A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,88

enough ink cartridges?’ interrupted Anthea anxiously. ‘Have you got your pencil sharpener? Have you—’

‘Anthea,’ said Marcus gently. ‘I should think that the mighty Bourne College could probably come up with the odd ink cartridge if it’s needed.’ He caught Daniel’s eye and they both grinned. Then Marcus leant over and ruffled Daniel’s hair affectionately. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I want to show you my old school.’

Later on, when Daniel had gone in, he and Anthea strolled around the grounds of the school, arm in arm. Anthea covered up her nerves by talking incessantly: pointing out interesting-looking architectural features; speculating on the number of boys applying for the scholarship; exclaiming at the interior of the chapel; wondering again and again and again how Daniel was getting on. Marcus simply smiled and walked peacefully along beside her.

They stopped eventually by the man-made lake, which was used for water sports and rowing, and looked back at the school. Marcus put his arm around Anthea’s thin, tense shoulders, fragile like porcelain.

‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘if Daniel does get this scholarship, it’ll be completely down to you.’ Anthea looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes. ‘He’s got your intelligence for a start,’ continued Marcus ruefully. ‘I never came near any kind of scholarships. And it’s you who encouraged him to do well. You’re the one who’s put in all the work.’ Anthea stiffened slightly.

‘I thought you disapproved of him doing the scholarship,’ she said. She looked away into the distance. ‘I thought it was all such a waste of time.’

‘Yes, well, maybe I was wrong,’ said Marcus, after a pause.

‘Maybe I was wrong too,’ said Anthea, surprisingly. She swallowed. ‘I know I sometimes work the boys too hard. I know everyone thinks I’m too pushy.’ She pushed a hand through her thin red hair. ‘But I just want them to reach their potential. I’m just doing it for their sakes.’ She looked at him with worried eyes. ‘I do mean well, you know.’ A flood of affection filled Marcus’s heart.

‘I know you do,’ he said gently; ‘I know you do.’ He put his arms around her and pulled her slender body towards him.

‘Marcus!’ she exclaimed, trying to wriggle free, her eyes darting anxiously about. ‘You can’t do that here!’

‘I’m an Old Boy of this school,’ said Marcus firmly, ‘which means I can do whatever I like, wherever I like.’

Alice was getting more and more panicked about what to wear to Piers’s and Ginny’s party. When they’d originally talked about it, she’d assumed that she was going to wear her usual pair of torn jeans and perhaps her Indian silver necklace. But then, at home, she’d looked properly at the invitation, and seen that it said, ‘Dress: Black and Red.’ Alice had lots of black clothes, but they were all things like faded T-shirts and woolly tights; not the sort of thing you could wear to a party like this one.

And then, today, Ginny had shown her the dress she had bought for the party. It was bright red silk, very short, with black squiggles on the front. If Alice had seen it in a shop she would immediately have said, Yuck, gross. But when Ginny put it on, Alice had to admit she looked pretty good. And then, twirling in front of her bedroom mirror, Ginny had said to Alice, ‘And what are you going to wear?’ Alice had shrugged nonchalantly, and said she hadn’t thought about it.

Since then she hadn’t thought about anything else. Black and Red. Black and Red. Black jeans and a red T-shirt? No. Awful idea. Awful. Black jeans and black polo-neck? No. Too dull. She imagined herself at the party. Piers would be there, looking admiringly at Ginny’s shiny squiggles. She had to wear something that he would like. Something grown up.

She marched into the kitchen, where her mother was leaning against the side, dreamily drinking a cup of tea.

‘I need something to wear to this party,’ she said without preamble. ‘I haven’t got anything black and red.’ She looked at her mother without much hope, and waited for her to say that surely Alice had plenty of clothes. But Liz’s face lit up.

‘Of course!’ she said. ‘We should get you something nice.’ Alice looked at her suspiciously.

‘It has to be black,’ she said. ‘Or red. That’s what the invitation says.’

‘Does it really?’ said Liz. ‘Goodness. Well, then, perhaps I’d better get something new as well.’ She beamed at Alice. ‘I think we both deserve a treat, don’t