Cocktails for Three (27 page)

Maggie wiped her eyes and took a sip of hot, fresh tea.

“There you are,” said the health visitor kindly. “Now don't worry, a lot of new mothers feel depressed to begin with. It's perfectly natural.”

“But I've got nothing to be depressed about,” said Maggie, giving a little shudder. “I've got a loving husband and a great big house, and I don't have to work. I'm really lucky.”

She looked around her large, impressive sitting room: at the grand piano covered in photographs, the fireplace stacked with logs; the french windows leading out onto the lawn. The health visitor followed her gaze.

“You're quite isolated out here, aren't you?” she said thoughtfully. “Any family nearby?”

“My parents live in Derbyshire,” said Maggie, closing her eyes and feeling the hot steam of the tea against her face. “But my mother-in-law lives a few miles away.”

“And is that helpful?”

Maggie opened her mouth, intending to say Yes.

“Not really,” she heard herself say instead.

“I see,” said the health visitor tactfully. “You don't get on particularly well?”

“We do . . . but she just makes me feel like such a failure,” said Maggie, and as the words left her mouth she felt a sudden painful relief. “She does everything so well, and I do everything so . . .” Tears began to stream down her face again. “So badly,” she whispered.

“I'm sure that's not true.”

“It is! I can't do anything right!” Maggie gave a little shudder. “I didn't even know I was in labour. Paddy
had to
tell
me I was in labour. I felt so . . . so stupid. And I don't keep the house tidy, and I don't make scones— and I got rattled changing Lucia's nappy, and Paddy came in and saw me shouting at her . . .” Maggie wiped her eyes and gave a huge sniff. “She thinks I'm a terrible mother.”

“I'm sure she doesn't—”

“She does! I can see it in her eyes every time she looks at me. She thinks I'm useless!”

“I don't think you're useless!” Maggie and the health visitor both started, and looked round. Paddy was standing at the door of the sitting room, her face flushed. “Maggie, where did you get such a dreadful idea?”

Paddy had arrived at the house meaning to ask Maggie if she wanted anything from the shops, and had found the door on the latch. As she'd walked through the hall, she'd heard Maggie's voice, raised in emotion and, with a sudden jolt of shock, had heard her own name. She had told herself to walk away— but instead had drawn nearer the sitting room, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“Maggie, my darling girl, you're a wonderful mother!” she said now, in a trembling voice. “Of course you are.”

“I'm sure it's all just a misunderstanding,” said the health visitor soothingly.

“No-one understands!” said Maggie, wiping her blotchy face. “Everyone thinks I'm bloody superwoman. Lucia never sleeps . . .”

“I thought you said she was sleeping well,” said the health visitor with a frown, consulting her notes.

“I know!” cried Maggie in sudden anguish. “I said
that because everyone seems to think that's what she should be doing. But she's not sleeping. And I'm not sleeping either. Giles has no idea . . . no-one has any idea.”

“I've tried to help!” said Paddy, and glanced defensively at the health visitor. “I've offered to babysit, I've tidied the kitchen . . .”

“I know,” said Maggie. “And every time you tidy it you make me feel worse. Every single time you come round . . .” She looked at Paddy, “Every time, I'm doing something else wrong. When I went up to London you told me I should have an early night instead.” Tears began to pour down her face again. “My one night off.”

“I was worried about you!” said Paddy, her face reddening in distress. “I could tell you were exhausted; I didn't want you to make yourself ill!”

“Well, that's not what you said.” Maggie looked up miserably. “You made me feel like a criminal.” Paddy stared at her for a few silent moments, then sank heavily down onto a chair.

“Perhaps you're right,” she said slowly. “I didn't think.”

“I'm grateful for everything you've done,” muttered Maggie. “I am, really. But . . .”

“It sounds like you could do with more emotional support,” said the health visitor, looking from Paddy to Maggie. “You say your husband's got a very demanding job?”

“He's very busy,” said Maggie, and blew her nose. “It's not fair to expect him . . .”

“Nonsense!” cut in Paddy crisply. “Giles is this baby's father, isn't he? Then he can share the burden.” She gave Maggie a beady look. “Anyway, I thought all
you women were into New Men these days.” Maggie gave a shaky laugh.

“I am, in principle. It's just that he works so hard—”

“And so do you! Maggie, you must stop expecting miracles of yourself.”

Maggie flushed. “Other women manage,” she said, staring at the floor. “I just feel so inadequate . . .”

“Other women manage
with help,”
said Paddy. “Their mothers come to stay. Their husbands take time off. Their friends rally round.” She met the health visitor's eye. “I don't think any husband ever died from losing a night's sleep, did he?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said the health visitor, grinning.

“You don't have to do it all,” said Paddy to Maggie. “You're doing marvellously as it is. Much better than I ever did.”

“Really?” said Maggie, and raised a shaky smile. “Even though I don't make scones?”

Paddy was silent. She looked down at little Lucia, sleeping in her basket, then raised her eyes to meet Maggie's.

“I make scones because I'm a bored old woman,” she said. “But you've got a lot more in your life than that. Haven't you?”

As people began to pour out of the church, Candice looked up. Her limbs felt stiff; her face felt dry and salty from tears; she felt internally bruised from Roxanne's powerful anger. She didn't want to see anyone, she thought, and quickly got up to leave. But as she was walking away, Justin suddenly appeared from nowhere and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Candice,” he said coldly. “A word, please.”

“Oh,” said Candice, and rubbed her face. “Can't it wait?”

“I'd like you to come and see me tomorrow. Nine-thirty.”

“OK,” said Candice. “What's it about?”

Justin gave her a long look, then said, “Let's just speak tomorrow, shall we?”

“All right,” said Candice, puzzled. Justin nodded curtly, then walked on into the crowds.

Candice stared after him, wondering what on earth he was talking about. The next moment, Heather appeared at her side.

“What did Justin want?” she said casually.

“I've no idea. He wants to see me tomorrow. Very serious about something or other.” Candice rolled her eyes. “He was very cloak and dagger about it. Probably his latest genius idea about something.”

“Probably,” said Heather. She looked at Candice consideringly for a moment, then grinned and squeezed her waist. “Tell you what, let's go out tonight,” she said. “Have some supper somewhere nice. We could do with some fun after all this misery. Don't you think?”

“Absolutely,” said Candice in relief. “I feel pretty wrung out, to tell you the truth.”

“Really?” said Heather thoughtfully. “I saw you and Roxanne, earlier. Another row?”

“Kind of,” said Candice. An image of Roxanne's haggard face passed through her mind and she winced. “But it . . . it doesn't matter.” She looked at Heather's wide, friendly smile and suddenly felt uplifted; warmed and encouraged. “It really doesn't matter.”

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, as Candice got ready for work, there was no sign of Heather. She smiled to herself as she made a cup of coffee in the kitchen. They had sat in a restaurant until late the night before, eating pasta and drinking mellow red wine and talking. There was an ease between the two of them; a natural, understated affection, which Candice treasured. They seemed to see life in exactly the same way; to hold the same values; to share the same sense of humour.

Heather had drunk more than Candice and, as their bill had arrived, had almost tearfully thanked Candice once again for everything she'd done for her. Then she'd rolled her eyes and laughed at herself. “Look at me, completely out of it as usual. Candice, if I don't wake up in the morning, just leave me. I'll need the day off to recover!” She'd taken a sip of coffee and looked at Candice over her cup, then added, “And good luck with your meeting with Justin. Let's hope it's something nice!”

It had been a healing evening, thought Candice. After
the grief and drama of Ralph's funeral, it had been an evening to absorb the events of the day, to take stock and move on. She still felt raw from her parting with Roxanne; still felt a disbelieving shock whenever she thought about her and Ralph. But this morning she felt a new strength; an ability to look ahead and focus on other things in her life. Her friendship with Heather; her love of her job.

Candice finished her coffee, tiptoed to Heather's room and listened. There was no sound. She grinned, picked up her bag and left the flat. It was a crisp morning, with the feel of summer in the air, and she walked along briskly, wondering what Justin wanted to see her about.

As she arrived at work she saw that his office was empty. She went to her desk and immediately switched on her computer— then, validated, turned round to chat with whoever was about. But Kelly was the only one in the office, and she was sitting at her desk, furiously typing, not looking up for a second.

“I saw you at the funeral,” said Candice in friendly tones. “It seemed very moving.” Kelly looked up and gave Candice a strange look.

“Yeah,” she said, and carried on typing.

“I didn't make it to the actual service,” continued Candice. “But I saw you going in with Heather.”

To her surprise, a pink tinge spread over Kelly's face.

“Yeah,” she said again. She typed for a bit longer, then abruptly stood up. “I've just got to . . .” she said, bit her lip and walked out of the room. Candice watched her go in puzzlement, then turned back to her computer. She tapped idly, then turned round again. There wasn't
any point beginning work if she was seeing Justin at nine-thirty.

Again, she wondered what he wanted to see her about. Once upon a time she might have thought he was going to ask her advice on something, or at least her opinion. But since he'd taken over the running of the magazine, Justin had become more and more his own master, and behaved as though Candice— along with all the rest of the staff— was no longer his equal. She would have resented it, had she not found it so ridiculous.

At nine twenty-five, Justin appeared at the door of the editorial office, still in conversation with someone in the corridor.

“OK, Charles,” he was saying. “Thanks for that. Much appreciated. Yes, I'll keep you posted.” He lifted his hand in farewell, then came into the room and met Candice's eye.

“Right,” he said. “In you come.”

He ushered Candice to a chair, then closed the door behind her and snapped the window blind shut. Slowly he walked round his desk, sat down and looked at her.

“So, Candice,” he said eventually, stopped, and gave a sigh. “Tell me, how long have you been working for the
Londoner
?”

“You know how long!” said Candice. “Five years.”

“That's right,” said Justin. “Five years. And you've been happy here? You've been well treated?”

“Yes!” said Candice. “Of course I have. Justin—”

“So you'd think, wouldn't you, that in all that time, a degree of . . . trust would have built up. You'd think that a satisfied employee would have no need to resort to . . . dishonesty.” Justin shook his head solemnly and Candice
stared at him, half wanting to laugh at his gravitas, trying to work out what he was getting at. Had someone broken into the office? Or been pick-pocketing?

“Justin,” she said calmly. “What are you talking about?”

“God, Candice, you're making this bloody difficult for me.”

“What?” said Candice impatiently. “What are you talking about?” Justin stared at her as though in disbelief, then sighed.

“I'm talking about expenses, Candice. I'm talking about claiming false expenses.”

“Really?” said Candice. “Who's been doing that?”

“You have!”

The words seemed to hit Candice in the face like a slap.

“What?” she said, and heard herself give an incongruous giggle. “Me?”

“You think it's funny?”

“No! Of course not. It's just . . . ridiculous! Are you serious? You're not serious.”

“Oh, come on!” said Justin. “Stop this act. You've been caught, Candice.”

“But I haven't done anything!” said Candice, her voice coming out more shrilly than she had intended. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

“So you don't know about these?” Justin reached into his desk drawer and produced a pile of expense claim forms with receipts attached. He flicked through it and, with a slight lurch, Candice caught a glimpse of her name. “Haircut at Michaeljohn,” he read from the top form. “Are you telling me that's a legitimate editorial expense?”

“What?” said Candice, flabbergasted. “I didn't submit that! I would never submit that!” Justin was turning to the next page. “A beauty morning at Manor Graves Hotel.” He turned again. “Lunch for three at the Ritz.”

“That was Sir Derek Cranley and his publicist,” said Candice at once. “I had to give them lunch to get an interview. They refused to go anywhere else.”

“And Manor Graves Hotel?”

“I've never even been to Manor Graves Hotel!” said Candice, almost laughing. “And I wouldn't claim something like that! This is a mistake!”