Cocktails for Three Page 18

  “Yes,” said Candice, her cheeks aflame. “I think I’ll just . . . go to the loo. I won’t be a minute.”

  When she’d gone, there was silence around the table. In the corner, Marilyn Monroe had stepped up to the microphone and was singing a husky “Happy Birthday” to a delighted-looking man with a sweating face and paunch. As she reached his name, the crowd around him cheered, and he punched the air in a victory salute.

  “Well,” said Maggie awkwardly. “Shall we all order another cocktail?”

  “Yes,” said Roxanne. “Unless you think cocktails age the skin, Heather?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Heather politely.

  “Oh, really?” said Roxanne, her voice slightly slurred. “That’s funny. You seem to know about everything else.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Anyway,” said Maggie hastily. “There’s a full one here.” She picked up a highball, filled with crushed ice and an amber-coloured liquid and decorated with frosted grapes. “Whose is this?”

  “I think it was supposed to be mine,” said Heather. “But I don’t want it. Why don’t you have it, Roxanne?”

  “Have your lips touched the glass?” said Roxanne. “If so, no thanks.”

  Heather stared at her for a tense moment, then shook her head, almost laughing.

  “You really don’t like me, do you?”

  “I don’t like users,” said Roxanne pointedly.

  “Oh, really?” said Heather, smiling sweetly. “Well, I don’t like sad old lushes, but I’m still polite to them.”

  Maggie gasped and looked at Roxanne.

  “What did you call me?” said Roxanne very slowly.

  “A sad old lush,” said Heather, examining her nails. She looked up and smiled. “A sad— old—lush.”

  For a few seconds, Roxanne stared at her, shaking. Then, very slowly and deliberately, she picked up the highball full of amber liquid. She stood up and held the glass up to the glittering light for a moment.

  “You wouldn’t,” said Heather scathingly, but a flicker of doubt passed over her face.

  “Oh yes she would,” said Maggie, and folded her arms. There was a moment of still tension as Heather stared disbelievingly up at Roxanne— then, with a sudden flick of the wrist, Roxanne up-ended the cocktail over Heather’s head. The icy drink hit her straight in the face and she gasped, then spluttered furiously, brushing crushed ice out of her eyes.

  “Jesus Christ!” she spat, getting to her feet. “You’re a fucking . . . nutcase!” Maggie looked at Roxanne and broke into giggles. At the next table, people drinking cocktails put them down and began to nudge each other.

  “Hope I haven’t aged your skin,” drawled Roxanne, as Heather angrily pushed past. They both watched as Heather disappeared out of the door, then looked at each other and burst into laughter.

  “Roxanne, you’re wonderful,” said Maggie, wiping her eyes.

  “Should have done it at the beginning of the evening,” said Roxanne. She surveyed the disarray on the table— empty glasses, puddles of liquid and crushed ice everywhere— then raised her head and met Maggie’s eyes. “Looks like the party’s over. Let’s get the bill.”

  Candice was washing her hands when Heather burst into the Ladies’. Her hair and face were drenched, the shoulders of her jacket were stained, and she had a murderous expression on her face.

  “Heather!” said Candice, looking up in alarm. “What’s happened?”

  “Your bloody friend Roxanne, that’s what!”

  “What?” Candice, stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” said Heather, her jaw tight with anger, “that Roxanne tipped a whole fucking cocktail over my head. She’s crazy!” She headed towards the brightly lit mirror, reached for a tissue and began to blot her hair.

  “She tipped a cocktail over your head?” said Candice disbelievingly. “But why?”

  “God knows!” said Heather. “All I said was, I thought she’d had enough to drink. I mean, how many has she had tonight? I just thought maybe she should move onto the soft stuff. But the moment I suggested it, she went berserk!” Heather stopped blotting for a moment and met Candice’s eye in the mirror. “You know, I reckon she’s an alcoholic.”

  “I can’t believe it!” said Candice in dismay. “I don’t know what she can have been thinking of. Heather, I feel awful about this! And your poor jacket . . .”

  “I’ll have to go home and change,” said Heather. “I’m supposed to be meeting Ed in half an hour.”

  “Oh,” said Candice, momentarily distracted. “Really? For a . . .” She swallowed. “For a date?”

  “Yes,” said Heather, throwing a piece of sodden tissue into the bin. “God, look at my face!” Heather stared at her dishevelled reflection, then sighed. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe I was tactless.” She turned round and met Candice’s gaze. “Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “No!” exclaimed Candice, feeling fresh indignation on Heather’s behalf. “God, don’t blame yourself! You made every effort, Heather. Roxanne just—”

  “She’s taken against me all along,” said Heather, looking at Candice with distressed eyes. “I’ve done my best to be friendly . . .”

  “I know,” said Candice, her jaw firming. “Well, I’m going to have a little word with Roxanne.”

  “Don’t argue!” said Heather, as Candice strode towards the door of the Ladies’. “Please don’t argue over me!” But her words were lost as the door closed behind Candice with a bang.

  Out in the foyer, Candice saw Roxanne and Maggie at the table, standing up. They were leaving! she thought incredulously. Without apologizing, without making any effort whatsoever . . .

  “So,” she said, striding towards them. “I hear you’ve been making Heather feel welcome in my absence.”

  “Candice, she had it coming,” said Maggie, looking up. “She really is a little bitch.”

  “Waste of a good drink, if you ask me,” said Roxanne. She gestured to the green leather bill on the table. “Our share’s in there. I’ve paid for the three of us. Not for her.”

  “I don’t believe you, Roxanne!” said Candice furiously. “Aren’t you sorry? Aren’t you going to apologize to her?”

  “Is she going to apologize to me?”

  “She doesn’t have to! It was you who poured the drink over her! Bloody hell, Roxanne!”

  “Look, just forget it,” said Roxanne. “Obviously you can see nothing wrong in your new best friend—”

  “Well, maybe if you’d made more of an effort with her, and hadn’t just taken against her for no good reason—”

  “No good reason?” exclaimed Roxanne in an outraged voice. “You want to hear all the reasons, starting with number one?”

  “Roxanne, don’t,” said Maggie. “There’s no point.” She sighed, and picked up her bag. “Candice, can’t you understand? We came to see you. Not her.”

  “What, so we’re a little clique, are we? No-one else can enter.”

  “No! That’s not it. But—”

  “You’re just determined not to like her, aren’t you?” Candice stared at them with a trembling face. “I don’t know why we bother to meet up, if you can’t accept my friends.”

  “Well, I don’t know why we bother to meet up if you’re going to sit chatting about school all night to someone we don’t know!” said Maggie, with a sudden heat in her voice. “I made huge sacrifices to be here, Candice, and I’ve hardly spoken a word to you all evening!”

  “We can talk another time!” said Candice defensively. “Honestly—”

  “I can’t!” cried Maggie. “I don’t have another time. This was my time!”

  “Well, maybe I’d talk to you a bit more if you weren’t so bloody gloomy!” Candice heard herself snapping. “I want to have fun when I go out, not just sit like a misery all night!”

  There was an aghast silence.

  “See you,” said Roxanne remotely. “Come on, Maggie.” She took Maggie’s arm and, wi
thout looking again at Candice, led her away.

  Candice watched them walk through the noisy crush of people and felt a cold shame spread through her. Shit, she thought. How could she have said such an awful thing to Maggie? How could the three of them have ended up yelling so aggressively at each other?

  Her legs suddenly felt shaky, and she sank down onto a chair, staring miserably at the wet table, the chaos of ice and cocktail glasses and— like a reprimand— the bill in its green folder.

  “Hi there!” said a waitress dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, stopping at the table. She briskly wiped the table and removed the debris of glasses, then smiled at Candice. “Can I take your bill for you? Or haven’t you finished?”

  “No, I’ve finished, all right,” said Candice dully. “Hang on.” She opened her bag, reached for her purse and counted off three notes. “There you are,” she said, and handed the bill to the waitress. “That should cover it.”

  “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.”