Cocktails for Three (26 page)

She waited for Roxanne to agree; for the two of them to hug and shed a few sentimental tears. But Roxanne was silent, then in a husky voice— as though with a huge effort— said, “What are you talking about, Candice?”

“At the Manhattan Bar,” said Candice. “We all said things we didn't mean—”

“Candice, I don't give a shit about the Manhattan Bar,” said Roxanne roughly. “You think that's important now?”

“Well—no,” said Candice, taken aback. “I suppose not. But I thought . . .” She broke off. “Where've you been?”

“I went away,” said Roxanne. “Next question?” Her face was inscrutable, unfriendly almost, behind her shades. Candice stared at her, discomfited.

“How . . . how did you hear the news?”

“I saw the obituary,” said Roxanne. “On the plane.” With a quick, jerky gesture, she opened her bag and reached for her cigarettes. “On the fucking plane.”

“God, that must have been a shock!” said Candice.

Roxanne looked at her for a long while, then simply said, “Yes. It was.” With shaking hands, she tried to light her cigarette, flicking and flicking as the flame refused to catch light. “Stupid thing,” she said, her breaths coming more quickly. “Fucking bloody . . .”

“Roxanne, let me,” said Candice, taking the cigarette from her. She felt taken aback by Roxanne's obvious lack of composure— Roxanne, who normally took all of life's downs with a grin and a sparky comment. On this occasion, she seemed almost worse affected
than anyone. Had she been very close to Ralph? She had known him for a while— but then, so had everybody. Candice looked puzzled as she lit the cigarette and handed it back to Roxanne.

“Here you are,” she said, then stopped. Roxanne was gazing transfixed at a middle-aged woman with a neat blond bob and a dark coat who had just got out of a black mourner's car. A boy of around ten got out and joined her on the pavement, then a young woman and, after a moment, Charles Allsopp.

“Oh,” said Candice curiously. “That must be his wife. Yes, of course it is. I recognize her.”

“Cynthia,” said Roxanne. “And Charles. And Fiona. And little Sebastian.” She put her cigarette to her lips and took a deep puff. On the pavement, Cynthia briskly brushed down Sebastian's coat and inspected his face.

“How old is he?” said Candice, gazing at them. “The little one?”

“I don't know,” replied Roxanne, and gave an odd little laugh. “I've . . . I've stopped counting.”

“Poor little thing,” said Candice, biting her lip. “Imagine losing your father at that age. It was bad enough . . .” She broke off, and took a deep breath.

The Allsopps turned, and, led by Cynthia and Charles, began to head towards the church. As they passed Roxanne, Cynthia's gaze flickered towards her, and Roxanne stuck her chin out firmly.

“Do you know her?” said Candice curiously, when they'd gone by.

“I've never spoken to her in my life,” said Roxanne.

“Oh,” said Candice, and lapsed into a puzzled silence. Around them, people were beginning to file into
the church. “Well . . . shall we go in?” said Candice eventually. She looked up. “Roxanne?”

“I can't,” said Roxanne. “I can't go in there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can't do it.” Roxanne's voice was a whisper and her chin was shaking. “I can't sit there. With all of them. With . . . her.”

“With who?” said Candice. “Heather?”

“Candice,” said Roxanne in a trembling voice, and pulled off her sunglasses. “Will you get it through your bloody head that I don't care one way or the other about your stupid little friend?”

Candice stared back at her in pounding shock. Roxanne's eyes were bloodshot and there were dark grey shadows beneath them, unsuccessfully concealed by a layer of bronze make-up.

“Roxanne, what is it?” she said desperately. “Who are you talking about?” She followed Roxanne's stare and saw Cynthia Allsopp disappearing into the church. “Are you talking about
her
?” she said, wrinkling her brow in incomprehension. “You don't want to sit with Ralph's wife? But I thought you said— you said . . .” Candice tailed off, and looked slowly at Roxanne's haggard face. “You're not . . .” She stopped. “No.”

She took a step backwards and rubbed her face, trying to steady her breath, to calm her thoughts; to stop herself leaping to ridiculous conclusions.

“You can't mean . . .” She raised her eyes to meet Roxanne's and, as she saw the expression in them, felt her stomach flip over. “Oh my God.” She swallowed. “Ralph.”

“Yes,” said Roxanne, without moving. “Ralph.”

Maggie sat on the sofa in her sitting room, watching the health visitor scribbling in Lucia's little book. The others would all be at the funeral now. Ralph's funeral. She couldn't quite believe it. This had to be one of the worst periods in her life, she thought dispassionately, watching as the health visitor carefully recorded Lucia's weight on a graph. Ralph was dead. And she had fallen out with both her best friends.

She could hardly bear to remember that evening at the Manhattan Bar. So many hopes had been pinned on it— and it had ended so terribly. She still felt raw whenever she remembered Candice's cruel remarks. After all the effort she'd made, after all the sacrifice and all the guilt— to be told she wasn't interesting enough to bother with. To be— effectively—dismissed. She had travelled back to Hampshire that evening drained with exhaustion and in tears. When she'd arrived home it had been to find Giles holding a fretful Lucia, clearly at his wits' end, and Lucia frantic for a feed. She felt as though she'd failed them both; failed everybody.

“So, how was it?” Giles had said as Lucia started ravenously feeding. “Mum said you sounded as though you were having a good time.” And Maggie had stared at him numbly, unable to bring herself to tell the truth; to admit that the evening she'd been pinning all her hopes on had been a disaster. So she'd smiled, and said, “Great!” and had sunk back in her chair, grateful to be home again.

Since then, she had been out only infrequently. She was getting used to her own company; was starting to watch a great deal of soothing daytime television. On the day she'd heard the news about Ralph she'd sat and
wept in the kitchen for a while, then reached for the phone and dialled Roxanne's number. But there was no reply. The next day, Candice had rung, and she'd found herself lashing out angrily; not wanting to, but unable to stop herself retaliating with some of the hurt she still felt. Humiliation still burned in her cheeks when she remembered Candice's comments. Obviously Candice thought she was a miserable, boring frump. Obviously Candice preferred Heather's exciting, vibrant company to hers. She had slammed down the receiver on Candice and felt a moment of powerful adrenalin. Then, a moment later, the tears had begun to fall. Poor Lucia, thought Maggie. She lives in a constant shower of salt water.

“Solids at four months,” the health visitor was saying. “Baby rice is widely available. Organic if you prefer. Then move on to apple, pear, anything simple. Cooked well and puréed.”

“Yes,” said Maggie. She felt like an automaton, sitting and nodding and smiling at regular intervals.

“And what about you?” said the health visitor. She put down her notebook and looked directly at Maggie. “Are you feeling well in yourself?” Maggie stared at the woman, and felt her cheeks flame scarlet. She had not expected any questions about herself.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “Yes, I'm fine.”

“Is husband nice and supportive?”

“He does his best, said Maggie. “He's . . . he's very busy at work, but he does what he can.”

“Good,” said the health visitor. “And you— are you getting out much?”

“A . . . a fair bit,” said Maggie defensively. “It's difficult, with the baby . . .”

“Yes,” said the health visitor. She smiled sympathetically, and took a sip of the tea Maggie had made her. “What about friends?”

The word hit Maggie like a bolt. To her horror, she felt tears starting at her eyes.

“Maggie?” said the health visitor, leaning forward in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said Maggie, and felt the tears yet again begin to course down her face. “No.”

A pale spring sun shone as Roxanne and Candice sat in the courtyard of St. Bride's, listening to the distant strains of “Hills of the North, Rejoice.” Roxanne gazed ahead, unseeingly, and Candice stared up at the gusting clouds, trying to work out whether she and Maggie had been incredibly blind, or Roxanne and Ralph had been incredibly discreet. Six years. It was unbelievable. Six years of complete and utter secrecy.

What had shocked Candice the most, as Roxanne had told her story, was how much the two had obviously loved each other. How deep their relationship had been, beneath all Roxanne's jokes, all her flippancy, her apparent callousness. “But what about all your toyboys?” Candice had faltered at one point— to be rewarded with a searing blue gaze. “Candice,” Roxanne had said, almost wearily, “there
weren't
any toyboys.”

Now, in the stillness, she inhaled deeply on her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

“I thought he didn't want me any more,” she said, without moving her head. “He told me to go to Cyprus. To have a new life. I was utterly . . . devastated. All that bullshit about retiring.” She stubbed out her cigarette.
“He must have thought he was doing me a favour. He must have known he was dying.”

“Oh, he knew,” said Candice without thinking.

“What?” Roxanne turned and stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” said Candice, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. Roxanne stared at her.

“Candice, what do you mean? Do you mean . . .” She paused, as though trying to keep control of herself. “Do you mean you knew Ralph was ill?”

“No,” said Candice, not quite quickly enough. “I . . . I took a message once, from Charing Cross Hospital. It was meaningless. It could have been anything.”

“When was this?” asked Roxanne in a trembling voice, as, inside the church, the hymn came to a final chord. “Candice, when was this?”

“I don't know,” said Candice, feeling herself flush. “A while ago. A couple of months.” She looked up at Roxanne and flinched under her gaze.

“And you said nothing,” said Roxanne disbelievingly. “You didn't even mention it to me. Or Maggie.”

“I didn't know what it meant!”

“Didn't you guess?” Roxanne's voice harshened. “Didn't you
wonder
?”

“I . . . I don't know. Maybe I wondered a bit—”

Candice broke off and ran a hand through her hair. From inside the church came a rumble of voices in prayer.

“You knew Ralph was dying and I didn't.” Roxanne shook her head distractedly as though trying to sort out a welter of confusing facts.

“I didn't know!” said Candice in distress. “Roxanne—”

“You knew!” cried Roxanne. “And his wife knew. And the whole world knew. And where was I when he died? In the fucking south of France. By the fucking pool.”

Roxanne gave a little sob and her shoulders began to shake. Candice gazed at her in horrified silence.

“I should have known,” said Roxanne, her voice thick with tears. “I could see something was wrong with him. He was thin, and he was losing weight, and he . . .” She broke off, and wiped her eyes roughly. “But you know what I thought? I thought he was stressed out because he was planning to leave his wife. I thought he was planning to set up house with me. And all the time he was dying. And . . .” She paused disbelievingly. “And you knew.”

In dismay, Candice tried to put her arm around her, but Roxanne shrugged it off.

“I can't stand it!” she said desperately. “I can't stand that everyone knew but me. You should have told me, Candice.” Her voice rose like a child's wail. “You should have told me he was ill!”

“But I didn't know about you and Ralph!” Candice felt tears pricking her own eyes. “How could I have known to tell you?” She tried to reach for Roxanne's hand, but Roxanne was standing up, moving away.

“I can't stay,” she whispered. “I can't look at you. I can't take it— that you knew, and I didn't.”

“Roxanne, it's not my fault,” cried Candice, tears running down her face. “It's not my fault!”

“I know,” said Roxanne huskily. “I know it's not. But I still can't bear it.” And without looking Candice in the eyes, she walked quickly off.