A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,38
eyes shining. ‘Calm down,’ she instructed herself rather hopelessly, and she tried to adopt a relaxed expression. But a sparkling excitement was filling her body with pulsing adrenalin, and she could barely stand still.
Ever since Piers had first told her about the Summer Street part, she had tried desperately not to let him know how much she wanted him to get it. She had sat casually nursing a cup of cocoa while he and Duncan told her between them just how much Ian Everitt was reputed to earn, and how talentless he’d always been, and how they must be looking to recast and how perfect Piers would be. That evening, they had all been consumed with an air of hilarity; of boundless optimism and hope.
By the next morning, of course, Piers had completely changed his mind. They would probably get rid of the role altogether, he said gloomily; if they didn’t, there would be incredible competition; and the current producer hated him—he’d already once turned him down for something else. After several years of marriage to Piers, Ginny knew better than to contradict him or display unwanted optimism when he was in this mood. But in her own mind it was too late to go back. Her mind was entirely overtaken by the part; she could think of nothing else.
On the way to work the next day she’d calculated the mortgage they would be able to afford on that kind of salary, and she’d spent the rest of the morning looking through details of big country houses with a mounting exhilaration. Since then, she’d begun to scour the papers for mentions of Summer Street and its stars; had noted with a jolt the appearance of Ian Everitt among the guests at the latest minor Royal wedding; had gazed, consumed by envy and wishes, at a glossy colour spread of a female Summer Street star and her new baby.
‘That could be us,’ she said quietly to her reflection. ‘That will be us.’ Her reflection smiled back knowingly at her. She sat down on the edge of the bath, closed her eyes and briefly indulged in her favourite fantasy. She would switch on the television, she would hear that famous, catchy, unavoidable tune, she would see the familiar credits . . . and then she would see Piers on screen. A delicious, glowing sensation stole over her. He would be perfect. He would look gorgeous. He would steal the show. Thousands of people all over the country would fall in love with him.
But she wasn’t allowed to think about it too often. She had to be sensible. She knew the rules. If you want something too badly, you probably won’t get it. If you tell anyone you want it, you certainly won’t get it. Ginny stood up, took a deep breath and pressed her burning cheeks against the cold pane of the mirror. She had to cool down; calm down; put on a casual front. Piers already thought she mentioned Summer Street too much. She would have to be careful, stop herself from bringing it up. And it was especially important to be nonchalant tonight.
Oh God, tonight. She could hardly believe Duncan had had the nerve to invite Ian Everitt round. Only he could be so . . . so brazen. But perhaps he knew what he was doing. Perhaps this would turn out afterwards to be the night that changed everything. They would recall it when Piers wrote his autobiography. Oh God. Oh God. Stop thinking about it.
Ignoring the bounding feeling of excitement in her stomach, Ginny opened the bathroom door with a confident gesture. She sauntered to the banisters, looked down at the empty hall, and hummed a few throwaway lines of a cheerful tune; checking first that she wasn’t about to sing the theme to Summer Street. Then she walked unhurriedly and carelessly down the stairs, one casual foot after the other, swinging her hair unconcernedly; practising a nonchalant expression for the rest of the evening.
Alice didn’t discover that her lighter was missing until it was after supper and she’d gone to her bedroom for a quick cigarette out of the window. She patted the pockets of her jacket, then felt inside each one; first methodically, then with alarm. Her lighter wasn’t inside her jeans pockets, neither was it in either of the carrier bags she’d carried all the way back home. She must have left it in the garage.