A tree falls in the forest, thought Roxanne, staring bleakly out of the window. A man tells a woman he loves her. But if no-one is present to hear it— does he really make a sound? Did it really happen?
She sighed, and stubbed out her cigarette. Forget Neil Cooper, she thought, draining her cappuccino. Forget the meeting on Thursday. Forget. That was all she wanted to do.
Candice sat silently on the sofa, head, buried in her hands, her eyes closed and her mind a whirl of images and memories. Heather’s innocent smile and gushing words. Heather leaning forward in the candlelight and asking her what meant most to her in the world. Heather squeezing her waist affectionately. And her own pride and delight in her new friend; her idealistic belief that she was atoning for her father’s crimes.
The memories made her wince in pain; in mortification. How could she ever have believed that life was that easy; that people were that accepting? How could she have seen things so simplistically? Her attempt to make amends now suddenly seemed laughable; her trust in Heather almost criminally naive.
“I was a fool,” she muttered aloud. “A gullible, stupid—”
“Stop talking to yourself,” came Ed’s voice from above her, and her head jerked up. “And get that inside you,” he added, holding out a glass of transparent liquid.
“What is it?” she said suspiciously, taking it.
“Grappa. Wonderful stuff. Go on.” He nodded at the glass and she took a gulp, then gasped as the fiery liquid hit her mouth.
“Bloody hell!” she managed, her mouth tingling with pain.
“Like I said.” Ed grinned. “Wonderful stuff. Go on, have some more.”
Candice braced herself, and took another gulp. As the alcohol descended inside her, a warm glow began to spread through her body, and she found herself smiling up at Ed.
“There’s plenty more,” said Ed, replenishing her glass from the bottle in his hand. “And now,” he added, reaching for the phone, “before you get too comfortable, you’ve got a call to make.” He plonked the phone in her lap and grinned at her.
“What?” said Candice, confused.
“Phone Justin. Tell him what Heather said to you— and that she’s scarpered. Prove she’s a nutcase.” Candice gazed up at him and, gradually, realization descended on her.
“Oh my God,” she said slowly. “You’re right! That changes everything, doesn’t it? He’ll have to believe me!” She took another gulp of grappa, then picked up the receiver. “OK. Let’s do it.” Briskly she dialled the number and, as she heard the ringing tone, felt a surge of excitement.
“Hello,” she said, as soon as she got through, “I’d like to speak to Justin Vellis, please.”
“I’ll just check for you,” said the receptionist. “May I say who’s calling?”
“Yes,” said Candice. “It’s . . . it’s Candice Brewin.”
“Oh yes,” said the receptionist, in tones which might have been scorn or merely indifference. “I’ll just try the line for you.”
As she heard Justin’s phone ringing, Candice felt a pang of apprehension. She glanced at Ed, leaning against the arm of the sofa, and he gave her the thumbs-up.
“Justin Vellis.”
“Hi, Justin,” said Candice, winding the telephone cord tightly around her fingers. “It’s Candice.”
“Yes,” said Justin. “What do you want?”
“Listen, Justin.” Candice tried to speak quickly but calmly. “I can prove that what I said in your office was true. Heather’s admitted she set me up. She’s got a vendetta against me. She yelled at me in the street!”
“Oh, really?” said Justin.
“Yes! And now she’s cleared out of the flat with all her stuff. She’s just . . . disappeared!”
“So what?”
“So, isn’t that a bit suspicious?” said Candice. “Come on, think about it!”
There was a pause, then Justin sighed. “As I recall, Candice, Heather’s gone on holiday. Hardly suspicious.”
“She hasn’t gone on holiday!” cried Candice in frustration. “She’s gone for good! And she admitted she’d got me into trouble on purpose.”
“She actually said that she’d forged your handwriting?”
“No,” said Candice after a pause. “Not exactly in those words. But she said—”
“Candice, I’m afraid I don’t have time for this,” interrupted Justin coolly. “You’ll have an opportunity to state your case at the hearing. But please don’t telephone me again. I’ll be telling reception not to put through your calls.”
“Justin, how can you be so bloody obtuse?” yelled Candice. “How can you—”
“Goodbye, Candice.” The phone went dead and Candice stared at it in disbelief.
“Let me guess,” said Ed, taking a gulp of grappa. “He apologized and offered you a pay rise.”
“He doesn’t believe me,” said Candice. “He doesn’t bloody well believe me!” Her voice rose in outrage. “How can he believe her over me? How can he?”
She rose to her feet, letting the phone fall to the ground with a crash, and strode to the window. She was shaking with anger, unable to keep still.
“Who the hell does he think he is, anyway?” she said. “He gets a bit of temporary power, and suddenly he thinks he’s running the whole bloody company. He spoke to me as if I was some bloody . . . shopfloor worker, and he was the president of some huge corporation. It’s pathetic!”
“Tiny dick, obviously,” said Ed.
“Not tiny,” said Candice, still staring out of the window. “But fairly meagre.” She turned round, met Ed’s eyes, and gave a bursting gasp of laughter. “God, I can’t believe how furious I am.”
“Neither can I,” said Ed in impressed tones. “Angry Candice. I like it.”
“I feel as though—” She shook her head mutely, smiling tightly as though suppressing more laughter. Then a tear ran quickly down her face.
“So what do I do now?” she said more quietly. She wiped the tear away and exhaled. “The hearing won’t be for another two weeks, apparently. At least. So what do I do in the meantime?” She pushed a hand through her dishevelled hair. “I can’t even get back into the building. They took my security card away.”
There was silence for a few seconds, then Ed put down his glass of grappa and stood up.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. Go to my aunt’s house.”
“What?” Candice looked at him uncertainly. “The house you inherited?”
“Change of scene. You can’t stick in this flat all day.”
“But . . . it’s miles away, isn’t it? Wiltshire or somewhere.”
“So what?” said Ed. “Plenty of time.” He looked at his watch. “It’s only eleven.”
“I don’t know.” Candice rubbed her face. “I’m not sure it’s such a great idea.”
“Well, what else are you going to do all day? Sit around and go crazy? Sod that.”
There was a long pause.
“You’re right,” said Candice eventually. “I mean, what else am I going to do?” She looked up at Ed and felt a smile licking across her face; a sudden euphoria at the thought of escaping. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
Chapter Eighteen
At midday, Giles knocked on the bedroom door and waited until Maggie sleepily lifted her head.
“Someone to see you,” he said softly. Maggie rubbed her eyes and yawned as he advanced into the room, holding Lucia in his arms. The room was bright with sunshine and she could smell coffee in the air. And she didn’t feel tired. She grinned, and stretched her arms high above her head, enjoying the sensation of the cotton sheets against her well-rested limbs. What a wonderful place bed was, she thought happily.
“Oh, I feel good!” she said, and sat up, leaning against a mound of pillows. She gave a huge yawn, and smiled at Giles. “I feel fantastic. Except I’m bursting with milk . . .”
“I’m not surprised,” said Giles, handing Lucia to her and watching as Maggie unbuttoned
her nightshirt. “That’s fourteen hours you’ve been asleep.”
“Fourteen hours,” said Maggie wonderingly, as Lucia began to feed. “Fourteen hours! I can’t remember the last time I slept for more than . . .” She shook her head. “And I can’t believe I didn’t wake up!”
“You’ve been a noise-free zone,” said Giles. “I turned all the phones off and took Lucia out for a walk. We only got back a few minutes ago.”
“Did you?” Maggie looked down at Lucia’s little face and smiled, with a sudden tenderness. “Isn’t she pretty?”
“She’s gorgeous,” said Giles. “Like her mother.”
He came and sat down on the bed, and watched them both in silence. After a while, Maggie looked up at him.
“And how was she during the night? Did you get much sleep?”
“Not much,” said Giles ruefully. “She doesn’t seem to like that cot much, does she?” His gaze met Maggie’s. “Is that what it’s been like, every night?”
“Pretty much,” said Maggie after a pause.
“I don’t understand why you never told me.” Giles pushed a hand back through his rumpled hair. “We could have got help, we could have—”
“I know.” Maggie bit her lip and looked out of the window at the blue sky. “I just . . . I don’t know. I couldn’t face admitting how awful it was.” She hesitated. “You thought I was doing so well, and you thought Lucia was so perfect, and you were so proud of me . . . If I’d told you it was a nightmare . . .”
“I would have said sod the baby, let’s send it back,” said Giles promptly and Maggie giggled.
“Thanks for taking her last night,” she said.
“Maggie, don’t thank me!” said Giles, almost impatiently. “She’s my child too, isn’t she? I’ve got just as much right to curse her at three o’clock in the morning as you have.”
“Bloody baby,” said Maggie, smiling down at her.
“Bloody baby,” echoed Giles. “Bloody silly Mummy.” He shook his head in mock-disapproval. “Lying to the health visitor. I don’t know. You could get put in prison for that.”
“It wasn’t lying,” said Maggie, transferring Lucia to the other breast. “It was . . .” She thought for a moment. “It was spin.”
“Good PR, you mean.”
“Exactly,” said Maggie, giving a self-mocking smile. “ ‘Life with my new baby is utter bliss,’ commented Ms. Phillips. ‘Yes, she is an angel, and no, I have encountered no problems. For I am Supermum.’ “ She stared at Lucia’s tiny, sucking face, then looked up seriously at Giles. “I thought I had to be like your mother. But I’m nothing like your mother.”
“You’re not as bossy as my mother,” said Giles, pulling a face. “She gave me a real earful about my responsibilities. I felt as if I was about ten years old again. She can be pretty fearsome when she wants to, my mum.”
“Good,” said Maggie, grinning.
“Which reminds me,” said Giles. “Would Madam like breakfast in bed?”
“Madam would adore breakfast in bed.”
“And what about Mademoiselle? Shall I take her with me or leave her?”
“You can leave Mademoiselle,” said Maggie, stroking Lucia’s head. “I’m not sure she’s quite finished her own breakfast.”
When Giles had gone she lay back comfortably against the pillows, staring out of the window at the fields beyond the garden. From that distance, no mud was visible; no brambles could be seen. A bright sun was beating down and wind was ruffling the long green grass; a small bird fluttered out of one of the hedges. The countryside at its most idyllic. The kind of backdrop she’d imagined for her fantasy rustic picnics.
“What do you think?” she said, looking down at Lucia. “You like rustic? You like cows and sheep? Or you like cars and shops? Cows and sheep or cars and shops. You choose.”
Lucia looked at her intently for a moment, then screwed up her tiny face in a yawn.
“Exactly,” said Maggie. “You don’t really give a toss, do you?”
“Voilà!” Giles appeared at the door holding a tray on which reposed a glass of orange juice, a cafetière full of steaming coffee, a plate of warm croissants and a pot of Bonne Maman Apricot Conserve. He looked at Maggie silently for a second, then put the tray down on a table.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Yeah, right,” said Maggie, flushing slightly.
“You do.” He came towards the bed, plucked Lucia from Maggie’s arms and placed her carefully on the floor. He sat down on the bed and stroked Maggie’s hair, her shoulder; then, very gently, her breast. “Any room in that bed for me, do you think?”
Maggie stared back at him and felt her well-rested body respond to his touch. Remembered sensations began to prickle at her skin; her breath began to come slightly more quickly.
“Could be,” she said, and smiled self-consciously.
Slowly Giles leaned forward and kissed her. Maggie closed her eyes in delight and wrapped her arms around his body, losing herself in delicious sensation. Giles’s lips found her earlobe, and she gave a little moan of pleasure.
“We could make number two,” came Giles’s voice in her ear. “Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
“What?” Maggie stiffened in horror. “Giles . . .”
“Joke,” said Giles. She pulled away, to see him laughing at her. “Joke.”
“No!” said Maggie, her heart still thudding. “That’s not a joke! That’s not even . . . not even half-funny. It’s . . . It’s . . .” Suddenly she found herself giggling. “You’re evil.”
“I know,” said Giles, and nuzzled her neck. “Aren’t you glad you married me?”
Ed’s car was a navy blue convertible. As he bleeped it open, Candice stared at it in disbelief.
“I didn’t know you had a . . . what is this?”
“BMW,” said Ed.
“Wow,” said Candice. “So how come I’ve never seen you in it?”
Ed shrugged. “I don’t drive a lot.”
Candice wrinkled her brow.
“So then— why have you got a flash car like this if you never drive?”
“Come on, Candice.” He grinned disarmingly. “I’m a boy.”
Candice laughed in spite of herself, and got into the car. Immediately she felt ridiculously glamorous. As they drove off, her hair began to blow about her face. The sun glinted on the windscreen and the shiny chrome of the wing mirrors. They stopped at a traffic light and Candice watched a girl of about her own age cross the road. She was dressed smartly and obviously hurrying back to the office. Back towards a secure job; a trusting environment; a secure future.
At the beginning of the day she’d been just like that girl, thought Candice. Oblivious and trusting, completely unaware of what was about to happen. And in a matter of hours it had all changed.
“I’ll never be the same again,” she said, without quite meaning to. Ed swivelled in his seat and looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll never be so . . . trusting. I was a stupid, gullible fool.” She rested her elbow on the door, supporting her head with her hand. “What a bloody disaster. What a bloody . . .”
“Candice, don’t get like that,” said Ed. Candice turned her head to look at him.
“What?” she said sarcastically. “Don’t blame myself?”
Ed shrugged. “Don’t tear yourself to bits. What you did, helping Heather— it was a . . . a generous, positive thing to do. If Heather’d been a different person, maybe it would have worked out fine.”
“I suppose so,” muttered Candice after a pause.
“It wasn’t your fault she was a nutter, was it? She didn’t arrive with a sign round her neck.”
“But I was so bloody . . . idealistic about the whole thing.”
“Of course you were,” said Ed. “That’s what makes you . . . you.”
There was a sudden stillness between them. Candice gazed back into Ed’s dark, intelligent eyes and felt a faint tinge in her cheeks. The
n, behind them, a horn sounded. Without speaking, Ed put the car into gear and drove off, and Candice sat back in her seat and closed her eyes, her heart thumping.
When she opened her eyes again, they were on the motorway. The sky had clouded over a little and the wind had become too strong to allow talking. Candice struggled up to a sitting position and looked about. There were fields, and sheep, and a familiar country smell. Her legs felt stiff and her face dry from the wind, and she wondered how much further away it was.
As though reading her mind, Ed signalled left and turned off the motorway.
“Are we nearly there?” shouted Candice. He nodded, but said nothing more. They passed through a village and she peered with interest at the cottages and houses, wondering what Ed’s house might be like. He had said nothing about it; she didn’t know if it was large or small, old or new. Suddenly the car was swinging off the main road up a narrow track. They bumped along for two miles or so, then Ed turned in at a gate. The car crackled down a sloping drive, and Candice gazed ahead of her in disbelief.
They were approaching a low, thatched cottage, turned slightly away from them as though too shy to show its face. The walls were painted a soft apricot; the window frames were turquoise; from inside a window she caught a splash of lilac. Around the corner she could see several brightly painted pots clustering outside the wooden front door.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Candice said in astonishment. “It’s like a fairytale.”
“What?” said Ed. He switched the engine off and looked around with a suppressed gleam. “Oh yes. Didn’t I say? She was a paint er, my aunt. Liked a bit of colour.” He opened the car door. “Come on. Come and see inside.”
The front door opened onto a low hall; a bunch of dried flowers hung from a low beam.
“That’s to warn tall bastards,” said Ed. He glanced at Candice, who was peering into the flagstoned kitchen. “What do you think? You like it?”
Cocktails for Three Page 23