A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,30

fix all this up.’

‘Not at all!’ Marcus waved the champagne bottle at her cheerfully. ‘All part of the service.’

‘But finding tenants so quickly!’

‘No trouble.’ He smiled at her, an easy, relaxed smile, and Liz gazed back in admiration. She wanted him to keep talking; to transfer some of his effortless assurance to her; infuse her with the same airy confidence. He was holding his bottle of champagne with an impressive casualness; no doubt he would be the sort to open it with one deft movement and not a drop spilled.

Marcus saw Liz’s eyes on the bottle, and gave a start of recollection.

‘What am I doing still holding this?’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s for you!’ Liz’s fingers closed over the cold bottle neck in bewilderment. ‘It’s a new custom at Witherstone’s,’ he explained. ‘A bottle of champagne for every sale.’

‘But . . .’

‘In your case, since we failed so dismally on the selling front, I thought this could count.’

‘Goodness!’ Now Liz felt even more noticeable. Russell Street wasn’t the sort of place where champagne bottles passed without comment. Nor strange men in expensive cars. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. He’s not a strange man, he’s an estate agent. She eyed Marcus surreptitiously. But in his smooth tweed jacket and polished shoes, he looked nothing like an estate agent. He had resumed his leaning position against the gate, eyes narrowed against the wind. From where Liz was standing, his broad shoulders obscured completely her view of the front door. His hand rested confidently on the front wall. She didn’t quite dare look at his face.

A few moments’ silence passed, and Liz began to feel awkward. She cast around in her mind for something to say.

‘That’s a very smart car,’ she ventured at last, then immediately chastised herself. Oh what a boring, unsophisticated remark. But Marcus turned and looked at his car in agreeable surprise, as though he’d never really noticed it before.

‘Nice model, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I do prefer it to the new one, I think.’ He looked questioningly at her, as if expecting her to disagree. But Liz was stumped by the subject of car models. She transferred the freezing-cold bottle from one hand to the other and wondered what she could say next.

‘I wonder where Ginny is.’ Marcus looked at his watch and smiled apologetically at Liz. ‘I’m sorry to keep you hanging around like this. If you’d rather go, and leave it to another day, I’m sure Ginny would understand.’

‘Oh no,’ said Liz breathlessly. ‘I mean, I might as well wait, now I’m here.’ She looked at her own watch. ‘It’s only quarter past.’ She put the champagne bottle on the pavement and rubbed one icy palm against the other. Despite the over-bright sunshine, the afternoon air was getting colder and colder, and a chill breeze had begun to blow. ‘But if you like,’ she added slowly, ‘we could always go and wait inside the house.’

‘Of course we could! Why didn’t I think of that?’ Marcus suddenly took in Liz’s ungloved, chafing hands. ‘You look freezing!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m terribly sorry, keeping you out here. Of course we should be waiting in the house.’ He pushed open the gate and led the way up the path.

Liz groped in her pocket for the doorkey. She felt automatically for the ridges as she pulled it out, put it in the lock and heaved up before turning in one, seamless, unthinking movement. The door swung open with the familiar creaking moan that she’d stopped noticing years ago; the smell of floorboards came rushing out at them, and Liz, to her utter horror and surprise, burst into tears.

At four o’clock, Alice came silently into the kitchen, opened the fridge and took out a yoghurt. She reached past Jonathan, who was pouring out a cup of tea, to get a spoon from the drawer, and he jumped in surprise.

‘Alice! Just in time for tea.’

‘I hate tea.’ Alice hovered noncommittally by the door, unable to decide whether the indignity of staying in the kitchen with Jonathan was worse than the aloneness of taking her yoghurt off to her bedroom. She watched as he carefully poured milk into his cup, put the bottle back in the fridge and wiped the surface with a jay-cloth. Both her parents, she had noticed, were always cleaning this kitchen, and sweeping crumbs off the floor and arranging the mugs neatly. As if they could make it look any nicer by keeping it tidy. In their old kitchen at Russell