Cocktails for Three

by Madeleine Wickham

  “Unpleasant behaviour?” said Roxanne. “Oh, for God’s sake, Justin. Can’t you wake up and smell the bullshit?”

  “Let’s just hear what Kelly has to say, shall we?” said Justin coolly.

  As the sixteen-year-old girl came into the office, a hot pink blush spread over her face. She stood by the door, her legs wound awkwardly around each other, her gaze steadily fixed on the floor.

  “Kelly,” said Justin, adopting a smooth, patronizing tone. “I’d like to ask you about Candice Brewin— who, as you know, has been suspended from the company— and Heather Trelawney.”

  “Yes,” whispered Kelly.

  “Did you ever see any unpleasantness between them?”

  “Yes,” said Kelly after a pause. “I did.”

  Justin shot a pleased glance around the room.

  “Could you tell us a little more?” he said.

  “I feel really bad about it now,” added Kelly miserably, twisting her hands together. “I was going to come and say something before. But I didn’t want to . . . you know. Cause trouble.”

  “Never mind that,” said Justin kindly. “What were you going to say?”

  “Well, just that . . .” Kelly hesitated. “Just that Heather hated Candice. Really . . . hated her. And she knew Candice was going to get in trouble, even before it happened. It was expenses, wasn’t it?” Kelly looked up nervously. “I think maybe Heather had something to do with it.”

  Roxanne looked at Justin’s face, gave a snort of laughter and clamped her hand to her mouth.

  “I see,” said Charles Allsopp heavily and looked at Justin. “I would say, at the very least, this matter could have done with a little further investigation before action. What do you think, Justin?”

  There was a short, still silence.

  “I . . . I . . . I utterly agree,” said Justin finally, in a furious, stammering voice. “Obviously there has been some . . . some gross misrepresentation of the facts . . .” He shot an angry look at Kelly. “Perhaps if Kelly had come to me sooner . . .”

  “Don’t blame her!” said Roxanne. “It’s you who got rid of Candice!”

  “I think what we need in this case is a . . . a full and thorough investigation,” said Justin, ignoring her. “Clearly some errors have been made . . .” he swallowed, “and clearly some . . . some clarification of the situation is needed. So what I suggest, Charles, is that as soon as Heather gets back—”

  “She isn’t coming back,” said Kelly.

  “What?” said Justin, impatient at the interruption.

  “Heather’s not coming back.” Kelly twisted her hands even harder. “She’s gone to Australia.”

  Everyone stared at her.

  “For good?” said Justin, his voice rising in disbelief.

  “I don’t know,” said Kelly, flushing. “But she’s not coming back here. She . . . she gave me a goodbye present.”

  “The sweetheart,” said Roxanne.

  Charles Allsopp shook his head disbelievingly.

  “This is ludicrous,” he said. “Utterly—” He stopped himself and nodded at the blushing girl. “Thank you, Kelly. You can go now.”

  As the door closed behind her, he looked at Maggie.

  “What we must do, straight away, is contact Candice and arrange a meeting. Could you do that, Maggie? Ask her to come in as soon as possible. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “I would do,” said Maggie. “But we don’t know where she is.”

  “What?” Charles stared at her.

  “She’s disappeared,” said Maggie soberly. “She isn’t answering the phone, her letters are all piled up in her hallway . . . We’re actually rather alarmed.”

  “Christ!” said Charles in dismay. “This is all we need. Has anyone called the police?”

  “Not yet,” said Maggie. “But I think perhaps we should.”

  “Jesus God,” said Charles, lifting a hand to his brow. “What a bloody fiasco.” For a moment or two he was silent. Then he turned to Justin, his face stern. “Justin, I think the two of us need to have a little talk.”

  “Ab-absolutely,” said Justin. “Good idea.” He reached for his desk planner with a trembling hand. “Ahm . . . when were you thinking of?”

  “I was thinking of now,” said Charles curtly. “Right now, upstairs in my office.” He turned to the others. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Absolutely,” said Maggie.

  “Go right ahead,” said Roxanne, and grinned maliciously at Justin.

  When the two of them had left, Roxanne and Maggie sank heavily onto chairs and looked at each other.

  “I feel absolutely . . . shattered,” said Maggie. She lifted her hands to her head and began to rub her temples.

  “I’m not surprised!” said Roxanne. “You were fantastic. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Well, I think I made my point,” said Maggie, giving a satisfied smile.

  “Made your point? I tell you, after your performance, Charles will be welcoming Candice back with the whole red carpet treatment.” Roxanne stretched out her legs in front of her and kicked off her shoes. “He’ll probably give her a pay rise on the spot. Flowers on her desk every day. E-mails to the whole company, extolling her virtues.” Maggie began to giggle, then stopped.

  “If we find her,” she said.

  “If we find her,” echoed Roxanne, and looked soberly at Maggie. “Were you serious about calling the police?”

  “I don’t know.” Maggie sighed. “To be honest, I’m not sure the police can actually do anything. They’ll probably tell us to mind our own business.”

  “So what can we do?” said Roxanne.

  “God knows,” said Maggie, and rubbed her face. “Call her mother?”

  “She won’t have gone there,” said Roxanne, shaking her head. “She can’t stand her mother.”

  “She hasn’t got anyone, has she?” said Maggie, sudden tears starting to her eyes. “Oh shit, I can’t bear to think about it. She must have felt so completely alone.” She looked miserably at Roxanne. “Think about it, Roxanne. She’s been let down by us, by Heather . . .”

  There was a sound at the door, and she stopped midstream. Outside the glass panel of the door, the new receptionist Julie was peering in anxiously. As Maggie beckoned, she cautiously opened the door.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said, looking from face to face.

  “That’s OK,” said Maggie, dabbing at her eyes. “What is it?”

  “There’s somebody downstairs to see Justin,” said Julie nervously. “Doreen wasn’t sure if he was in a meeting or not.”

  “He is, I’m afraid,” said Maggie.

  “And he may be some time,” added Roxanne. “At least, we hope he will.”

  “Right.” Julie paused doubtfully. “So what should I say to the person?”

  “What do you think?” said Maggie, glancing at Roxanne. “Shall I see them myself?”

  “I don’t see why you should,” said Roxanne, stretching her arms above her head. “You’re not here to work. You’re on maternity leave, damn it.”

  “I know,” said Maggie. “But even so . . . it might be important.”

  “You’re too conscientious,” said Roxanne. “Nothing’s that important.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Maggie after a pause, then pulled a face. “Oh, I don’t know.” She looked at Julie. “Do you happen to know what the name was?”

  There was a pause as Julie consulted her little piece of paper.

  “She’s called . . . Candice Brewin.” Julie looked up. “Apparently she used to work here or something?”

  Candice stood by the reception desk, trying desperately to fight the impulse to run out of the door and never return. Her legs were trembling in their brand new tights, her lips were dry, and every time she thought of having to face Justin she felt as if she might vomit. But at the same time, there was a determination inside her like a thin steel rod; a determination which kept her trembling legs pinned to the floor. I hav
e to do this, she told herself yet again. If I want my job back, my integrity back— I have to do this.

  That morning at the cottage, she had awoken feeling a strange lightness inside her. A sense of release, almost. For a while she had stared silently up at the ceiling, trying to place this new sensation; trying to work out what had happened.

  And then it had hit her. She didn’t feel guilty any more.

  She didn’t feel guilty any more. It was as though she’d been absolved; as though she had been cured. As though a burden that she’d unconsciously been carrying for years had been lifted— and suddenly she was able to stretch her shoulders; to enjoy the sensation of freedom; to move in any way she liked. The guilt she’d been carrying for her father’s crimes was gone.

  Deliberately she had tested herself by bringing Heather to the forefront of her mind; waiting— amid all the anger and humiliation— for the flash of guilt. That spark of shame that she always felt; the twinge in her stomach as she remembered her father’s misdemeanours. It was such an automatic reaction, she had got used to it over the years. But this morning there had been nothing. A new absence inside her. A numbness.

  She had lain still and silent, marvelling at her transformation. Now she was able to view Heather with uncluttered eyes; to view the whole relationship between them in a different way. She had owed Heather nothing. Nothing. As Ed shifted beside her in bed, Candice had felt clear-headed and cool.

  “Morning,” he’d murmured sleepily and leaned over to kiss her.

  “I want my job back,” she’d replied, staring straight at the ceiling. “I’m not waiting for any hearing. I want my job back, Ed.”

  “Good,” he’d said, and kissed her ear. “Well, go and get it.”

  They’d eaten breakfast and packed up the cottage almost silently, as though to chat would be to destroy the mood; the focus. As they’d driven back to London, Candice had sat tensely, her hand gripping the top of the door, staring straight ahead. Ed had taken her home, waited while she changed into the smartest outfit she possessed, then had driven her here. Somehow she’d managed to stride confidently into the foyer and ask for Justin. Somehow she’d got that far.

  But now, standing on the marble floor, flinching under Doreen’s curious gaze, her confidence was evaporating. What exactly was she going to say to Justin? How was she going to change his mind? She felt suddenly vulnerable beneath her veneer, as though the slightest confrontation would blow away her poise completely. The clear-headedness she’d felt that morning was now clouded; her chest was beginning to heave with a renewed humiliation.

  What if Justin wouldn’t listen? What if he simply had her ejected from the building? What if he called her a thief again? She had rehearsed her story, had planned exactly what she would say—but now it seemed unconvincing in her own mind. Justin would simply dismiss her explanation and order her to leave. Candice felt her cheeks burn in mortification and she swallowed hard.

  “Yes,” said Doreen, looking up. “It’s as I thought. Justin is in a meeting at the moment.”

  “Oh,” said Candice in a trembling voice. “I see.”

  “But you’ve been asked to wait here,” said Doreen coldly. “Someone will be down presently.”

  “What—what for?” said Candice, but Doreen merely raised her eyebrows.

  Candice felt her heart pound with fright. Perhaps they were going to charge her. Perhaps they were going to bring the police in. What had Justin said to them? Her face began to burn harder than ever; her breaths were shallow and nervous. She should never have come back, she thought frantically. She should never have come.

  At the back of the foyer, there was a ping as the lift arrived at the ground floor. Candice felt her stomach lurch in panic. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the worst. Then the lift doors opened, and her face went numb with shock. It couldn’t be. She blinked several times, feeling giddy; wondering if she was hallucinating. There, in front of her, was Maggie, coming out of the lift, her hazel eyes looking ahead anxiously. And, behind her, Roxanne, her face taut, almost stern with worry.

  They stopped as they saw Candice and there was a tense silence as the three gazed at each other.

  “It’s you,” whispered Candice at last.

  “It’s us,” said Roxanne, nodding. “Isn’t it, Maggie?”

  Candice stared at her friends’ unsmiling faces through a haze of fear. They hadn’t forgiven her. They were never going to forgive her.

  “I . . . Oh God. I’m so sorry.” Tears began to stream down her face. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. I was wrong and you were right. Heather was . . .” She swallowed desperately. “She was a . . .”

  “It’s OK,” said Maggie. “It’s OK, Candice. Heather’s gone.”

  “And we’re back,” said Roxanne, and started to walk towards Candice with glittering eyes. “We’re back.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The grave was plain and white; almost anonymous-looking amongst the rows in the suburban, functional cemetery. Perhaps it was a little untidier than most— overgrown with grass, its gravel scattered around the plot. But it was the plainly engraved name which differentiated it; which turned it from a meaningless slab of stone into a memorial of a life. She stared at it, chiselled into the stone in capital letters. The name she’d been ashamed of for all her adult life. The name she’d come, over the years, to dread hearing.

  Candice clutched her bunch of flowers more tightly, and walked towards her father’s grave. She hadn’t been to visit it for years. Neither, judging by its state, had her mother. Both of them too consumed by anger, by shame, by denial. Both wanting to look ahead; to forget the past.

  But now, staring at the overgrown stone, Candice felt a sense of release. She felt as though, in the last few weeks, she had handed all the blame, all the guilt, back to her father. It was his again, every last drop of it; her shoulders were light again. And in return she was beginning to be able to forgive him. After years of feeling nothing for him but shame and hatred, she was beginning to recall her father in a different light; to remember all those good qualities which she’d almost forgotten. His wit, his warmth. His ability to put people at their ease; to singlehandedly entertain a whole table full of dullards. His generosity; his impulsiveness. His sheer enjoyment of the good things in life.

  Gordon Brewin had caused a lot of misery in his life. A lot of pain and a lot of suffering. But he had also given a lot of people a great deal of pleasure. He had brought light and laughter; treats and excitement. And he had given her a magical childhood. For nineteen unsullied years, right up until his death, she had felt loved, secure and happy. Nineteen years of happiness. That was worth something, wasn’t it?

  With shaky legs, Candice took a step nearer the grave. He hadn’t been an evil man, she thought. Only a man with flaws. A happy, dishonest, generous man with too many flaws to count. As she stared at his name, etched in the stone, hot tears came to her eyes and she felt again a childish, unquestioning love for him. She bent down, placed the flowers on his grave and brushed some of the spilled gravel back onto the plot, tidying the edges of the grave. She stood up and stared at it silently for a few moments. Then she turned abruptly and walked away, back to the gates where Ed was waiting for her.

  “Where’s the other godmother?” said Paddy, bustling up to Maggie in a rustle of blue flowery crêpe. “She’s not going to be late, is she?”

  “On her way, I’m sure,” said Maggie calmly. She fastened a final button on Lucia’s christening robe and held her up to be admired. “What do you think?”

  “Oh, Maggie!” said Paddy. “She looks an angel.”

  “She does look rather fine, doesn’t she?” said Maggie, surveying the frothing trail of silk and lace. “Roxanne, come in here! See your god-daughter!”

  “Let’s have a look,” said Roxanne, and sauntered into the room. She was wearing a tightly fitted black and white suit, and a stiff, wide-brimmed hat with a curling ostrich feather. “Very nice,” she said
. “Very nice indeed. Although I’m not sure about that bonnet affair. Too many ribbons.” Maggie gave a little cough.

  “Actually,” she said, “Paddy very kindly made this bonnet, especially to match the christening robe. And I . . . I rather like the ribbons.”

  “All my boys wore that robe when they were christened,” put in Paddy proudly.

  “Hmm,” said Roxanne, looking the robe up and down. “Well, that explains a lot.” She met Maggie’s eye and, without meaning to, Maggie gave a snort of laughter.

  “Paddy,” she said, “do you think the caterers have brought napkins, or should we have provided them?”

  “Oh dear,” said Paddy, looking up. “Do you know, I’m not sure. I’ll just pop down and check, shall I?”

  When she’d left the bedroom, there was silence for a while. Maggie popped Lucia under her baby gym on the floor and sat down at the dressing table to do her make-up.

  “Budge up,” said Roxanne presently, and sat down next to her on the wide stool. She watched as Maggie hastily brushed shadow onto her eyelids and stroked mascara onto her lashes, checking her appearance peremptorily after each stage.

  “Glad to see you still take your time with your maquillage,” she said.

  “Oh absolutely,” said Maggie, reaching for her blusher. “We mothers enjoy nothing more than spending an hour in front of the mirror.”

  “Slow down,” said Roxanne, and reached for a lip pencil. “I’ll do your lips. Properly.” She swivelled Maggie’s face towards her and carefully began to outline her mouth in a warm shade of plum. She finished the outline, studied her work, then reached for a lipstick and a lip brush.

  “Listen here, Lucia,” she said as she brushed the colour on. “Your mother needs time to put on her lipstick, OK? So you just give her time. You’ll realize why it’s important when you’re a bit bigger.” She finished, and handed Maggie a tissue. “Blot.”

  Maggie pressed her lips slowly on the tissue, then drew it away from her mouth and looked at it.

  “God, I’m going to miss you,” she said. “I’m really going to . . .” She exhaled sharply and shook her head. “Cyprus. I mean, Cyprus. Couldn’t it have been . . . the Isle of Wight?”