth, Anthea turned round.

‘Andrew!’ she called. ‘What are you eating? Is it chewing-gum?’

‘Yes, Mummy,’ called back Andrew politely. ‘One of the grown-ups gave it to me.’ Anthea gave a doubtful nod, and turned back again.

‘Did a grown-up really give it to you?’ said Daniel.

‘Yes,’ said Andrew. ‘A shopkeeper gave it to me after I gave him twenty pence.’ He began to shake with giggles and, against his will, Daniel found himself unable to help joining in.

Marcus felt bad about Daniel. As he drove out of Silchester, taking care to avoid the roads allocated for the parade, he told himself that he should have stepped in; battled with Anthea; prevented this charade with the costumes from going through. Daniel had looked utterly miserable as he got into Anthea’s car; as far as Marcus could make out, it was now only he who was having to wear the costume. Which certainly seemed unfair.

Hannah, like him, plainly thought the whole thing was ridiculous, and Marcus had caught her opening her mouth a couple of times as if to speak. But in the end she had obviously decided it wasn’t worth her sticking her neck out for. And he couldn’t blame her. If anybody should have said anything, it was himself.

A feeling of guilt assailed him as he parked the car in a side-street and began walking towards the hotel where he and Liz were to meet. If he’d volunteered to go along on the parade, he thought, perhaps he could have done something to cheer Daniel up. They could at least have gone out for lunch or something. He had a sudden vision of a joyful family lunch at the Boar’s Head in Silchester; of a happy, relaxed Anthea; of a smiling Daniel; of Andrew playing the fool and making them all laugh.

And instead of that he was here, meeting his mistress in a secret daytime assignation. It was a thought which had filled him with excited anticipation all week. But now his excitement was tempered by a sudden feeling of dismay. He looked distastefully at the chrome-and-glass doors of the hotel as he walked up to the entrance. It had always been his idea to use hotels for their meetings; to choose outfits which were big and impersonal and a fair way from Silchester. Now he regretted his decision. Hotel bedrooms were such sordid places. And today he felt rather sordid himself.

‘Afternoon, Mr Witherstone!’ Marcus turned in startled horror. Coming up the street behind him was a familiar, grizzled, anoraked man. ‘It’s Albert,’ the man added unnecessarily, as though Marcus couldn’t remember who he was. ‘You remember me! From the Panning Hall estate.’ Marcus flinched, and quickly looked around. No one he knew seemed to be in sight, thank God.

‘Hello, Albert,’ he said, trying to keep his voice brisk and business-like. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well indeed, thank you, Mr Witherstone,’ said Albert. He paused, and sniff ed loudly. ‘Haven’t seen you in Panning recently,’ he added. ‘Finished your work there, no doubt.’

‘Yes, my work there is finished,’ agreed Marcus shortly. He stopped. The entrance to the hotel was just ahead on his left. But he didn’t necessarily want Albert watching him go in. On the other hand, the less said about Panning Hall, the better.

‘So, how much was the place worth in the end?’ Albert’s voice rang cheerfully through the air, and Marcus jumped. ‘You don’t mind my asking?’ added Albert. Marcus’s heart began to beat faster. This was intolerable. He should have got away while he could. He should have ignored Albert altogether. He should have gone with Anthea and the boys on the ECO parade. He shouldn’t be here at all.

‘It’s just that a few of us in the village were wondering,’ Albert was saying.

‘Yes, well, I wouldn’t wonder if I were you,’ snapped Marcus. ‘It’ll be a while yet until we can finalize things. Strictly speaking, we shouldn’t even be talking about it.’ He looked impressively at Albert, as though with the full weight of the legal system behind him.

‘Oh really?’ Albert looked disappointed.

‘Yes,’ replied Marcus quickly. ‘And now, I’m going to have to go, I’m afraid. I have a meeting for which I’m already late. So nice to see you again. Goodbye.’ And he strode up the drive of the hotel without looking back at Albert, his heart thumping, and his face sweating, as though he’d survived some sort of near-accident.

Liz had already arrived at the hotel, and Marcus found her comfortably ensconced in front of the television, sipping a gin and tonic from the mini-bar. A tiny flash of irritation went through him. Of course, he was the one with money; he could hardly expect her to start paying the bills for these rooms. But the reticence which she had once touchingly displayed when it came to the mini-bar and phone and all the other extras had soon melted away. She was learning fast, he thought grimly. Then he chided himself. Was he begrudging his lover one simple gin and tonic?

‘Hello there,’ he said cheerfully, not quite having to force the smile to his lips. Liz got up and came towards him.

‘Hi.’ Her lips met his warmly and he felt himself relaxing. ‘Drink?’ She waved in the direction of the mini-bar with the gracious air of a hostess.

‘I think I’ll have a whisky.’

Liz picked up the remote control and turned off the television.

‘Marcus,’ she said seriously, ‘I’m afraid we’re in a bit of trouble.’

‘What?’ Marcus whipped round, open bottle in hand. He looked at Liz’s face and his heart plummeted. What was it now? Hadn’t he had enough trouble already? Several alarming scenarios appeared simultaneously in his mind. She was pregnant. Her husband had found out. Oh fuck. What was it? A vision of Leo’s corpulent face appeared inexplicably in his mind. It couldn’t be anything to do with
him
, could it? Was Albert’s appearance outside no coincidence? Were the police waiting in the lobby? Shit. Shit! He glanced warily at the door. ‘What do you mean?’ he almost whispered.

‘We got a letter from Brown’s this morning.’

‘What?’ Marcus gazed at her in incomprehension for a few seconds. Then his brow cleared. ‘You mean “we” as in you and your husband?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ Liz flushed. ‘Sorry. I should have made that clear.’ Marcus cracked a couple of ice cubes into his drink from the tiny plastic ice tray and came over. He took a huge slug of whisky. A comfortable sensation of warmth and relief spread through his body. But there still lingered a feeling of alarm.

‘Cheers,’ he said. He wandered over to the window and looked outside. ‘It’s a nice day,’ he said in almost accusatory tones. ‘Good weather for the parade.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Liz didn’t want to think about the parade. ‘Anyway, Marcus—’

‘Come here.’ His voice was peremptory, almost brutal. Liz flinched, but went over obediently to face him, first putting her drink down on the television set.

She said nothing when he started roughly unbuttoning her cardigan, without kissing her first. And she gave only a single, surprised cry when he pushed her down on the bed, pulling up her skirt, undoing his trousers and thrusting hastily into her without once meeting her eye.

Afterwards, he left her lying half-clothed on the bed, while he went to make himself another whisky. Liz eyed him warily. He was in a funny mood, and common sense told her to keep her mouth closed. But she couldn’t. She had to get this mortgage thing sorted out.

‘Marcus,’ she began again. She sat up and reached for her cardigan. It was chilly in the room, and, with the windows swathed discreetly in pale netting, rather gloomy. She suddenly craved a warm, crackling fire and a pot of hot, strong tea. But instead she padded over to the silent television and picked up her half-drunk gin. ‘Marcus, about this letter.’

‘What letter?’

‘The one we got from Brown’s. It’s about our mortgage.’

‘Oh yes?’ His tone was discouraging, but Liz pressed on.

‘There’s a new manager. She wants to see us. She wants to know why we were allowed two mortgages. What are we going to say?’ Marcus shrugged. He was feeling unhelpful.

‘I really don’t know,’ he said shortly. He drained his glass and opened a packet of peanuts.

‘But, Marcus!’

‘But what?’ He looked up impatiently. Liz stared at him, feeling a strange wariness. This was unfamiliar ground.

‘It was you that sorted it all out for us in the first place,’ she pointed out, in cautious, mollifying tones. ‘If you hadn’t phoned your friend, if you hadn’t pulled strings, they wouldn’t have let us keep the two mortgages. They would have made us sell the house. The house in Russell Street,’ she added, hoping this would trigger fond memories of their meeting.

Marcus picked up his drink and went into the bathroom. He turned on the taps of the bath and began discarding his clothes.

‘Marcus!’ Liz followed him to the door of the bathroom, not quite daring to go in.

‘What do you want?’ he snapped suddenly. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Well, you could phone Brown’s again,’ said Liz tremulously. ‘Speak to the person you spoke to before.’

‘He’s retired,’ said Marcus shortly. ‘I don’t know anyone else there.’

‘Oh.’ Liz paused. ‘So what can we do?’

‘I don’t know, all right? I’m not fucking God! Solve your problems yourself.’ He turned away and began to undo his cuff links.

Liz gazed mutely at his back, feeling a shocked panic swelling inside her. She’d been so sure Marcus would sort everything out; so confident in his powers. Above all, she’d really believed he would want to help her. But instead he seemed angry with her. For a moment she wasn’t quite sure what to do. She stood at the door, clutching the door frame, wondering in a dazed sort of way whether he’d had enough; whether, in a moment he’d tell her to go. As if she was some sort of call-girl.

A wave of intense misery ran through her, and she began to shake. Suddenly she hated him; hated herself; hated the whole horrible, sordid situation. She thought of Jonathan on his blameless, well-meaning parade; of his leaflets and his duck mask and his trusting smile; and a fat tear began to run down her face. More tears fell, splashing onto her hand, and suddenly she gave a huge sob.

Marcus whipped round.

‘Oh Liz,’ he said. His voice didn’t sound steady. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.’ At the sound of his voice suddenly sympathetic, Liz’s tears increased. Marcus came over, still half in his shirt, and put his arms round her.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ he murmured. He gently kissed her forehead.

‘It’s all right,’ snuffled Liz. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘Yes you should,’ said Marcus wearily. ‘It wasn’t that. It was . . . Other things.’ He looked at her. ‘All this lying is getting to me.’

‘I’m not sure afternoon meetings really suit us,’ volunteered Liz. ‘I feel really bad about being here.’

‘So do I,’ said Marcus. ‘Perhaps we should make an appearance at the ECO parade.’

‘Together,’ giggled Liz. ‘That really would look suspicious.’ She stopped abruptly. Perhaps that was a stupid thing to say. But Marcus’s face was still relaxed. He pushed her away slightly and looked into her eyes.

‘I’ll do what I can at Brown’s,’ he said seriously. ‘No promises . . .’

‘I know,’ said Liz humbly. ‘Thank you.’ She looked over his shoulder. ‘Your bath is full.’ Marcus reached over and turned the taps off. The room seemed suddenly very silent.

‘I can’t promise anything about Brown’s,’ he said. ‘But I can promise you one thing.’