A Desirable Residence by Sophie Kinsella, Madeleine Wickham

He’s not a strange man, he’s an estate agent. She eyed Marcus surreptitiously. But in his smooth tweed jacket and polished shoes, he looked nothing like an estate agent. He had resumed his leaning position against the gate, eyes narrowed against the wind. From where Liz was standing, his broad shoulders obscured completely her view of the front door. His hand rested confidently on the front wall. She didn’t quite dare look at his face.
    A few moments’ silence passed, and Liz began to feel awkward. She cast around in her mind for something to say.
    ‘That’s a very smart car,’ she ventured at last, then immediately chastised herself. Oh what a boring, unsophisticated remark . But Marcus turned and looked at his car in agreeable surprise, as though he’d never really noticed it before.
    ‘Nice model, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I do prefer it to the new one, I think.’ He looked questioningly at her, as if expecting her to disagree. But Liz was stumped by the subject of car models. She transferred the freezing-cold bottle from one hand to the other and wondered what she could say next.
    ‘I wonder where Ginny is.’ Marcus looked at his watch and smiled apologetically at Liz. ‘I’m sorry to keep you hanging around like this. If you’d rather go, and leave it to another day, I’m sure Ginny would understand.’
    ‘Oh no,’ said Liz breathlessly. ‘I mean, I might as well wait, now I’m here.’ She looked at her own watch. ‘It’s only quarter past.’ She put the champagne bottle on the pavement and rubbed one icy palm against the other. Despite the over-bright sunshine, the afternoon air was getting colder and colder, and a chill breeze had begun to blow. ‘But if you like,’ she added slowly, ‘we could always go and wait inside the house.’
    ‘Of course we could! Why didn’t I think of that?’ Marcus suddenly took in Liz’s ungloved, chafing hands. ‘You look freezing!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m terribly sorry, keeping you out here. Of course we should be waiting in the house.’ He pushed open the gate and led the way up the path.
    Liz groped in her pocket for the doorkey. She felt automatically for the ridges as she pulled it out, put it in the lock and heaved up before turning in one, seamless, unthinking movement. The door swung open with the familiar creaking moan that she’d stopped noticing years ago; the smell of floorboards came rushing out at them, and Liz, to her utter horror and surprise, burst into tears.

    At four o’clock, Alice came silently into the kitchen, opened the fridge and took out a yoghurt. She reached past Jonathan, who was pouring out a cup of tea, to get a spoon from the drawer, and he jumped in surprise.
    ‘Alice! Just in time for tea.’
    ‘I hate tea.’ Alice hovered noncommittally by the door, unable to decide whether the indignity of staying in the kitchen with Jonathan was worse than the aloneness of taking her yoghurt off to her bedroom. She watched as he carefully poured milk into his cup, put the bottle back in the fridge and wiped the surface with a jay-cloth. Both her parents, she had noticed, were always cleaning this kitchen, and sweeping crumbs off the floor and arranging the mugs neatly. As if they could make it look any nicer by keeping it tidy. In their old kitchen at Russell Street, everything had just mounted up in a cheerful profusion until someone decided to clear up, usually Jonathan. But then, even when that kitchen was tidy, it had always been full of stuff; of plants and books and Oscar’s basket and his toys all over the floor. There was only room for one plant in this kitchen, and that was already looking pretty dismal.
    Jonathan turned round and smiled.
    ‘You’re home early.’ Alice chose to take this as an accusation.
    ‘No I’m not.’
    ‘Home by four?’ Alice rolled her eyes and sighed loudly.
    ‘I had a free lesson. We’re allowed to go home. I can show you my timetable if you don’t believe me.’
    ‘Of course I