Of course, she was happily pregnant. Of course, they had put in an offer on a large house with a garden in Kensington, and she was having a nanny, and was really hoping to go back to work straight away afterwards, but actually, it didn't awfully matter if she did or not, did it?

'I mean, Ginny, you can keep Prentice Fox PR going for me, can't you? Until I'm ready to come back?' As she listened, Ginny imagined Clarissa at her desk, twisting the telephone cord winsomely round her wrist, blooming in a designer maternity dress.

'Actually, Clarissa,' she found herself saying, 'you never know. We were thinking we might have a baby, too.'

'Really? Oh Ginny! That's brilliant!'

'Yes,' said Ginny, feeling emboldened by Clarissa's enthusiasm. 'Piers has got this brilliant television part practically in the bag. Loads of money. It's perfect timing.'

'How thrilling!' Clarissa's voice came lisping beguilingly down the line. 'Oh, Ginny, you are lucky to be married to an actor, instead of a boring old banker!'

'I know! It's so exciting.' And Ginny had smirked and giggled for a few minutes, and felt a glow of fame and achievement and the exhilarating feeling that she'd taken a risky gamble, and won hands down.

Now her hands trembled slightly as she continued addressing envelopes. Piers in Summer Street Summer Street. It felt so real; as though it had already happened. She almost thought he was was in in Summer Street Summer Street; that she would turn on the television and there he'd be. She couldn't imagine that it wouldn't happen. Piers was going to get that part. He had to. It was just a question of waiting.

Later on that night, Liz sat at the table in the sitting-room, pretending to go through her plans for the modern languages department at the tutorial college. A pile of notes was in front of her, and she'd written 'Course Subjects' at the top of her pad of paper and underlined it twice. But she hadn't written anything underneath yet, and was now sitting, staring blankly ahead, filled with a dispirited torpor.

She had felt like this ever since the meeting at the bank. Blank; numb; lacking the energy to tackle any new projects; able only to keep day-to-day life ticking over. The tutorial college no longer filled her with a proprietorial excitement, but seemed suddenly an unwanted burden which she had inadvertently lumbered herself with.

It wasn't that the bank had been wholly negative. Barbara Dean had turned out to be quite a pleasant woman, and had seemed as keen for the enterprise to succeed as they were-or, rather, as Jonathan was. But, as she had repeatedly reminded them, the amount of capital they had invested in the venture was worryingly small. The mortgage on the business had, she explained, been granted on the basis that when they sold the house in Russell Street, they would put another, larger chunk of money into the tutorial college. And, of course, that hadn't yet happened.

In the short term, she'd told them, she quite understood that renting the house out was the most sensible thing to do. But longer term, they would simply have to sell the house. Simply have to. Otherwise ... And Barbara Dean's eyebrows had disappeared above her gilt spectacles, almost into her hair, at the horror of what might happen. Then she'd relented, and the eyebrows had fallen back into place. In the meantime, she'd a.s.sured them, things could be a lot worse. And with a bit more work and a few more initiatives, they could soon be looking at a nice profit.

But her encouragement was too late for Liz. She didn't feel like putting in any more work. She didn't, as Barbara Dean had suggested, relish the challenge. She would almost rather they'd been forced to give up the ghost there and then, and put the tutorial college back on the market. It seemed preferable to the long slog that inevitably lay ahead.

She looked around her, and shuddered. Somewhere along the line, her entrepreneurial drive, her enthusiasm, her will to make this venture work, had all ebbed away. She felt as though the harness had slipped from her shoulders; as though Jonathan was now singlehandedly powering the business's progress. And, try as she might, she couldn't force herself to join in again. It all suddenly seemed pointless; a lot of work for very dubious and uncertain rewards.

Surrept.i.tiously, she fingered the gold bracelet which lay snugly below her sleeve; feeling its heavy links warm against her skin; estimating yet again what on earth it must have cost. When Marcus had, rather sheepishly, produced a small, gift-wrapped box one evening just before Christmas, she had been surprised. When she had seen what was inside, she had been stunned. Proper jewellery, from a smart London jeweller. And she hadn't even thought to buy him anything. But he had shrugged off her faltering thanks, her promises of a present after Christmas.

'It's nothing,' he said. 'Just a little something.' He grinned at her. 'Just a little treat. To remind you of me.'

She'd told Jonathan it was only gold-plated; a present for Alice which she'd decided to keep for herself-and as far as she could tell, he believed her. So she'd been able to wear it all Christmas, watching its shiny surface under the Christmas tree lights; playing with it as she watched television; careless of the warm, flowered nightie that Jonathan had bought her and the tapestry kit that Alice had bought her and the other a.s.sortment of well-meant, ill-chosen, utterly insignificant gifts. Everything suddenly seemed meagre, inadequate, scarcely worth bothering with. Nothing in comparison with the presents that Marcus and his family must surely be exchanging.

Even while she was tearing open the bottle-shaped parcel from Jonathan's father and wondering loudly, in the traditional family fashion, what on earth it could be, part of her mind was greedily imagining the scenes of gift-opening at the house of Marcus Witherstone. If he had given her a gold bracelet as a little something, what on earth had he given Anthea? Diamonds? Cashmere? A designer handbag? Whatever it was, it obviously wasn't doing anything for their relationship, she thought a little sourly. Marcus had phoned her the night before, to put off their next couple of meetings. Anthea was getting a bit tetchy, he'd explained. Liz thought Marcus sounded pretty tetchy himself. It must be h.e.l.l for him.

She'd seen Anthea from afar quite a few times now, coming to pick her son up from his interminable coaching sessions. Liz had normally finished teaching by that time of day, and she would watch from an upstairs window as Anthea's car came to a stop on the other side of the road; as her long, skinny legs emerged; as she hurried to the front door. She would sometimes spend twenty minutes or half an hour talking to Jonathan, then it was out again, talking over her shoulder to the poor boy; telling him to hurry up and look both ways; bundling him into the car and driving off. What a nightmare she was. No wonder Marcus was unhappy.

A very few times, it was Marcus himself who came to pick the boy up, and Liz would watch wistfully as he marched in and marched straight out again. No hanging around. No time for her to run downstairs and pretend to be pa.s.sing the cla.s.sroom. Sometimes she longed to tap on the window, like an imprisoned princess, and see him look up at her; see his smile of delight. But she never did. She would watch as he drove smartly off, then leap up, ready to be engaged in some other activity, far away from the window, when Jonathan came in.

Now she pulled her bracelet out from under her sleeve, and stared at it, turning it this way and that under the light. She wanted more of this, she found herself thinking. More of him. She deserved more. She leant back in her chair, and stared up at the ceiling. Strange thoughts were circulating in her head. Thoughts which had appeared vaguely at the back of her mind before but which she had never articulated. What would she do, she found herself asking herself, if Marcus ever asked her to leave Jonathan and come and live with him in wealthy bliss?

Well, of course, he never would, a loud voice inside her mind rudely told her.

Yes, but what if he did? What if he begged? After all, he'd almost hinted at it already. She remembered with a tremble of pleasure his voice, his exact words in that horrible hotel room: 'All this lying is getting to me.' What if he said he'd had enough of deception; he couldn't live without her? A scene popped into Liz's head; an image of Marcus entreating her, desperately; arms outstretched, telling her he loved her more than anything else. Telling her that he wanted to walk down the street with her, arm-in-arm, in front of the entire world. That he would be honoured to make her his wife. A glittering feeling of pleasure and excitement fluttered up her body. It was a bit unlikely ... but it was still possible. Utterly possible. After all, men did leave their wives. They did marry their mistresses. And unlikely things did happen. A year ago, she'd never have thought she would have an affair, and now, look, she was in the middle of one. Incredible. And who knew what could happen next?

Beguiling images entered her mind: of herself, sweeping into a shop full of designer clothes; choosing items for a packed social diary; putting down a charge card on the counter with an air of nonchalant confidence. Or cooking supper for Marcus in an expensively designed kitchen, with terracotta tiles and dried flowers hanging from the ceiling; opening a bottle of rich red wine; leaving the washing-up for the cleaner to put in the dishwasher. They would retire to a thickly carpeted bedroom. With an en suite en suite bathroom. Two glossy cars parked in the drive outside. No more work; no more worry. Nothing to do each morning except wake up. bathroom. Two glossy cars parked in the drive outside. No more work; no more worry. Nothing to do each morning except wake up.

There was a sound at the door, and Liz jumped.

'Oh hi,' said Alice, coming halfway into the room and stopping. She screwed up her face and blinked at Liz. 'It's a bit bright in here, isn't it?'

'Is it?' said Liz vaguely. She looked at Alice's scruffy form, and saw her in a year or two; hair longer and glossy; dressed in casually elegant clothes; conversing with guests across a gleaming dinner table. Smiling at Marcus as he poured her half a gla.s.s of wine. She would be able to have her own car as soon as she learnt to drive. She would go to a smart school for her sixth form. Perhaps even be a deb ...

'What we should have,' said Alice with more animation, 'is lamps. Like, really soft lamps everywhere. With cream shades. Not this old thing.' She gestured to the beige ceiling light-fitting disparagingly. Liz stared at Alice blankly for a while. Then a look of realization pa.s.sed over her face.

'I suppose,' she said, 'your friend Ginny has lamps everywhere.' Alice shrugged, and went slightly red.

'Dunno,' she said. 'A few. One or two.' She looked around as though to find a new subject. 'What're you doing?' she said eventually.

'Planning courses for the tutorial college,' said Liz briskly. She picked up her pen and began to write a series of meaningless sub-headings on her page; fruitlessly numbering and underlining them; anything to give an air of industry. Alice watched silently for a few minutes. Then, with a sigh, she felt around in the pocket of her jacket. She paused, then slowly, reluctantly, withdrew a white envelope.

'This is for you,' she said.

'For me?'

'Both of you,' said Alice discouragingly. 'It's an invitation,' she said, as Liz pulled out the card. 'You don't have to come,' she added.

'We might want to come!' Liz looked up at Alice. 'How nice of them to ask us. But won't we be too old?' Alice struggled briefly with a desire to say, Yes, you will.

'Not really,' she admitted eventually. 'There will be some oldies there. Like the people Ginny works with.'

'We're not exactly oldies,' began Liz. Then she stopped. 'Do you mean people at Witherstone's?' she said.

'Dunno. Yes. G.o.d, I don't know!'

'You know, our house was let to Ginny and Piers through Witherstone's,' said Liz, more for her own amus.e.m.e.nt than anything else. Alice's bored face remained motionless. 'Mr Witherstone himself organized it. Marcus, I think his name was. Marcus Witherstone.' She could hardly believe she was saying his name aloud in her own sitting-room. A dim light came into Alice's eyes.

'Yeah,' she said. 'I think he's been invited. Somebody Witherstone.' She shrugged. 'Anyway, you'll probably be too busy or something,' she said hopefully.

'On the contrary,' said Liz. 'I'm looking forward to it.' She balanced the white card carefully on the pale blue tiles of the fireplace and stood back to admire the effect. 'I'm looking forward to it very much.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

In the next three weeks, Jonathan took twenty-three calls enquiring about Common Entrance and scholarship coaching. By the time Daniel came for his last session, two regular after-school cla.s.ses had been set up, containing most of his form-mates, as well as a.s.sorted other eleven-and twelve-year-old boys whose mothers had heard on the grapevine about the Silchester Tutorial College.

Jonathan was in his element. The boys were, by-and-large, an intelligent bunch, he had explained to Liz, which meant that there was something there worth working with. And several of them were extremely promising. Several of them might well win scholarships to major schools. The only slight disadvantage with teaching such clever boys was the high expectations of the parents. They hung around after every cla.s.s with questions, comments and complaints pouring off their lips, until eventually he had to make a system of consultation appointments-for which, he told Liz, he charged a reasonable fee for his time. All in all, they should do very nicely out of it. And if any of the boys did well-it could only help their reputation.

Liz nodded lackadaisically while he told her all this. She could see that the Common Entrance coaching was a triumph; she had looked at the burgeoning lists of pupils, and could appreciate what it would do for their figures. Barbara Dean would no doubt be thrilled. But still Liz could not drum up any enthusiasm for the tutorial college. It was still a burden. It was still mortgaged up to the hilt. They were still under instructions to sell the house in Russell Street. They were still going to be poor for ages and ages before they started making a decent profit.

In her own mind, she was no longer a.s.sociated with any of it. She was above the sordid workings of banks and loans and mortgages and repayments. She was on another, more comfortable, more carefree level. Or at least ... she would be. She would be soon. It now seemed to her that during these last few weeks she had simply been marking time; before long, her real life would begin. She looked kindly at Jonathan as he explained his small success; perused obediently the figures that he thrust before her. But it all seemed irrelevant and footling. A hundred pounds here and a hundred pounds there. When Marcus regularly paid much more than that simply for a night in a hotel room.

She hadn't seen Marcus since Christmas. That wife of his was obviously becoming more demanding. Poor Marcus. Liz had never met Anthea, but from what Jonathan said, she seemed a neurotic woman; half-blind with love for Marcus no doubt, and beginning to sense that something was wrong. Liz thought of Marcus at home, trying to rea.s.sure his nervy, possessive wife, and shivered. It was no good. Things would have to be put straight soon. They couldn't go on s.n.a.t.c.hing meetings in secret like this. Their relationship was going to have to be put on a different footing. Exactly what, Liz wasn't sure, but she had a strong, certain feeling in her stomach that things were coming to a head. She would see Marcus at the party. If she got the chance, she thought, she would talk to him about it all then.

Ginny couldn't believe her ears.

'What?' she exclaimed, and stared at Piers in outrage, as though it was his fault.

'They said it was some admin problem,' said Piers, attempting to sound cheerful. 'It doesn't mean anything.'

'It does mean something! They can't just mess you around like this! What's wrong with tomorrow?' Piers shrugged.

'Dunno. They didn't say. Maybe the chief honcho's busy.'

'Honestly!' Ginny pushed a hand exasperatedly through her hair. 'I thought it was just a formality. I mean, you've got the part. They've said they like you. Whoever this bigwig is, he's not going to go against the producer, is he?' Piers shrugged again.

'Who knows?' he said, in deliberately flat tones. Ginny stared at Piers, suddenly deflated.

'But next week's the party,' she said hopelessly. 'You can't do an audition on the same day as the party.'

'Of course I can,' said Piers. 'Easy. We'll get everything ready the night before.'

'But-'

'What?' Ginny stared at Piers silently. She couldn't tell him that her secret plan had been to announce the news of the part at the party; that she had envisaged buying herself a stunningly expensive dress for the occasion; that she wanted everything to be in the bag this this week, not next. 'I just think it's really bad, that's all,' she said eventually. 'They should treat you with more respect. I mean, what if you hadn't been free next week?' week, not next. 'I just think it's really bad, that's all,' she said eventually. 'They should treat you with more respect. I mean, what if you hadn't been free next week?'

'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-b.u.mped, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y hard for this exam. He b.l.o.o.d.y well deserved to do well. He was a b.l.o.o.d.y 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 elite 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 a.s.sumed 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 you going to wear?' Alice had shrugged nonchalantly, and said she hadn't thought about it. 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 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?'