A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,29

fish?’

There was silence. Alice sat down on the chrome stool and began to examine her fingernails. Liz turned her attention away from Jonathan’s thin, jersey-clad back, and gave Alice a wide, motherly smile.

‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘How was school?’

Alice pretended not to hear. She couldn’t stand it when her parents started asking questions. And that was the stupidest question of all. What was she supposed to say? There was nothing about school that was of any interest, except things her parents wouldn’t understand. She stared doggedly down, unconsciously grinding her teeth, waiting for the inevitable moment when she would have to give in, look up and reply.

‘Alice?’ Liz ruffled Alice’s silky dark bob, and Alice tried not to flinch. ‘We’ve had good news,’ she said gaily. ‘The agent’s found someone to rent the house.’

‘Oh, right.’ As Alice spoke, she felt as though the words were being torn from her. She tilted her face very slightly away from Liz, so that there wasn’t any danger of meeting her eye. Sometimes she felt as though she could hardly bear to occupy the same space as her parents.

‘I’m going to meet them tomorrow,’ Liz continued, in a tooloud voice. ‘The tenants.’

‘Tomorrow afternoon, wasn’t it?’ said Jonathan, carrying a jug of water past. ‘You know, I don’t have any teaching tomorrow afternoon. I could have gone. Alice, where are the knives and forks?’

‘Really?’ said Liz casually, watching Alice haul herself sulkily to her feet. ‘Oh well, it’s arranged now.’

The next afternoon, Liz twice found herself uttering complete gibberish to her students. When her first lesson was over, she dashed upstairs to the flat and threw her books down on the double bed in their gloomy bedroom. She went over to the window and stared at herself in the mirror. If she put on some make-up, she would look more attractive. But she might also look as if she’d made too much of an effort. Visions of well-groomed women who thought nothing of wearing full make-up every day went through Liz’s mind in quick succession, as though gliding past on a catwalk. But she had left it far too late in life to join their ranks. And, more practically, it was already ten to three. For a panicked instant she stared, immobilized, at her reflection. Her face was full of rosy colour, at least. And she had put in her contact lenses. And her hair would look all right if she gave it a quick brush in the car before she got out.

But as she turned into Russell Street, she saw the estate agent already leaning against the gate of number twelve. He peered at her car, then gave a cheery smile. Liz smiled back, and hoped he couldn’t see her hairbrush lying on the front seat. She parked neatly and quickly in front of the house in a series of familiar manoeuvres, lining herself up instinctively with the end of the brick wall that bordered their garden; opening the car door with automatic care, to avoid bashing it against the steeply rising pavement. Everything looked the same, she thought, getting out. It was almost as if she’d never left. Except that in front of her, gleaming obtrusively, was an expensive-looking Mercedes. And there, beside it, was Marcus Witherstone. He was holding a bottle of champagne.

‘Hello, Mr Witherstone,’ said Liz. She closed the car door and tried briefly to assess her appearance from a fleeting reflection in the window.

‘Please, do call me Marcus,’ he said, giving her his crinkle-eyed smile. Liz smiled back nervously.

‘And I’m Liz,’ she said, forcing herself to let go of the car door handle and walk forward naturally. A sudden picture of herself and Marcus standing together in the street popped into her head, and for the first time in her life she wondered what the neighbours would think if they were watching. Certainly, she felt very noticeable. The street seemed strangely empty, and her voice sounded thin and high to her own ears. She looked hurriedly away from Marcus and up at the house.

‘Well, this is it,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Marcus, kindly. ‘I suppose it’s a bit strange for you, letting out your old family home.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Liz. ‘But it’s better than selling it . . .’ She stopped, and blushed, suddenly remembering her outburst at the hapless Nigel. ‘I mean, we really did have to do something with it. But I prefer it this way.’ She gave Marcus a hesitant smile. ‘It was very good of you to