A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,27

on Piers’s face. ‘I’m not entirely serious. Shall I make the coffee?’

‘There’s no milk.’

‘OK then, shall I pay for coffee?’

The Italian coffee bar which they always went to was beginning to fill up with young mothers and pairs of elderly shoppers.

‘Quick,’ hissed Duncan in a penetrating whisper. ‘Nab the window table before that old bat gets there.’ A few moments later, he came over to join Piers, bearing two frothy cups of coffee. Draping his leather jacket and scarf creatively over the two spare chairs at the table, he sat down, took a sip, then looked up, his top lip covered in a white moustache.

‘So, what’s new?’ he said.

‘We’re moving to Silchester.’ In his annoyance with Duncan, the words came out more brusquely than Piers had intended. He and Ginny had deliberately refrained from discussing their Silchester plans with Duncan, reasoning that it might upset him, that he might try to dissuade them, and that, anyway, it might not happen. Probably wouldn’t happen. Piers, in particular, was fairly ambivalent about the whole thing. Sometimes he thought it was all madness, to move away from London and the hub of the arts world; other times he imagined a carefree provincial existence, and reminded himself that they hardly ever went to the theatre in London anyway.

‘What?’ Duncan’s voice cracked slightly, and he gazed at Piers with a shocked expression. Piers reminded himself furiously that Duncan had always been good at the ashen, innocent-betrayed look.

‘It’s not definite yet,’ he said. ‘But we’re going down there to look at a house next week.’

‘I see.’ Duncan looked down miserably into his cup. Piers stirred his coffee awkwardly. Then Duncan looked up, with an expression of animation on his face.

‘Did you say Silchester?’ he said. ‘How extraordinary. I was thinking to myself only yesterday that if I ever moved out of London, it would definitely be to Silchester. Don’t you think that’s curious?’

‘Duncan . . .’

‘Really, I’ve never believed in coincidences, but this one is just incredible. Don’t you think?’

‘Incredible,’ said Piers, giving up. Time enough to tackle Duncan when the time came. If it ever came. He got up, to get another two coffees and a pair of almond croissants. When he got back to the table, Duncan clearly had remembered some gossip.

‘I take it you’ve heard about Ian Everitt?’ he said, before Piers had even sat down.

‘What about him?’ The intense jealousy which Piers had once automatically experienced whenever their old classmate’s name was mentioned had, over the years, fallen to a muffled pang. He could even watch him playing his part in the tri-weekly episodes of Summer Street without feeling his insides twist up in a morass of envy and regret and missed opportunity.

Ian Everitt was, like Piers, tall and dark and moderately good-looking. He had taken a tiny, short-term part in a fairly new soap opera, Summer Street, at about the same time that Piers had started on Coppers. But while Piers’s part had blossomed and then withered, Ian’s part had steadily grown and then been made permanent. Summer Street was now the most popular soap in the country, and Ian Everitt had reached exactly the heights of stardom that Piers had so closely missed. But the worst thing of all was that Piers had himself been offered Ian Everitt’s part, and had turned it down for Coppers.

‘Hollywood is calling his name,’ said Duncan.

‘What, films?’

‘Apparently. Rumour has it they think he’s going to be the next Hugh Grant.’

Piers snorted. ‘Oh, right. Of course he is.’ Duncan shrugged.

‘He’s leaving Summer Street in the spring.’

‘What are they going to do? Kill him off?’ Duncan was silent for a moment, chewing on a piece of croissant and running his spoon delicately around the rim of his cup.

‘Apparently,’ he said eventually, not looking at Piers, ‘they’re considering recasting the part.’

‘Shit.’ Piers gazed at Duncan for an incredulous second. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Word on the street. Or, rather, in the Duke’s Head.’

‘Oh shit. How can I find out?’ There was a short silence, during which Piers gazed distractedly around the coffee shop. When he looked back at Duncan, he saw a small grin beginning to form at his lips.

‘What’s the joke?’

‘I’ve just remembered something,’ said Duncan airily. ‘I always knew there was a good reason for reading Rural House and Potting Shed, or whatever it calls itself. Do you know where Ian Everitt’s charmingly decorated Georgian country home is located?’

‘Fuck knows.’ Piers looked impatiently at Duncan for a few seconds. Then his expression changed. ‘What? Not . .