A Desirable Residence (28 page)

‘Then I expect,’ said Piers, ‘they would have given the part to someone else.’ He walked out of the room, and Ginny stared after him with a pounding heart and a clouded face.

That afternoon, Marcus and Anthea together took Daniel to Bourne for his three-day scholarship. As he neared the impressive gates of Bourne College, Marcus realized, to his amazement, that he was actually feeling nervous. He swivelled around in his seat as they began the sedate drive along the speed-bumped, tree-lined avenue leading to the school, and grinned at Daniel.

‘Feeling OK?’ he said.

‘Fine,’ said Daniel, clutching his pencil case rather tightly, and grinned back. Marcus felt a sudden, overwhelming stab of painful pride. Daniel had worked bloody hard for this exam. He bloody well deserved to do well. He was a bloody hero. He grinned harder at Daniel, and wished he could give him a hug, there and then.

‘Marcus!’ said Anthea. ‘Look out! You’re going into a tree!’ She was sitting next to Marcus, staring grimly ahead, her face taut and her hands clenched in her lap.

‘What have they done?’ said Marcus in amazement, as they drew near the school buildings. ‘What’s that building?’

Anthea replied without pausing. ‘It’s the new arts and media building. I told you about it. You would have seen it if you’d come to the parents’ open day.’

‘Yes, well.’ Marcus had, for reasons which were obscure to himself as well as to Anthea, refused to go back and walk round his old school as a prospective parent. ‘I know the place,’ he’d said. ‘What’s the point in seeing it again?’ Now he felt an affecting mixture of nostalgia and curiosity at the combination of old, familiar buildings, and new, state-of-the-art constructions. For the first time, with a strange sensation in his stomach, he imagined Daniel wearing the school uniform that he used to wear; playing rugby on the same pitches; perhaps even sleeping in the same dormitory.

Then it occurred to him that if Daniel did win a scholarship he wouldn’t be in Marcus’s old house. He would be in the Headmaster’s House. He would be one of the élite of the school, who strode around in black gowns and were regularly photographed by the press. One of the chosen few. He would be like Edwin Chapman, who had been a scholar in Marcus’s year and was now a junior cabinet minister. Or William Donaghue, who had been in the year below and was now a rampantly, famously successful barrister.

Marcus looked at Daniel with a new respect as he parked the car. Could his son really slip into that world of excellence? His own son? The son of a parochial estate agent?

‘Daniel,’ he found himself saying, ‘just do your best. Try to remember everything that Mr Chambers has told you. And remember, we’ll be proud of you whatever happens—’

‘Have you got 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 you?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Alice. ‘Can I have some money, then?’

‘We’ll go shopping together,’ said Liz firmly. ‘We’ll go into Silchester on Saturday and each buy something nice for the party and then have lunch out. How about that?’

‘Yeah, I suppose,’ said Alice. ‘Or I could go on my own, after school,’ she added casually.

‘No you couldn’t,’ said Liz. ‘You could come with me on Saturday, or you could go in your black jeans and my red corduroy shirt.’ Alice grinned mistrustfully at her.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Saturday.’

Silchester on Saturday was always packed. As they strode into the market square, Liz groaned.

‘We should have come at nine o’clock,’ she said. ‘It’ll be hell.’

‘Never mind,’ said Alice, glancing around at the heaving crowds. She looked at Liz and thought that possibly it could be OK going shopping with her. As long as she didn’t try and force her into a pair of disgusting shoes like last time . . .

‘Excuse me! Might I have a minute?’ Alice looked up. A young man with a quiff and a clipboard was bearing down on her. She hesitated. Someone at school had said yes to one of these people recently and got to taste loads of different chocolate cake. ‘All right, then,’ she said. She looked at her mother. ‘It won’t take long?’

‘No time at all,’ said the man. ‘Just a few simple questions. Do you live or work in Silchester?’

‘Yes. Live, I mean.’

‘Are you married, single or attached?’

Alice blushed. ‘Why do you need to know that?’ she said.

‘We’re offering a new dating service in Silchester,’ said the man. ‘Lots of lonely people out there, you know.’

Alice blushed harder. ‘I’m still at school,’ she said. ‘I don’t think—’

‘Oh!’ The man looked more closely at her. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘Eighteen and over only. My apologies.’ He began to walk off. But Liz’s voice arrested him in his tracks.

‘Hang on a minute! Why didn’t you ask me?’ The man turned back.

‘Well,’ he said uncertainly. Alice gave a flabbergasted look at Liz.

‘Why didn’t you ask me?’ repeated Liz. ‘You never know; I might be interested in your service.’ The man glanced at her gloved left hand.

‘I assumed . . .’ he began.

‘Assumed I was married? Assumed I was too old for that kind of thing?’ Liz shook back her hair, and smiled at the man. ‘How do you know I’m not young, free and single? Or, at least, free and single?’ The man grinned back, and patted his quiff.

‘I suppose I don’t. Are you?’

‘Young? Not very, I’m afraid.’

‘Rubbish,’ said the man gallantly. He winked at Alice, and she cowered inside her collar, hot with embarrassment and outraged at Liz. What was going on with her? Why was she talking like this to a stranger? She must be getting old and eccentric or something. She should have known, Alice thought miserably to herself, that coming out shopping with her mother would be a mistake.

‘OK then,’ said the man cheerfully. ‘Let’s start again.’ He turned over to a new sheet of paper with a flourish. ‘Do you live or work in Silchester?’

‘Yes. I live here.’

‘And are you married, single or attached?’

‘Sometimes I feel all three,’ said Liz conversationally.

‘Mum . . .’ said Alice in an agonized voice.

‘All right.’ Liz relented. ‘I’m married. Attached. Whatever. And I’m not interested in a dating service.’ She paused. ‘But I’ve made you think a bit, haven’t I?’

‘So I was right in the first place!’ said the man, in mock-indignation. ‘I knew you were married.’

‘Yes, but I might not have been, might I?’ said Liz, raising her eyebrows at him. ‘I’d try that woman over there next,’ she added, pointing to a grey-haired lady pulling along a tartan shopping trolley. ‘You never know. So long!’ She began to stride off, and Alice scuttled after her, giving an apologetic look to the man with the clipboard. Sometimes her mother astounded her.

By lunchtime she was even more astounded. They’d gone straight to Sedgwick’s, the big department store in Silchester, and up to the designer department. Her mother had talked to the sales assistants as if she was used to buying this kind of stuff all the time, and got three of them to keep bringing clothes to her in the changing-room. In the end she’d bought a pair of black trousers and a red silk shirt and together they came to more than two hundred pounds. Alice couldn’t believe it.

And then they’d seen a very short black dress, made out of lots of fringes.

‘Alice! That’s made for you!’ Her mother had sounded exactly like Ginny when she said that. She’d made Alice try it on, and twirl around in it so that the fringes flew out, and got all the assistants to come and have a look, and then said, ‘Well, of course, we’ve simply got to have it. Haven’t we?’ And they’d wrapped it all up in tissue paper, and there it was, in a shiny carrier bag in her hand.

And now they were walking into a restaurant full of pink cushiony chairs and flowers and someone playing the piano in the corner. Alice couldn’t believe it. Her mother was acting like another person today. Like Genevieve’s mother, who had once taken her and Genevieve to Harrods, and bought bags and bags full of stuff and then ordered them huge ice-creams for tea. Her own mother
never
bought expensive clothes. And they hadn’t been to any restaurants for ages. Not since they’d bought the tutorial college.

‘A table for two,’ Liz was saying to the head waiter. ‘Non-smoking. Oh!’ She gave a little cry, and Alice looked up. But it was just some men saying hello to her mother. She surreptitiously reached inside the bag and fondly felt the fringes of her new dress. She would wear shiny black tights underneath it, she decided, and polish up her Doc Martens, and perhaps Piers would ask her to dance . . .

‘Alice!’ Her mother was looking a bit flustered. ‘Come and meet Marcus Witherstone. He’s the estate agent who let out the house to Ginny and Piers, you know.’

‘Hello,’ said Alice politely. She looked interestedly at Marcus Witherstone. Ginny had told her a bit about him, she remembered now. She’d said that he was a bit of a rascal, and his wife was a complete nightmare. He didn’t look like a bit of a rascal to Alice. He looked old and boring, and even a bit angry. She switched her attention to the other man; shorter, with reddish hair and a pink face. Her mother was looking at him too, she noticed. Everyone was looking at him.