A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,26

life of leisure. But she did want a house and a garden. And a few years at home, in which to have some children, and bring them up, and not feel that they couldn’t still afford nice clothes and food and the odd treat. Other people seemed to be able to manage it, she pointed out to herself, as she mounted the steps to the front door of the building. Other people had houses, with lots of room, and loads of children and still went on holiday every year.

But then, other people, a small voice whispered in her ear, weren’t married to actors.

By eleven o’clock, Piers had had a bath, got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and watched an hour of morning television. He was engrossed in a studio discussion on the subject of dangerous dogs when he heard the sound of the post thudding onto the hall floor. It was a sound which always foolishly made his heart leap, even though everything was done over the phone or fax these days.

He carefully strolled over to the pile, quickly established that there was nothing in it of any interest, and turned his attention to his weekly copy of The Stage. It was laughable to think there could be anything for him in it, of course, he thought, shaking it open. All the best parts were inevitably tied up, through the agent mafia in which his own agent, Malcolm, didn’t seem to figure. The familiar thought that he should really try to get himself a new agent flew briefly through his mind and then vanished, leaving behind a vague, lingering loyalty to Malcolm. After all, Malcolm had got him the part in Coppers. But that was too long ago now. Far too long. And, really, someone like him shouldn’t be having to scan the wanted columns at the back of The Stage.

To prove to himself that he wasn’t really reading it for the advertisements, Piers carefully turned to the front of the paper and began reading an interminable account of an in-house Equity row. Even when the phone rang, he looked up as though in annoyance at having been disturbed, glanced down at the page again, and finally got up and went over to the phone, still holding the paper.

‘Darling! Have you seen what I’ve seen?’ It was the unmistakable voice of Duncan McNeil, the only friend from drama college that Piers had kept up with. Short and camp and excitable, he lived around the corner from Piers and Ginny, just as he had done when they lived in Islington and also when they lived in Wandsworth.

‘It’s the zeitgeist,’ he had said plaintively, when they discovered he was planning to follow them for a third time. ‘Something inside me just said, “It’s time to move to Fulham.” All the best people live there, you know.’

Now his voice was even higher and more agitated than usual.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Piers patiently.

‘In The Stage. I take it you have received your requisite copy?’

‘Yes. And?’ In spite of himself, Piers felt his heart begin to beat more quickly. ‘Is there something interesting?’ he added casually.

‘Well, if you’re that blind, I’ll have to come and point it out to you myself. See you in a sec.’ The phone line went dead, and Piers turned feverishly to the back of the paper. He scanned each page of advertisements quickly, then turned back and scanned them all again. There was nothing remotely suitable for him. Fucking Duncan. This would be one of his stupid jokes.

The buzzer sounded, and he went to let Duncan in, feeling suddenly weary.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ he said sternly, as soon as Duncan’s bullet-shaped head appeared round the door.

‘Right here, dumbo.’ Duncan took the paper and pointed to a large box in the centre of the page. ‘All parts in new West End musical. Open audition next Monday and Tuesday.’

‘Yes, and have you seen what it says here? Strong dancing required, bring shoes and music.’ Duncan shrugged.

‘Oh well, if you’re going to believe everything they tell you . . . I thought I’d go along, anyway. I’ve never tried for a musical. It might be my forte.’ Piers looked meaningfully at his plump frame.

‘I thought you were serious,’ he said accusingly.

‘I was,’ protested Duncan. ‘I am. Well, half serious. Heaps of people in musicals can’t dance, anyway. We could always just shuffle around at the back together . . . OK.’ He broke off at the expression