A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,86

them; anything to give an air of industry. Alice watched silently for a few minutes. Then, with a sigh, she felt around in the pocket of her jacket. She paused, then slowly, reluctantly, withdrew a white envelope.

‘This is for you,’ she said.

‘For me?’

‘Both of you,’ said Alice discouragingly. ‘It’s an invitation,’ she said, as Liz pulled out the card. ‘You don’t have to come,’ she added.

‘We might want to come!’ Liz looked up at Alice. ‘How nice of them to ask us. But won’t we be too old?’ Alice struggled briefly with a desire to say, Yes, you will.

‘Not really,’ she admitted eventually. ‘There will be some oldies there. Like the people Ginny works with.’

‘We’re not exactly oldies,’ began Liz. Then she stopped. ‘Do you mean people at Witherstone’s?’ she said.

‘Dunno. Yes. God, I don’t know!’

‘You know, our house was let to Ginny and Piers through Witherstone’s,’ said Liz, more for her own amusement than anything else. Alice’s bored face remained motionless. ‘Mr Witherstone himself organized it. Marcus, I think his name was. Marcus Witherstone.’ She could hardly believe she was saying his name aloud in her own sitting-room. A dim light came into Alice’s eyes.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I think he’s been invited. Somebody Witherstone.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, you’ll probably be too busy or something,’ she said hopefully.

‘On the contrary,’ said Liz. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ She balanced the white card carefully on the pale blue tiles of the fireplace and stood back to admire the effect. ‘I’m looking forward to it very much.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In the next three weeks, Jonathan took twenty-three calls enquiring about Common Entrance and scholarship coaching. By the time Daniel came for his last session, two regular after-school classes had been set up, containing most of his form-mates, as well as assorted other eleven-and twelve-year-old boys whose mothers had heard on the grapevine about the Silchester Tutorial College.

Jonathan was in his element. The boys were, by-and-large, an intelligent bunch, he had explained to Liz, which meant that there was something there worth working with. And several of them were extremely promising. Several of them might well win scholarships to major schools. The only slight disadvantage with teaching such clever boys was the high expectations of the parents. They hung around after every class with questions, comments and complaints pouring off their lips, until eventually he had to make a system of consultation appointments—for which, he told Liz, he charged a reasonable fee for his time. All in all, they should do very nicely out of it. And if any of the boys did well—it could only help their reputation.

Liz nodded lackadaisically while he told her all this. She could see that the Common Entrance coaching was a triumph; she had looked at the burgeoning lists of pupils, and could appreciate what it would do for their figures. Barbara Dean would no doubt be thrilled. But still Liz could not drum up any enthusiasm for the tutorial college. It was still a burden. It was still mortgaged up to the hilt. They were still under instructions to sell the house in Russell Street. They were still going to be poor for ages and ages before they started making a decent profit.

In her own mind, she was no longer associated with any of it. She was above the sordid workings of banks and loans and mortgages and repayments. She was on another, more comfortable, more carefree level. Or at least . . . she would be. She would be soon. It now seemed to her that during these last few weeks she had simply been marking time; before long, her real life would begin. She looked kindly at Jonathan as he explained his small success; perused obediently the figures that he thrust before her. But it all seemed irrelevant and footling. A hundred pounds here and a hundred pounds there. When Marcus regularly paid much more than that simply for a night in a hotel room.

She hadn’t seen Marcus since Christmas. That wife of his was obviously becoming more demanding. Poor Marcus. Liz had never met Anthea, but from what Jonathan said, she seemed a neurotic woman; half-blind with love for Marcus no doubt, and beginning to sense that something was wrong. Liz thought of Marcus at home, trying to reassure his nervy, possessive wife, and shivered. It was no good. Things would have to be put straight soon. They couldn’t go on snatching meetings in secret like this. Their relationship was going to have to be