A Desirable Residence Part 6

'No,' began Marcus. 'Well actually, yes. You are a bit.' He grinned wickedly at her, and Liz's legs started to feel shaky again.

'I can't get in! The door's closed!' It was Ginny's voice, wafting up to them from outside.

'I'll go,' said Marcus quickly to Liz. 'You come down when you're ready.'

'No!' said Liz. 'That'll look really obvious.' She smoothed down her skirt. 'We'd better go down together.'

As Marcus opened the front door, Ginny burst through like a puppy ready for a walk. She kissed Marcus on both cheeks, and smiled in a charming, shamefaced manner at Liz.

'Mrs Chambers, I'm so sorry! Oh my goodness, you must be freezing, waiting here so long!'

'Oh no,' said Liz gaily. She felt dishevelled beside this glossy girl. 'We had a bottle of champagne to keep us going,' she added, foolishly.

'Really?' Ginny looked from Liz to Marcus with bright eyes. 'How nice! Is there any left?'

'Sorry,' said Liz. 'It's all gone.' She gave a sudden giggle, and Marcus quickly took Ginny by the arm.

'We always give our clients a bottle of champagne when a deal goes through,' he said firmly.

'Yes, I knew that,' said Ginny, eyes sparkling. 'But I didn't realize you always drank it straightaway.'

'We don't normally,' said Marcus tetchily. Ginny looked at him, and back at Liz. She gave a little grin.

'Well, no,' she said. 'I don't suppose you do.'

CHAPTER SIX.

On the third Sat.u.r.day in October, Ginny and Piers collected the keys to twelve Russell Street, and supervised the arrival of the removal van containing their things. It took an hour to unload the futon, the kilims, the huge wrought-iron candlesticks, the chests full of clothes, CDs, pictures, and books. Then, leaving everything piled up in the sitting-room, they locked the door and went off to Wales for a week, where Piers was filming a tiny part in an obscure children's fantasy drama.

By the next Sat.u.r.day, Alice still hadn't noticed anything different. She had pared down the route from the school gate to the door of the garage to an efficient minimum, and, with her Walkman pounding loudly in her ears, she rarely looked right or left. She would have had to peer hard in at the window of the sitting-room in order to see the pile of boxes on the floor; the rolled-up rugs against the fireplace. And, despite having been told the good news by her parents, it had not actually registered with her that the house had been let out. Conversations at home about the tenants moving in had pa.s.sed as effortlessly over her head as did the morning radio news bulletins which her parents put on every breakfast so that she would grow up aware of current events.

The garage was quite cosy now. She'd bought a couple of cus.h.i.+ons from a charity shop and put them in the corner, and she'd taken the spare torch from home and rigged it up on a shelf so it was almost like a lamp. There wasn't a heater in the garage, and it was getting colder and colder in there as the weeks went on. But just sitting there, listening to music and smoking and munching on sweets and sometimes trying to read a magazine, she felt a strange happiness; an obscure sense of achievement.

As soon as she had pulled the door behind her, she took out a Marlboro from the packet in her top pocket, pulled out her lighter with her other hand and flicked the tiny flame alive in a familiar, instinctive action. She'd got into the habit of always lighting up before she sat down. It was almost a matter of principle; a superst.i.tious routine.

And coming to the garage was also a routine. She was there nearly every day now, usually between school and supper. Her parents sometimes asked what she'd been doing, but not in the sort of way that meant they really wanted to know. The only time she'd bothered to come up with a convincing story, her mother had interrupted her when she was still speaking, to say something boring about the tutorial college.

The tutorial college. Alice's train of thought paused scathingly; she was even less cheerful about it now than she had been when they moved in. And now it wasn't just that they had to live in a grotty little flat. The week before, she had arrived back for supper to see a girl she knew from school coming out of the front door. They'd given each other a dismayed smile, and said Hi, and then Alice had blushed bright red and rushed past, up the stairs to the flat.

'What was Camilla Worthing doing here?' she'd demanded of her mother, who was sitting on the sofa in the sitting-room, staring blankly at the television.

'Camilla Worthing? Oh yes, extra coaching for her Maths GCSE. She must have stayed late.'

'Extra coaching?' A thumping sense of panic began to fill Alice's chest. 'What, like, after school?'

'Yes, of course after school,' said Liz shortly. 'We haven't gone quite so far as to poach pupils from their school lessons.' Alice wasn't listening.

'Do lots of people come? For extra coaching?' she said.

'Not yet,' said Liz. 'It's a bit early in the year. But they will. At least, we hope they will. A few have put their names down for next term.'

'From my school?'

'Some, yes.'

'And what about next year?'

'What about it?'

'Will you do GCSE coaching then?'

'Of course we will.' Liz changed channel, and the t.i.tle music of Summer Street Summer Street blared out of the television. blared out of the television.

'But I'm doing GCSEs next year!' wailed Alice. 'It'll be people in my year coming. It'll be so embarra.s.sing.'

'Don't be silly,' said Liz brusquely.

'But I'll see them coming here! It'll be awful!'

'Oh for Heaven's sake, Alice! Grow up!'

Grow up, they said. Be more mature. Alice stared resentfully into the darkness of the garage. They said all that, and then they treated her like a child. Just that afternoon, she'd had to spend hours and hours trailing around Silchester with her father, putting leaflets through doors. As if she didn't have anything else to do.

Her father was an active member of ECO, a local environmental society, and Alice was a junior member. That didn't amount to much, since she refused to attend the weekly meetings. But it somehow went without saying that she always helped her father when there were leaflets to give out. She didn't usually mind doing it; didn't mind walking in companionable silence round the outskirts of Silchester, always trying to finish her side of the street before he finished his without looking as though she was making an effort. And her mother always bought something nice for tea, as a reward.

But today she'd felt scratchy and put-upon. They shouldn't just a.s.sume she was free to do things like this; they should ask her first; they should be grateful. They didn't treat her like a proper human being. She'd shuffled blackly along the streets, kicking the leaves with the toes of her Doc Martens, shoving the leaflets grumpily into letterboxes. And she'd averted her eyes from the words on the front of the leaflets; unwilling to show any interest in the subject, even by accident. It was all about the awful Christmas environment parade, that happened every year. If they tried to make her go on that again, they really had to be joking.

They'd finished up in the furthermost reaches of West Silchester, each with two empty carrier bags and a list of streets ticked off and a collection of rubber bands which had gone round the bundles of leaflets.

'Good work, Carruthers,' said Jonathan, which was what he said every time. 'Now let's get back to headquarters for hot chocolate and rations.' Alice twitched in annoyance.

'Actually,' she said, before she could think about it, 'I've got to get some things. I'll see you later.'

'Oh.' He sounded taken aback, and Alice felt a pouring sensation of guilt and irritation at herself. So what if they traditionally went back home for a huge tea after the leaflets? It wasn't such a big deal. She felt a pinkness in her cheeks; an imminent embarra.s.sment; the sort she used to have at school whenever she was about to put up her hand.

'See you at home,' she muttered, beginning to walk off.

'Yes, of course,' said Jonathan. 'Well, thank you, darling. You were a big help.'

Alice pretended not to hear, and strode off before her father could ask what she needed to get or suggest coming along with her. It was almost worse being praised for doing something than actually having to do it.

She'd arrived at Russell Street in a few minutes, and gone straight into the garage. Now she looked around, exhaling a cloud of smoke, waiting for her customary feeling of satisfaction. But the garage seemed even colder today than it normally did. As she sat down dolefully on the cus.h.i.+ons, staring out through the crack in the door at the darkening sky, she felt a strange sense of gloom come over her. She'd been so anxious to get here; so anxious not to go home with her father. But now ... it wasn't so great. She looked at her watch. Ten to six. She pulled her jacket around her, and sat rigid, staring sternly ahead. She would stay for another twenty minutes, she promised herself. And she would have two more cigarettes. And then she would go.

Ginny, Piers, and Duncan arrived back at twelve Russell Street at six o'clock. After a morning spent unpacking and arranging, they had gone into Silchester to get some food and look around. Duncan had insisted on buying a long list of exotic ingredients for that evening's supper, which had inevitably meant trekking about until they eventually found a delicatessen, which was about to close. It had taken all his persuasive powers to get them an extension of ten minutes, during which he asked for brands which the salesgirl had never heard of and fingered packets and bottles with an air of slight disappointment.

'Well, if this is the provinces ...' he said expressively, as they came up the garden path. 'I mean, their range of olive oils was pitiful.'

'Duncan,' said Ginny threateningly. 'Piers, have you got the key?'

'I know, I know, I'm sorry,' said Duncan. 'It's all lovely. I'm going to adore it here.'

It had been Piers who suggested Duncan should rent a room from them in Silchester for a while. After all, his lease in Fulham was coming to an end; he didn't have any work; they could do with the money. Duncan had stood in the kitchen, not quite hiding, while Piers threw these arguments at Ginny. She was tired, she'd just come home from work and she had wet feet from the rain. She'd agreed without really taking in what was being said.

Now she stood, and looked appraisingly at Duncan waiting on the path.

'You're not going to be trouble, are you?' she said.

'Trouble? What kind of trouble?'

'I don't know.' She looked at him sideways, affection not entirely masking a growing suspicion. 'Just remember, you're on probation.'

'Oh yes, I know. I'm going to be good, I promise.' He paused. 'By the way,' he added casually, 'I asked Ian Everitt over tonight. As a sort of housewarming.'

'Duncan! You didn't!'

'Oh, for G.o.d's sake, Duncan!'

Alice heard raised voices from inside the garage, and cautiously went to the door. She opened it enough to poke her head out, and looked carefully round the corner. At first she couldn't hear anything, and thought it must just have been people on the street. But as she was drawing her head back inside the garage, she heard, with a stab of recognition, the familiar groaning sound of the front door shutting.

Her immediate thought was that it must be burglars, and she had a sudden vision of being discovered in the garage, beaten up and dragged off to her death. She would be on the telly. Silchester mourns for tragic Alice Silchester mourns for tragic Alice. For a few seconds, she stood still, transfixed by the idea of her sad face peering out of the screen into all her friends' living rooms.

Then the kitchen light went on. It couldn't be burglars. It must be ... it must be ... She stood still, frowning, her hand on the door. And then it came to her. The tenants. She paused abruptly in her thoughts, amazed at her powers of deduction. The tenants. It was a phrase which had buzzed around at home for the last few weeks, and she had taken it in at the shallowest level, without bothering to digest what it really meant. But now various phrases and conversations between her parents began to swim belatedly into her memory. And now she realized, for the first time, exactly what they'd been talking about.

Her heart began to thud. If other people lived in their house now, perhaps she was trespa.s.sing. She quickly looked out of the door again, at the lit-up kitchen. A hand appeared at the window, turning on the tap. A kettle was thrust under it. Then the hand disappeared. Alice counted to ten, then put one foot outside the door. Then her other foot. She made her way slowly along the wall of the garage, moving sideways with one stealthy foot over another.

As she reached the front garden she paused. The sitting-room was lit up, and she was suddenly filled with curiosity to see other people's stuff in it. But as she edged cautiously towards the window, a man came into the room. She gasped, and retreated, feverishly concocting a story in her mind. But he was shouting something out of the door; his attention was away from the window. She had to go now, before they all came into the room and she was stuck there. Without looking back, she ran quickly and lightly over the lawn, down the path, fiddled furiously with the gate for a second, and then was safely outside, on the innocuous pavement. She quickly walked a few paces along for good measure, then risked a backward look. She couldn't see anyone. They hadn't seen her. She was OK.

Ginny couldn't decide if she was more angry than excited, or more excited than nervous.

'For Heaven's sake, Piers,' she said, dragging a couple of empty tea chests into the hall and staring at them distractedly. 'Look at the state this place is in.'

'What?' said Piers. 'It looks lovely.'

'With empty packing cases everywhere? And piles of books all over the place?'

'It looks Bohemian,' said Piers. 'Artistic.' He caught her eye. 'You're not getting too worked up about this, are you?'

'Of course not,' said Ginny briskly. 'I just want the place to look tidy. That's all.'

He caught hold of her, and drew her near, bringing her face up so that she couldn't avoid his gaze.

'Look,' he said quietly. 'I'm not even sure if I want the part yet. I mean, I didn't go through years of dramatic training just to end up in a soap opera.' Ginny opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again. 'I'm just going to play it by ear,' continued Piers. 'Now, calm down and relax. As if a few packing cases have got anything to do with it, anyway.'

'OK,' said Ginny, as he released her wrists. 'I'm calm. I'm so calm I'm falling asleep.'

'That's more like it,' said Piers. 'How about a drink?'

'After you've taken those tea chests out to the garage,' said Ginny. She raised a hand before Piers could protest. 'Now I've got them this far, you might as well. And Duncan's bike. He's not not keeping it in the hall!' keeping it in the hall!'

'All right,' said Piers agreeably. 'I suppose that's fair enough. And then a drink.'

'And then a drink,' conceded Ginny.

As Piers began to drag the chests along the floorboards of the hall, Ginny waited for a few seconds, then bounded upstairs. She went into the bathroom, shut the door and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes s.h.i.+ning. 'Calm down,' she instructed herself rather hopelessly, and she tried to adopt a relaxed expression. But a sparkling excitement was filling her body with pulsing adrenalin, and she could barely stand still.

Ever since Piers had first told her about the Summer Street Summer Street part, she had tried desperately not to let him know how much she wanted him to get it. She had sat casually nursing a cup of cocoa while he and Duncan told her between them just how much Ian Everitt was reputed to earn, and how talentless he'd always been, and how they part, she had tried desperately not to let him know how much she wanted him to get it. She had sat casually nursing a cup of cocoa while he and Duncan told her between them just how much Ian Everitt was reputed to earn, and how talentless he'd always been, and how they must must be looking to recast and how perfect Piers would be. That evening, they had all been consumed with an air of hilarity; of boundless optimism and hope. be looking to recast and how perfect Piers would be. That evening, they had all been consumed with an air of hilarity; of boundless optimism and hope.

By the next morning, of course, Piers had completely changed his mind. They would probably get rid of the role altogether, he said gloomily; if they didn't, there would be incredible compet.i.tion; and the current producer hated him-he'd already once turned him down for something else. After several years of marriage to Piers, Ginny knew better than to contradict him or display unwanted optimism when he was in this mood. But in her own mind it was too late to go back. Her mind was entirely overtaken by the part; she could think of nothing else.

On the way to work the next day she'd calculated the mortgage they would be able to afford on that kind of salary, and she'd spent the rest of the morning looking through details of big country houses with a mounting exhilaration. Since then, she'd begun to scour the papers for mentions of Summer Street Summer Street and its stars; had noted with a jolt the appearance of Ian Everitt among the guests at the latest minor Royal wedding; had gazed, consumed by envy and wishes, at a glossy colour spread of a female and its stars; had noted with a jolt the appearance of Ian Everitt among the guests at the latest minor Royal wedding; had gazed, consumed by envy and wishes, at a glossy colour spread of a female Summer Street Summer Street star and her new baby. star and her new baby.

'That could be us,' she said quietly to her reflection. 'That will be us.' Her reflection smiled back knowingly at her. She sat down on the edge of the bath, closed her eyes and briefly indulged in her favourite fantasy. She would switch on the television, she would hear that famous, catchy, unavoidable tune, she would see the familiar credits ... and then she would see Piers on screen. A delicious, glowing sensation stole over her. He would be perfect. He would look gorgeous. He would steal the show. Thousands of people all over the country would fall in love with him.

But she wasn't allowed to think about it too often. She had to be sensible. She knew the rules. If you want something too badly, you probably won't get it. If you tell anyone you want it, you certainly won't get it. Ginny stood up, took a deep breath and pressed her burning cheeks against the cold pane of the mirror. She had to cool down; calm down; put on a casual front. Piers already thought she mentioned Summer Street Summer Street too much. She would have to be careful, stop herself from bringing it up. And it was especially important to be nonchalant tonight. too much. She would have to be careful, stop herself from bringing it up. And it was especially important to be nonchalant tonight.

Oh G.o.d, tonight. She could hardly believe Duncan had had the nerve to invite Ian Everitt round. Only he could be so ... so brazen. But perhaps he knew what he was doing. Perhaps this would turn out afterwards to be the night that changed everything. They would recall it when Piers wrote his autobiography. Oh G.o.d. Oh G.o.d. Stop thinking about it.

Ignoring the bounding feeling of excitement in her stomach, Ginny opened the bathroom door with a confident gesture. She sauntered to the banisters, looked down at the empty hall, and hummed a few throwaway lines of a cheerful tune; checking first that she wasn't about to sing the theme to Summer Street Summer Street. Then she walked unhurriedly and carelessly down the stairs, one casual foot after the other, swinging her hair unconcernedly; practising a nonchalant expression for the rest of the evening.

Alice didn't discover that her lighter was missing until it was after supper and she'd gone to her bedroom for a quick cigarette out of the window. She patted the pockets of her jacket, then felt inside each one; first methodically, then with alarm. Her lighter wasn't inside her jeans pockets, neither was it in either of the carrier bags she'd carried all the way back home. She must have left it in the garage.

At first she told herself she could go and find it the next day. It would be light then, and those people probably would have gone out, and she'd probably see it straightaway. She had a vague recollection of seeing it lying on one of the cus.h.i.+ons; whether that was from today or some other time, she couldn't be sure. At any rate, it had to be there. And it wasn't as if anyone was going to pinch it in the meantime.

But the thought of it worried and worried at her. It was all very well, to tell herself she'd find it more easily tomorrow. But she wanted it now. She wanted its smooth, comforting contours in her hand. She wanted its familiar weight in her pocket. And she wanted to get rid of the slither of fear in the back of her mind, which persisted however hard she tried to get rid of it; the niggling, panicking thought that she might perhaps have lost it for good.

'I'm going out,' she said at the sitting-room door, avoiding her parents' surprised looks; trying to sound as if this was just confirmation of something they should have known already.

'At this time?'

'Where are you going?'