Cocktails for Three Page 3

  At the memory of the woman’s embarrassed face, Candice felt her stomach contract again with humiliation; with a hot, teenage guilt. She still felt as though she were somehow to blame. Even though she’d known nothing about it; even though there was nothing she could have done.

  “And what about Frank Trelawney?” said Maggie. Candice opened her eyes dazedly, and picked up the cocktail stirrer again.

  “He was on a list of names in the study,” she said. “He’d invested two hundred thousand pounds in some venture capital project which folded after a few months.” She began to run the silver stirrer around the rim of her glass. “At first I didn’t know who Frank Trelawney was. It was just another name. But it seemed familiar . . . And then I suddenly remembered Heather Trelawney leaving school with no warning. It all made sense.” She bit her lip. “I think that was the worst moment of all. Knowing that Heather had lost her place at school because of my father.”

  “You can’t just blame your father,” said Maggie gently. “This Mr. Trelawney must have known what he was doing. He must have known there was a certain risk.”

  “I always used to wonder what happened to Heather,” said Candice, as though she hadn’t heard. “And now I know. Another life ruined.”

  “Candice, don’t beat yourself up about this,” said Maggie. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything!”

  “I know,” said Candice. “Logically, you’re right. But it’s not that easy.”

  “Have another drink,” advised Roxanne. “That’ll cheer you up.”

  “Good idea,” said Maggie, and drained her glass. She lifted her hand and, on the other side of the room, Heather nodded.

  Candice stared at Heather as she bent down to pick up some empty glasses from a table and wipe it over, unaware she was being watched. As she stood up again, Heather gave a sudden yawn and rubbed her face with tiredness, and Candice felt her heart contract with emotion. She had to do something for this girl, she thought suddenly. She had to absolve her guilt for at least one of her father’s crimes.

  “Listen,” she said quickly, as Heather began to approach the table. “They haven’t got a new editorial assistant for the Londoner yet, have they?”

  “Not as far as I know,” said Maggie in surprise. “Why?”

  “Well, what about Heather?” said Candice. “She’d be ideal. Wouldn’t she?”

  “Would she?” Maggie wrinkled her brow.

  “She wants to be a journalist, she’s done creative writing . . . she’d be perfect! Oh, go on, Maggie!” Candice looked up, to see Heather approaching. “Heather, listen!”

  “Do you want some more drinks?” said Heather.

  “Yes,” said Candice. “But . . . but not just that.” She looked at Maggie entreatingly. Maggie gave her a mock-glare, then grinned.

  “We were wondering, Heather,” she said, “if you’d be interested in a job on the Londoner. Editorial assistant. It’s pretty low-ranking, and the money’s not great, but it’s a start in journalism.”

  “Are you serious?” said Heather, looking from one to the other. “I’d love it!”

  “Good,” said Maggie, and took out a card from her bag. “This is the address, but it won’t be me processing the applications. The person you need to write to is Justin Vellis.” She wrote the name on the card and handed it to Heather. “Just write a letter about yourself, and pop in a CV. OK?”

  Candice stared at her in dismay.

  “Great!” said Heather. “And . . . thanks.”

  “And now I suppose we’d better choose some more cocktails,” said Maggie cheerfully. “It’s a tough old life.”

  When Heather had departed with their order, Maggie grinned at Candice and leaned back in her chair.

  “There you are,” she said. “Feel better now?” She frowned at Candice’s expression. “Candice, are you OK?”

  “To be honest, no!” said Candice, trying to stay calm. “I’m not! Is that all you’re going to do? Give her the address?”

  “What do you mean?” said Maggie in surprise. “Candice, what’s wrong?”

  “I thought you were going to give her the job!”

  “What, on the spot?” said Maggie, beginning to laugh. “Candice, you must be joking.”

  “Or an interview . . . or a personal recommendation, at least,” said Candice, flushing in distress. “If she just sends in her CV like everyone else, there’s no way Justin will give her the job! He’ll appoint some awful Oxford graduate or something.”

  “Like himself,” put in Roxanne with a grin. “Some nice smarmy intellectual.”

  “Exactly! Maggie, you know Heather hasn’t got a chance unless you recommend her. Especially if he knows she’s anything to do with me!” Candice flushed slightly as she said the words. It was only a few weeks since she had broken up with Justin, the features editor who was taking over from Maggie as acting editor. She still felt a little awkward, talking about him.

  “But Candice, I can’t recommend her,” said Maggie simply. “I don’t know anything about her. And neither, let’s face it, do you. I mean, you haven’t seen her for years, have you? She could be a criminal for all you know.”

  Candice stared into her drink miserably, and Maggie sighed.

  “Candice, I can understand how you feel, truly I can,” she said. “But you can’t just leap in and procure a job for some woman you hardly know, just because you feel sorry for her.”

  “I agree,” said Roxanne firmly. “You’ll be giving the tea towel girl a personal recommendation next.”

  “And what would be wrong with that?” said Candice with a sudden fierceness. “What’s wrong with giving people a boost every so often if they deserve it? You know, we three have had it very easy, compared to the rest of the world.” She gestured round the table. “We’ve got good jobs, and happy lives, and we haven’t the first idea what it’s like to have nothing.”

  “Heather doesn’t have nothing,” said Maggie calmly. “She has good looks, she has a brain, she has a job, and she has every opportunity to go back to college if she wants to. It’s not your job to sort her life out for her. OK?”

  “OK,” said Candice after a pause.

  “Good,” said Maggie. “Lecture over.”

  An hour later, Maggie’s husband Giles arrived at the Manhattan Bar. He stood at the side of the room, peering through the throng— then spotted Maggie’s face. She was clutching a cocktail, her cheeks were flushed pink and her head was thrown back in laughter. Giles smiled fondly at the sight, and headed towards the table.

  “Man alert,” he said cheerfully as he approached. “Kindly cease all jokes about male genitals.”

  “Giles!” said Maggie, looking up in slight dismay. “Is it time to go already?”

  “We don’t have to,” said Giles. “I could stay for a drink or two.”

  “No,” said Maggie after a pause. “It’s OK, let’s go.”

  It never quite worked when Giles joined the group. Not because the other two didn’t like him— and not because he didn’t make an effort. He was always genial and polite, and conversation always flowed nicely. But it just wasn’t the same. He wasn’t one of them. Well— how could he be? thought Maggie. He wasn’t a woman.

  “I’ve got to go soon, anyway,” said Roxanne, draining her glass and putting her cigarettes away. “I have someone to see.”

  “Would that be Someone?” said Maggie with a deliberate emphasis.

  “Possibly.” Roxanne smiled at her.

  “I can’t believe this is it!” said Candice, looking at Maggie. “We won’t see you again till you’ve had the baby!”

  “Don’t remind me!” said Maggie, flashing an over-cheerful smile.

  She pushed back her chair and gratefully took the hand Giles offered. They all slowly made their way through the crowds to the coat-check, and surrendered their silver buttons.

  “And don’t think you’re allowed to give up on the cocktail club,” said Roxanne to Maggie. “We’ll be round your bed in a month�
��s time, toasting the babe.”

  “It’s a date,” said Maggie, and suddenly felt her eyes fill with easy tears. “Oh God, I’m going to miss you guys.”

  “We’ll see you soon,” said Roxanne, and gave her a hug. “Good luck, darling.”

  “OK,” said Maggie, trying to smile. She suddenly felt as though she were saying goodbye to her friends for ever; as though she were entering a new world into which they wouldn’t be able to follow.

  “Maggie doesn’t need luck!” said Candice. “She’ll have that baby licked into shape in no time!”

  “Hey, baby,” said Roxanne, addressing Maggie’s stomach humorously. “You are aware that your mother is the most organized woman in Western civilization?” She pretended to listen to the bump. “It says it wants to have someone else. Tough luck, kid.”

  “And listen, Candice,” said Maggie, turning to her kindly. “Don’t let Justin lord it over you just because he’s in charge for a few months. I know it’s a difficult situation for you . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” said Candice at once. “I can handle him.”

  “Justin the bloody wunderkind,” said Roxanne, dismissively. “You know, I’m glad we can all be rude about him now.”

  “You always were rude about him,” pointed out Candice. “Even when I was going out with him.”

  “Well, he deserves it,” said Roxanne, unabashed. “Anyone who comes to a cocktail bar and orders a bottle of claret is obviously a complete waste of space.”

  “Candice, they can’t seem to find your coat,” said Giles, appearing at Maggie’s shoulder. “But here’s yours, Roxanne, and yours, darling. I think we should get going, otherwise it’ll be midnight before we get back.”

  “Right, well,” said Maggie in a shaky voice. “This is it.”

  She and Candice looked at each other, half grinning, half blinking back tears.

  “We’ll see each other soon,” said Candice. “I’ll come and visit.”

  “And I’ll come up to London.”

  “You can bring the baby up for day trips,” said Candice. “They’re supposed to be the latest accessory.”

  “I know,” said Maggie, giving a little laugh. She leaned forward and hugged Candice. “You take care.”

  “And you,” said Candice. “Good luck with . . . everything. Bye, Giles,” she added. “Nice to see you.”

  Giles opened the glass door of the bar, and after one final backwards glance, Maggie walked out into the cold night air. Roxanne and Candice watched silently through the glass as Giles took Maggie’s arm and they disappeared down the dark street.

  “Just think,” said Candice. “In a few weeks, they won’t be a couple any more. They’ll be a family.”

  “So they will,” said Roxanne in indeterminate tones. “A happy little family, all together in their huge, fuck-off happy house.” Candice glanced at her.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Of course I’m OK!” said Roxanne. “Just glad it isn’t me! The very thought of stretchmarks . . .” She gave a mock-shudder then smiled. “I’ve got to shoot off, I’m afraid. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” said Candice. “Have a good time.”

  “I always have a good time,” said Roxanne, “even if I’m having a terrible time. See you when I get back from Cyprus.” She kissed Candice briskly on each cheek and disappeared out of the door. Candice watched her hailing a taxi and jumping in; after a few seconds, the taxi zoomed off down the street.

  Candice waited until it had disappeared, counted to five— then, feeling like a naughty child, swivelled round to face the crowded bar again. Her stomach felt taut with expectation; her heart was thumping quickly.

  “I’ve found your coat!” came the voice of the coat-check lady. “It had fallen off its hanger.”

  “Thanks,” said Candice. “But I’ve just got to . . .” She swallowed. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  She hurried through the press of people, feeling light and determined. She had never felt so sure of herself in her life. Maggie and Roxanne meant well, but they were wrong. This time, they were wrong. They didn’t understand— why should they? They couldn’t see that this was the opportunity she’d unconsciously been waiting for ever since her father’s death. This was her chance to make things right. It was like . . . a gift.

  At first she couldn’t see Heather, and she thought with a sinking heart that she was too late. But then, scanning the room again, she spotted her. She was behind the bar, polishing a glass and laughing with one of the waiters. Fighting her way through the crowds, Candice made her way to the bar and waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt.

  Eventually Heather looked up and saw her— and to Candice’s surprise, a flash of hostility seemed to pass over her features. But it disappeared almost at once, and her face broke into a welcoming smile.

  “What can I get you?” she said. “Another cocktail?”

  “No, I just wanted a word,” said Candice, feeling herself having to shout over the background hubbub. “About this job.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “If you like, I can introduce you to the publisher, Ralph Allsopp,” said Candice. “No guarantees— but it might help your chances. Come to the office tomorrow at about ten.”

  “Really?” Heather’s face lit up. “That would be wonderful!” She put down the glass she was polishing, leaned forward and took Candice’s hands. “Candice, this is really good of you. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Well, you know,” said Candice awkwardly. “Old school friends and all that . . .”

  “Yes,” said Heather, and smiled sweetly at Candice. “Old school friends.”

  Chapter Three

  As they reached the motorway, it began to rain. Giles reached down and turned on Radio Three, and a glorious soprano’s voice filled the car. After a few notes, Maggie recognized the piece as “Dove Sono” from The Marriage of Figaro— in her opinion, the most beautiful, poignant aria ever written. As the music soared over her, Maggie stared out of the rain-spattered windscreen and felt foolish tears coming to her eyes, in sympathy with the fictitious Countess. A good and beautiful wife, unloved by her philandering husband, sadly recalling moments of tenderness between them. I remember . . .

  Maggie blinked a few times and took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. Everything was reducing her to tears at the moment. The other day, she’d wept at an advertisement on television in which a boy cooked supper for his two small sisters. She’d sat on the living-room floor, tears streaming down her face— and when Giles had come into the room, had had to turn away and pretend to be engrossed in a magazine.

  “Did you have a good send-off?” asked Giles, changing lanes.

  “Yes, lovely,” said Maggie. “Heaps of presents. People are so generous.”

  “And how did you leave it with Ralph?”

  “I told him I’d call him after a few months. That’s what I’ve told everybody.”

  “I still think you should have been honest with them,” said Giles. “I mean, you know you’ve no intention of going back to work.”

  Maggie was silent. She and Giles had discussed at length whether she should return to work after the baby was born. On the one hand, she adored her job and her staff, was well paid, and felt that there were still things she wanted to achieve in her career. On the other hand, the image of leaving her baby behind and commuting to London every day seemed appalling. And after all, what was the point of living in a large house in the country and never seeing it?

  The fact that she had never actually wanted to move to the country was something which Maggie had almost successfully managed to forget. Even before she’d become pregnant, Giles had been desperate for his future children to have the rough-and-tumble, fresh-air upbringing which he had enjoyed. “London isn’t healthy for children,” he had pronounced. And although Maggie had pointed out again and again that the London streets were full of perfectly healthy children; that parks were safer places to ride bicycles than country lanes; tha
t nature existed even in cities, Giles had still not been persuaded.

  Then, when he’d started applying for the details of country houses— glorious old rectories, complete with panelled dining rooms, acres of land and tennis courts— she’d found herself weakening. Wondering if it was indeed selfish to stay in London. On a wonderfully sunny day in June, they’d gone to look at The Pines. The drive had crackled under the wheels of their car; the swimming pool had glinted in the sun, the lawns had been mowed in light and dark green stripes. After showing them round the house, the own ers had poured them glasses of Pimm’s and invited them to sit under the weeping willow, then tactfully moved away. And Giles had looked at Maggie and said, “This could be ours, darling. This life could be ours.”

  And now that life was theirs. Except it wasn’t so much a life yet as a large house which Maggie still didn’t feel she knew very well. On working days, she barely saw the place. At the weekends, they often went away, or up to London to see friends. She had done none of the redecorations she had planned; in some strange way she felt as though the house wasn’t really hers yet.

  But things would be different when the baby arrived, she told herself. The house would really become a home. Maggie put her hands on her bump and felt the squirming, intriguing movements beneath her skin. A smooth lump rippled across her belly and disappeared as though back into the ocean. Then, with no warning, something hard jabbed into her ribs. A heel, perhaps, or a knee. It jabbed again and again, as though desperate to break out. Maggie closed her eyes. It could be any time now, her pregnancy handbook had advised her. The baby was fully matured; she could go into labour at any moment.

  At the thought, her heart began to thump with a familiar panic, and she began quickly to think reassuring thoughts. Of course, she was prepared for the baby. She had a nursery full of nappies and cotton wool; tiny vests and blankets. The Moses basket was ready on its stand; the cot had been ordered from a department store. Everything was waiting.

  But somehow— despite all that— she secretly still didn’t feel quite ready to be a mother. She almost didn’t feel old enough to be a mother. Which was ridiculous, she told herself firmly, bearing in mind she was thirty-two years old and had had an entire nine months to get used to the idea.