A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,99

flash London friend of Clarissa’s, and suddenly regretted having been so confiding with her. One way and another, she had basically told Alice everything—about the audition, about Piers’s career, even about wanting to start a family, for Christ’s sake. She’d told all her secrets to a bloody school-girl. It was too much.

Alice looked over at Ginny and wished that she would come across and talk to her. The man she was talking to had a balding head and a pony-tail and looked really old and gross, but he kept trying to make out to Alice that he was really cool, and going on about what labels were in and had she been to any gigs recently? She’d already told him that she couldn’t afford to go to gigs, she was only fourteen, but he didn’t seem to understand. And now he was talking about club life in New Orleans. What did she know about New Orleans? She really felt like having a cigarette, but no-one else seemed to be smoking and it would be really obvious if she started. Perhaps, in a minute, she could get away and have one in the garage. If she could make sure her mother wouldn’t see her. Alice hadn’t acknowledged her mother’s existence since those first few minutes of the party. It was bad enough only being fourteen. But having your mother at the same party . . .

As Marcus pulled the car up in front of the tutorial college, Anthea suddenly clutched his arm.

‘Perhaps we should wait,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should just let them phone us.’ Marcus looked at her. Her face was drained of all colour, except for two patches of blusher carefully applied earlier in the evening.

‘Come on,’ he said comfortably. ‘Now we’re here, we might as well know.’

‘I can’t bear it,’ whispered Anthea. Marcus leant over and kissed her neck.

‘Whatever happens,’ he said, ‘we love Daniel and we love each other. Don’t we?’

‘Yes,’ faltered Anthea.

‘Well then,’ said Marcus, ‘nothing else is really important. Come on!’ And he opened the car door.

Jonathan was waiting for them. He had just tried Geoffrey’s number, only to be rewarded with the engaged tone.

‘I’ll give him a couple of minutes, then try again,’ he said. He looked at Anthea, in her smart coat and sheer tights; at Marcus, solid and opulent. He swallowed.

‘Could I offer . . . ?’ he began. ‘Could I offer either of you a drink?’

As they entered the flat, Marcus looked about him with an appalled fascination.

‘It’s not much,’ called Jonathan from the kitchen, ‘but it keeps us warm. Here!’ He ushered them into the sitting-room and poured out three little glasses of sherry. Anthea sat down delicately on the sofa; Marcus strode to the far corner of the room. It only took him three strides. He couldn’t believe the cramped size of the rooms in this little flat; the awkward corners and the dingy atmosphere. No wonder Liz was miserable here.

‘I’ll have another go, shall I?’ said Jonathan cheerfully. ‘The phone’s out on the landing.’ As he left, Marcus looked at Anthea for a reaction similar to his own. But she was staring broodingly into space.

‘Delicious sherry,’ he said out loud. ‘Could I have a top-up?’ He suddenly wanted to see more of this grim little dwelling.

‘Help yourself,’ said Jonathan. ‘In the kitchen.’

The kitchen seemed, to Marcus, even worse than the sitting-room. He peered at the Formica counter; noted the packets of breakfast cereal on the side, and wondered which mug was Liz’s. But then Jonathan’s voice galvanized him.

‘Hello, Geoffrey? Jonathan Chambers here.’

Marcus couldn’t bear to listen. He rejoined Anthea in the sitting-room and closed the door.

‘If it’s bad news,’ he said rapidly to Anthea, ‘try not to be too disappointed. Especially to Daniel. I mean, he worked bloody hard for it. He worked as hard as he could. And it’s not the end of the world, is it? It’s not . . .’ He stopped abruptly.

‘I see,’ Jonathan was saying. ‘Well, thanks very much, Geoffrey. Thanks for letting me know.’ Marcus and Anthea looked at each other. A premature feeling of disappointment began to spread over Marcus’s chest, and he gave Anthea a broad smile to compensate for it. She looked at him mutely, pale and shaking.

The door opened. Jonathan stood, a curious expression on his face.

‘Your son,’ he began. Anthea gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Your son,’ he continued slowly, ‘has been awarded the honour,’ he swallowed, ‘the honour . . .’ There was a short