A Desirable Residence (3 page)

‘Gosh, that would be wonderful,’ said Liz. ‘But actually, I’m not sure about renting it out. I mean, we’re supposed to be selling to pay off our mortgage. The bank might not like it if we have a mortgage on the house and a mortgage on the business as well.’ She stared at him, mutely pleading, willing him to pull another rabbit out of the hat. He looked down at her consideringly. There was a moment’s still silence.

‘Who’s your lender?’ he suddenly said.

‘Brown and Brentford.’

‘Main Silchester branch?’

‘Yes.’ There was a pause, and Nigel looked up, a look of utter disapproval on his face.

‘I’ll see if I can sort something out,’ said the man. ‘No promises, of course. But I’ll try.’ He looked kindly at her, and Liz gazed back, pink-cheeked, gratitude filling her body like a balloon. She suddenly wished, foolishly, that she had bothered to put her contact lenses in that morning. Then abruptly the man looked at his watch. ‘Christ. Must fly. Sorry, I’ll be in touch. Nigel will give me your details.’ He gave her another crinkle-eyed conspirator’s smile.

‘But wait!’ cried Liz, her voice sounding shrill to her own ears. ‘I don’t know your name!’ A look of amusement passed afresh over his face.

‘It’s Marcus,’ he said. ‘Marcus Witherstone.’

As Marcus proceeded down the corridor to his own office, he was filled with a glow of benevolence. It was so easy to help people, he reflected; really, very little effort for the reward of such self-satisfaction. Sweet woman; she had been so touchingly grateful. And it had been worth it just to put that dreadful Nigel in his place. Marcus frowned as he pushed open the door to his office. It was his cousin, Miles, who had hired Nigel—poached him from Easton’s, the rival estate agency in Silchester. Said he was a young dynamic talent. Well, perhaps he was. But no amount of talent, in Marcus’s opinion, made up for that horrible nasal voice and smug young face.

Nigel was just another of the topics on which Marcus and Miles disagreed. Only that morning, Marcus had spent a fruitless half-hour trying to persuade Miles that they ought to be branching out into property abroad. Setting up an office on the south coast of France, perhaps. Or Spain.

‘All the big boys are doing it,’ he said, waving a collection of glossy brochures in front of Miles. ‘Look. Villas worth half a million, a million. That’s the kind of business we should be handling.’

‘Marcus,’ said Miles, in the dry, deliberate voice that he’d had since he was a small boy, ‘what do you know about French property?’

‘I know that it’s an area we should definitely be going into,’ said Marcus with determination. ‘I’ll go over there, make some contacts, suss out the market, you know.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Miles firmly. He spoke in much the same way as he had when, aged seven, Marcus had tried to persuade him to climb out of the window of their grandparents’ house and go to the village pub to buy Coke and crisps for a midnight feast. He hadn’t had any guts then either, Marcus thought crossly. And just because he was three years older, he wielded a tacit authority over Marcus that neither of them could quite abandon. Even though they were supposed to be equal partners.

He stared angrily at Miles, so bloody staid, in his ridiculously old-fashioned three-piece suit, puffing away at his stupid pipe. A pipe, for God’s sake.

‘Miles, you don’t live in the real world,’ he said. ‘Expansion’s what it’s all about. Diversification.’

‘Into areas we know nothing about? And at which we’re bound to fail?’ Miles took his spectacles off and began polishing them on his handkerchief. ‘I think it’s you who doesn’t live in the real world, Marcus.’ He spoke kindly, and Marcus felt a series of angry retorts rising. But he kept his mouth closed. If there was one thing Miles couldn’t tolerate, it was conspicuous family rows at the office. ‘This is the time to be consolidating,’ Miles continued. He replaced his spectacles and smiled at Marcus. ‘If you want to go to France, why don’t you go there on holiday?’

Now Marcus looked aggrievedly at the glossy brochures still sitting on his desk, tantalizing him with photographs of blue skies, swimming pools, bougainvillaea. And his own inspired jottings:
Witherstone’s Abroad. Spread your wings with Witherstone’s. Weekending abroad with Witherstone’s
. He hadn’t even had a chance to show his slogans to Miles. But perhaps it was just as well. He opened his bottom desk drawer and stowed the brochures inside. Maybe he would bring the subject up again in six months’ time. But now he had to go. He glanced at his watch. Five twenty already, and he had promised to pick up Anthea and the children from outside the library at half-past.

He glanced hurriedly at the fluttering yellow post-it notes decorating his desk. They would just have to wait till tomorrow, he thought, gathering up his briefcase, stuffing a few random papers inside. But as his eye ran automatically over the messages, one suddenly stood out and grabbed his attention. He stared at it silently for a minute, then looked around as though afraid of being observed, and sat casually down on his leather swivel chair, from where he could see it better without actually touching it. It was written in the same innocent, rounded handwriting as all the others, in the turquoise ink that was the trademark of Suzy, his secretary. It sat benignly between a request for details of small country estates by a Japanese businessman and a cancelled lunch appointment. And it was unremarkably short.
Could you please ring Leo Francis, tel: 879560
.

Marcus looked at his watch. Shit. Nearly twenty-five past. Anthea would probably already be standing outside the library, looking anxiously up the road, wondering loudly to the boys whether Daddy had forgotten to leave the office early. He looked at the phone for a torn, undecided second. Either way, the longer he sat there, the later he would be. But the thought of leaving it; of spending the whole evening wondering whether Leo had phoned about
that
—or for some other, innocuous reason; listening to Anthea’s chatter while a secret anticipation filled his mind and body—was unbearable. With a small surge of excitement, he picked up the receiver and dialled the number.

‘Francis, Frank and Maloney.’

‘Leo Francis, please.’ God, even his voice was shaking.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Francis has left for the day. Can I take a message?’ Marcus stared at the phone for a moment. Leo wasn’t there. He would have to wait until tomorrow to find out. A sudden, surprising sensation of relief went through his body.

‘Just say that Marcus Witherstone called,’ he said, and put down the phone. Shit. Oh shit. What was he getting himself into?

He closed his briefcase with slightly trembling hands, peeled the post-it with Leo’s number on it from his desk, folded it in two and put it in the breast pocket of his jacket. He would get rid of it in the kitchen rubbish bin at home. Although why on earth should he not legitimately have a message from Leo on his desk? Leo was, after all, a well-known local solicitor with whom Witherstone’s had often done business. He was being paranoid, he told himself firmly as he closed his office door behind him. And anyway, he hadn’t actually talked to Leo yet. He could still change his mind.

Feeling calmer, he strode through the outer office, nonchalantly pushing a hand through his hair, saying a cheery good night to the remaining staff, smiling kindly at a young couple sitting in the waiting area, leafing anxiously through a pile of details. Outside, he nearly bumped into a woman unlocking a bicycle from the forecourt railings.

‘Oh, hello!’ she said, giving him a slightly tremulous smile.

‘Hello there,’ said Marcus in a jovial voice, bleeping open the locking system of his Mercedes.

‘I just wanted to say thank you,’ she continued in a rush. Marcus turned round to look at her again. Of course. It was the woman from Nigel’s office. She gazed at him in beseeching gratitude, and brushed a few locks of dark hair from her face.

‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, in his charming, all-part-of-the-service manner.

‘No really,’ she insisted. ‘It was terribly kind of you to take an interest. And I had no idea who you were,’ she added, glancing up at the illuminated ‘Witherstone & Co.’ above the office. ‘I’m sure you don’t normally go around organizing people’s problems for them.’

Marcus shrugged disarmingly. ‘I’m just an estate agent, like all the rest of them.’

‘Rubbish. You’re nothing like most estate agents!’ Marcus let out a laugh in spite of himself.

‘That’s about the biggest compliment you could give me,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘But don’t tell anyone I said so.’

‘OK,’ she grinned back, and wheeled her bike down to the pavement. ‘Bye-bye, and thanks!’

Marcus was still smiling as he got into his car. It just showed. People like Nigel, however bright and talented, simply weren’t popular with the customers. He would relate the whole story at the next weekly meeting, he decided, including the comment from the customer that he, Marcus, was nothing like most estate agents. That would get Miles worked up, all right. Not to mention the precious protégé. ‘I’ve decided, Nigel,’ he would say, in a kind voice, ‘to oversee the rest of this case myself. I’m not convinced you’ve grasped the best manner of dealing with the client. We can’t afford to have our customers upset, you know.’ He grinned to himself. That was precisely the reprimand Miles had used on him years ago when he told that obnoxious old couple they wouldn’t be able to sell their bungalow because it smelt disgusting. It would be highly satisfying to see Miles’s face as he said exactly those words to Nigel. And the best thing was that Miles was so hidebound by ideas of family loyalty, and presenting a united front to the staff, that he probably wouldn’t say a word in Nigel’s defence.

Liz arrived home with bright eyes and a bag of doughnuts.

‘Time for tea,’ she said, planting a kiss on Jonathan’s head from behind. ‘Time to stop working and have a doughnut.’

‘Did it go well, then?’ said Jonathan, following her to the kitchen. ‘Have we sold the house?’ Liz was filling up the kettle. When she turned around, her face was triumphant.

‘We don’t need to,’ she said. ‘We’re going to rent it out.’

‘What?’

‘The rent we get will probably cover the mortgage repayments. It’ll be completely self-sufficient.’

‘Says who? The estate agent?’ Jonathan sounded sceptical, and an impatient look crossed Liz’s face.

‘Not just any old estate agent,’ she said. ‘The top estate agent. Mr Witherstone himself.’

‘How does he know about it?’ Liz glared at Jonathan.

‘Can’t you stop asking questions? Honestly, I’d have thought you’d be a bit more pleased.’

‘I am pleased,’ protested Jonathan, picking up the bag of doughnuts and putting them onto a plate. ‘I think. But I can’t quite see how it’s going to solve all our problems. We’re supposed to be selling the house to decrease our mortgage.’

‘Yes, well, we don’t need to if we’ve got a rental income, do we?’ said Liz impatiently. ‘I mean, it’ll be just as if we don’t have that mortgage any more.’

‘I’m not sure the bank will see it quite like that,’ said Jonathan cautiously.

‘Well actually, I think you’ll find they will,’ said Liz triumphantly. ‘Mr Witherstone’s going to speak to them.’ Jonathan stopped, doughnut in hand.

‘Liz, are you joking?’

‘No, I’m not.’ A tinge of pink crept into Liz’s cheeks. ‘He said he’d talk to them. Pull some strings. You know.’

‘This all sounds very dubious to me,’ said Jonathan. ‘Can’t we just go ahead with selling the house? I mean, do you know what our total debt is? It’s going to be hard enough to keep up the repayments on the tutorial college, let alone the house too.’

‘For God’s sake, Jonathan! It’ll be fine! We’ll get some tenants in and they’ll cover the mortgage and there’ll be nothing to worry about.’

Yes, but what if they don’t, Jonathan was about to say. And what if the bank doesn’t agree? Then, looking at Liz’s flushed face, he thought better of it. The kettle came to a noisy boil, and Liz poured the scalding water into the teapot.

‘Anyway,’ she said belligerently through the steam, ‘it has to work. Otherwise we’ll have to drop the price of the house by fifty thousand. That’s what they said. We won’t sell it otherwise.’

‘What?’ Jonathan suddenly felt weak. ‘Fifty thousand? That’s impossible.’

‘That’s what I said,’ retorted Liz. ‘I mean, if we did that, we’d never pay off the mortgage, would we? It would just hang over us.’ Jonathan looked at her. She was reaching into the cupboard for a couple of mugs, and almost seemed to be avoiding his eye.

‘You don’t seem very worried,’ he said, trying not to sound accusing.

‘Yes, well, that’s because I’m not worried,’ said Liz quickly. ‘It’s all going to be sorted out. I told you.’

‘Yes, but what if this great plan doesn’t work?’ Jonathan could hardly bear to think about it. The extra loan was worrying enough. But this was worse. If their house was worth fifty thousand pounds less than they had thought, then that debt would always be there, even after they’d sold. Fifty thousand pounds. He compared it in his mind with the yearly salary he had received as a teacher at the comprehensive, and gave a small shudder. How could they even begin to pay back that kind of money? Even if they did start making a profit?

‘Here’s your tea,’ said Liz. She looked at his face and frowned. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t be such a misery.’ Jonathan roused himself, and gave her a small smile. Liz took a huge bite of doughnut and looked at him balefully. ‘I’ve had a really hard day,’ she added.

‘I know you have,’ said Jonathan, automatically adopting a soothing voice. ‘Well, why don’t you go and sit down, and I’ll bring you a piece of toast.’

‘OK,’ said Liz grudgingly, taking another bite of her doughnut. ‘Where’s Alice?’ she added, in a muffled voice.

‘She went out earlier on,’ said Jonathan. He opened a drawer and took out the bread knife. ‘She didn’t say where she was going.’

The house looked just as it always had done. Solid. Familiar. Home. Gazing at it from her strategic viewing position across the street, Alice thought that if she’d walked past it in a hurry and looked up, she might even have believed it was still home and that if she went inside she would find her mother in the kitchen or in the sitting-room watching
Summer Street
, her father playing classical music in the study, the smell of food in the air and Oscar asleep in front of the fire.