A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,82

things to be envious of, too, she’d told herself. She’d already started her own letter back to Genevieve, starting, ‘Do you remember I told you about Piers? Well, guess what! He’s going to be in Summer Street.’ That would impress Genevieve, who was always going on in her letters about how crap the telly was in Saudi. To know someone who was actually in a soap opera was really cool.

But after she’d written that first bit, she stopped. Because it still wasn’t actually quite true. Ginny had told her that the first audition had gone brilliantly, and they’d loved Piers, but they had to see him again with the chief producer there, or something. That was in three weeks’ time. There wasn’t any doubt, really, that he was going to get it, Ginny had assured Alice. But these big television companies were always the same, she said. It took forever for them to make things official.

Until then, Alice supposed, it wouldn’t really be strictly right to say that Piers was definitely going to be in Summer Street. But she didn’t want to write anything less in her letter to Genevieve. So it lay, abandoned, on top of a pile of magazines in her bedroom, with a pale brown ring at the bottom where she’d put a cup of coffee down on it.

When she got to twelve Russell Street, she found Ginny in sparkling mood. She and Duncan were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking something that looked like mulled wine, and Ginny was writing out names and addresses on envelopes.

‘Have some!’ she said, gesturing to a saucepan gently steaming on the stove. ‘It’s Norfolk punch! Completely non-alcoholic!’

‘Oh, right,’ said Alice. ‘Thanks.’ She ladled some into a glass, and gingerly tasted it. ‘It’s nice!’ she said, in surprise.

‘Isn’t it?’ Ginny beamed at her. ‘I’m cutting back on alcohol completely. We drink far too much,’ she added, a slight flush coming to her cheeks. ‘It isn’t healthy.’

Duncan winked at Alice, who wondered what the joke was.

‘So, Alice,’ he said, ‘did you have a merry Christmas?’

‘Brilliant, thanks,’ said Alice automatically. ‘And you?’

‘Comatose, thanks.’ Alice giggled.

‘Isn’t it great about Summer Street?’ she said.

‘Don’t!’ commanded Ginny firmly. ‘We’re not going to talk about Summer Street! We’re going to talk about our party.’

‘Party?’ said Alice. Duncan slumped theatrically in his chair.

‘I come back here for some clean, quiet, country living,’ he complained. ‘And what do I find, but manic celebrations—’

‘It’s not a celebration,’ said Ginny sharply. ‘It’s just a party. To get to know some people in Silchester.’

‘What for?’

‘Duncan!’

‘We already know Alice. And the rest speak for themselves.’

‘The rest,’ said Ginny reprovingly, ‘are very nice people like Alice’s parents. Whose invitation is here.’ She searched through the pile, then looked up at Alice with a smile, and handed her two white envelopes. One was addressed to Miss Alice Chambers and the other to Mr and Mrs Jonathan Chambers. ‘D’you think your parents will come?’ she said. Alice shrugged.

‘Dunno.’ Not if I can help it, she thought.

Ginny looked around the kitchen, pen in hand.

‘This house’ll be great for a party,’ she said idly. ‘It’s got such a nice feel to it—’ She broke off, and suddenly turned to Alice.

‘Do you find it strange? Spending all this time in your old house?’ Alice stared back, confused.

‘I . . . I don’t know.’ She thought for a while. ‘It’s like it’s a different place. It’s like . . .’ She paused. ‘You know like when you go to a friend’s house, and it’s the same sort of house as yours, and you already know where the kitchen is, and where the loo is? You just kind of know it, even though you’ve never been there before? Well, it’s a bit like that.’ She gestured around. ‘I mean, your stuff ’s so different . . .’

‘Yes, but a lot of this furniture was yours,’ persisted Ginny. ‘Is yours, I should say. Doesn’t it make you feel a bit strange?’ Alice looked at the pine table, and, with a pang, suddenly remembered it at breakfast-time in the winter, covered with bowls and plates and boxes of cereal, and Ready Brek, and the toast rack, which always had one cooling piece of toast left in it that everyone ignored. And outside it was usually still dark, but the kitchen was always warm and light, and filled with the sound of the radio and her mother answering the presenters back. And there was always Oscar, mewing for attention and jumping up onto the