A Desirable Residence (26 page)

‘I suppose your scholarship must be quite soon,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why Bourne has to have all its exams so long before the others. That was one reason why we decided not to sit Adam for the Bourne scholarship,’ she informed the assembled company. Daniel looked at her sternly. He knew it was because Mr Williams had told Adam the competition was too stiff and he’d do better to try for smaller schools. But there was no point saying things like that to mothers. They just got angry.

‘My scholarship’s in a couple of weeks,’ he agreed. He stopped, and looked cautiously at his mother. He had thought it absolutely amazing at first when she’d told him to keep his coaching a secret from the others at school. Then he’d realized it was just because she didn’t want everyone else having the same idea. But she was just going to have to put up with it. ‘My scholarship’s in a couple of weeks,’ he repeated. He looked around the faces impressively. ‘But I’ve been really well prepared for it.’

‘By Mr Williams,’ put in his mother quickly. ‘He’s so thorough—’ Daniel interrupted her.

‘With all my special coaching,’ he said in clear tones. ‘Special scholarship coaching.’

‘Special coaching?’ The mothers’ voices rose as one, in an outraged screech that carried right across the forecourt. Daniel looked over to the door of the school and winced. Some of the others from his form were coming out, and they’d absolutely kill him if they knew what he was doing.

‘Where?’

‘Who?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I go,’ said Daniel deliberately, ‘to the Silchester Tutorial College. I have Mr Chambers. He’s brilliant. I go every day,’ he added. ‘I’m going there now, aren’t I, Mummy?’

‘It’s not really coaching as such, is it, darling?’ said his mother in brittle tones. She looked at him furiously, then flashed a bright smile around the group. ‘More like supervised homework.’ Daniel thought for a moment.

‘We go through loads of exam papers,’ he said, smiling at Mrs Robertson, ‘and sometimes we do things that Mr Williams never told us about.’ He felt a fleeting pang of guilt towards Mr Williams as he said this. Mr Williams was definitely a brilliant teacher; Mr Chambers said he couldn’t be in better hands. But he had to say something like that to impress the mothers. ‘It’s the Silchester Tutorial College,’ he said again, just to make sure.

As his mother dragged him off to the car, he could hear a babble of talking break out behind him. Andrew was leaning against the passenger door, waiting for them, and he looked interestedly over at the gaggle of mothers.

‘What did she say?’ he mouthed at Daniel, jerking a thumb towards their mother.

‘Nothing,’ mouthed Daniel back. He hoped his mother wouldn’t mention it when they were in the car. But as soon as the doors were safely closed behind them, she turned round in her seat, a spot of colour on each cheek.

‘I told you, Daniel,’ she said, ‘not to tell everyone about your coaching.’

‘I didn’t tell everyone,’ said Daniel mildly. ‘I just told a few people.’ Anthea gave him an angry look, then turned round again and began to manoeuvre the car out of its parking space.

‘There are times,’ she said jerkily, ‘when it is better to be discreet. Do you know what that means?’ Andrew gave him an astounded look.

‘Did you tell the mothers about your coaching?’

‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ll tell you why later,’ he whispered.

‘What are you whispering?’ called Anthea sharply.

‘Nothing,’ called back Daniel cheerfully. He felt buoyed up and, for the first time in his life, impervious to Anthea’s anger. Somehow he just knew that he’d done a good thing. Whatever his mother thought.

Alice had not looked Jonathan properly in the eye since the ECO parade. Her initial shuffling guilt and embarrassment had gradually hardened into a shell around her, until she couldn’t see or think of her father without inwardly turning away. And usually outwardly, too.

It had been the worst Christmas Day she could remember. She’d left buying Christmas presents for her parents until far too late, and then she’d panicked and bought her father a huge book on birds that she couldn’t really afford. It was only when she saw it actually in his hands, half out of the wrapping-paper, that she realized why it looked familiar.

‘I’ll get you something else!’ she exclaimed, cutting across his thanks. ‘I forgot you had it already.’

‘Don’t be silly!’ her father retorted, opening the book and running his finger across the glossy pages. ‘This is a new edition. What a super present!’

But what good was a book that you’d already got? He was just being polite. And, obscurely, Alice resented it. She would almost rather he’d shouted at her. At least she could have shouted back. But her father never shouted. It was her mother who usually shouted. Except that this Christmas her mother had been on another planet. She’d forgotten to buy the crackers, so they had to do without, and she hadn’t joined in decorating the tree, and she’d hardly taken any notice of her presents.

Altogether, thought Alice, as she made her way that evening to Russell Street, Christmas had been a disaster. Not like bloody lucky Genevieve, who had just written her a letter, telling Alice all about their Christmas in the sunshine, by the swimming pool. It wasn’t fair. Their life out in Saudi sounded like one long holiday. Genevieve had sent Alice a photo of herself on Christmas Day, wearing a tiny white bikini, and looking really brown, with hair even blonder than before, and a huge smile. She suddenly looked all grown-up and glamorous, and when she’d first seen it, Alice had felt an extraordinary pang of envy.

But she had things to be envious of, too, she’d told herself. She’d already started her own letter back to Genevieve, starting, ‘Do you remember I told you about Piers? Well, guess what! He’s going to be in
Summer Street
.’ That would impress Genevieve, who was always going on in her letters about how crap the telly was in Saudi. To know someone who was actually in a soap opera was really cool.

But after she’d written that first bit, she stopped. Because it still wasn’t actually quite true. Ginny had told her that the first audition had gone brilliantly, and they’d loved Piers, but they had to see him again with the chief producer there, or something. That was in three weeks’ time. There wasn’t any doubt, really, that he was going to get it, Ginny had assured Alice. But these big television companies were always the same, she said. It took forever for them to make things official.

Until then, Alice supposed, it wouldn’t really be strictly right to say that Piers was definitely going to be in
Summer Street
. But she didn’t want to write anything less in her letter to Genevieve. So it lay, abandoned, on top of a pile of magazines in her bedroom, with a pale brown ring at the bottom where she’d put a cup of coffee down on it.

When she got to twelve Russell Street, she found Ginny in sparkling mood. She and Duncan were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking something that looked like mulled wine, and Ginny was writing out names and addresses on envelopes.

‘Have some!’ she said, gesturing to a saucepan gently steaming on the stove. ‘It’s Norfolk punch! Completely non-alcoholic!’

‘Oh, right,’ said Alice. ‘Thanks.’ She ladled some into a glass, and gingerly tasted it. ‘It’s nice!’ she said, in surprise.

‘Isn’t it?’ Ginny beamed at her. ‘I’m cutting back on alcohol completely. We drink far too much,’ she added, a slight flush coming to her cheeks. ‘It isn’t healthy.’

Duncan winked at Alice, who wondered what the joke was.

‘So, Alice,’ he said, ‘did you have a merry Christmas?’

‘Brilliant, thanks,’ said Alice automatically. ‘And you?’

‘Comatose, thanks.’ Alice giggled.

‘Isn’t it great about
Summer Street
?’ she said.

‘Don’t!’ commanded Ginny firmly. ‘We’re
not
going to talk about
Summer Street
! We’re going to talk about our party.’

‘Party?’ said Alice. Duncan slumped theatrically in his chair.

‘I come back here for some clean, quiet, country living,’ he complained. ‘And what do I find, but manic celebrations—’

‘It’s not a celebration,’ said Ginny sharply. ‘It’s just a party. To get to know some people in Silchester.’

‘What for?’

‘Duncan!’

‘We already know Alice. And the rest speak for themselves.’

‘The rest,’ said Ginny reprovingly, ‘are very nice people like Alice’s parents. Whose invitation is here.’ She searched through the pile, then looked up at Alice with a smile, and handed her two white envelopes. One was addressed to Miss Alice Chambers and the other to Mr and Mrs Jonathan Chambers. ‘D’you think your parents will come?’ she said. Alice shrugged.

‘Dunno.’ Not if I can help it, she thought.

Ginny looked around the kitchen, pen in hand.

‘This house’ll be great for a party,’ she said idly. ‘It’s got such a nice feel to it—’ She broke off, and suddenly turned to Alice.

‘Do you find it strange? Spending all this time in your old house?’ Alice stared back, confused.

‘I . . . I don’t know.’ She thought for a while. ‘It’s like it’s a different place. It’s like . . .’ She paused. ‘You know like when you go to a friend’s house, and it’s the same sort of house as yours, and you already know where the kitchen is, and where the loo is? You just kind of know it, even though you’ve never been there before? Well, it’s a bit like that.’ She gestured around. ‘I mean, your stuff ’s so different . . .’

‘Yes, but a lot of this furniture was yours,’ persisted Ginny. ‘Is yours, I should say. Doesn’t it make you feel a bit strange?’ Alice looked at the pine table, and, with a pang, suddenly remembered it at breakfast-time in the winter, covered with bowls and plates and boxes of cereal, and Ready Brek, and the toast rack, which always had one cooling piece of toast left in it that everyone ignored. And outside it was usually still dark, but the kitchen was always warm and light, and filled with the sound of the radio and her mother answering the presenters back. And there was always Oscar, mewing for attention and jumping up onto the table and being patiently scooped up and put back onto the floor before he got to any unguarded bowls of cereal.

She could feel a sudden stinging at the back of her eyes, and looked hastily out of the window. But there was the garden. Where they’d had birthday parties every summer until she was twelve and started taking friends to the cinema instead. Where they’d had a paddling-pool one year, and a tent another year, and, for a while, a dreadful second-hand swing that they’d bought from another family and that kept coming out of the ground when she swung too high.

For an awful moment, she thought she really was going to cry. But somehow, by staring straight up at the sky, and holding her breath, and digging her nails into the palm of her hand, she managed to get over the moment. When she was sure she was OK; when her eyes were nearly back to normal and she was breathing properly again, she turned back to Ginny, allowing herself to see only the lovely things of Ginny’s that she admired: the pottery jugs, the cast-iron recipe book stand, the weird chrome kettle; blocking out from her vision the old, familiar, memory-ridden bits of the kitchen. Let alone the rest of the house. Eventually she met Ginny’s eyes, and shrugged. ‘I don’t really ever think about it,’ she said casually, and took a sip of punch.

Ginny looked at Alice and felt a small rush of sympathy for her. How awful, to have to move out of the house where you’d grown up. When she and Piers had children, she found herself thinking, she would make sure they had a stable, happy family home, all their lives. A farm house, perhaps. Or a converted rectory. Or even a house in London like Clarissa’s new place . . .

Ginny had phoned Clarissa that morning to invite her to the party.

‘Ooh, yes, how lovely!’ Clarissa had gushed. ‘But I . . . I won’t be drinking! Guess what?’

Of course, she was happily pregnant. Of course, they had put in an offer on a large house with a garden in Kensington, and she was having a nanny, and was really hoping to go back to work straight away afterwards, but actually, it didn’t awfully matter if she did or not, did it?

‘I mean, Ginny, you can keep Prentice Fox PR going for me, can’t you? Until I’m ready to come back?’ As she listened, Ginny imagined Clarissa at her desk, twisting the telephone cord winsomely round her wrist, blooming in a designer maternity dress.

‘Actually, Clarissa,’ she found herself saying, ‘you never know. We were thinking we might have a baby, too.’

‘Really? Oh Ginny! That’s brilliant!’

‘Yes,’ said Ginny, feeling emboldened by Clarissa’s enthusiasm. ‘Piers has got this brilliant television part practically in the bag. Loads of money. It’s perfect timing.’

‘How thrilling!’ Clarissa’s voice came lisping beguilingly down the line. ‘Oh, Ginny, you are lucky to be married to an actor, instead of a boring old banker!’

‘I know! It’s so exciting.’ And Ginny had smirked and giggled for a few minutes, and felt a glow of fame and achievement and the exhilarating feeling that she’d taken a risky gamble, and won hands down.

Now her hands trembled slightly as she continued addressing envelopes. Piers in
Summer Street
. It felt so real; as though it had already happened. She almost thought he
was
in
Summer Street
; that she would turn on the television and there he’d be. She couldn’t imagine that it wouldn’t happen. Piers was going to get that part. He had to. It was just a question of waiting.

Later on that night, Liz sat at the table in the sitting-room, pretending to go through her plans for the modern languages department at the tutorial college. A pile of notes was in front of her, and she’d written ‘Course Subjects’ at the top of her pad of paper and underlined it twice. But she hadn’t written anything underneath yet, and was now sitting, staring blankly ahead, filled with a dispirited torpor.

She had felt like this ever since the meeting at the bank. Blank; numb; lacking the energy to tackle any new projects; able only to keep day-to-day life ticking over. The tutorial college no longer filled her with a proprietorial excitement, but seemed suddenly an unwanted burden which she had inadvertently lumbered herself with.