Cocktails for Three (10 page)

“Where were you on Friday?”

“I took the day off,” said Candice.

“In order to avoid me.”

“No!” said Candice, rolling her eyes. “Of course not! Justin, what's wrong?”

“What's wrong?” echoed Justin, as though he could barely believe her effrontery. “OK, tell me this, Candice. Did you or did you not go over my head to Ralph last week—
deliberately
undermining my credibility— simply in order to secure a job for your little friend?” He jerked his head towards Heather.

“Oh,” said Candice, taken aback. “Well, not on purpose. It just . . . happened that way.”

“Oh yes?” A tense smile flickered across Justin's face. “That's funny. Because the way I heard it was that after our discussion the other night, you went straight up to Ralph Allsopp, and told him I was too busy to process the applications for editorial assistant. Is that what you told him, Candice?”

“No!” said Candice, feeling herself colouring. “At least . . . I didn't mean anything by it! It was just—”

She broke off, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Although— of course— she'd been acting primarily to help Heather, she couldn't deny that it had given her a slight
frisson
of pleasure to have outwitted Justin. But that hadn't been the
main
reason she'd done it, she thought indignantly. And if Justin were just a bit less arrogant and snobbish, maybe she wouldn't have had to.

“How do you think that makes me look?” hissed Justin furiously. “How do you think Ralph rates my management skills now?”

“Look, it's no big deal!” protested Candice. “I just happened to know someone who I thought would be good for the job, and you'd said you were busy—”

“And you happened to see a neat way to sabotage my position on day one,” said Justin, with a little sneer.

“No!” said Candice in horror. “God, is that the way you think my mind works? I would never do anything like that!”

“Of course you wouldn't,” said Justin.

“I
wouldn't
!” said Candice, and glared at him. Then she sighed. “Look, come and meet Heather— and then you'll see. She'll be an excellent editorial assistant. I promise.”

“She'd better be,” said Justin. “We had two hundred applicants for that job, you know. Two
hundred
.”

“I know,” said Candice hurriedly. “Look, Justin, Heather'll be great. And I didn't mean to undermine you, honestly.”

There was a tense silence, then Justin sighed.

“OK. Well, perhaps I overreacted. But I'm having problems enough as it is today.” He took a sip of coffee and scowled. “Your friend Roxanne hasn't helped.”

“Oh really?”

“She described some new hotel as a ‘vulgar monstrosity' in the last issue. Now I've got the company on the phone, demanding not only a retraction, but a free full-page advertisement. And where's the woman herself? On some bloody beach somewhere.”

Candice laughed.

“If she said it's a monstrosity, it probably is.” She felt a movement at her arm and looked up in surprise. “Oh, hello, Heather.”

“I thought I'd come and introduce myself,” said Heather brightly. “You must be Justin.”

“Justin Vellis, Acting Editor,” said Justin, holding out his hand in a businesslike fashion.

“Heather Trelawney,” said Heather, shaking it firmly. “I'm so delighted to be working for the
Londoner.
I've
always read it, and I look forward to being part of the team.”

“Good,” said Justin shortly.

“I must just also add,” said Heather, “that I love your tie. I've been admiring it from afar.” She beamed at Justin. “Is it Valentino?”

“Oh,” said Justin, as though taken aback. “Yes, it is.” His fingers reached up and smoothed the tie down. “How . . . clever of you.”

“I love men in Valentino,” said Heather.

“Yes, well,” said Justin, flushing very slightly. “Good to meet you, Heather. Ralph's told me about the high quality of your writing, and I'm sure you're going to be an asset to the team.”

He nodded at Heather, glanced at Candice, then strode away. The two girls looked at each other, then started to giggle.

“Heather, you're a genius!” said Candice. “How did you know Justin had a thing about his ties?”

“I didn't,” said Heather, grinning. “Just call it instinct.”

“Well, anyway, thanks for rescuing me,” said Candice. “You got me out of a tight corner there.” She shook her head. “God, Justin can be a pain.”

“I saw you arguing,” said Heather casually. “What was the problem?” She looked at Candice, and a curious expression came over her face. “Candice, you weren't arguing about . . . me, were you?” Candice felt herself flush red.

“No!” she said hastily. “No, of course we weren't! It was . . . something else completely. It really doesn't matter.”

“Well—if you're sure,” said Heather, and gazed at
Candice with luminous eyes. “Because I'd hate to cause any trouble.”

“You're not causing trouble!” said Candice, laughing. “Come on, I'll show you your desk.”

Chapter Six

Maggie was in her large, cool bedroom, sitting by the rain-swept window and staring out at the muddy green fields disappearing into the distance. Fields and fields, as far as the eye could see. Proper, old-fashioned English countryside. And twenty acres of it belonged to her and Giles.

Twenty whole acres— vast by London standards. The thought had thrilled her beyond measure in those first exhilarating months after they'd decided to move. Giles— used to his parents' paddocks and fields full of sheep— had been pleased to acquire the land, rather than excited. But to Maggie, after her own suburban upbringing and the tiny patch of land they'd called a garden in London, twenty acres had seemed like a country estate. She'd imagined striding around her land like a gentleman farmer, getting to know every corner, planting trees; picnicking in her favourite shady spot.

That first October weekend after they'd moved in, she'd made a point of walking to the furthest point of the plot and looking back towards the house— greedily
taking in the swathe of land that now belonged to her and Giles. The second weekend it had rained, and she'd huddled inside by the Aga. The third weekend, they'd stayed up in London for a friend's party.

Since then, the thrill of ownership had somewhat paled. Admittedly, Maggie still liked to drop her twenty acres into the conversation. She still liked to think of herself as a landowner and talk carelessly about buying a horse. But the thought of going and actually trudging through her own muddy fields exhausted her. It wasn't as if they were particularly beautiful or interesting. Just fields.

The phone rang and she looked at her watch. It would be Giles, wanting to know what she had been doing with herself. She had told herself— and him— that she would go up to the attic bedrooms today and plan their redecoration. In fact, she had done nothing more than go downstairs, eat some breakfast and come back upstairs again. She felt heavy and inert; slightly depressed by the weather; unable to galvanize herself into action.

“Hi, Giles?” she said into the receiver.

“How are you doing?” said Giles cheerily down the line. “It's lashing it down here.”

“Fine,” said Maggie, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. “It's raining here, too.”

“You sound a bit down, my sweet.”

“Oh, I'm OK,” said Maggie gloomily. “My back hurts, it's pissing with rain and I haven't got anyone to talk to. Apart from that, I'm doing great.”

“Did the cot arrive?”

“Yes, it's here,” said Maggie. “The man put it up in the nursery. It looks lovely.”

Suddenly she felt a tightening across the front of her stomach, and drew in breath sharply.

“Maggie?” said Giles in alarm.

“It's OK,” she said, after a few seconds. “Just another practice contraction.”

“I would have thought you'd had enough practice by now,” said Giles, and laughed merrily. “Well, I'd better shoot off. Take care of yourself.”

“Wait,” said Maggie, suddenly anxious for him not to disappear off the line. “What time do you think you'll be home?”

“It's bloody frantic here,” said Giles, lowering his voice. “I'll try and make it as early as I can— but who knows? I'll ring you a bit later and let you know.”

“OK,” said Maggie disconsolately. “Bye.”

After he'd rung off she held the warm receiver to her ear for a few minutes more, then slowly put it down and looked around the empty room. It seemed to ring with silence. Maggie looked at the still telephone and felt suddenly bereft, like a child at boarding school. Ridiculously, she felt as though she wanted to go home.

But this was her home. Of course it was. She was Mrs. Drakeford of The Pines.

She got to her feet and lumbered wearily into the bathroom, thinking that she would have a warm bath to ease her back. Then she must have some lunch. Not that she felt very hungry— but still. It would be something to do.

She stepped into the warm water and leaned back, just as her abdomen began to tighten again. Another bloody practice contraction. Hadn't she had enough already? And why did nature have to play such tricks, anyway? Wasn't the whole thing bad enough as it was?
As she closed her eyes, she remembered the section in her pregnancy handbook on false labour. “Many women,” the book had said patronizingly, “will mistake false contractions for the real thing.”

Not her, thought Maggie grimly. She wasn't going to have the humiliation of summoning Giles from the office and rushing excitedly off to the hospital, only to be told kindly that she'd made a mistake. You think
that's
labour? the silent implication ran. Ha! You just wait for the real thing!

Well, she would. She'd wait for the real thing.

Roxanne reached for her orange juice, took a sip and leaned back comfortably in her chair. She was sitting at a blue and green mosaic table on the terrace of the Aphrodite Bay Hotel, overlooking the swimming pool and, in the distance, the beach. A final drink in the sunshine, a final glimpse of the Mediterranean, before her flight back to England. Beside her on the floor was her small, well-packed suitcase, which she would take onto the plane as hand luggage. Life was far too short, in her opinion, to spend waiting by airport carousels for suitcases of unused clothes.

She took another sip and closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of the sun blazing down on her cheeks. It had been a good week's work, she thought. She had already written her two-thousand-word piece for the
Londoner
on holidaying in Cyprus. She had also visited enough new property developments to be able to write a comprehensive survey for the property pages of one of the national newspapers. And for one of their rivals, under a pseudonym, she would pen a lighthearted diary-type piece on living in Cyprus as an expatriate.
The
Londoner
had funded half the cost of her trip— with these extra pieces of work she would more than pay for the rest of it. Nice work if you can get it, she thought idly, and began to hum softly to herself.

“You are enjoying the sun,” came a voice beside her and she looked up. Nico Georgiou was pulling a chair out and sitting down at the table. He was an elegant man in his middle years, always well dressed; always impeccably polite. The quieter, more reserved of the two Georgiou brothers.

She had met them both on her first trip to Cyprus, when she had been sent to cover the opening of their new hotel, the Aphrodite Bay. Since then, she had never stayed anywhere else in Cyprus, and over the years, had got to know Nico and his brother Andreas well. Between them, they owned three of the major hotels on the island, and a fourth was currently under construction.

“I adore the sun,” said Roxanne now, smiling. “And I adore the Aphrodite Bay.” She looked around. “I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed my stay here.”

“And we have, as always, enjoyed having you,” said Nico. He lifted a hand, and a waiter came rushing to attention.

“An espresso, please,” said Nico, and glanced at Roxanne. “And for you?”

“Nothing else, thanks,” said Roxanne. “I have to leave soon.”

“I know,” said Nico. “I will drive you to the airport.”

“Nico! I've booked a taxi.”

“And I have unbooked it,” said Nico, smiling. “I want to talk to you, Roxanne.”

“Really?” said Roxanne. “What about?”

Nico's coffee arrived and he waited for the waiter to retreat before he spoke again.

“You have been to visit our new resort, the Aphrodite Falls.”

“I've seen the construction site,” said Roxanne. “It looks very impressive. All those waterfalls.”

“It will be impressive,” said Nico. “It will be unlike anything previously seen in Cyprus.”

“Good!” said Roxanne. “I can't wait till it opens.” She grinned at him. “If you don't invite me to the launch party you're in trouble.” Nico laughed, then picked up his coffee spoon and began to balance it on his cup.

“The Aphrodite Falls is a very high-profile project,” he said, and paused. “We will be looking for a . . . a dynamic person to run the launch and marketing of the resort. A person with talent. With energy. With contacts in journalism . . .” There was silence, and Nico looked up. “Someone, perhaps, who enjoys the Mediterranean way of life,” he said slowly, meeting Roxanne's eyes. “Someone, perhaps, from Britain?”

“Me?” said Roxanne disbelievingly. “You can't be serious.”

“I am utterly serious,” said Nico. “My brother and I would be honoured if you would join our company.”

“But I don't know anything about marketing! I don't have any qualifications, any training—”