Cocktails for Three (28 page)

“So you didn't sign this hotel receipt and fill in this claim form.”

“Of course not!” said Candice incredulously. “Let me see.”

She grabbed the piece of paper, looked at it and felt her stomach flip over. Her own signature stared up at her from a receipt she knew she'd never signed. An expenses claim form was neatly filled in— in what looked exactly like her handwriting. Her hands began to tremble.

“A total of one hundred and ninety-six pounds,” said Justin. “Not bad, in a month.”

Suddenly a cold feeling came over Candice. Suddenly she remembered her bank statement; the extra money which had seemed to come out of nowhere. The extra money— which she hadn't bothered to question. She looked quickly at the date on the hotel receipt— a Saturday, six weeks ago— and again at the signature. It looked like hers, but it wasn't. It wasn't her signature.

“Perhaps it doesn't seem like a big deal to you,” said Justin. Candice looked up to see him standing by the window, facing her. The light from the window silhouetted
his face so she couldn't see his expression, but his voice was grave. “Fiddling expenses.” He made a careless gesture. “One of those little crimes that doesn't matter. The truth is, Candice, it does matter.”

“I know it matters!” spat Candice in frustration. “Don't bloody patronize me! I know it matters. But I didn't do it, OK?”

She took a deep breath, trying to keep calm— but her mind felt like a fish on the deck, thrashing back and forth in panic, trying to work it out.

“So what are these?” Justin pointed to the expense forms.

“Someone else must have filled them in. Forged my signature.”

“And why would they do that?”

“I . . . I don't know. But look, Justin! It isn't my handwriting. It just looks like it!” She flipped quickly through the pages. “Look at this form compared to . . . this one!” She thrust the pages at Justin but he shook his head.

“You're saying somebody— for a reason we have yet to ascertain— forged your signature.”

“Yes!”

“And you knew nothing about it.”

“No!” said Candice. “Of course not!”

“Right,” said Justin. He sighed as though disappointed by her reply. “So when the expenses came through a week ago— expenses you say you knew nothing about— and you found a load of unexplained money in your account, you naturally pointed out the mistake and returned it straight away.”

He looked at her evenly and Candice stared back dumbly, feeling her cheeks flame bright red. Why hadn't
she queried the extra money? Why hadn't she been honest? How could she have been so . . . so stupid?

“For God's sake, Candice, you might as well admit it,” said Justin wearily. “You tried to fleece the company and you got caught.”

“I didn't!” said Candice, feeling a sudden thickness in her throat. “Justin, you
know
I wouldn't do something like that.”

“To be honest, Candice, I feel at the moment as though I don't know you very well at all,” said Justin.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Heather's told me all about your little power trips over her,” said Justin, a sudden hostile note in his voice. “To be honest, I'm surprised she didn't make an official complaint.”

“What?” said Candice in astonishment. “Justin, what the hell are you talking about?”

“All innocent again?” said Justin sarcastically. “Come on, Candice. We even spoke about it the other day. You admit you've been insisting on supervising all Heather's work. Using your power over her to intimidate her.”

“I've been
helping
her!” said Candice in outrage. “My God! How can you—”

“It probably made you feel pretty big, didn't it, getting a job for Heather?” Justin folded his arms. “Then she started to make progress, and you resented it.”

“No! Justin—”

“She told me how badly you treated her after she presented her feature idea to me.” Justin's voice harshened. “You just can't stand the fact that she's got talent, is that it?”

“Of course not!” said Candice, flinching at his
voice. “Justin, you've got it all wrong! It's twisted! It's—”

Candice broke off, and gazed at Justin, trying to marshal her flying thoughts. Nothing was making sense. Nothing was making—

She stopped, as something hit her. The receipt for the Michaeljohn haircut. That was hers. Her own private receipt, from her own pile of papers on the dressing table in her bedroom. Her own bedroom, in her own flat. No-one else could have—

“Oh my God,” she said slowly.

She picked up one of the expense forms, gazed at it again and slowly felt herself grow cold. Now that she looked closely, she could see the hint of another handwriting beneath the veneer of her own. Like a mocking wave, Heather's handwriting was staring up at her. She looked up, feeling sick.

“Where's Heather?” she said in a trembling voice.

“On holiday,” said Justin. “For two weeks. Didn't she tell you?”

“No,” said Candice. “No, she didn't.” She took a deep breath, and pushed her hair back off her damp face. “Justin, I think . . . I think Heather forged these claims.”

“Oh really?” Justin laughed. “Well, there's a surprise.”

“No.” Candice swallowed. “No, Justin, really. You have to listen to me—”

“Candice, forget it,” said Justin impatiently. “You're suspended.”

“What?” Utter shock drained Candice's face of colour.

“The company will carry out an internal investigation, and a disciplinary hearing will be held in due
course,” said Justin briskly, as though reading lines from a card. “In the meantime, until the matter is resolved, you will remain at home on full pay.”

“You . . . you can't be serious.”

“As far as I'm concerned, you're lucky not to be fired on the spot! Candice, what you did is fraud,” said Justin, and raised his chin slightly. “If I hadn't instituted random spot-checks of the expenses system, it might not even have been picked up. Charles and I had a little chat this morning, and we both feel that this kind of thing has to be cracked down on firmly. In fact, we're going to be using this as an opportunity to—”

“Charles Allsopp.” Candice stared at him in sudden comprehension. “Oh my God,” she said softly. “You're doing this to impress bloody Charles Allsopp, aren't you?”

“Don't be stupid,” said Justin angrily, and flushed a deep red. “This is a company decision based on company policy.”

“You're really doing this to me.” Candice's eyes suddenly smarted with disbelieving, angry tears. “You're treating me like a criminal, after . . . everything. I mean, we lived together for six months, didn't we? Doesn't that count for
anything
?”

At her words, Justin's head jerked up and he gave her an almost triumphant look.

He's been waiting for me to say that, thought Candice in horrified realization. He's been waiting for me to grovel.

“So you think I should make an exception for you because you used to be my girlfriend,” said Justin. “You think I might do you a special favour and turn a blind eye. Is that it?”

Candice stared at him, feeling sickened.

“No,” she said, as calmly as she could manage. “Of course not.” She paused. “But you could . . . trust me.”

There was silence as the two stared at each other and, for an instant, Candice thought she saw the old Justin looking at her— the Justin who would have believed her; possibly even defended her. Then, as though coming to, he turned and reached into his desk drawer.

“As far as I'm concerned,” he said coldly, “you've forfeited my trust. And everybody else's. Here.” He looked up and held out a black plastic bin liner. “Take what you want and go.”

Half an hour later, Candice stood on the pavement outside the glass doors, holding her bin liner and flinching at the curious gazes of passers-by. It was ten o'clock in the morning. For most people the day was just beginning. People were hurrying to their offices; everyone had somewhere to go. Candice swallowed and took another step forward, trying to look as though she was standing here on the pavement with a bin bag on purpose. But she could feel her calm face slipping; could feel raw emotion threatening to escape. She had never felt so vulnerable; so frighteningly alone.

As she'd come back into the editorial office, she'd managed to maintain a modicum of dignity. She'd managed to hold her head up high and— above all— had refused to look guilty. But it had been difficult. Everyone obviously knew what had happened. She could see heads looking up at her, then quickly looking away; faces agog with curiosity; with relief that it wasn't them. With a new member of the Allsopp family in charge of
the company, the future was uncertain for everybody. At one point she'd caught Alicia's eye and saw a genuine flash of sympathy before Alicia, too, looked away. Candice didn't blame her. No-one could afford to take any chances.

She'd shaken the bin bag open with trembling fingers, sickened by its slithery touch. She had never felt so sordid; so humiliated. Around the room, everyone was working silently at their computers, which meant they were all listening. Almost unable to believe she was doing it, Candice had opened her top desk drawer and looked at its familiar contents. Notebooks, pens, old disks, a box of raspberry tea-bags.

“Don't take any disks,” Justin had said, passing by. “And don't touch the computer. We don't want any company information walking out with you.”

“Just leave me alone!” Candice had snapped savagely, tears coming to her eyes. “I'm not going to
steal
anything.”

Now, standing outside on the hard pavement, a hotness rose to her eyes again. They all believed she was a thief. And why shouldn't they? The evidence was convincing enough. Candice closed her eyes. She still felt dizzy at the idea that Heather had fabricated evidence about her. That Heather had, all the time, been plotting behind her back. Her mind scurried backwards and forwards, trying to think logically; trying to work it all out. But she could not think straight while she was fighting tears; while her face was flushed and her throat blocked by something hard.

“All right, love?” said a man in a denim jacket, and Candice's head jerked up.

“Yes thanks,” she muttered, and felt a small tearescape
onto her cheek. Before he could say anything else she began walking along the pavement, not knowing where she was going, her mind skittering wildly about. The bin liner banged against her legs, the plastic was slippery in her grasp; she imagined that everyone she passed looked at it with a knowing glance. In a shop window she glanced at her reflection and was shocked at the sight. Her face was white, and busy with suppressed tears. Her suit was already crumpled; her hair had escaped from its smooth fastening. She had to get home, she thought frantically. She would take off her suit, take a bath, hide away mindlessly like a small animal in a hole until she was feeling able to emerge.

At the corner she reached a telephone box. She pulled open the heavy door and slipped inside. The interior was cool and quiet; a temporary haven. Maggie, she thought frantically, picking up the receiver. Or Roxanne. They would help her. One of them would help her. Roxanne or Maggie. She reached to dial, then stopped.

Not Roxanne. Not after the way they'd parted at Ralph's funeral. And not Maggie. Not after the things she'd said to her; not after that awful phone call.

A cold feeling ran down Candice's spine and she leaned against the cool glass of the kiosk. She couldn't call either of them. She'd lost them both. Somehow she'd lost her two closest friends in the world.

Suddenly a banging on the glass of the telephone box jolted her, and she opened her eyes in shock.

“Are you making a call?” shouted a woman holding a toddler by the hand.

“No,” said Candice dazedly. “No, I'm not.”

She stepped out of the telephone box onto the street, shifted her bin liner to the other hand and looked around
confusedly, as though resurfacing from a tunnel. Then she began to walk again in a haze of misery, barely aware of where she was going.

As Roxanne came up the stairs, holding a loaf of bread and a newspaper, she heard the telephone ringing inside her flat. Let it ring, she thought. Let it ring. There was no-one she wanted to hear from. Slowly she reached for her key, inserted it into the lock of the front door and opened it. She closed the door behind her, put down the loaf of bread and the newspaper, and stared balefully at the phone, still ringing.

“You don't bloody give up, do you?” she said, and reached for the receiver. “Yes?”

“Am I speaking to Miss Roxanne Miller?” said a strange male voice.

“Yes,” said Roxanne. “Yes, you are.”

“Good,” said the voice. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Neil Cooper and I represent the firm of Strawson and Co.”

“I don't have a car,” said Roxanne. “I don't need car insurance. And I don't have any windows.”

Neil Cooper gave a nervous laugh. “Miss Miller, I should explain. I am a lawyer. I'm telephoning you in connection with the estate of Ralph Allsopp.”

“Oh,” said Roxanne. She stared at the wall and blinked furiously. Hearing his name unexpectedly on other people's lips still took her by surprise; still sent shock-waves through her body.

“Perhaps I could ask you to come into the office?” the man was saying, and Roxanne's mind snapped into focus. Ralph Allsopp. The estate of Ralph Allsopp.

“Oh God,” she said, and tears began to run freely
down her face. “He's gone and left something to me, hasn't he? The stupid, sentimental bastard. And you're going to give it to me.”

“If we could just arrange a meeting . . .”

“Is it his watch? Or that crappy ancient typewriter.” Roxanne gave a half-laugh in spite of herself. “That stupid bloody Remington.”