Cocktails for Three

by Madeleine Wickham

  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!”

  “So you didn’t sign this hotel receipt and fill in this claim form.”

  “Of course not!” said Candice incredulously. “Let me see.”

  She grabbed the piece of paper, looked at it and felt her stomach flip over. Her own signature stared up at her from a receipt she knew she’d never signed. An expenses claim form was neatly filled in— in what looked exactly like her handwriting. Her hands began to tremble.

  “A total of one hundred and ninety-six pounds,” said Justin. “Not bad, in a month.”

  Suddenly a cold feeling came over Candice. Suddenly she remembered her bank statement; the extra money which had seemed to come out of nowhere. The extra money— which she hadn’t bothered to question. She looked quickly at the date on the hotel receipt— a Saturday, six weeks ago— and again at the signature. It looked like hers, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t her signature.

  “Perhaps it doesn’t seem like a big deal to you,” said Justin. Candice looked up to see him standing by the window, facing her. The light from the window silhouetted his face so she couldn’t see his expression, but his voice was grave. “Fiddling expenses.” He made a careless gesture. “One of those little crimes that doesn’t matter. The truth is, Candice, it does matter.”

  “I know it matters!” spat Candice in frustration. “Don’t bloody patronize me! I know it matters. But I didn’t do it, OK?”

  She took a deep breath, trying to keep calm— but her mind felt like a fish on the deck, thrashing back and forth in panic, trying to work it out.

  “So what are these?” Justin pointed to the expense forms.

  “Someone else must have filled them in. Forged my signature.”

  “And why would they do that?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. But look, Justin! It isn’t my handwriting. It just looks like it!” She flipped quickly through the pages. “Look at this form compared to . . . this one!” She thrust the pages at Justin but he shook his head.

  “You’re saying somebody— for a reason we have yet to ascertain— forged your signature.”

  “Yes!”

  “And you knew nothing about it.”

  “No!” said Candice. “Of course not!”

  “Right,” said Justin. He sighed as though disappointed by her reply. “So when the expenses came through a week ago— expenses you say you knew nothing about— and you found a load of unexplained money in your account, you naturally pointed out the mistake and returned it straight away.”

  He looked at her evenly and Candice stared back dumbly, feeling her cheeks flame bright red. Why hadn’t she queried the extra money? Why hadn’t she been honest? How could she have been so . . . so stupid?

  “For God’s sake, Candice, you might as well admit it,” said Justin wearily. “You tried to fleece the company and you got caught.”

  “I didn’t!” said Candice, feeling a sudden thickness in her throat. “Justin, you know I wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “To be honest, Candice, I feel at the moment as though I don’t know you very well at all,” said Justin.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Heather’s told me all about your little power trips over her,” said Justin, a sudden hostile note in his voice. “To be honest, I’m surprised she didn’t make an official complaint.”

  “What?” said Candice in astonishment. “Justin, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “All innocent again?” said Justin sarcastically. “Come on, Candice. We even spoke about it the other day. You admit you’ve been insisting on supervising all Heather’s work. Using your power over her to intimidate her.”

  “I’ve been helping her!” said Candice in outrage. “My God! How can you—”

  “It probably made you feel pretty big, didn’t it, getting a job for Heather?” Justin folded his arms. “Then she started to make progress, and you resented it.”

  “No! Justin—”

  “She told me how badly you treated her after she presented her feature idea to me.” Justin’s voice harshened. “You just can’t stand the fact that she’s got talent, is that it?”

  “Of course not!” said Candice, flinching at his voice. “Justin, you’ve got it all wrong! It’s twisted! It’s—”

  Candice broke off, and gazed at Justin, trying to marshal her flying thoughts. Nothing was making sense. Nothing was making—

  She stopped, as something hit her. The receipt for the Michaeljohn haircut. That was hers. Her own private receipt, from her own pile of papers on the dressing table in her bedroom. Her own bedroom, in her own flat. No-one else could have—

  “Oh my God,” she said slowly.

  She picked up one of the expense forms, gazed at it again and slowly felt herself grow cold. Now that she looked closely, she could see the hint of another handwriting beneath the veneer of her own. Like a mocking wave, Heather’s handwriting was staring up at her. She looked up, feeling sick.

  “Where’s Heather?” she said in a trembling voice.

  “On holiday,” said Justin. “For two weeks. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “No,” said Candice. “No, she didn’t.” She took a deep breath, and pushed her hair back off her damp face. “Justin, I think . . . I think Heather forged these claims.”

  “Oh really?” Justin laughed. “Well, there’s a surprise.”

  “No.” Candice swallowed. “No, Justin, really. You have to listen to me—”

  “Candice, forget it,” said Justin impatiently. “You’re suspended.”

  “What?” Utter shock drained Candice’s face of colour.

  “The company will carry out an internal investigation, and a disciplinary hearing will be held in due course,” said Justin briskly, as though reading lines from a card. “In the meantime, until the matter is resolved, you will remain at home on full pay.”

  “You . . . you can’t be serious.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re lucky not to be fired on the spot! Candice, what you did is fraud,” said Justin, and raised his chin slightly. “If I hadn’t instituted random spot-checks of the expenses system, it might not even have been picked up. Charles and I had a little chat this morning, and we both feel that this kind of thing has to be cracked down on firmly. In fact, we’re going to be using this as an opportunity to—”

  “Charles Allsopp.” Candice stared at him in sudden comprehension. “Oh my God,” she said softly. “You’re doing this to impress bloody Charles Allsopp, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Justin angrily, and flushed a deep red. “This is a company decision based on company policy.”

  “You’re really doing this to me.” Candice’s eyes suddenly smarted with disbelieving, angry tears. “You’re treating me like a criminal, after . . . everything. I mean, we lived together for six months, didn’t we? Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  At her words, Justin’s head jerk
ed up and he gave her an almost triumphant look.

  He’s been waiting for me to say that, thought Candice in horrified realization. He’s been waiting for me to grovel.

  “So you think I should make an exception for you because you used to be my girlfriend,” said Justin. “You think I might do you a special favour and turn a blind eye. Is that it?”

  Candice stared at him, feeling sickened.

  “No,” she said, as calmly as she could manage. “Of course not.” She paused. “But you could . . . trust me.”

  There was silence as the two stared at each other and, for an instant, Candice thought she saw the old Justin looking at her— the Justin who would have believed her; possibly even defended her. Then, as though coming to, he turned and reached into his desk drawer.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” he said coldly, “you’ve forfeited my trust. And everybody else’s. Here.” He looked up and held out a black plastic bin liner. “Take what you want and go.”

  Half an hour later, Candice stood on the pavement outside the glass doors, holding her bin liner and flinching at the curious gazes of passers-by. It was ten o’clock in the morning. For most people the day was just beginning. People were hurrying to their offices; everyone had somewhere to go. Candice swallowed and took another step forward, trying to look as though she was standing here on the pavement with a bin bag on purpose. But she could feel her calm face slipping; could feel raw emotion threatening to escape. She had never felt so vulnerable; so frighteningly alone.

  As she’d come back into the editorial office, she’d managed to maintain a modicum of dignity. She’d managed to hold her head up high and— above all— had refused to look guilty. But it had been difficult. Everyone obviously knew what had happened. She could see heads looking up at her, then quickly looking away; faces agog with curiosity; with relief that it wasn’t them. With a new member of the Allsopp family in charge of the company, the future was uncertain for everybody. At one point she’d caught Alicia’s eye and saw a genuine flash of sympathy before Alicia, too, looked away. Candice didn’t blame her. No-one could afford to take any chances.