Cocktails for Three (18 page)

“What is it?” she said, reluctantly getting out of her seat and going towards his office. That was another thing which, in her opinion, made Justin inferior to Maggie. If Maggie had to say something, she came and
said it. But Justin seemed to enjoy holding court in his little office, watching the staff of the magazine run in and out like faithful lackeys. Roll on Maggie's return, she thought wistfully.

“Candice, I'm still waiting for the profile list you promised me,” said Justin as she sat down. He had retreated behind his desk and was gazing moodily out of the window as though being photographed for a fashion shoot.

“Oh yes,” she said, and felt herself flush with annoyance. Trust Justin to catch her out. She'd meant to type up the list that morning, but Heather's pages had taken priority. “I'm onto it,” she said.

“Hmm.” He swivelled round so he was facing her. “This isn't the first piece of work you've been late with, is it?”

“Yes it is!” said Candice indignantly. “And it's only a list. It's not exactly front-page editorial.”

“Hmm.” Justin looked at her thoughtfully and Candice felt herself stiffen with irritation.

“So, how are you enjoying being acting editor?” she said, to change the subject.

“Very much,” said Justin, nodding gravely. “Very much indeed.” He put his elbows on the desk and carefully placed his fingertips together. “I see myself rather as—”

“Daniel Barenboim,” said Candice before she could stop herself, and stifled a giggle. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“As a troubleshooter,” said Justin, shooting her a look of annoyance. “I intend to institute a series of spot checks in order to locate problems with the system.”

“What problems?” said Candice. “
Are
there problems with the system?”

“I've been analysing the running of this magazine since I took power—”

Power! thought Candice scornfully. Next he'd be calling himself the Emperor.

“—and I've noticed several glitches which, frankly, Maggie just didn't pick up on.”

“Oh, really?” Candice folded her arms and gave him the least impressed look she could muster. “So, you think, after a few weeks, you're a better editor than Maggie.”

“That's not what I said.” Justin paused. “Maggie has, as we all know, many wonderful talents and qualities—”

“Yes, well, Ralph obviously thinks so,” put in Candice loyally. “He sent her a magnum of champagne.”

“I'm sure he did,” said Justin, and leaned comfortably back in his chair. “You know he's retiring in a couple of weeks' time?”

“What?”

“I just heard it this morning. Wants to spend more time with his family, apparently,” said Justin. “So it looks like we're all going to have a new boss. It seems one of his sons is going to take over. He's coming in to meet us all next week.”

“Gosh,” said Candice, taken aback. “I had no idea that was on the cards.” She frowned. “Does Maggie know about this?”

“I doubt it,” said Justin, carelessly. “Why should she? She's got other things to think about.” He took a sip of coffee, then glanced over her shoulder through the window at the editorial office. “That friend of yours is doing well, by the way.”

“Who, Heather?” said Candice, with a glow of
pride. “Yes, she is good, isn't she? I told you she would be.” She turned to follow Justin's gaze, met Heather's eye and smiled.

“She came to me with an excellent idea for a feature the other day,” said Justin. “I was impressed.”

“Oh yes?” said Candice, turning back interestedly. “What's the idea?”

“Late-night shopping,” said Justin. “Do a whole piece on it.”

“What?” Candice stared at him.

“We'll run it in the lifestyle section. Take a photographer down to a shopping mall, interview some customers . . .” Justin frowned at her flabbergasted expression. “What's wrong? Don't you think it's a good idea?”

“Of course I do!” exclaimed Candice, feeling herself grow hot. “But . . .” She broke off feebly. What could she say without looking as though she wanted to get Heather into trouble?

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Candice slowly. She turned round again and glanced out of the window, but Heather had vanished. “It's . . . it's a great idea.”

Heather stood by the coffee machine with Kelly, the editorial secretary. Kelly was a sixteen-year-old girl with long bony legs and a thin, bright-eyed face, always eager for the latest gossip.

“You were working hard this morning,” she said, pressing the button for hot chocolate. “I saw you, typing hard!” Heather smiled, and leaned against the coffee machine. “And sending lots of things to Candice, weren't you?” added Kelly.

Heather's head jerked up.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “How could you tell that?”

“I heard your e-mail pinging away!” said Kelly. “The two of you, pinging away all morning!” She laughed merrily, and picked up her polystyrene cup full of hot chocolate.

“That's right,” said Heather after a pause. “How observant of you.” She pressed the button for white coffee. “You know what all that e-mail was?” she said in a lower voice.

“What?” said Kelly interestedly.

“Candice makes me send all my work to her to be checked,” whispered Heather. “Every single word I write.”

“You're joking!” said Kelly. “Why does she do that?”

“I don't know,” said Heather. “I suppose she thinks I'm not up to scratch, or something . . .”

“Bloody nerve!” said Kelly. “I wouldn't stand for it.” She blew on her hot chocolate. “I've never liked that Candice very much.”

“Really?” said Heather and moved casually nearer. “Kelly— what are you doing at lunchtime?”

Roxanne sat opposite Ralph at her little dining table and looked accusingly at him across her mound of beef stroganoff.

“You've got to stop cooking me such nice food!” she said. “I'm going to be fat now.”

“Rubbish,” said Ralph, taking a sip of wine and running a hand down Roxanne's thigh. “Look at that. You're perfect.”

“That's easy for you to say,” said Roxanne. “You haven't seen me in a bikini.”

“I've seen you in a lot less than a bikini.” Ralph grinned at her.

“On the beach, I mean!” said Roxanne impatiently. “Next to all the fifteen-year-olds. There were scores of them in Cyprus. Horrible skinny things with long legs and huge brown eyes.”

“Can't stand brown eyes,” said Ralph obligingly.

“You've got brown eyes,” pointed out Roxanne.

“I know. Can't stand them.”

Roxanne laughed and leaned back in her chair, lifting up her feet so that they nestled in Ralph's lap. As he reached down and began to massage them, she felt again the light tripping sensation in her heart; the lift of hope, of excitement. Ralph had arranged this meeting as an unexpected extra treat; a few days ago he had surprised her with a bouquet of flowers. It wasn't her imagination— he was definitely behaving differently. Ever since she'd got back from Cyprus he'd been different. A sudden fizz of hope rose through Roxanne like sherbet in a glass of lemonade and she felt a smile spread across her face.

“How did the trip go, by the way?” he added, stroking her toes. “I never asked. Same old thing?”

“More or less,” said Roxanne. She reached for her wine and took a deep sip. “Oh, except you'll never guess what. Nico Georgiou offered me a job.”

“A job?” Ralph stared at her. “In Cyprus?”

“At the new resort he's building. Marketing manager or something.” Roxanne shook back her hair and looked provocatively at Ralph. “He's offering a very good deal. What do you think? Shall I take it?”

Over the years, she had often teased him like this.
She would mention job opportunities in Scotland, in Spain, in America— some genuine, some fabricated. The teasing was partly in fun— and partly from a genuine need to make him realize that she was choosing to be with him; that she was not staying with him simply by default. If she was utterly honest with herself, it had also, in the past, been from a need to see him hurt. To see his face fall; to see him experience, just for a second, the feeling of loss that she felt every time he left her.

But today, it was almost a test. A challenge. A way of getting him to talk about the future again.

“He even sent me a box of tangerines,” she added, gesturing to the fruit bowl, where the tangerines were piled up in a shiny orange pyramid. “So he must be serious. What do you think?”

What she expected was for him to grin, and say, “Well, he can sod off” as he usually did. What she wanted was for him to take her hands and kiss them and ask again what she wanted to be doing in a year's time. But Ralph did neither. He stared at her as though she were a stranger— then, eventually, cleared his throat and said, “Do you want to take it?”

“For God's sake, Ralph!” said Roxanne, disappointment sharpening her voice. “I'm only joking! Of course I don't want to take it.”

“Why not?” He was leaning forward, looking at her with an odd expression on his face. “Wouldn't it be a good job?”

“I don't know!” exclaimed Roxanne. “Since you ask, I expect it would be a marvellous job.” She reached for her cigarettes. “And naturally they're
desperate
to have me. You know they'd even provide me with a
house?” She lit her cigarette and looked at him through the smoke. “I haven't noticed anyone at Allsopp Publications offering me any real estate.”

“So—what did you say to them?” said Ralph, meshing his hands together as though in prayer. “How did you leave it?”

“Oh, the usual,” said Roxanne. “Thanks but no thanks.”

“So you turned it down.”

“Of course I did!” said Roxanne, giving a little laugh. “Why? Do you think I should have said yes?”

There was silence, and Roxanne looked up. At Ralph's tense expression she felt a sudden coldness inside her.

“You're joking,” she said, and tried to smile. “You think I should have said yes?”

“Maybe it's time for you to move on. Take one of these opportunities up.” Ralph reached for his glass of wine with a trembling hand and took a sip. “I've held you back far too long. I've got in your way.”

“Ralph, don't be stupid!”

“Is it too late to change your mind?” Ralph looked up. “Could you still go to them and say you're interested?”

Roxanne stared at him in shock, feeling as though she'd been slapped.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “I suppose I could, in theory . . .” She swallowed, and pushed her hair back off her face, scarcely able to believe they were having this conversation. “Are you going to tell me I should? Do you . . . do you
want
me to take this job?” Her voice grew more brittle. “Ralph?”

There was silence, then Ralph looked up.

“Yes,” he said. “I do. I think you should take it.”

There was silence in the room. This is a bad dream, thought Roxanne. This is a fucking bad dream.

“I . . . I don't understand,” she said at last, trying to stay calm. “Ralph, what's going on? You were talking about the future. You were talking about Caribbean beaches!”

“I wasn't, you were.”

“You
asked
me!” said Roxanne furiously. “Jesus!”

“I know I did. But that was . . . dreaming. Idle fantasies. This is real life. And I think if you have an opportunity in Cyprus, then you should take it.”

“Fuck the opportunity!” She felt close to tears, and swallowed hard. “What about you and me? What about that opportunity?”

“There's something I need to tell you,” said Ralph abruptly. “There's something which will . . . make a difference to you and me.” He stood up, walked to the window, then, after a long pause, turned round. “I'm planning to retire, Roxanne,” he said without smiling. “To the country. I want to spend more time with my family.”

Roxanne stared at his straight brown eyes. At first she didn't comprehend what he was saying. Then, as his meaning hit her, she felt a stabbing pain in her chest.

“You mean it's over,” she whispered, her mouth suddenly dry. “You mean you've had your fun. And now you're off to . . . to play happy families.”

There was silence.

“If you want to put it that way,” said Ralph eventually, “then yes.” He met her eye, then looked away quickly.

“No,” said Roxanne, feeling her whole body starting to shake. “No. I won't let you. You can't.” She flashed a desperate smile at him. “It can't be over. Not just like that.”

“You'll go to Cyprus,” said Ralph, a slight tremor in his voice. “You'll go to Cyprus and you'll make a wonderful new life for yourself. Away from all . . . all this.” He lifted a hand to his brow and rubbed it. “It's for the best, Roxanne.”

“You don't want me to go to Cyprus. You don't mean it. Tell me you don't mean it.” She felt out of control, almost dizzy. In a minute she would start grovelling on the floor. “You're joking.” She swallowed. “Are you joking?”

“No, Roxanne. I'm not joking.”

“But you love me!” Her smile grew even wider; tears began to drip down her cheeks. “You love me, Ralph.”

“Yes,” said Ralph in a suddenly choked voice. “I do. I love you, Roxanne. Remember that.”

He stepped forward, took her hands and squeezed them hard against his lips. Then, without saying anything he turned, picked up his coat from the sofa and left.

Through a sea of pain, Roxanne watched him go; heard the front door shut. For a second she was silent, white-faced, quivering slightly, as though waiting to vomit. Then with a trembling hand she reached for a cushion, held it up to her face with both hands and screamed silently into it.