“Is something wrong?” said the girl, politely, and Candice flushed.
“No. Of course not. Ahm . . .” She opened the cocktail menu again and ran her eyes down the lists without taking them in. The Manhattan Bar served over a hundred cocktails; sometimes she found the choice almost too great. “A Mexican Swing, please.”
“A Margarita for me,” said Roxanne.
“Oh God, I don’t know what to have,” said Maggie. “I had wine at lunchtime . . .”
“A Virgin Mary?” suggested Candice.
“Definitely not.” Maggie pulled a face. “Oh, sod it. A Shooting Star.”
“Good choice,” said Roxanne. “Get the kid used to a bit of alcohol inside its system. And now . . .” She reached inside her bag. “It’s present time!”
“For who?” said Maggie, looking up in surprise. “Not for me. I’ve had heaps of presents today. Far too many. Plus about five thousand Mothercare vouchers . . .”
“A Mothercare voucher?” said Roxanne disdainfully. “That’s not a present!” She produced a tiny blue box and put it on the table. “This is a proper present.”
“Tiffany?” said Maggie incredulously. “Really? Tiffany?” She opened the box with clumsy, swollen fingers and carefully took something silver from its tiny bag. “I don’t believe it! It’s a rattle!” She shook it, and they all smiled with childish delight.
“Let me have a go!” said Candice.
“You’ll have the most stylish baby on the block,” said Roxanne, a pleased expression on her face. “If it’s a boy, I’ll get him cufflinks to match.”
“It’s wonderful,” said Candice, staring admiringly at it. “It makes my present seem really . . . Well, anyway.” She put the rattle down and started to rummage in her bag. “It’s here somewhere . . .”
“Candice Brewin!” said Roxanne accusingly, peering over her shoulder. “What’s that in your bag?”
“What?” said Candice, looking up guiltily.
“More tea towels! And a sponge.” Roxanne hauled the offending items out of Candice’s bag and held them aloft. There were two blue tea towels and a yellow sponge, each wrapped in cellophane and marked “Young People’s Cooperative.” “How much did you pay for these?” demanded Roxanne.
“Not much,” said Candice, at once. “Hardly anything. About . . . five pounds.”
“Which means ten,” said Maggie, rolling her eyes at Roxanne. “What are we going to do with her? Candice, you must have bought their whole bloody supply, by now!”
“Well, they’re always useful, aren’t they, tea towels?” said Candice, flushing. “And I feel so bad, saying no.”
“Exactly,” said Maggie. “You’re not doing it because you think it’s a good thing. You’re doing it because if you don’t, you’ll feel bad.”
“Well, isn’t that the same thing?” retorted Candice.
“No,” said Maggie. “One’s positive, and the other’s negative. Or . . . something.” She screwed up her face. “Oh God, I’m confused now. I need a cocktail.”
“Who cares?” said Roxanne. “The point is, no more tea towels.”
“OK, OK,” said Candice, hurriedly stuffing the packets back in her bag. “No more tea towels. And here’s my present.” She produced an envelope and handed it to Maggie. “You can take it any time.”
There was silence around the table as Maggie opened it and took out a pale pink card.
“An aromatherapy massage,” she read out disbelievingly. “You’ve bought me a massage.”
“I just thought you might like it,” said Candice. “Before you have the baby, or after . . . They come to your house, you don’t have to go anywhere—” Maggie looked up, her eyes glistening slightly.
“You know, that’s the only present anyone’s bought for me. For me, as opposed to the baby.” She leaned across the table and gave Candice a hug. “Thank you, my darling.”
“We’ll really miss you,” said Candice. “Don’t stay away too long.”
“Well, you’ll have to come and see me!” said Maggie. “And the baby.”
“In your country manor,” said Roxanne sardonically. “Mrs. Drakeford At Home.” She grinned at Candice, who tried not to giggle.
When Maggie had announced, a year previously, that she and her husband Giles were moving to a cottage in the country, Candice had believed her. She had pictured a quaint little dwelling, with tiny crooked windows and a walled garden, somewhere in the middle of a village.
The truth had turned out to be rather different. Maggie’s new house, The Pines, had turned out to be situated at the end of a long, tree-lined drive. It had turned out to have eight bedrooms and a billiards room and a swimming pool. Maggie, it had turned out, was secretly married to a millionaire.
“You never told us!” Candice had said accusingly as they’d sat in the vast kitchen, drinking tea made on the equally vast Aga. “You never told us you were rolling in it!”
“We’re not rolling in it!” Maggie had retorted defensively, cradling her Emma Bridgwater mug. “It just . . . looks bigger because it’s in the country.” This remark she had never been allowed to forget.
“It just looks bigger . . .” Roxanne began now, snorting with laughter. “It just looks bigger . . .”
“Oh, shut up, y’all,” said Maggie good-naturedly. “Look, here come the cocktails.”
The blond-haired girl was coming towards them, holding a silver tray on the flat of her hand. Three glasses were balanced on it. One a Margarita glass, frosted round the rim, one a highball decorated with a single fanned slice of lime, and one a champagne flute adorned with a strawberry.
“Very classy,” murmured Roxanne. “Not a cherry in sight.”
The girl set the glasses down expertly on their paper coasters, added a silver dish of salted almonds, and discreetly placed the bill— hidden inside a green leather folder— to one side of the table. As she stood up, Candice looked again at her face, trying to jog her memory. She knew this girl from somewhere. She was sure of it. But from where?
“Thanks very much,” said Maggie.
“No problem,” said the girl, and smiled— and as she did so, Candice knew, in a flash, who she was.
“Heather Trelawney,” she said aloud, before she could stop herself. And then, as the girl’s eyes slowly turned towards her, she wished with all her soul that she hadn’t.
Chapter Two
“I’m sorry,” began the girl puzzledly. “Do I—” She stopped, took a step nearer and peered at Candice. Then suddenly her face lit up. “Of course!” she said. “It’s Candice, isn’t it? Candice . . .” She wrinkled her brow. “Sorry, I’ve forgotten your last name.”
“Brewin,” said Candice in a frozen voice, barely able to utter the syllables. Her name seemed to rest in the air like a physical presence; a target, inviting attack. Brewin. As she saw Heather frowning thoughtfully, Candice flinched, waiting for the jolt of recognition, the anger and recriminations. Why had she not just kept her stupid mouth shut? What hideous scene was going to ensue?
But as Heather’s face cleared, it was obvious that she recognized Candice as nothing but an old school acquaintance. Didn’t she know? thought Candice incredulously. Didn’t she know?
“Candice Brewin!” said Heather. “That’s right! I should have recognized you straight away.”
“How funny!” said Maggie. “How do you two know each other?”
“We were at school together,” said Heather brightly. “It must be years since we’ve seen each other.” She looked again at Candice. “You know, I thought there was something about you, when I took your order. But . . . I don’t know. You look different, somehow. I suppose we’ve all changed since then.”
“I suppose so,” said Candice. She picked up her glass and took a sip, trying to calm her beating heart.
“And I know this is going to sound bad,” said Heather, lowering her voice, “but after you’ve been waitressing for a while, you stop looking at the customers’ faces. Is that awful?”
“Speak for yourself,” retorted Roxanne at once, and grinned at Maggie.
“You know, I once took an order from Simon Le Bon,” said Heather. “Not here, at my old place. I took the order, and I didn’t even notice who he was. When I got back to the kitchen, everyone was going ‘what’s he like?’ and I didn’t know what they were talking about.”
“Good for you,” said Roxanne. “It does these people good not to be recognized.”
Maggie glanced at Candice. She was staring at Heather as though transfixed. What the hell was wrong with her?
“So, Heather,” she said quickly, “have you been working here long?”
“Only a couple of weeks,” said Heather. “It’s a nice place, isn’t it? But they keep us busy.” She glanced towards the bar. “Speaking of which, I’d better get on. Good to see you, Candice.”
She began to move off, and Candice felt a jolt of alarm.
“Wait!” she said. “We haven’t caught up properly.” She swallowed. “Why don’t you . . . sit down for a minute?”
“Well, OK,” said Heather after a pause. She glanced again at the bar. “But I can’t be long. We’ll have to pretend I’m advising you on cocktails or something.”
“We don’t need any advising,” said Roxanne. “We are the cocktail queens.” Heather giggled.
“I’ll just see if I can find a chair,” she said. “Back in a tick.”
As soon as she had walked away, Maggie turned to Candice.
“What’s wrong?” she hissed. “Who is this girl? You’re staring at her as though you’ve seen a bloody ghost!”
“Is it that obvious?” said Candice in dismay.
“Darling, you look as if you’re practising to play Hamlet,” said Roxanne drily.
“Oh God,” said Candice. “And I thought I was doing quite well.” She picked up her cocktail with a shaking hand and took a gulp. “Cheers, everybody.”
“Never mind bloody cheers!” said Maggie. “Who is she?”
“She’s—” Candice rubbed her brow. “I knew her years ago. We were at school together. She— she was a couple of years below me.”
“We know all that!” said Maggie impatiently. “What else?”
“Hi!” Heather’s bright voice interrupted them, and they all looked up guiltily. “I found a chair at last.” She set it at the table and sat down. “Are the cocktails good?”
“Wonderful!” said Maggie, taking a gulp of her Shooting Star. “Just what the midwife ordered.”
“So—what are you up to now?” said Heather to Candice.
“I’m a journalist,” said Candice.
“Really?” Heather looked at her wistfully. “I’d love to do something like that. Do you write for a newspaper?”
“A magazine. The Londoner.“
“I know the Londoner!” said Heather. “I’ve probably even read articles you’ve written.” She looked around the table. “Are you all journalists?”
“Yes,” said Maggie. “We all work together.”
“God, that must be fun.”
“It has its moments,” said Maggie, grinning at Roxanne. “Some better than others.”
There was brief silence, then Candice said, with a slight tremor in her voice, “And what about you, Heather? What have you done since school?” She took another deep gulp of her cocktail.
“Oh well . . .” Heather gave a quick little smile. “It was all a bit grim, actually. I don’t know if you know— but the reason I left Oxdowne was my father lost all his money.”
“How awful!” said Maggie. “What— overnight?”
“Pretty much,” said Heather. Her grey eyes darkened slightly. “Some investment went wrong. The stock markets or something— my dad never said exactly what. And that was it. They couldn’t afford school fees any more. Or the house. It was all a bit horrendous. My dad got really depressed over it, and my mum blamed him . . .” She broke off awkwardly. “Well, anyway.” She picked up a paper coaster and began to fiddle with it. “They split up in the end.”
Maggie glanced at Candice for a reaction, but her face was averted. She had a cocktail stirrer in her hand and was stirring her drink, round and round.
“And what about you?” said Maggie cautiously to Heather.
“I kind of lost it, too, for a bit.” Heather gave another quick little smile. “You know, one minute I was at a nice fee-paying school with all my friends. The next, we’d moved to a town where I didn’t know anyone, and my parents were arguing all the time, and I went to a school where they all gave me a hard time for talking posh.” She sighed, and let the coaster drop from her fingers. “I mean, looking back, it was quite a good comprehensive. I should have just stuck it out and gone on to college . . . but I didn’t. I left as soon as I was sixteen.” She pushed back her thick, wavy hair. “My dad was living in London by then so I moved in with him and got a job in a wine bar. And that was it, really. I never did a degree, or anything.”
“What a shame,” said Maggie. “What would you have done, if you’d stayed on?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Heather. She gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Done something like you’re doing, maybe. Become a journalist, or something. I started a creative writing course once, at Goldsmiths’, but I had to give it up.” She looked around the bar and shrugged. “I mean, I do like working here. But it’s not really . . . Anyway.” She stood up and tugged at her green waistcoat. “I’d better get going, or André will kill me. See you later!”
As she walked away, the three of them sat in silence, watching her. Then Maggie turned to Candice, and said carefully,
“She seems nice.”
Candice didn’t reply. Maggie looked questioningly at Roxanne, who raised her eyebrows.
“Candice, what’s wrong?” said Maggie. “Is there some history between you and Heather?”
“Darling, speak to us,” said Roxanne.
Candice said nothing, but continued stirring her cocktail, faster and faster and faster, until the liquid threatened to spill over the sides of the glass. Then she looked up at her friends.
“It wasn’t the stock markets,” she said in a flat voice. “It wasn’t the stock markets that ruined Frank Trelawney. It was my father.”
Heather Trelawney stood at the corner of the bar, by the entrance to the kitchen, watching Candice Brewin’s face through the crush of people. She couldn’t take her eyes off the sight. Gordon Brewin’s daughter, large as life, sitting at the table with her friends. With her nice haircut, and her good job, and money for cocktails every night. Oblivious of what suffering her father had caused. Unaware of anything except herself.
Because she’d come out all right, hadn’t she? Of course she had. Good-Time Gordon had been very clever like that. He’d never used his own money. He’d never put his own life on the line. Only other people’s. Other poor saps, too greedy to say no. Like her poor reckless, stupid dad. At the thought, Heather’s chin tightened, and her hands gripped her silver tray harder.
“Heather!” It was André, the head waiter, calling from the bar. “What are you doing? Customers waiting!”
“Coming!” called back Heather. She put down her silver tray, shook out her hair and tied it back tightly with a rubber band. Then she picked up her tray and walked smartly to the bar, never once taking her eyes off Candice Brewin.
“They called him Good-Time Gordon,” said Candice in a trembling voice. “He was there at every single party. Life and soul.” She took a gulp of her cocktail. “And every school function. Every concert, every gym display. I used to think it was because— you know, he was proud of me. But all the time, he just wanted to pick up new contacts to do business with. Frank Trelawney wasn’t the only one. He got to all our friends, all our neighbours . . .” Her hand tightened around her glass. “They all started popping up after the funeral. Some had invested money with him, some had lent him money and he’d never pa
id it back . . .” She took a swig of her cocktail. “It was horrendous. These people were our friends. And we’d had no idea.”
Roxanne and Maggie glanced at each other.
“So how do you know Heather’s father was involved?” said Maggie.
“I found out when we went through the paperwork,” said Candice blankly. “My mother and I had to go into his study and sort out the mess. It was . . . just awful.”
“How did your mum take it?” asked Maggie curiously.
“Terribly,” said Candice. “Well, you can imagine.
He’d actually told some people he needed to borrow money from them because she was an alcoholic and he wanted to put her through rehab.”
Roxanne snorted with laughter, then said,
“Sorry.”
“I still can’t talk to her about it,” said Candice. “In fact, I think she’s pretty much persuaded herself it never happened. If I even mention it, she gets all hysterical . . .” She lifted a hand and began to massage her forehead.
“I had no idea about this,” said Maggie. “You’ve never even mentioned any of this before.”
“Yes, well,” said Candice shortly. “I’m not exactly proud of it. My father did a lot of damage.”
She closed her eyes as unwanted memories of that dreadful time after his death came flooding back into her mind. It had been at the funeral that she’d first noticed something wrong. Friends and relatives, clumped in little groups, had stopped talking as soon as she came near. Voices had been hushed and urgent; everyone had seemed to be in on one big secret. As she’d passed one group, she’d heard the words, “How much?”
Then the visitors had started arriving, ostensibly to pay their condolences. But sooner or later the conversation had always turned to money. To the five or ten thousand pounds that Gordon had borrowed. To the investments that had been made. No hurry, of course— they quite understood things were difficult . . . Even Mrs. Stephens, their cleaning lady, had awkwardly brought up the subject of a hundred pounds, loaned some months ago and never repaid.
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