Cocktails for Three (17 page)

Besides which, neither of them had really met Heather properly. They had no idea what a warm and generous person she was; how quickly the friendship between
them had developed. Perhaps she had started out thinking of Heather primarily as victim; perhaps her initial generosity had been spurred by guilt rather than anything else. But now there was a genuine bond between them. Maggie and Roxanne behaved as though having Heather living in her flat were a huge disadvantage. In fact, the opposite was true. Now that she had a flat-mate, Candice couldn't imagine living again without one. How had she spent the evenings before Heather? Sipping cocoa on her own, instead of snuggled up with Heather on the sofa in pyjamas, reading out horoscopes in fits of laughter. Heather wasn't a disadvantage, thought Candice affectionately. She was a life-enhancer.

As she closed the front door behind her, she could hear Heather's voice in the kitchen. She sounded as though she might be on the phone, and Candice advanced cautiously down the corridor, not wanting to disturb Heather's privacy. A few feet before she reached the kitchen, she stopped in slight shock.

“Don't give me any of your grief, Hamish!” Heather was saying, in a low, tense voice so far from her usual bubbling tones that Candice barely recognized it. “What the fuck is it to you?” There was a pause, then she said, “Yeah, well maybe I don't care. Yeah well, maybe I will!” Her voice rose to a shout and there was the sound of the phone slamming down. Out in the hall, Candice froze in panic. Please don't come out, she thought. Please don't come out and see me.

A moment later, she heard Heather putting the kettle on, and the sound seemed to jolt her into action. Feeling absurdly guilty, she tiptoed a few feet back down the hall, opened the front door again, then banged it shut.

“Hi!” she called brightly. “Anyone in?”

Heather appeared at the kitchen door and gazed at Candice appraisingly, without smiling.

“Hi,” she said at last. “How was it?”

“Great!” said Candice enthusiastically. “Lucia's gorgeous! And Maggie's fine . . .” She tailed off, and Heather leaned against the door frame.

“I was on the phone,” she said. “I expect you heard.”

“No!” said Candice at once. “I've only just got in.” She felt herself flushing and turned her head away, pretending to fiddle with the sleeve of her jacket.

“Men,” said Heather after a pause. “Who needs them?” Candice looked up in surprise.

“Have you got a boyfriend?”

“Ex-boyfriend,” said Heather. “Utter bastard. You really don't want to know.”

“Right,” said Candice awkwardly. “Well— shall we have some tea?”

“Why not?” said Heather, and followed her back into the kitchen.

“By the way,” said Heather, as Candice reached for the tea-bags, “I needed some stamps, so I got some from your dressing table. You don't mind, do you? I'll pay you back.”

“Don't be silly!” said Candice, turning round. “And of course I don't mind. Help yourself.” She laughed. “What's mine is yours.”

“OK,” said Heather casually. “Thanks.”

Roxanne arrived back at her flat cold and hungry, to see a cardboard box waiting outside the front door. She stared at it, bewildered, then opened the door and gave it little shoves with her foot until it was inside. She shut
the front door, flicked on the lights then crouched down and looked at the box more closely. The postmark was Cyprus, and the writing on the label was Nico's. The sweetheart. What had he sent her this time?

Smiling a little, Roxanne ripped open the box, to see row upon row of bright orange tangerines, still with their green leaves attached to the stalks. She picked one up, closed her eyes, and inhaled the sweet, tangy, unmistakable scent. Then she reached for the handwritten sheet lying on top of the tangerines.

My dearest Roxanne. A small reminder of what you are missing, here in Cyprus. Andreas and I are still hoping you will reconsider our offer. Yours as ever, Nico.

For a moment, Roxanne was quite still. Then she looked at the tangerine consideringly, threw it into the air and caught it. Bright and sweet, sunny and appealing, she thought. Another world altogether; a world she'd almost forgotten about.

But her world was here. Here in the soft London rain, with Ralph.

After all the visitors had left the ward, the lights had been turned down and Lucia had settled to sleep, Maggie lay awake, staring up at the high, white, institutional ceiling, trying to quell her feelings of panic.

The paediatrician had been very complimentary about Lucia's progress. The jaundice had completely gone, she was putting on weight well, and all was as it should be.

“You can go home tomorrow,” he'd said, making a mark on his white form. “I expect you're sick of this place.”

“Absolutely,” Maggie had said, and had smiled weakly at him. “I can't wait to get home.”

Later, Giles had arrived to visit— and when she'd told him the good news, had whooped with delight.

“At last! What a relief. You must be thrilled. Oh, darling, won't it be great, having you home again?” He'd leaned forward and hugged her so tightly she could hardly breathe, and her spirits had, for a moment, lifted to something near euphoria.

But now, lying in the dark, she could feel nothing but fear. In ten days, she had become used to the rhythm of life in hospital. She had become used to three meals a day; to the friendly chatter of the midwives; to the cups of tea which appeared on trolleys at four o'clock. She had become used to the feeling of security: the knowledge that, if disaster struck, there was always a button to press, a nurse to summon. She had become used to Joan wheeling Lucia off at two in the morning and returning at six.

To her shame, she had secretly almost been relieved when Lucia's jaundice had responded more slowly than expected to phototherapy. Every extra night in hospital was putting off the day when she would have to leave the safety, familiarity and camaraderie of the maternity ward for her empty, chilly house. She thought of The Pines— her home— and tried to summon up some feeling of affection for it. But the strongest emotion she had ever felt for the house was pride in its grandeur— and somehow that no longer appealed to her. What was the point of all that cold, open space? She was used to her warm, cosy floral cell, with everything within arm's reach.

Giles, of course, would never understand that. He adored the house in a way she feared she would never be able to.

“I've been so looking forward to having you home,” he'd said that afternoon, holding her hand. “You and the baby, home at The Pines. It'll be . . . just as I always imagined it.” And a twinge of surprise had gone through her. Of envy, almost. Giles so obviously had a clear vision in his mind of what life at home with a baby would be like. Whereas she still could hardly believe it was actually happening.

Throughout her pregnancy, she had been unable to picture herself with a child. She had known in her logical mind that there would be a baby; had occasionally tried to imagine herself pushing the smart Mamas and Papas pram or rocking the Moses basket. She had looked at the piles of new white sleeping suits and had told herself that a living, breathing child would soon be inhabiting them. But despite everything she'd said to herself, none of it had felt quite real.

And now, the thought of herself alone at home with Lucia seemed just as unreal. She exhaled sharply, then switched on her night light, glanced at Lucia's sleeping face, and poured herself a glass of water.

“Can't sleep?” A young midwife poked her head round the curtain. “I expect you're excited about going home.”

“Oh yes,” said Maggie again, forcing a smile onto her dry face. “Can't wait.”

The midwife disappeared and she stared miserably into her glass of water. She couldn't tell anyone how she really felt. She couldn't tell anyone that she was
scared of returning to her own home, with her own baby. They would think she was absolutely mad. Perhaps she was.

Late that night, Candice woke with a start, and stared into the darkness of her room. For a moment she couldn't think what had woken her. Then she realized that a sound was coming from the kitchen. Oh my God, she thought: a burglar. She lay quite still, heart thumping in panic— then slowly and silently she got out of bed, wrapped a dressing gown around herself and cautiously opened the door of her room.

The kitchen light was on. Did burglars usually put lights on? She hesitated, then quickly padded out into the corridor. As she reached the kitchen, she stopped and stared in shock. Heather was sitting at the table, cradling a cup of coffee, surrounded by page proofs of the
Londoner.
As Candice stared, she looked up, her face drawn and anxious.

“Hi,” she said, and immediately looked back at the sheets of paper.

“Hi,” said Candice, staring at her. “What are you doing? You're not working, surely?”

“I forgot all about it,” said Heather, staring down at the page proofs. “I completely forgot.” She rubbed her red eyes, and Candice gazed at her in alarm. “I brought these pages home to work on over the weekend, and I forgot to do them. How can I be so
stupid
?”

“Well . . . don't worry!” said Candice. “It's not the end of the world!”

“I've got to redo five pages by tomorrow!” said Heather, a note of desperation in her voice. “And then
I've got to put all the corrections onto the computer by the time Alicia arrives! I promised they'd be ready!”

“I don't understand,” said Candice, sinking onto a chair. “Why have you got so much work?”

“I got behind,” said Heather. She took a sip of coffee and winced. “Alicia gave me a load of stuff to do, and I . . . I don't know, maybe I'm not as quick as everyone else. Maybe everyone else is cleverer than me.”

“Rubbish!” said Candice at once. “I'll have a word with Alicia.” She had always liked Alicia, the earnest chief sub-editor; at one time they had even considered sharing a flat.

“No, don't,” said Heather at once. “She'll just say—” She stopped abruptly and there was silence in the little kitchen, broken only by the ticking of the electric clock.

“What?” said Candice. “What will she say?”

“She'll say I should never have got the job in the first place,” said Heather miserably.

“What?” Candice laughed. “Alicia wouldn't say that!”

“She already has,” said Heather. “She's said it several times.”

“Are you serious?” Candice stared at her in disbelief. Heather gazed back at her, as though debating whether to carry on, then sighed.

“Apparently a friend of hers applied for the job, too. Some girl with two years' experience on another magazine. And I got it over her. Alicia was a bit annoyed.”

“Oh.” Candice rubbed her nose, discomfited. “I had no idea.”

“So I can't let her know I'm slipping behind. I've just got to somehow . . . manage.” Heather pushed her
hair back off her shadowed face and took another sip of coffee. “Go back to bed, Candice. Honestly.”

“I can't just leave you!” said Candice. She picked up a page proof covered in coloured corrections, then put it down again. “I feel terrible about this. I had no idea you were being worked so hard.”

“It's fine, really. Just as long as I get it all done by tomorrow morning . . .” Heather's voice shook slightly. “I'll be all right.”

“No,” said Candice, with a sudden decisiveness. “Come on, this is silly! I'll do some of this work. It won't take me nearly as long.”

“Really? Would you?” Heather looked up at her entreatingly. “Oh, Candice . . .”

“I'll go in early and do the work straight onto the computer. How's that?”

“But . . .” Heather swallowed. “Won't Alicia know you've been helping me?”

“I'll send the pages over to your terminal when I've finished them. And you can print them out.” Candice grinned at her. “Easy.”

“Candice, you're a star,” said Heather, sinking back into her chair. “And it'll just be this once, I promise.”

“No problem,” said Candice, and grinned at her. “What are friends for?”

The next day she went into work early and sat, patiently working through the pages Heather had been given to correct. It took her rather longer than she had expected, and it was eleven o'clock before she had perfected the final proof. She glanced over at Heather, gave her the thumbs-up, and pressed the button that would send the page electronically to Heather's computer
terminal. Behind her she could hear Alicia saying, “This page is fine, too. Well done, Heather!”

Candice grinned, and reached for her cup of coffee. She felt rather like a schoolchild, outwitting the teachers.

“Candice?” She looked up at Justin's voice and saw him standing at the door of his office, looking as polished as ever. His brows were knitted together in a thoughtful frown— which he'd probably been practising in the bathroom mirror, she thought with an inward grin. After having lived with Justin and seen his little vanities close at hand, she couldn't take his studied facial expressions seriously any more. Indeed, she could barely take him seriously as an editor at all. He could be as pompous as he liked and throw as many long words as he liked around at meetings, but he would never be half the editor Maggie was. He might have a large vocabulary and he might know the name of the maître d' at Boodles, but he didn't have the first idea about people.

Once again she felt a flicker of astonishment that, for a while, she had fallen for Justin's gloss; that she had actually believed that she might love him. It just showed, she thought, what an insidious influence good looks could have on one's judgement. If he'd been less attractive physically, she might have paid attention to his character from the start and realized sooner what a selfish person he was, underneath all the eloquent, superficial charm.