A Desirable Residence (29 page)

‘Hello,’ he said, giving Alice a horrible sickly smile. ‘I’m Leo Francis. I’m a business associate of Marcus.’

‘Leo is a lawyer,’ said Marcus Witherstone quickly. ‘He handles some of our day-to-day transactions. Standard conveyancing. Ordinary stuff, really.’ Bo-ring, thought Alice. Her attention wandered over to a table in the corner, where the waiter had brought over a dish and was setting it alight. The flames flickered blue, and everybody at the table smiled, even the waiter. She wanted one of those, Alice decided. Whatever it was. And actually, she was feeling quite hungry. She looked up at her mother, waiting for her to say, How nice to see you, and move off. But her mother was still smiling at the boring estate agent man. ‘We’ve been buying clothes for the party,’ she was saying rather rushingly. Then, to Alice’s disbelief, she actually pulled open her carrier bag for the two men to look inside. Even Alice knew that men were never interested in clothes. Not even the clothes their wives wore. ‘You
are
going to the party?’ Liz said. ‘Piers and Ginny Prentice’s party?’

‘Yes, I think we are,’ said the estate agent, in tones of surprise. Then he suddenly scowled. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to be going,’ he said.

‘See you there, then!’ said Liz gaily. ‘See you there,’ she repeated slowly to his retreating back. Then she turned and looked at Alice with strangely bright eyes.

‘I tell you what,’ she said, ‘I feel like some champagne. How about you?’

As they walked into the foyer, Leo spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

‘That was a rather flustered display you gave there. Your mistress, is she?’

Marcus opened his mouth to make an angry retort. Then he closed it. He didn’t want to get into an argument with Leo. He didn’t want to communicate with Leo any more than he had to. He wanted Leo out of his life.

His thoughts slid comfortingly to the cheque for two hundred thousand pounds sitting in his inside breast pocket. That was some reward for his anxiety; his worry; the mess of the whole affair. But even now, even now he’d got the money and, as far as he could tell, was safe from discovery, he hadn’t changed his mind. He would never do it again. He’d told Leo over their Dover sole and beurre blanc that he could bloody well find someone else to put their professional reputation on the line next time.

Leo, of course, had spoken smoothly and reassuringly, then, when he realized that Marcus was serious, switched to a patronizing scorn. But Marcus didn’t care. Neither did he care that he was saying goodbye to what was, in effect, easy money. It simply wasn’t worth the risk. Two hundred thousand pounds—but what, he thought yet again, was he going to do with it? Pay the school fees? But there was a family trust already set up for that purpose. And anyway, he thought, smiling as he remembered Daniel’s excited face last night, if the scholarship exams had gone as well as everybody seemed to think, perhaps he wouldn’t be paying any school fees for Daniel. So what else? A country cottage? A house in France? But the rest of the family would want to know where he’d got the money.

The trouble with family money, their family money in particular, he thought, was that it was all so transparent; so well documented. They all knew exactly the sums of capital each other possessed; they all knew exactly how much the others had paid for their houses; they knew how the family firm was doing. It would be less scandalous to confess to being broke than to having sudden large amounts of unexplained cash.

Marcus felt a cold feeling at the base of his spine, as he imagined admitting everything to Miles; watching his honest face creasing into a horrified frown. Dear Miles, who valued family loyalty above almost anything else, who quite clearly wanted to believe the best of Marcus, whatever his suspicions were. Since that phone call on the day of the ECO parade, Miles had said nothing to Marcus about Leo Francis. And yet he must have been wondering, and worrying . . . Marcus shivered. At least some of this money, he suddenly thought fiercely, would go on a long boozy lunch at Le Manoir for himself and Miles. A good bottle of claret, brandy, the works. An all-afternoon job. Just like in the old days . . . the days before Leo. And before Liz . . .

‘Well, goodbye, Marcus,’ said Leo smoothly, as they were handed their coats. ‘Good to do business with you.’ Marcus nodded curtly, pulled on his herringbone coat, and hurried down the thickly carpeted stairs towards the exit of the restaurant. He suddenly wanted to get out of the place; to leave all of them behind. Leo, Liz, the lot of them. He could barely believe that he’d bumped into Liz like that. Christ knew what might have happened, what might inadvertently have come out. The thought made him shiver, and curse himself unreasonably. He shouldn’t have agreed to going to the restaurant in the first place. They should have met at Leo’s place instead. Really, he might have known he would bump into someone he knew, he told himself angrily. And he might have known it would be Liz.

He recalled Leo’s teasing comment, and felt a tingle in the base of his spine. Did Leo really suspect something? Had he guessed at the truth? And would he, out of some sort of malice, make his suspicions known to Anthea? Marcus suddenly, irrationally, pictured Leo picking up the phone; speaking to Anthea; smoothly insinuating and hinting, while Anthea’s bewildered frown got deeper and deeper. The bastard. He would fucking kill him if he said anything.

Then common sense took over. Leo hadn’t meant anything. He wouldn’t say anything. He had no reason to make an enemy of Marcus. As his steps took him further away from the restaurant; further away from the danger, Marcus was able to reassure himself that it had just been bad luck.

But the encounter had left him feeling wary and on guard. What if he bumped into her again? What if Anthea had been with him? She would have been bound to notice something, with Liz getting so flushed and animated. He recalled Liz’s pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, and shuddered. Once upon a time the sight of those would have made him excited, made him look forward even more to their next encounter. Now it just made his heart sink slightly. Obviously she thought everything was still the same between them. Didn’t she realize why he kept cancelling their meetings? Had she unwittingly misunderstood the message he was trying to give? Or even deliberately?

It came to Marcus that he had to make things plain to her soon, very soon. He couldn’t let her think things were going to carry on as they had done; couldn’t run the risk of bumping into her again before they’d got everything straightened out. It shouldn’t be too difficult, he told himself. After all, he reasoned, she had a husband to think about, just as he had a wife. A very nice husband, too.

Probably, he thought comfortingly to himself, as he reached his car and flicked the door open with his remote control, probably Liz was thinking the same as him. Probably she’d had quite enough of the affair, too. He thought back to her flushed cheeks. He’d probably got it all wrong. Probably she’d just been embarrassed to see him when she was with her daughter. He switched on the engine and relaxed back into his seat. What a fuss over nothing, he thought to himself. It was all going to be absolutely fine.

On the day of the party, Alice woke early. She got out of bed, put a sweatshirt on over her pyjamas, and padded into the kitchen. Outside the sky was grey and menacing, and the whole room looked even more depressing than usual. She looked at the clock. Seven o’clock. And today her morning started with a double free period so she didn’t have to be in school till ten. Normally she would have had a lie-in and then a leisurely breakfast in front of the television. But she was too excited to go back to bed. She wanted it to be this evening
now
.

She thought lovingly of her new dress, hanging up ready in her wardrobe, and her new, very expensive tights, and her new, purplish-brown lipstick that had taken an hour after school to choose. Ginny had said Alice could come round early, before the party, and she’d help her put on her make-up and do her hair. Alice was almost looking forward to that bit best. She adored people putting make-up on her, and fiddling with her hair, and she adored being in Piers’s and Ginny’s bedroom, which always seemed to smell of Ginny’s lovely scent and be full of new and interesting things. Sometimes she looked around when she was in there and could hardly believe that it used to be her parents’ bedroom, smelling of nothing in particular, and full of books and newspapers and clutter.

She wandered over to the kettle, automatically switched it on, and leaned against the counter, impatiently tweaking the electrical cord as though that would make it boil quicker. Twelve whole hours till the party. It was going to be unbearable. Then, with a sudden thrill, she remembered what else was happening today. It was Piers’s second
Summer Street
audition. Or whatever it was. Piers always talked of it as an audition, but Ginny always wrinkled up her nose and said, ‘It’s not really an
audition
, is it? More like a meeting.’ Alice didn’t really know what the difference was. But it was definitely happening today. They would be getting up earlier than usual, in time for Piers to catch the mid-morning train to London. Alice pictured them all—Piers, Ginny and Duncan—sitting round the breakfast table, making jokes about
Summer Street
, planning last-minute details for the party, and pouring out deliciously strong coffee for each other. She looked disparagingly at her own mug, ready for a spoonful of Nescafé. Suddenly she wanted to be there with them. It would be so cool, to drop in before school and wish Piers luck. Then, whenever
Summer Street
was on, she would be able to point to Piers on screen and say things like, ‘God, I remember the day he got the part. We were having breakfast together.’

She savoured the image for a moment, then switched the kettle off, and hurried back to her room. On the way, she passed her mother, coming, bleary-eyed, along the corridor.

‘The kettle’s hot,’ said Alice kindly. ‘I’m going out for breakfast.’ She registered with satisfaction her mother’s look of surprise, and then disappeared behind her door, to choose the least gross of her grey uniform skirts and put on as much eyeliner and mascara as she would be able to get away with.

When she got to Russell Street, she momentarily hesitated. She often dropped in on Ginny and Piers, but not on weekday mornings. Still, today was a special day, she thought to herself. And when she peered in through the kitchen window of number twelve, she was delighted to see them all there as she had imagined, sitting round the table, holding those gorgeous painted mugs, looking like something in an advert. Duncan caught her eye, and waved, saying something to Ginny and Piers. Ginny’s head immediately shot round. She didn’t look that pleased to see Alice; in fact, she was looking really tense. But Alice supposed that was just because of the audition. Meeting. Whatever.

‘You look wonderful!’ she said enthusiastically to Piers as he opened the kitchen door for her. ‘Really brown! How come?’

‘He doesn’t look that brown,’ snapped Ginny. ‘It’s just a bit of a glow. Just to liven him up.’ The sunbed had been her idea, and now a tingle of worry was growing in her stomach. Did he look too tanned?
Summer Street
was, after all, a very British soap opera.

‘Well, I think it looks brilliant,’ said Alice honestly. She stared at Piers. ‘And that blue shirt looks really good.’

‘This shirt is great,’ said Piers, tugging at it fondly. ‘I always do well in this shirt.’ He caught Ginny’s eye and grinned. For a moment her expression remained tense. Then suddenly she broke into a smile.

‘Sit down, Alice,’ she said, patting a chair. ‘Are you on your way to school?’

‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘I just thought I’d come and say good luck. Not that you need it,’ she added hastily.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Piers, grinning. ‘You can never have too much luck.’

He looked really good, thought Alice wistfully. Really good-looking and confident, just like a famous actor . . .

‘Have you had breakfast?’ enquired Duncan, standing at the stove. ‘Would you like my famous scrambled eggs?’

‘Yes please,’ said Alice joyfully.

‘And some coffee,’ added Ginny, passing her the cafetière. ‘Help yourself to a mug,’ she added, gesturing to the shelf behind Alice.

Afterwards, Alice couldn’t work out how it could have happened. One minute, she was grasping firmly hold of the handle of the cafetière and turning round in her seat to pick up her favourite mug with a mermaid painted on it. The next, Piers was yelling furiously, and clutching a sleeve dripping with hot coffee.

‘Alice!’ yelled Ginny and Duncan simultaneously. Then Duncan, seeing Alice turn very pale and then very red, added, ‘What a shame! Quick, Piers, off with that shirt. Is your arm OK?’

‘It’s fine,’ said Piers shakily. He gave Alice a smile. ‘Don’t worry!’

Alice stared at him in shattered disbelief.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. She looked at his wet, reddened arm in horror as he peeled back his sleeve. His shirt was stained brown in patches. She didn’t know what to say.

‘How could you do something so stupid?’ Ginny’s voice hit her ears like whiplash.

‘Ginny!’ Piers’s voice filled the kitchen with reproof. Alice shrank in her chair. She couldn’t believe she’d done such an awful thing. She should have stayed safely at home. ‘It’s not a problem,’ Piers was saying. ‘I’ll just go and change my shirt.’

‘But is your arm OK?’ Alice didn’t dare look at Ginny’s face. She sounded absolutely furious.

‘My arm’s fine,’ said Piers firmly. Alice risked a glance at him. His mouth was set straight, and his eyes were forebodingly dark.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

‘For God’s sake!’ said Piers in mock-irritation. ‘It’s not such a disaster.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better go and find another shirt.’

‘But that was your lucky shirt,’ wailed Ginny as he stood up.

‘Well, I’d better wear one of my unlucky ones then,’ said Piers evenly. Ginny sagged down into her chair when he had gone.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said brokenly.