A Desirable Residence
There wasn't much point, Liz told herself, in getting upset. It wasn't his fault, poor man. The estate agent had finished talking and was looking at her concernedly, expecting a response. To gain time, she glanced out of the sash window of the office, the panes bright with the sun and raindrops of a confused September's day. There was a little courtyard garden outside, walled, with a white wrought-iron bench and tubs of flowers. It must be nice in the summer, she thought, forgetting that this still was, to all intents and purposes, the summer. Her mind always worked at least half a term ahead.
“Mrs. Chambers...?”
“Oh yes, sorry,” said Liz, and turned back. “I was listening.” She smiled at the estate agent. He didn't smile back.
“I did warn your husband at the time the property went on the market,” he said, “that this might happen. I advised a price rather lower than your asking price.”
“I know you did,” agreed Liz. She wondered why he felt it necessary to remind her. Was he feeling defensive? Did he experience a need to justify himself, explain why their house had been on the market for ten months with his agency and had failed to sell? She studied his young, well- shaven face for signs of I-told-you-so; if-you'd-listened-to-me...But his face was serious. Concerned. He was probably, she thought, not the sort of person who would countenance recriminations. He was simply pointing out the facts.
“And now,” he was saying, “you must make a decision. You have, as I see it, two realistic options.”
And a few unrealistic ones? Liz wanted to ask, but instead she looked intelligently at him, leaning forward slightly in her chair to show she was interested. She was beginning to feel rather hot; the sun was beating brightly through the panes of glass onto her cheeks. As usual, she had completely misjudged the early morning weather and dressed for a brisk autumn day. She should perhaps remove a layer of clothing. But the thought of taking off her unwieldy jersey—which would necessitate first removing her spectacles and Alice band—to reveal a crumpled denim shirt, which might or might not be stained with coffee, seemed too much to contemplate. Especially in front of this smooth estate agent. She glanced surreptitiously at him. He didn't seem to be too hot; his face was tanned but not at all flushed, and his cuffs looked crisp and cool. Starched, probably, she thought, by his girlfriend. Or perhaps, bearing in mind how young he looked, his mother. The thought amused her.
“Two options,” she said, more agreeably than she had intended.
A flicker of something like relief passed across his face. Perhaps he had been expecting a scene. But before Liz could react to it, he was back into well-grooved, grown-up professionalism. “The first option,” he said, “would be to put your house back on the market and drop the price considerably.” Of course, thought Liz. Any fool could have told me that.
“By about how much?” she asked politely. “Realistically speaking,” she added for good measure, stifling a sudden, inappropriate urge to giggle. This conversation was unreal. Next thing she'd be saying, Let's have the cards on the table, or, Would you run that by me again...Pull yourself together, she told herself sternly. This is serious.
“Fifty thousand pounds. At least.”
Liz's head jerked up in shock. The giggle rising up inside her suddenly subsided; she felt shamefaced. No wonder this boy's handsome face was so concerned. He was more worried about her situation than she was. And, to give him his due, it was worrying. “We've already reduced it by twenty,” she said, noting with slight horror that her voice was shaking. “And that's less than the mortgage.”
“I know,” he said. He looked down at the papers on his desk. “I'm afraid the market has dropped considerably since you bought.”
“Not that much. It can't have.” Belated worry made her belligerent. Of course she had seen the headlines in the papers. But she'd always skimmed them with her eyes; assumed they had no relevance to her. She'd avoided the chat of friends, some overtly anxious, others smugly triumphant. The property market this, the property market that. For heaven's sake. Stupid phrase, anyway. The property market...It made her think of rows of market stalls covered in tiny houses, each with a price label tied around the chimney.
“We can't sell it for so little,” she added. She could feel her cheeks growing even more hot. “We just can't. We won't have enough to pay back the bank, and we only got the mortgage for the tutorial college on the basis of selling the house. We had some people interested in it then; they actually made an offer.” She stopped. A tide of humiliation seeped through her. How much older than this young man was she? And here she was, blurting out all her money worries, looking to him for an answer.
But he didn't look as though he had one. His fingers rubbed the papers on his desk anxiously; he avoided her eye. “I'm confident that if you reduced the asking price by the amount I suggested, we would have a sale within a very reasonable timescale,” he said. He sounded as though he was reading from a prompt card.
“Yes, but we need more money than that!” cried Liz. “We've got a mortgage to pay off. And now we've got a business to run. And what's a reasonable timescale anyway?” Too late, she realized her error. The estate agent's head shot up, an unmistakable look of relief on his face at having been given a question he could answer.
“Ah, well, these things always take a certain length of time,” he began. “We'll be promoting the house afresh, highlighting the reduced price, targeting a different purchaser altogether.”
As his voice droned on, happily outlining the benefits of local advertising and color photography, Liz's gaze wandered. She felt suddenly drained, worried, and fearful. She had not, she realized, taken the sale of the house seriously enough. When the first buyers had pulled out, she had almost been pleased. She could hardly bear the idea of strangers in their home, using their bathroom, their kitchen, sunbathing in their garden. Even though she had been the driving force behind the move in the first place.
Of course, Jonathan couldn't understand that. One night, several months ago, she had broken down in a torrent of weeping at the thought of leaving the house for good, and he had stared at her in amazement.
“But you were the one who wanted to do all this,” he had said, almost shouted. “It was your idea to buy the tutorial college in the first place.”
“I know it was,” she wailed, tears streaming hotly out of her eyes. “But I still don't want to leave this house.” He gazed at her for a few seconds in stupefaction. Then his expression changed.
“All right, darling, then we won't.” His voice suddenly firm, he lifted her chin and looked into her teary eyes, in a gesture straight out of a 1940s film. “We'll stay here. We'll stay where we're happy. I'll phone the solicitors tomorrow.”
“Oh Jonathan, why are you so stupid!” Liz jerked her chin out of his grasp impatiently. She wiped her nose with her hand and pushed it exasperatedly through her hair. A second wave of tears, feeble and benign, squeezed their way onto her cheeks. “You never understand anything. Of course we're not going to stay here.”
She had given a huge, shuddering sigh, and got up to close the window. When she returned to bed, Jonathan was facing the other way, not out of resentment, she was sure, but out of complete bewilderment. And she had realized that she really wasn't being fair on him. Jonathan was inherently cautious; naturally unambitious. It had taken a lot of her enthusiasm to persuade him into this enterprise. And here she was, weeping distressingly at him, worrying him unnecessarily.
“Sorry,” she had said, taking his narrow hand, watching his shoulders relax. “I'm just tired.”
Since then, she had gone to the other extreme; maintaining a blithe, positive approach that swept them all along, through the documentation, delivery vans, and detritus of the move; into the shabby little flat at that they were now to live in; out of safety and into precarious uncertainty. While Jonathan paced anxiously about the small, dusty rooms of their new home, searching for plug sockets, while Alice shuffled around blackly, in conspicuous,
unspecified teenage gloom, she had been the one to smile, and throw open tea chests and sing Beatles songs, cheerfully mismatching tunes and lyrics. She had been the strong one; the face of reassurance. But now reassurance seemed to have slipped adroitly away from her, as though recognizing too great an adversary in the tidings of this fresh-faced, droning messenger.
“A good interior makes all the difference,” he was saying as Liz's senses snapped back into focus. “There's a lot of competition out there; people with Jacuzzi bathrooms, conservatories...” He looked at her expectantly. “I don't suppose you'd consider installing a power shower? It might help attract buyers.”
“Instead of dropping the price?” said Liz in slight relief. “Well, I don't see why not.”
“As well as dropping the price, I meant,” said the estate agent, in a tone of almost amusement. It was that tone that suddenly touched her on the raw.
“You want us to drop the price and install a new shower?” She heard her voice screech; felt her face adopt the expression of outrage that she usually reserved for her most thoughtless pupils.
“Do you realize,” she added, slowly and clearly, as though to a class of sulky sixth formers, “that we are selling our house because we actually need the money? That we haven't decided to go and live in a tiny poky flat at because we want to, but because we have to?” She could feel herself gathering momentum. “And you're telling me that because you haven't been able to sell our house, we've got to put in a new shower at a cost of goodness knows how much, and then we've got to drop the price by—what was it?—fifty thousand? Fifty thousand pounds! Do you have any idea what our mortgage is?”
“Yes, well, it's quite a common situation you're in,” the young man said quickly. “The majority of our clients have found themselves to be in a negative equity situation.”
“Well, I'm afraid I don't give a toss about your other clients! Why on earth should I care about them?” She wouldn't, Liz decided as she listened to her own voice crescendo, let Jonathan know that she had yelled at the estate agent. He would only get cross and worry. Perhaps even phone up to apologize, for heaven's sake. A spurt of indignation at her husband's humility fueled Liz further. “We put our house on the market nearly a year ago,'” she shouted. “Do you realize that? If you'd sold it then, like you were supposed to, we wouldn't be talking about new showers. We wouldn't be lowering the price by such ludicrous amounts. We'd have paid off the mortgage, we'd be fine.”
“Mrs. Chambers, the property market—”
“Sod the property market!”
“Hear, hear!” A rich, easy, expensive voice joined the ensemble.
The estate agent started, forced a smile onto his face and swiveled in his chair. Liz, who had been about to continue, took a deep, gasping breath and looked round instead. Standing in the doorway of the office was a man in a tweed jacket, with dark brown eyes and crow's-feet and an amused grin. As Liz watched, he took a couple of steps into the room and then leaned casually back against the doorframe. He looked at ease; urbane and confident, unlike the young estate agent, who had begun twitchily rearranging the papers on his desk. The man in the tweed jacket ignored him.
“Do carry on,” he said to Liz, giving her a quizzical smile. “I didn't want to stop you. You were saying something—about the property market?”
The Wedding Girl
A group of tourists had stopped to gawp at Milly as she stood in her wedding dress on the registry office steps. They clogged up the pavement opposite while Oxford shoppers, accustomed to the yearly influx, stepped round them into the road, not even bothering to complain. A few glanced up towards the steps of the registry office to see what all the fuss was about, and tacitly acknowledged that the young couple on the steps did make a very striking pair.
One or two of the tourists had even brought out cameras, and Milly beamed joyously at them, reveling in their attention, trying to imagine the picture she and Allan made together. Her spiky, white- blond hair was growing hot in the afternoon sun; the hired veil was scratchy against her neck, the nylon lace of her dress felt uncomfortably damp wherever it touched her body. But still she felt light-hearted and full of euphoric energy. And whenever she glanced up at Allan—at her husband—a new, hot thrill of excitement coursed through her body, obliterating all other sensation.
She had only arrived in Oxford three weeks ago. School had finished in July—and while all her friends had planned trips to Ibiza and Spain and Amsterdam, Milly had been packed off to a secretarial college in Oxford. “Much more useful than some silly holiday,” her mother had announced firmly. “And just think what an advantage you'll have over the others when it comes to job hunting.” But Milly didn't want an advantage over the others. She wanted a suntan and a boyfriend, and beyond that, she didn't really care.
So on the second day of the typing course, she'd slipped off after lunch. She'd found a cheap hairdresser and, with a surge of exhilaration, told him to chop her hair short and bleach it. Then, feeling light and happy, she'd wandered around the dry, sun-drenched streets of Oxford, dipping into cool cloisters and chapels, peering behind stone arches, wondering where she might sunbathe. It was pure coincidence that she'd eventually chosen a patch of lawn in Corpus Christi College; that Rupert's rooms should have been directly opposite; that he and Allan should have decided to spend that afternoon doing nothing but lying on the grass, drinking Pimm's.
She'd watched, surreptitiously, as they sauntered onto the lawn, clinked glasses, and lit up cigarettes; gazed harder as one of them took off his shirt to reveal a tanned torso. She'd listened to the snatches of their conversation that wafted through the air towards her, and found herself longing to know these debonair, good-looking men. When, suddenly, the older one addressed her, she felt her heart leap with excitement.
“Have you got a light?” His voice was dry, American, amused.
“Yes,” she stuttered, feeling in her pocket. “Yes, I have.”
“We're terribly lazy, I'm afraid.” The younger man's eyes met hers: shyer; more diffident. “I've got a lighter; just inside that window.” He pointed to a stone mullioned arch. “But it's too hot to move.”
“We'll repay you with a glass of Pimm's,” said the American. He'd held out his hand. “Allan.”
“Rupert.”
She'd lolled on the grass with them for the rest of the afternoon, soaking up the sun and alcohol; flirting and giggling; making them both laugh with her descriptions of her fellow secretaries. At the pit of her stomach was a feeling of anticipation which increased as the afternoon wore on: a sexual frisson heightened by the fact that there were two of them and they were both beautiful. Rupert was lithe and golden like a young lion; his hair a shining blond halo; his teeth gleaming white against his smooth brown face. Allan's face was crinkled and his hair was greying at the temples, but his grey-green eyes made her heart jump when they met hers, and his voice caressed her ears like silk.
When Rupert rolled over onto his back and said to the sky, “Shall we go for something to eat to night?” she'd thought he must be asking her out. An immediate, unbelieving joy had coursed through her; simultaneously she'd recognized that she would have preferred it if it had been Allan.
But then Allan rolled over too, and said “Sure thing.” And then he leaned over and casually kissed Rupert on the mouth.
The strange thing was, after the initial, heart-stopping shock, Milly hadn't really minded. In fact, this way was almost better: this way, she had the pair of them to herself. She'd gone to San Antonio's with them that night and basked in the jealous glances of two fellow secretaries at another table. The next night they'd played jazz on an old wind-up gramophone and drunk mint juleps and taught her how to roll joints. Within a week, they'd become a regular threesome.
And then Allan had asked her to marry him.
Sleeping Arrangements
It was too hot to work, thought Chloe, standing back and pushing tendrils of wispy fair hair off her forehead. Certainly too hot to be standing
in this airless room, corseting an anxious, overweight girl into a wedding dress that was almost certainly two sizes too small. She glanced for the hundredth time at her watch, and felt a little leap of excitement. It was almost time. In only a few minutes the taxi would arrive and this torture would be over, and the holiday would officially begin. She felt faint with longing, with a desperate need for escape. It was only for a week—but a week would be enough. A week had to be enough, didn't it?
Away, she thought, closing her eyes briefly. Away from it all. She wanted it so much it almost scared her.
“Right,” she said, opening her eyes and blinking. For a moment she could barely remember what she was doing; could feel nothing but heat and fatigue. “Well, I've got to go—so perhaps we could leave it there for today? If you do want to go ahead with this particular dress—”
“She'll get into it,” cut in Mrs. Bridges with quiet menace. “She'll just have to make an effort. You can't have it both ways, you know!” Suddenly she turned on Bethany. “You can't have chocolate fudge cake every night and be a size twelve!”
“Some people do,” said Bethany miserably. “Kirsten Davis eats what she likes and she's size eight.”
“Then she's lucky,” retorted Mrs. Bridges. “Most of us aren't so lucky. We have to choose. We have to exercise self-control. We have to make sacrifices in life. Isn't that right, Chloe?”
“‘Well,” said Chloe. “I suppose so. Anyway, as I explained earlier, I am actually going on holiday today. And the taxi's just arrived to take us to Gatwick. So perhaps if we could arrange—”