Cocktails for Three (9 page)

“Here,” she said, handing Heather a glass of champagne and trying to draw her away from the mantelpiece. “Here's to us.”

“To us,” echoed Heather, and took a sip. Then she turned back to the mantelpiece, picked up the
photograph and looked at it. Candice took another gulp of champagne, trying not to panic. If she just acted naturally, she told herself, Heather would suspect nothing.

“This is you, isn't it?” said Heather, looking up. “Don't you look sweet! How old were you there?”

“About eleven,” said Candice, forcing a smile.

“And are these your parents?”

“Yes,” said Candice, trying to keep her voice casual. “That's my mother, and—” she swallowed “—and that's my father. He . . . he died a while back.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” said Heather. “He was a handsome man, wasn't he?” She stared at the picture again, then raised her head and smiled. “I bet he spoiled you rotten when you were a kid.”

“Yes,” said Candice, and attempted a laugh. “Well— you know what fathers are like . . .”

“Absolutely,” said Heather. She gave the photograph one last look, then replaced it on the mantelpiece. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” she said suddenly. “Don't you think?” She came towards Candice and put her arm affectionately round her waist. “The two of us, living together. It's going to be such fun!”

At midnight that night, after a four-course dinner and more than her fair share of a bottle of divine Chablis, Roxanne arrived back at her suite at the Aphrodite Bay Hotel, to find her bed turned down, the lights dimmed, and a message light blinking on her telephone. Kicking off her shoes, she sat down on the bed, pressed the message button and began to unwrap the chocolate mint which had been placed on her pillow.

“Hi, Roxanne? It's Maggie. Hope you're having a good time, you lucky cow— and give me a call some
time.” Roxanne stiffened in excitement, and was about to pick up the phone, when the machine beeped again, indicating a second message.

“No, you dope, I haven't had the baby,” came Maggie's voice again. “This is something else. Ciao.” Roxanne grinned, and stuffed the chocolate mint into her mouth.

“End of messages,” said a tinny voice. Roxanne swallowed the mint, reached for the phone and pressed three digits.

“Hello, Nico?” she said as the phone was answered. “I'll be down in a minute. I just have to make a quick call.” She pointed her toes, admiring her tan against her pink-polished toenails. “Yes, order me a Brandy Alexander. See you in a moment.” She replaced the receiver, then picked it up again and dialled Maggie's number from memory.

“Hello?” said a sleepy voice.

“Giles!” said Roxanne, and guiltily looked at her watch. “Oh God, it's late, isn't it? Sorry! I didn't think. It's Roxanne. Were you asleep?”

“Roxanne,” said Giles blearily. “Hi. Where are you?”

“Give it to me!” Roxanne could hear Maggie saying in the background, then, in a more muted voice, “Yes, I know it's late! I want to talk to her!” There was a scuffling noise, and Roxanne grinned, imagining Maggie wrenching the phone determinedly from her husband's grasp. Then Maggie's voice came down the receiver. “Roxanne! How are you?”

“Hi, Mags,” said Roxanne. “Sorry I woke Giles up.”

“Oh, he's OK,” said Maggie. “He's already fallen asleep again. So, how's life in Cyprus?”

“Bearable,” drawled Roxanne. “A Mediterranean
paradise of blazing sun, blue waters and five-star luxury. Nothing to speak of.”

“I don't know how you stand it,” said Maggie. “I'd complain to the management if I were you.” Then her voice grew more serious. “Listen, Roxanne, the reason I called— have you spoken to Candice recently?”

“Not since I came out here. Why?”

“Well, I rang her this evening,” said Maggie, “just for a chat— and that girl was there.”

“Which girl?” said Roxanne, leaning back against the padded headrest of her bed. Through her uncurtained french windows, she could see fireworks from some distant revelry or other exploding into the night sky like coloured shooting stars.

“Heather Trelawney. The cocktail waitress in the Manhattan Bar, remember?”

“Oh yes,” said Roxanne, yawning slightly. “The one Candice's father ripped off.”

“Yes,” said Maggie. “Well, you know Candice got her the editorial assistant job on the
Londoner
?”

“Really?” said Roxanne in surprise. “That was quick work.”

“Apparently she went to see Ralph the next morning, and made some special plea. God knows what she said.”

“Oh well,” said Roxanne easily. “She obviously feels very strongly about it.”

“She must do,” said Maggie. “Because now this girl's moved in with her.”

Roxanne sat up, frowning. “Moved in with her? But, I mean, she hardly knows her!”

“I know,” said Maggie. “Exactly. Don't you think it seems a bit . . .”

“Mmm,” said Roxanne. “Sudden.”

There was silence down the line, punctuated by crackles and Giles coughing in the background.

“I just have a bad vibe about it,” said Maggie eventually. “You know what Candice is like. She'll let anyone take advantage of her.”

“Yes,” said Roxanne slowly. “You're right.”

“So I was thinking— maybe you could try and keep tabs on this girl? There's not much I can do . . .”

“Don't worry,” said Roxanne. “As soon as I get back, I'll suss it out.”

“Good,” said Maggie, and exhaled gustily. “I'm sure I'm just a bored pregnant woman worrying about nothing. It'll probably all turn out fine. But . . .” She paused. “You know.”

“I do,” said Roxanne. “And don't fret. I'm on the case.”

The next morning Candice woke to a sweet, mouthwatering smell wafting through the air. She rolled puzzledly over in bed, opened her eyes and found herself staring at an unfamiliar white wall. What was going on? she wondered blearily. What was she doing . . .

Then her brain clicked into place. Of course. She was in the spare room. Heather was living here. And from the smell of it, she was already up and cooking something. Candice swung her legs out of bed and sat up, groaning slightly at the heaviness of her head. Champagne always got her like that. She stood up, put on a robe, and tottered down the hall to the kitchen.

“Hi!” said Heather, looking up from the stove, with a beam. “I'm making pancakes. Do you want one?”

“Pancakes?” said Candice. “I haven't had pancakes since . . .”

“Coming right up!” said Heather, and opened the oven. Candice stared in amazement, to see a pile of light, golden-brown pancakes, warming gently in the oven's heat.

“This is amazing,” she said, starting to laugh. “You can stay.”

“You don't get pancakes every day,” said Heather, gazing at her in mock severity. “Only when you've been good.”

Candice giggled. “I'll make some coffee.”

A few minutes later, they sat down at Candice's marble bistro table, each with a pile of pancakes, sugar and lemon juice, and a steaming mug of coffee.

“We should have maple syrup, really,” said Heather, taking a bite. “I'll buy some.”

“This is delicious!” said Candice, her mouth full of pancake. “Heather, you're an utter star.”

“It's a pleasure,” said Heather, smiling modestly down at her plate.

Candice took another bite of pancake and closed her eyes, savouring the pleasure. To think she'd actually had some last-minute qualms about inviting Heather to live with her. To think she'd wondered if she was making a mistake. It was obvious that Heather was going to make a wonderful flat-mate—and a wonderful new friend.

“Well, I guess I'd better go and get ready.” Candice looked up to see a sheepish grin flash across Heather's face. “Actually, I'm a bit nervous about today.”

“Don't be,” said Candice at once. “Everyone's very friendly. And remember I'll be there to help you.” She
smiled at Heather, filled with a sudden affection for her. “It'll all go fine, I promise.”

Half an hour later, as Candice brushed her teeth, Heather knocked on the bathroom door.

“Do I look OK?” she asked nervously, as Candice appeared. Candice gazed at her, feeling impressed and a little taken aback. Heather looked incredibly smart and polished. She was wearing a smart red suit over a white T-shirt and black high-heeled shoes.

“You look fantastic!” said Candice. “Where's the suit from?”

“I can't remember,” said Heather vaguely. “I bought it ages ago, when I had a windfall.”

“Well, it looks great!” said Candice. “Just give me a sec, and we'll go.”

A few minutes later, she ushered Heather out of the flat and banged the door shut. Immediately Ed's front door swung open and he appeared on the landing, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and clutching an empty milk bottle.

“Well, hello there!” he said, as though in surprise. “Fancy bumping into you, Candice!”

“What a coincidence,” said Candice.

“Just putting the milk out,” said Ed unconvincingly, his eyes glued on Heather.

“Ed, we don't have a milkman,” said Candice, folding her arms.

“Not yet, we don't,” said Ed, and waved the milk bottle at Candice. “But if I put this out as bait, maybe I can lure one this way. It works for hedgehogs. What do you think?”

He put the milk bottle down on the floor, looked at it
consideringly for a moment, then moved it a little towards the stairs. Candice rolled her eyes.

“Ed, this is my new flat-mate, Heather. You may have heard her arrive last night.”

“Me?” said Ed innocently. “No, I heard nothing.” He stepped forward, took Heather's hand and kissed it. “Enchanted to meet you, Heather.”

“You too,” said Heather.

“And may I say how delightfully smart you look?” added Ed.

“You may,” said Heather, dimpling at him. She gave a satisfied glance at her own appearance and brushed a speck of dust off her immaculate red skirt.

“You know, you should take a few tips from Heather,” said Ed to Candice. “Look— her shoes match her bag. Very chic.”

“Thanks, Ed,” said Candice. “But the day I take sartorial tips from you is the day I give up wearing clothes altogether.”

“Really?” Ed's eyes gleamed. “Is that a move you're planning in the near future?”

Heather giggled.

“What do you do, Ed?” she asked.

“He does nothing,” said Candice. “And he gets paid for it. What is it today, Ed? Loafing around the park? Feeding the pigeons?”

“Actually, no,” said Ed. He leaned against the door frame of his flat and his eyes glinted in amusement. “Since you ask, I'm going to go and look at my house.”

“What house?” said Candice suspiciously. “Are you moving away? Thank God for that.”

“I've inherited a house,” said Ed. “From my aunt.”

“Of course you have!” said Candice. “Obviously.
Some people inherit debts; Ed Armitage inherits a house.”

“Dunno what I'm going to do with it,” said Ed. “It's down in Monkham. Bloody miles away.”

“Where's Monkham?” said Candice, wrinkling her brow.

“Wiltshire,” said Heather surprisingly. “I know Monkham. It's very pretty.”

“I suppose I'll sell it,” said Ed. “But then, I'm quite fond of it. I spent a lot of time there when I was a kid . . .”

“Sell it, keep it . . . who cares?” said Candice. “What's an empty property here or there? It's not like there are people starving on the streets, or anything—”

“Or turn it into a soup kitchen,” said Ed. “A home for orphans. Would that satisfy you, St. Candice?” He grinned, and Candice scowled at him.

“Come on,” she said to Heather. “We'll be late.”

The editorial office of the
Londoner
was a long, large room with windows at each end. It held seven desks— six for members of editorial staff and one for the editorial secretary, Kelly. At times it could be a loud and noisy place to work; on press day it was usually mayhem.

As Candice and Heather arrived, however, the room was full of the usual mid-month, Monday morning lethargy. Until the eleven o'clock meeting, no real work would be done. People would open their post, exchange stories about the weekend, make pots of coffee and nurse their hangovers. At eleven o'clock they would all cluster into the meeting room and report on the progress of the June issue; at twelve o'clock they
would all emerge feeling motivated and energetic— and promptly go off for lunch. It was the same every Monday.

Candice stood at the door to the room, grinned encouragingly at Heather, and cleared her throat.

“Everybody,” she said, “this is Heather Trelawney, our new editorial assistant.”

A murmur of hungover greetings went round the room, and Candice smiled at Heather.

“They're very friendly really,” she said. “I'll introduce you properly in a moment. But first we should try to find Justin . . .”

“Candice,” came a voice behind her, and she jumped. She turned round to see Justin standing in the corridor. He was dressed in a dark purple suit, holding a cup of coffee and looking harassed.

“Hi!” she said. “Justin, I'd like you to . . .”

“Candice, a word,” interrupted Justin tersely. “In private. If I may.”

“Oh,” said Candice. “Well . . . OK.”

She glanced apologetically at Heather, then followed Justin to the corner by the photocopying machine. Once upon a time, she thought, he would have been leading her off into the corner to whisper in her ear and make her giggle. But now, as he turned round, the expression on his face was distinctly unfriendly. Candice folded her arms and stared back at him defiantly.

“Yes?” she said, wondering if she'd made some horrendous gaffe in the magazine without realizing. “Is something wrong?”