A Desirable Residence by Sophie Kinsella, Madeleine Wickham Page A

believe you.’ Jonathan carried his tea through into the sitting-room, and Alice followed, unwillingly, at a distance.
    ‘A free lesson,’ mused Jonathan, sitting down on the sofa, next to a pile of essays. ‘How can it be called a lesson if it’s free time?’
    ‘Lesson,’ said Alice, through gritted teeth. ‘Lesson. Like, lesson on a timetable. Not lesson where you learn things.’
    ‘I see,’ said Jonathan. ‘But you do have some lessons where you learn things, I take it?’ He gave her an amused smile.
    ‘Of course we do.’ Alice gave her father a scathing look. Sometimes he behaved as if she was still about nine.
    ‘And tell me, how’s your Greek going?’ Alice spooned yoghurt into her mouth, and thought of her Greek lessons, of the strange symbols and rhythmic incantations. Alpha, beta, gamma, delta . She had only been doing the subject since the beginning of the term, but already she was enchanted by it. Her teacher had marked her first piece of homework Very Good, and said in class, ‘Do give my regards to your father, Alice, and tell him I think you’re doing very well.’ But the thought of relaying any such message filled Alice with a horrified embarrassment. She shrugged her shoulders and looked away.
    ‘S’all right,’ she said, and scraped noisily at the bottom of the plastic pot. When she had finished, she leant back on the sofa and reached for the television remote control.
    ‘You will throw that pot away, won’t you?’ said Jonathan.
    ‘Yes,’ said Alice irritably. Why did he have to tell her? Why couldn’t he have just waited and seen if she threw it away herself? She flicked on the television, and a cheery voice greeted her fractionally before the picture cleared, to show a man with blond hair wrestling with a furry puppet.
    ‘And now,’ he gasped to the camera, ‘it’s quarter-past four, and time for Nina’s Gang .’ The screen was filled with psychedelic graphics, and a loud guitar riff began to wail. Jonathan winced slightly, and got up.
    ‘Quarter-past four,’ he said. ‘I expect Mummy’s on her way home.’ He bent down, and picked up the yoghurt pot. ‘I’ll go and make some more tea.’
     
    Liz was not on her way home. She was sitting on the floor in her old bedroom, propped up against the wall. On one side of her was the champagne bottle, now half empty. On the other side of her was Marcus.
    It was Liz who had insisted on opening the bottle. Although her tears had only lasted for a momentary flurry, she still felt upset and shaky as she walked around the house, explaining in a wobbly voice that they’d left the pine table behind because there was no room for it at the tutorial college, and that the cat flap had been for their tabby, Oscar, but they’d given him away when they moved.
    ‘And this is our bedroom,’ she’d said, opening the door onto a sunny room at the front of the house, with a large square mark in the middle of the carpet to show where their double bed had rested. ‘Was our bedroom.’ She squinted at the shafts of light which pierced the dusty air, and landed on the dark red carpet in pools of pink. ‘We took our bed with us,’ she explained, unnecessarily. ‘There was one in the flat already, but we didn’t want to leave ours behind.’
    ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Marcus. ‘I think a bed is the most important piece of furniture in a house.’ It was almost the first thing he’d said since entering the house, and as he listened to his words hanging in the still, empty air, he had a sudden strange feeling of surrealism. This appointment was not turning out the way he had expected.
    First there had been the tears at the door. Then she had composed herself, but seemed to want to tell him all about the house. He had followed Liz patiently from room to room, listening to her halting, irrelevant explanations; building up a picture of what their family life in this house must have been like. And now, from what he could gather, they