A Desirable Residence by Sophie Kinsella, Madeleine Wickham Page B

afraid Mr Marcus Witherstone is out of the office this morning,’ said the receptionist immediately, in tones, Liz was sure, of some triumph. ‘Would you care to leave a message?’
    ‘Yes please,’ said Liz robustly. ‘Could you say that Mrs Chambers called regarding her property in Russell Street, wondering if any tenants had been procured yet.’ She gave the number of the tutorial college, and put the receiver down, feeling pleased with herself. The use of the word ‘procured’ had been especially satisfying. And now she could stop feeling guilty about the house. It wasn’t her problem any more; it was Marcus Witherstone’s.
     
    Marcus was at that moment driving along the main road of Collinchurch, the village in which Leo Francis lived. He had begun his journey that morning with a brisk feeling of adrenalin at the thought of his meeting with Leo. This, however, had faded away during the rigours of negotiating the Silchester ring road, to be replaced eventually by a growing sensation of panic.
    He could scarcely believe he was really doing it. Taking up Leo’s carefully worded invitation; agreeing implicitly to . . . what? As his mind scanned vaguely over any number of possibilities, he felt a tremor run through him, a blurred feeling of fear pierced by sharp exhilaration. And, already, guilt. Even though he hadn’t set foot in Leo’s house yet; hadn’t even listened to what he had to say. He was, so far, innocent.
    Except that he’d already lied to Miles. Trusting, honest Miles, who had asked Marcus to have lunch with him that day. He’d asked in a conciliatory way, which meant that he felt bad at having brushed Marcus off so peremptorily the week before. He’d suggested Le Manoir. He’d intimated it would be his treat. And Marcus, who usually jumped at Le Manoir and, on principle, never turned Miles down, had panicked.
    ‘Sorry, Miles. I’m seeing a client. That rental case I told you about. Another time, perhaps?’ And he’d put the phone down, shaking slightly. Now he winced at the memory. Why the fuck had he said that? Why not admit he was meeting Leo Francis? An informal meeting between two local professionals: estate agent and solicitor. Nothing could be more respectable.
    Except . . . except. Oh God. A twinge of anticipation rose in Marcus, filling him with a mixture of horror and delight. Was he really doing this? Marcus Witherstone, of Witherstone’s? Better not think about it. Better just get there, and have a stiff drink or two.
    It was now three months or so ago that Leo had sidled up to Marcus, at a rather dull party, and murmured a few discreet, ambivalent phrases into his ears. Phrases whose meaning could be taken in either of two ways. Phrases which Miles, for example, would have deliberately—or even unknowingly—misunderstood.
    Marcus, however, was not Miles. Nothing like Miles. He’d listened to Leo’s bland, innocuous, double-sided words, then, playing for time, put his glass to his lips. It occurred to him that if the rest of the guests present knew what Leo was indirectly proposing, they would be shocked. Horrified, even. And part of him was also shocked at Leo’s seedy suggestions. Of course, he knew this kind of thing went on, but he had never really thought he would come across it. It was the sort of thing other people did. Not respectable professionals like himself.
    But that, of course, had been part of the appeal. The idea that he could combine the safe, predictable veneer of a well-established, middle-aged estate agent with something more dangerous, more lucrative, more exciting in every way. Or at least less boring. For life at Witherstone’s was, Marcus had suddenly realized, clutching his drink and taking in the implications of Leo’s words, boring him beyond belief. He had done all the learning he was ever likely to do; he had tried out all the new plans and ideas he was ever likely to think of. His position was safe; his work not arduous; he was able to pick