A Desirable Residence by Sophie Kinsella, Madeleine Wickham Page A

vapourized, leaving her with only the bare facts to cling to. They were going to let the house out. Beyond that, nothing. She had heard no word from the estate agent since their first meeting; the tenants whom he had promised had so far failed to materialize. Even she was beginning to have sneaking doubts about the project.
    Jonathan was deliberately silent. He took a piece of toast from the toaster, and began to butter it carefully. Liz watched in mounting exasperation. Eventually she could bear it no longer.
    ‘Stop looking like that!’ she exclaimed.
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Like, I’m not going to say anything, even though I’m thinking what an idiot my wife is.’
    ‘I’m not thinking that,’ protested Jonathan.
    ‘Well then, what are you thinking?’
    ‘I’m going to school now, all right?’ interrupted Alice quickly. She pushed back her chair with a speedy urgency and, without looking either of her parents in the eye, clomped out of the kitchen.
    ‘All right,’ said Liz, momentarily deflected. ‘Have a nice day, darling,’ she called to Alice’s retreating back.
    ‘We shouldn’t argue like that in front of Alice,’ said Jonathan, when they’d heard the front door slam below.
    ‘Nonsense, she’s fine,’ said Liz. ‘We’re not arguing, anyway. We’re having an animated conversation. Which you’re trying to get out of.’
    ‘I’m not trying to get out of it,’ said Jonathan. ‘It’s just—’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Well, this business of renting out the house. I mean, you just come back here and announce that’s what we’re going to do, without bothering to ask me, or talk about it, and you know, that’s fine by me, as long as it works out.’
    ‘But?’ Her voice sounded rattled to her own ears.
    ‘But, well, it doesn’t seem to be working out so far. I mean, does it? Here we are, after more than a week, and we haven’t heard anything. Where are these famous tenants you said the agent had up his sleeve?’
    ‘I don’t know. I expect he’s working on it.’ Liz stood up with a sudden movement and began piling bowls and plates together with angry little clashes. ‘I’ll ring him this morning, all right? Or do you want me to call the whole thing off ?’
    ‘No, no, of course not!’ Jonathan spread his hands in a self-deprecating manner. ‘I mean, what the hell do I know about it? It just seems to me that we should be either trying to sell the house or renting it out, and at the moment we’re doing neither. But I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure it’ll get sorted out before long. Still, it might be an idea to ring the agent. He’s probably put our details at the bottom of his pile.’ He gave her an encouraging smile, and began to clear away the breakfast things.
    Oh, blast you, Jonathan, thought Liz, watching him calmly stack the plates up, put the cereal packets in their cupboard, run a cloth over the Formica counter. She turned away to the sink, began to run the hot tap into the washing-up bowl and squirted a long, thick stream of washing-up liquid under it; then plunged her hands into the scalding water in an obscure need for some sort of penance. Why do you have to be so bloody reasonable all the time? she thought to herself crossly. Why can’t you shout and yell and get angry? And, more to the point, why on earth do I always have to be such a stroppy old cow?
    At the first opportunity she got that morning, she dialled the number of Witherstone & Co. It seemed almost presumptuous to ask for Mr Witherstone himself. But she didn’t want to risk being put through to the dreadful Nigel again.
    ‘Which Mr Witherstone?’ asked the receptionist, in an unhelpful voice. Liz, standing in the cramped office of the tutorial college, was momentarily flummoxed.
    ‘I’m sorry, could you—’
    ‘Mr Miles Witherstone or Mr Marcus Witherstone?’ Liz thought furiously. She knew it began with an M. But that didn’t get her very far.
    ‘Marcus, I think,’ she said eventually.
    ‘I’m