Cocktails for Three (24 page)

“Hi, Candice?” A voice interrupted her, and she looked up. It was Heather, looking clean and tidy, with
her hair smoothed down and her make-up reapplied. “Have the others gone?”

“Yes,” said Candice stiffly. “They . . . they had to leave.” Heather looked at her closely.

“You had a falling-out, didn't you?”

“Kind of,” said Candice, and attempted a smile.

“I'm really sorry,” said Heather. “Truly.” She squeezed Candice's shoulder, then looked at her watch. “I've got to go, I'm afraid.”

“Of course,” said Candice. “Have a good time. And say hello to Ed,” she added as Heather walked off, but Heather didn't seem to hear.

“Your bill,” said the waitress, returning the green folder.

“Thanks,” said Candice. She pocketed the slip of paper and got up from the table, feeling weary with disappointment. How could everything have gone so wrong? How could the evening have ended like this?

“Have a safe trip home and come back soon,” beamed the waitress.

“Yes,” said Candice dispiritedly. “Maybe.”

Chapter Fourteen

The next morning, Candice woke with a cold feeling in her stomach. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignore it, then turned over, burying her head in the duvet. But the chill persisted; would not leave her. She had argued with Maggie and Roxanne, her brain relentlessly reminded her. Her two best friends had walked out on her. The thought sent a dripping coldness down her spine; made her want to hide under her duvet for ever.

As recollections of the evening began to run through her head, she squeezed her eyes tight shut and blocked her ears with her hands. But she could not avoid the images— the iciness in Roxanne's eyes; the shock in Maggie's face. How could she have behaved so badly? How could she have let them leave without sorting it out?

At the same time, as pieces of the evening resurfaced in her head, she felt a lingering resentment begin to lift itself off the lining of her mind. A slow self-justification began to pervade her body; a self-justification which grew warmer the more she remembered. After all, what
crime had she really committed? She had brought along a friend, that was all. Perhaps Heather and Roxanne had not hit it off, perhaps Maggie had wanted to have a cosy tête-à-tête. But was she to blame for all that? If things had gone the other way— if they had all warmed to Heather and adopted her as a new chum— wouldn't they now be ringing Candice, and congratulating her on having such a nice friend? It wasn't her fault things hadn't worked out. She shouldn't have snapped at Maggie— but then, Maggie shouldn't have called Heather a bitch.

With a small surge of annoyance, Candice swung her legs out of the bed and sat up, wondering if Heather had already had her shower. And then it hit her. The flat was completely silent. Candice bit her lip and walked to the door of her little room. She pushed it open and waited, listening for any sounds. But there were none— and Heather's bedroom door was ajar. Candice walked towards the kitchen, and as she passed Heather's room, casually glanced in. It was empty, and the bed was neatly made. The bathroom was empty, too. The whole flat was empty.

Candice glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Seven-twenty. Heather could have got up extremely early, she told herself, putting on the kettle. She could have suffered from insomnia, or instituted a rigorous new regime.

Or she could have stayed out all night with Ed.

An indeterminate spasm went through Candice's stomach, and she shook her head crossly. It was none of her business what Ed and Heather did, she told herself firmly. If he wanted to ask her out, fine. And if
Heather was desperate enough to want to spend the evening with a man who thought “gourmet” meant three pizza toppings, fine again.

She walked briskly back into the bathroom, peeled off her nightshirt and stepped under the shower— noticing, in spite of herself, that it hadn't been used that morning. Quickly she lathered herself with a rose-scented gel marked “Uplifting,” then turned the shower on full hot blast to wash away the bubbles, the cold feeling in her stomach, her curiosity about Heather and Ed. She wanted to rinse it all away; to emerge refreshed and untroubled.

By the time she came back into the kitchen in her towelling robe, there was a pile of post on the mat and the kettle had boiled. Very calmly, she made herself a cup of camomile tea as recommended by the detox diet that had run in the
Londoner
the month before, and began to open her letters, deliberately keeping till last the mauve envelope at the bottom of the pile.

A credit card bill— higher than usual. Heather's arrival had meant more treats, more outings, more expenditure. A bank statement. Her bank balance also seemed rather higher than usual and she peered at it, puzzled, for a while, wondering where the extra money had come from. Then, shrugging, she stuffed it back into its envelope and moved on. A furniture cata logue in a plastic wrapper. A letter exhorting her to enter a prize draw. And then, at the bottom, the mauve envelope; the familiar loopy handwriting. She stared at it for a moment, then ripped it open, knowing already what she would find.

Dear Candice,
wrote her mother.
Hope all is well
with you. The weather is moderately fine here. Kenneth and I have been on a short trip to Cornwall. Kenneth's daughter is expecting another baby . . .

Quietly, Candice read to the end of the letter, then put it back into the envelope. The same anodyne words as ever; the same neutral, distancing tone. The letter of a woman paralysed by fear of the past; too cowardly to reach out even to her own daughter.

A familiar flame of hurt burned briefly within Candice, then died. She had read too many such letters to let this one upset her. And this morning she felt clean and quiet; almost numb.
I don't care
, flashed through her head as she put the letters in a neat pile on the counter.
I don't care.
She took a sip of camomile tea, then another. She was about to take a third when the doorbell rang, startling her so much that her tea spilled all over the table.

She pulled her robe more tightly around her, cautiously walked to the front door and opened it.

“So,” said Ed, as though continuing a conversation begun three minutes ago, “I hear one of your friends tipped a cocktail over Heather last night.” He shook his head admiringly. “Candice, I never knew you ran with such a wild set.”

“What do you want?” said Candice.

“An introduction to this Roxanne character for a start,” said Ed. “But a cup of coffee would do.”

“What's wrong with you?” said Candice. “Why can't you make your own bloody coffee? And anyway, where's Heather?” Immediately the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.

“Interesting question,” said Ed, leaning against the
door frame. “The implication being— what? That Heather should be making my coffee?”

“No!” snapped Candice. “I just—” She shook her head. “It doesn't matter.”

“You just wondered? Well . . .” Ed looked at his watch. “To be honest, I have no idea. She's probably on her way to work by now, wouldn't you think?” He raised his eyes and grinned innocently.

Candice stared back at him, then turned on her heel and walked back into the kitchen. She flicked the kettle on, wiped down the tea-sodden table, then sat down and took another sip of camomile tea.

“I have to thank you, by the way,” said Ed, following her in. “For giving me such sound advice.” He reached for the cafetière and began to spoon coffee into it. “You want some?”

“No thank you,” said Candice coldly. “I'm detoxing. And what did I give you advice about?”

“Heather, of course. You were the one who suggested I ask her out.”

“Yes,” said Candice. “So I was.”

There was silence as Ed poured water into the cafetiète and Candice stared into her cup of unappealing, lukewarm camomile tea. Don't ask, she told herself firmly. Don't ask. He's only come round to brag.

“So—how was it?” she heard herself saying.

“How was what?” said Ed, grinning. Candice felt a flush come to her cheeks.

“How was the evening?” she said in deliberate tones.

“Oh, the
evening
,” said Ed. “The evening was lovely, thank you.”

“Good.” Candice gave an uninterested shrug.

“Heather's such an attractive girl,” continued Ed musingly. “Nice hair, nice clothes, nice manner . . .”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Barking mad, of course.”

“What do you mean?” said Candice bad-temperedly. Typical bloody Ed. “What do you mean, barking mad?”

“She's screwy,” said Ed. “You must have noticed.”

“Don't be stupid.”

“Being her oldest friend and all,” said Ed, taking a sip of his coffee and looking at Candice quizzically over the rim of his mug. “Or perhaps you hadn't noticed.”

“There's nothing to notice!” said Candice.

“If you say so,” said Ed, and Candice stared at him in frustration. “And of course, you know her better than I do. But I have to say, in my opinion—”

“I'm not interested in your opinion!” cut in Candice. “God, what do you know about people, anyway? All you care about is . . . is fast food and money.”

“Is that so?” said Ed, raising his eyebrows. “The Candice Brewin Analysis. And in what order do I rate these two staples of life? Do I put money above fast food? Fast food above money? Even stevens?”

“Very funny,” said Candice sulkily. “You know what I mean.”

“No,” said Ed after a pause. “I'm not sure I do.”

“Oh, forget it,” said Candice.

“Yes,” said Ed, a curious look on his face. “I think I will.” He put his coffee mug down and walked slowly towards the door, then stopped. “Just let me tell you this, Candice. You know about as much about me as you do about your friend Heather.”

He strode out of the kitchen and down the hall, and,
in slight dismay, Candice opened her mouth to say something; to call him back. But the front door banged closed, and she was too late.

As she arrived at work a couple of hours later, Candice paused at the door of the editorial office and looked at Heather's desk. It was empty and her chair was still tucked in. Heather had obviously not turned up yet.

“Morning, Candice,” said Justin, walking past towards his office.

“Hi,” said Candice absently, still staring at Heather's desk. Then she looked up. “Justin, do you know where Heather is?”

“Heather?” said Justin, stopping. “No. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” said Candice at once. “I was just wondering.” She smiled at Justin, expecting him to smile back or make some further conversational remark. Instead he frowned at her.

“You keep pretty close tabs on Heather, don't you, Candice?”

“What?” Candice wrinkled her brow. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You supervise a lot of her work, is that right?”

“Well,” said Candice, after a pause. “I suppose I sometimes . . . check things for her.”

“Nothing more than that?”

Candice stared back at him and felt herself flush a guilty red. Had Justin realized that she'd been doing most of Heather's work for her? Perhaps he'd recognized her style of subbing; perhaps he'd seen her working on the articles Heather was supposed to have done; perhaps he'd noticed her constant e-mailing of documents to Heather.

“Maybe a bit more,” she said eventually. “Just a helping hand occasionally. You know.”

“I see,” said Justin. He looked at her appraisingly, running his eyes across her face as though searching for typographical errors. “Well, I think Heather can probably do without your little helping hand from now on. Would you agree?”

“I . . . I suppose so,” said Candice, taken aback by his harsh tone. “I'll leave her to it.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” said Justin, and gave her a long look. “I'll be watching you, Candice.”

“Fine!” said Candice, feeling rattled. “Watch me all you like.”

A phone began to ring in Justin's office and, after a final glance at Candice, he strode off. Candice watched him go, feeling a secret dismay rising inside her. How had Justin worked out that she'd been helping Heather so much? And why was he so hostile about it? All she'd been trying to do, after all, was help. She frowned, and began to walk slowly towards her own desk. As she sat down and stared at her blank computer screen, a new, worrying thought came to her. Was her own performance suffering as a result of helping Heather? Was she genuinely spending too much time on Heather's work?

“People.” Justin's voice interrupted her thoughts and she swivelled round in her chair. He was standing at the door to his little office, looking round the editorial room with a strange expression on his face. “I have some rather shocking news for you all.” He paused and waited for everyone in the office to turn away from what they were doing and face him. “Ralph Allsopp is extremely ill,” he said. “Cancer.”

There was silence, then someone breathed,

“Oh my God.”

“Yes,” said Justin. “It's a bit of a shock for everyone. Apparently he's had it for a while, but no-one else knew. And now it's . . .” He rubbed his face. “It's quite advanced. Quite bad, in fact.”

There was another silence.

“So . . . so that's why he retired,” Candice heard herself saying, in a faltering voice. “He knew he was ill.” As she said the words, she suddenly remembered the message she'd once taken from Charing Cross Hospital, and a coldness began to drip down her spine.

“He's gone into hospital,” said Justin. “But apparently it's spread everywhere. They're doing all they can, but . . .” He tailed off and looked around the stunned room. He appeared genuinely distressed by the news, and Candice felt a sudden flash of sympathy with him. “I think a card would be nice,” he added, after a pause, “signed by us all. Cheerful, of course . . .”