Cocktails for Three (6 page)

“Of course I get paid! These guys love me! They're paying me more to do nothing than I used to get working my arse off.”

“But that's . . . that's immoral!” said Candice. “Think of all the people in the world desperate for a job. And you're getting paid to sit around.”

“That's the world,” said Ed. “Like it or slit your wrists.”

“Or try to change it,” said Candice.

“So you say,” said Ed, taking a slurp of Coke. “But then, we can't all be as saintly as you, Candice, can we?”

Candice stared furiously at him. How did Ed always manage to wind her up so successfully?

“I've got to go,” she said abruptly.

“By the way, your man's in there,” said Ed. “Ex-man. Whatever.”

“Justin?” Candice stared at him, her cheeks suddenly flaming. “Justin's in the flat?”

“I saw him letting himself in earlier,” said Ed, and raised his eyebrows. “Are you two back together again?”

“No!” said Candice.

“Now, that's a shame,” said Ed. “He was a really fun guy.” Candice gave him a sharp look. On the few occasions that Ed and Justin had met, it had been clear that the two had absolutely nothing in common.

“Well, anyway,” she said abruptly, “I'll see you around.”

“Sure,” said Ed, shrugging, and disappeared back into his flat.

Candice took a deep breath, then opened her front door, her head whirling. What was Justin doing there? It was a good month since they'd split up. And more to the point, what the hell was he still doing with a key to her flat?

“Hi?” she called. “Justin?”

“Candice.” Justin appeared at the end of the corridor. He was dressed, as ever, in a smart suit which
verged on trendy, and holding a drink. His dark curly hair was neatly glossed back and his dark eyes glowed in the lamplight; he looked to Candice like an actor playing the role of a moody intellectual. “A young Daniel Barenboim,” someone had once admiringly described Justin— after which, for several evenings, she had noticed him sitting casually in front of the piano, and sometimes even fingering the keys, despite the fact he couldn't play a note.

“I apologize for dropping in unannounced,” he said now.

“Glad to see you've made yourself at home,” said Candice.

“I expected you back earlier,” said Justin, in a slightly resentful tone. “I won't be long— I just thought we should have a little chat.”

“What about?”

Justin said nothing, but solemnly ushered her down the corridor into the sitting room. Candice felt herself prickling with annoyance. Justin had a unique ability to make it seem as though he was always in the right and everyone else was in the wrong. At the beginning of their relationship, he had been so convincing that she too had believed he was always right. It had taken six months and a series of increasingly frustrating arguments for her to realize that he was just a self-opinionated pompous show-off.

When they'd first met, of course, he had dazzled her. He had arrived at the
Londoner
fresh from a year's experience on the
New York Times
, with the reputation of a huge intellect and a barrage of impressive connections. When he had asked her out for a drink she had felt flattered. She had drunk copious quantities of
wine, and gazed into his dark eyes, and had listened admiringly to his views— half persuaded by everything he said, even when she would normally have disagreed. After a few weeks he had begun to stay the night at her flat every so often, and they had tentatively planned a holiday together. Then his flat-share in Pimlico had fallen apart, and he had moved in with her.

It was really then that things had gone wrong, thought Candice. Her hazy admiration had melted away as she saw him in close proximity— taking three times longer than herself to get ready in the mornings; claiming proudly that he couldn't cook and didn't intend to learn; expecting the bathroom to be clean but never once cleaning it himself. She had come to realize the full extent of his vanity; the strength of his arrogance and eventually— with a slight shock— that he considered her no intellectual match for himself. If she tried to argue intelligently with him he patronized her until she made a winning point, at which he grew sullen and angry. Never once would he admit defeat— his self-image simply would not allow it. For in his own mind, Justin was destined for great things. His ambition was almost frightening in its strength; it drove him like a steamroller, flattening everything else in his life.

Even now, Candice couldn't be sure which had been hurt most when she had ended the relationship— his feelings or his pride? He had almost seemed more sorrowful for her than anything else, as though she'd made a foolish mistake which he knew she would soon regret.

However, so far— a month on— she hadn't regretted her decision for an instant.

“So,” she said as they sat down. “What do you want?”

Justin gave her a tiny smile.

“I wanted to come and see you,” he said, “to make sure you're absolutely OK about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” said Candice blankly. Justin smiled at her again.

“Tomorrow, as you know, is the day I take over as acting editor of the
Londoner.
Effectively, I'll be your boss.” He shook out his sleeves, examined his cuffs, then looked up. “I wouldn't want any . . . problems to arise between us.” Candice stared at him.

“Problems?”

“I realize it may be a rather difficult time for you,” said Justin smoothly. “My promotion coinciding with the break-up of our relationship. I wouldn't want you feeling at all vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable?” said Candice in astonishment. “Justin, it was me who ended our relationship! I'm fine about it.”

“If that's the way you want to see it,” said Justin kindly. “Just as long as there are no bad feelings.”

“I can't guarantee that,” muttered Candice.

She watched as Justin swirled his glass of whisky, so that the ice-cubes in it clinked together. He looked as though he were practising for a television ad, she thought. Or a
Panorama
profile: “Justin Vellis: the genius at home.” A giggle rose through her, and she clamped her lips together.

“Well, I mustn't keep you,” said Justin at last, and stood up. “See you tomorrow.”

“Can't wait,” said Candice, pulling a face behind his back. As they reached the door she paused, her hand on the latch. “By the way,” she said casually, “do you know if they've appointed a new editorial assistant yet?”

“No they haven't,” said Justin, frowning. “In fact, to tell you the truth, I'm a bit pissed off about that. Maggie's done absolutely nothing about it. Just disappears off into domestic bliss and leaves me with two hundred bloody CVs to read.”

“Oh dear, poor you,” said Candice innocently. “Still, never mind. I'm sure someone'll turn up.”

Roxanne took another sip of her drink and calmly turned the page of her paperback. He had said nine-thirty. It was now ten past ten. She had been sitting in this hotel bar for forty minutes, ordering Bloody Marys and sipping them slowly and feeling her heart jump every time anyone entered the bar. Around her, couples and groups were murmuring over their drinks; in the corner, an elderly man in a white tuxedo was singing “Someone to watch over me.” It could have been any bar in any hotel in any country of the world. There were women like her all over the globe, thought Roxanne. Women sitting in bars, trying to look lively, waiting for men who weren't going to show.

A waiter came discreetly towards her table, removed her ashtray and replaced it with a fresh one. As he moved off, she sensed a flicker in his expression— sympathy, perhaps. Or disdain. She was used to both. Just as years of exposure to the sun had hardened her skin, so years of waiting, of disappointment and humiliation, had toughened her internal shell.

How many hours of her life had she spent like this? How many hours, waiting for a man who was often late and half the time didn't show up at all? There was always an excuse, of course. Another crisis at work, perhaps. An unforeseen encounter with a member of his
family. Once, she'd been sitting in a London restaurant, waiting for their third anniversary lunch— only to see him entering with his wife. He'd glanced over at her with an appalled, helpless expression, and she'd been forced to watch as he and his wife were ushered to a table. To watch, with pain eating like acid at her heart, as his wife sat frowning at him, obviously bored by his company.

He'd later told her that Cynthia had bumped into him on the street and insisted on joining him for lunch. He'd told her how he'd sat in misery, unable to eat; unable to make conversation. The next weekend, to make up, he'd cancelled everything else and taken Roxanne to Venice.

Roxanne closed her eyes. That weekend had been an intoxication of happiness. She'd known a pure single-minded joy which she'd never since experienced; a joy she still desperately sought, like an addict seeking that first high. They had walked hand in hand through dusty ancient squares; along canals glinting in the sunshine; over crumbling bridges. They'd drunk Prosecco in Piazza San Marco, listening to Strauss waltzes. They'd made love in the old-fashioned wooden bed at their hotel, then sat on their balcony watching the gondolas ride past; listening to the sounds of the city travelling over the water.

They hadn't mentioned his wife or family once. For that weekend, four human beings simply hadn't existed. Gone, in a puff of smoke.

Roxanne opened her eyes. She no longer allowed herself to think about his family. She no longer indulged in wicked fantasies about car crashes and avalanches. Down that road lay pain; self-reproach; indecision.
Down that road lay the knowledge that she would never have him to herself. That there would be no car crash. That she was wasting the best years of her life on a man who belonged to another woman; a tall and noble woman whom he had vowed to love and cherish for all his life. The mother of his children.

The mother of his fucking children.

A familiar pain seared Roxanne's heart and she drained her Bloody Mary, placed a twenty in the leather folder containing her bill and stood up in an unhurried motion, her face nonchalant.

As she made her way to the door of the bar, she almost bumped into a girl in a black Lurex dress, with thick make-up, over-dyed red hair and shiny gilt jewellery. Roxanne recognized her calling at once. There were women like this all over London. Hired as escorts for the evening from a fancy-named firm; paid to laugh and flirt and— for a fee— much more. Several steps up from the hookers at Euston; several steps down from the trophy wives in the dining room.

Once upon a time she would have despised such a person. Now, as she met the girl's eyes, she felt something like empathy pass between them. They'd both fallen out of the loop. Both ended up in situations which, if predicted, would have made them laugh with disbelief. For who on earth planned to end up an escort girl? Who on earth planned to end up the other woman for six long years?

A bubble, half sob, half laughter rose up in Roxanne's throat, and she quickly strode on past the escort girl, out of the bar and through the hotel foyer.

“Taxi, madam?” said the hotel doorman as she emerged into the cold night air.

“Thanks,” said Roxanne, and forced herself to smile brightly, hold her head high. So she'd been stood up, she told herself firmly. So what was new? It had happened before and it would happen again. That was the deal when the love of your life was a married man.

Chapter Four

Candice sat in the office of Ralph Allsopp, publisher of the
Londoner,
biting her nails and wondering where he was. She had hesitantly knocked on his door that morning, praying that he was in; praying that he wouldn't be too busy to see her. When he'd opened the door, holding a phone to his ear, and gestured her in, she'd felt a spurt of relief. First hurdle over. Now all she had to do was persuade him to see Heather.

But before she'd been able to launch into her little speech, he'd put the phone down, said, “Stay there,” and disappeared out of the room. That was about ten minutes ago. Now Candice was wondering whether she should have got up and followed him. Or perhaps said boldly, “Where are you going— can I come too?” That was the sort of gumption Ralph Allsopp liked in his staff. He was famous for hiring people with initiative rather than qualifications; for admiring people not afraid to admit ignorance; for prizing and nurturing talent. He admired dynamic, energetic people, prepared to work hard and take risks. The worst crime a
member of his staff could possibly commit was to be feeble.

“Feeble!” would come his roaring voice from the top floor. “Bloody feeble!” And all over the building, people would pull their chairs in, stop chatting about the weekend, and begin typing.

But those who made the grade, Ralph treated with the utmost respect. As a result, staff tended to join Allsopp Publications and stay for years. Even those who left to become freelance or pursue other careers would keep in touch; pop in for a drink or do some photocopying and float their latest ideas past Ralph's enthusiastic ear. It was a sociable, relaxed company. Candice had been there five years and had never considered leaving.

She leaned back in her chair now and looked idly around Ralph's desk— legendary for its untidiness. Two wooden in-trays overflowed with letters and memos; copies of the company's publications competed for space with galley proofs covered in red ink; a telephone was perched on a pile of books. As she looked at it, the phone began to ring. She hesitated for a second, wondering if she ought to answer someone else's phone— then imagined Ralph's reaction if he came in to see her just sitting there, letting it ring. “What's wrong, girl?” he'd roar. “Afraid it'll bite you?”

Hastily she picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” she said in a businesslike voice. “Ralph Allsopp's office.”