Cocktails for Three (14 page)

Feeling suddenly sick at her own deceit, Candice ripped the bag open and drew out a slim silver pen.

“It's not much,” said Heather. “I just thought you'd like it. For when you're writing up your interviews.”

“It's beautiful,” said Candice, feeling tears coming to her eyes. “Heather, you really shouldn't have.”

“It's the least I can do,” said Heather. She took Candice's arm and squeezed it. “I'm so glad I ran into you, that night. There's something really . . . special between us. Don't you think? I feel as if you're my closest friend.” Candice looked at her, then impetuously leaned forward and hugged her. “I know your other friends don't like me,” came Heather's voice in her ear. “But . . . you know, it doesn't matter.”

Candice withdrew her head and looked at Heather in surprise.

“What do you mean, my other friends don't like you?”

“Roxanne doesn't like me.” Heather gave a quick little smile. “Don't worry about it. It doesn't matter.”

“But this is awful!” exclaimed Candice, frowning. “Why don't you think she likes you?”

“I might have got it wrong,” said Heather at once. “It was just a look she gave me . . . Honestly, Candice, don't hassle about it. I shouldn't have said anything.” She flashed a quick grin. “Come on, choose one of these dresses, and then let's go and try on some proper clothes.”

“OK,” said Candice. But as she began to pick up the baby dresses again, her face was creased in a frown.

“Look, now I feel terrible!” said Heather. “Please, Candice, forget I said anything.” She lifted a thumb and ran it slowly down the crease in Candice's forehead. “Forget about Roxanne, OK? I'm probably just sensitive. I probably got it all wrong.”

Roxanne lay happily on the sofa in a T-shirt, listening to low, jazzy music and, in the background, the sounds of Ralph cooking in the kitchen. He always cooked the supper— partly because he claimed to enjoy it, and partly because she was useless at it. She associated some of their happiest moments together with meals that he had cooked, after sex. Those were the times she cherished the most, she thought. The times when she could almost believe that they lived together; that they were a normal couple.

Of course, they weren't a normal couple. Perhaps they never would be. Automatically— and almost
dispassionately— Roxanne's thoughts flicked to Ralph's youngest son Sebastian. Sweet little Sebastian, the afterthought. The blessing. The accident, let's face it. And still only a child; still only ten years old. Ten years, five months and a week.

Roxanne knew Sebastian Allsopp's age to the minute. His older brother and sister were in their twenties, safely off in their own lives. But Sebastian lived at home, went to school, brushed his teeth and still had a teddy bear. Sebastian was too young to bear the turmoil of a divorce. Not until he was eighteen, Ralph had said once after a few brandies. Eighteen. Another seven years, six months and three weeks. In seven years she would be forty.

For the sake of the children.
It was a phrase which had once meant nothing to her. Now it seemed burnt into her soul with a branding iron. For the sake of Sebastian. He'd been four years old that night when she and Ralph had first danced together. A poppet in pyjamas, sleeping in his bed, while she looked into his father's eyes and realized with a sudden urgency that she wanted more of them. That she wanted more of him. She'd been twenty-seven, then. Ralph had been forty-six. Anything in the world had seemed possible.

Roxanne closed her eyes, remembering. It had been at the first night of a star-laden visiting production of
Romeo and Juliet
at the Barbican. Ralph had been sent two complimentary tickets and, at the last minute, had wandered into the editorial office of the
Londoner,
looking for a second taker. When Roxanne had jumped at the chance, his face had registered slight surprise, which he had tactfully hidden. He had, he'd later confessed, always thought of her as a glossy, materialistic
girl— bright and talented but with no real depth. When he turned to her at the end of the play to see her still staring forward, her face streaked unashamedly with tears, he'd felt a lurch of surprise, and an unexpected liking for her. Then, when she'd pushed her hair back off her brow, wiped her eyes and said, with her customary spirit, “I'm bloody parched. How about a cocktail?” he'd thrown back his head and laughed. He'd produced two invitations for the post-performance party—which he hadn't been intending to use— had called his wife and told her that he would be a little later than he'd thought.

He and Roxanne had stood at the edge of a party full of strangers, drinking Buck's Fizz, talking about the play and inventing stories about all the other guests. Then a jazz band had struck up, and the floor had crowded with couples. And after hesitating a second, Ralph had asked her to dance. As soon as she'd felt his arms around her and looked up into his eyes, she'd known. She'd simply known.

A familiar spasm, half pain, half joy, went through Roxanne at the memory. She would always remember that night as one of the most magical in her life. Ralph had disappeared off to make a phone call which she hadn't allowed herself to think about. Then he had returned to the table at which she was sitting, trembling with excitement. He had sat down opposite her, had met her eyes and said slowly, “I was thinking about going on somewhere from here. A hotel, perhaps. Would you . . . care to join me?” Roxanne had stared at him silently for a few seconds, then had put down her drink.

She had intended to play it cool; to maintain a sophisticated reserve for as long as possible. But the
moment they had got into their taxi, Ralph had turned to her, and she had found herself gazing back with an almost desperate longing. As their lips met she had thought, with a brief flash of humour, Hey, I'm kissing the boss. And then his kiss had deepened and her eyes had closed and her mind had lost its capacity for coherent thought. A capacity which had only returned in the morning, as she woke up in a Park Lane hotel with an adulterous man nineteen years her senior.

“Glass of wine?” Ralph's voice interrupted her and she opened her eyes to see him gazing fondly down at her. “I could open the bottle I brought.”

“Only if it's properly cold,” she said suspiciously. “If it's warm, I'm sending it back.”

“This one is cold,” said Ralph, smiling. “I put it in the fridge when I got here.”

“It'd better be,” said Roxanne. She sat up and hugged her knees as he went back out to the kitchen. A minute later Ralph returned with two glasses full of wine.

“Why weren't you in the office today, by the way?” said Roxanne. She lifted her glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” replied Ralph. He took a long sip, then looked up and said easily, “I had a meeting with my accountant all morning and into lunch. It didn't seem worth coming in.”

“Oh, right,” said Roxanne, and took a sip of wine. “Slacker.”

A half-smile flickered across Ralph's face and he lowered himself slowly into a chair. Roxanne stared at him and frowned slightly.

“Are you OK?” she said. “You look knackered.”

“Bit of a late night last night,” said Ralph, and closed his eyes.

“Oh well,” said Roxanne cheerfully. “In that case, you don't get any sympathy from me.”

Candice took another swig of wine and gazed around the packed restaurant.

“I can't believe how full it is!” she said. “I had no idea late-night shopping was such a big thing.”

Heather laughed. “Have you never been shopping in the evening before?”

“Of course. But I didn't realize what a . . . party atmosphere there was here.” She took another swig of wine and looked around again. “You know, I might suggest to Justin that we do a piece on it. We could come down, interview some people, take some photographs . . .”

“Good idea,” said Heather, and sipped at her wine. In front of her was a paper menu and a pen which their waiter had left behind, and Heather idly picked it up. She began to doodle on the menu: spiky star-like creations with far-reaching glittering rays. Candice watched her, slightly mesmerized, slightly drunk. They had had to wait half an hour for a table, during which time they had consumed a gin and tonic each and half a bottle of wine. Somehow she seemed to be drinking more quickly than Heather, and on an empty stomach the alcohol seemed stronger than usual.

“It's funny, isn't it?” said Heather, looking up suddenly. “We're so close, and yet we don't really know each other.”

“I suppose not,” said Candice, and grinned. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Tell me about Justin,” said Heather after a pause. “Do you still like him?”

“No!” said Candice, then laughed. “I suppose I can stand him as an editor. But I don't have any . . . feelings for him. I think that was all a huge mistake.”

“Really?” said Heather lightly.

“He impressed me when I first met him. I thought he was incredibly clever and articulate and wonderful. But he's not. Not when you actually listen to what he's saying.” She took another gulp of wine. “He just likes the sound of his own voice.”

“And there's no-one else on the horizon?”

“Not at the moment,” said Candice cheerfully. “And I can't say I mind.”

A waiter appeared at the table, lit the candle between them and began to lay out knives and forks. Heather waited until he'd gone, then looked up again, her face glowing in the candlelight.

“So . . . men aren't important to you.”

“I don't know,” said Candice, laughing a little. “I suppose the right one would be.” She watched as Heather picked up the bottle of wine, replenished Candice's glass then looked up, her eyes shining with a sudden intensity.

“So what is?” she asked softly. “What means most to you in the world? What do you . . . treasure?”

“What do I treasure?” Candice repeated the question thoughtfully, staring into her glass. “I don't know. My family, I suppose. Although my mother and I aren't that close any more. And my friends.” She looked up with a sudden certainty. “I treasure my friends. Roxanne and Maggie especially.”

“Your friends.” Heather nodded slowly. “Friends are such important things.”

“And my job. I love my job.”

“But not for the money,” probed Heather.

“No! I don't care about money!” Candice flushed slightly, and took a gulp of wine. “I hate materialism. And greed. And . . . dishonesty.”

“You want to be a good person.”

“I want to try.” Candice gave an embarrassed little laugh and put her wine glass down. “What about you? What do you treasure?”

There was a short silence, and a curious expression flitted across Heather's face.

“I've learned not to treasure anything much,” she said eventually, and gave a quick smile. “Because you can lose it all overnight, with no warning. One minute you have it, the next you don't.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”

Candice stared at her in guilty misery, suddenly wanting to talk more; perhaps even reveal the truth.

“Heather . . .” she said hesitantly. “I've . . . I've never—”

“Look!” interrupted Heather brightly, gesturing behind Candice. “Here comes our food.”

Roxanne took a last mouthful of pasta, put down her fork and sighed. She was sitting opposite Ralph at her tiny folding dining table, the lights were dim and Ella Fitzgerald was crooning softly in the background.

“That was bloody delicious.” Roxanne hugged her stomach. “Aren't you eating yours?”

“Go ahead.” Ralph gestured to his half-full plate, and, wrinkling her brow slightly, Roxanne pulled it towards her.

“No appetite?” she said. “Or is it still your hangover?”

“Something like that,” said Ralph lightly.

“Well, I'm not going to let it go to waste,” said Roxanne, plunging her fork into the pasta. “You know, I always miss your cooking when I go away.”

“Do you?” said Ralph. “What about all those five-star chefs?”

Roxanne pulled a face. “Not the same. They can't do pasta like you.” She tilted her dining chair back so that it rested against the sofa, took a sip of wine and comfortably closed her eyes. “In fact, I think it's very selfish of you not to come and cook me pasta every night.” She took another sip of wine, then another.

Then, as the silence continued, she opened her eyes. Ralph was gazing speechlessly at her, a curious expression on his face.

“I am selfish,” he said at last. “You're right. I've treated you appallingly selfishly.”

“No you haven't!” said Roxanne, giving a little laugh. “I'm only joking.” She reached for the bottle of wine, replenished both their glasses, and took a gulp. “Nice wine.”

“Nice wine,” echoed Ralph slowly, and took a sip.

For a while they were both silent. Then Ralph looked up and, almost casually, said, “Suppose in a year's time you could be doing anything. Anything at all. What would it be?”

“In a year's time,” echoed Roxanne, feeling her heart start to beat a little more quickly. “Why a year?”

“Or three years,” said Ralph, making a vague gesture with his wine glass. “Five years. Where do you see yourself?”

“Is this a job interview?” said Roxanne lightly.

“I'm just interested, I suppose,” said Ralph, shrugging. “Idle fantasies.”

“Well, I . . . I don't know,” said Roxanne, and took a sip of wine, trying to stay calm.

What was going on? She and Ralph, by tacit agreement, never discussed the future; never discussed any part of life that might cause hurt or resentment. They talked about work, about films, food and travel. They gossiped about colleagues and speculated about Roxanne's dubious-looking downstairs neighbour. They watched television soap operas together and, in fits of laughter, ridiculed the wooden-faced acting. But, even when they were staring at adultery on the screen, they never talked about their own situation.