Cocktails for Three (25 page)

“How long do they think he's got?” asked Candice awkwardly. “Is it . . .” She halted, and bit her lip.

“Not long, apparently,” said Justin. “Once these things take hold, it's—”

“Months? Weeks?”

“I think . . .” He hesitated. “I think from what Janet said, it'll be a matter of weeks. Or even . . .” He broke off.

“Jesus Christ!” said Alicia shakily. “But he looked so . . .” She broke off and buried her head in her hands.

“I'll phone Maggie and let her know,” said Justin soberly. “And if you can all think of anyone else who would like to be informed . . . Freelancers, for example. David Gettins will want to know, I'm sure.”

“Roxanne,” said somebody.

“Exactly,” said Justin. “Maybe somebody should phone Roxanne.”

Roxanne flipped over on her sun lounger, stretched out her legs and felt the heat of the evening sun warm her face like a friendly smile. She had arrived at Nice airport at ten that morning and had immediately taken a taxi to the Paradin Hotel. Gerhard, the general manager, was an old friend and, after a quick call to the hotel group's publicity department, had managed to find her a spare room at a vastly reduced rate. She didn't want much, she had insisted. A bed, a shower, a place by the pool. A place to lie with her eyes closed, feeling the healing, warming sun on her body. A place to forget about everything.

She had lain all day on a sun-bed under the blistering sunshine, oiling herself sporadically and taking sips from a pitcher of water. At six-thirty she looked at her watch and felt a lurch of amazement that only twenty-four hours before, she'd been in the Manhattan Bar, about to descend into the evening from hell.

If she closed her eyes, Roxanne could still summon up the thrill she'd felt as she'd seen the first piece of crushed ice hit that little bitch in the face. But it was a faded thrill; an excitement that even at the time had been overshadowed by disappointment. She had not wanted to argue with Candice. She had not wanted to end up in the cold evening air, drunk and alone and miserable.

Maggie had abandoned her. After the two of them had walked out of the bar, both flushed and still buoyed up with adrenalin from the argument, Maggie
had looked at her watch and said reluctantly, “Roxanne . . .”

“Don't go,” Roxanne had said, the beginnings of panic in her voice. “Come on, Maggie. This evening's been so shitty. We've got to redeem it somehow.”

“I've got to get back,” Maggie had said. “It's already late—”

“It's not!”

“I have to get back to Hampshire.” Maggie had sounded genuinely upset. “You know I do. And I have to feed Lucia, otherwise I'll burst.” She'd reached for Roxanne's hand. “Roxanne, I'd stay if I could—”

“You could if you wanted to.” There had been a childish wobble in Roxanne's voice; she'd felt a sudden cold fear of being left alone. First Ralph, then Candice. Now Maggie. Turning to others in their lives. Their friends; their families. Preferring other people to her. She'd looked down at Maggie's warm hand clasping hers, adorned with its huge engagement sapphire and had felt a surge of jealousy. “OK then, go,” she'd said savagely. “Go back to hubby. I don't care.”

“Roxanne.” Maggie had said pleadingly. “Roxanne, wait.” But Roxanne had wrenched her hand away and tottered down the street, muttering curses under her breath; knowing that Maggie would not run after her. Knowing in her heart of hearts that Maggie had no choice.

She had slept for a few hours, woken at dawn and made a snap decision to leave the country; to go anywhere as long as it had sunshine. She didn't have Ralph any longer. Perhaps she didn't even have her friends any longer. But she had freedom and contacts and a good figure for a bikini. She would stay here as long as she
felt like it, she thought, then move on. Perhaps even further afield than Europe. Forget Britain, forget it all. She wouldn't pick up her messages, she wouldn't even file her monthly copy. Let Justin sweat a little. Let them all sweat a little.

Roxanne sat up on her sun lounger, lifted her hand and watched in pleasure as a white-jacketed waiter came walking over. That was service for you, she thought with pleasure. Sometimes she thought she would like to spend her whole life in a five-star hotel.

“Hello,” she said, beaming up at him. “I'd like a club sandwich, please. And a freshly squeezed orange juice.” The waiter scribbled on his pad, then moved off again, and she sank comfortably back onto her sun lounger.

Roxanne stayed at the Paradin for two weeks. The sun shone every day, and the pool glistened, and her club sandwich arrived fat and crisp and delicious. She did not vary her routine, did not talk to her fellow guests and did not venture beyond the hotel portals more than once. The days passed by like beads on a string. She felt dispassionate; remote from everything but the sensation of sun and sand and the sharp tang of the first Margarita of the evening. Somewhere in England, all the people she knew and loved were going about their daily lives, but they seemed shadowy in her mind, almost like people from the past.

Only occasionally would flashes of pain descend upon her, so great that she could do nothing but close her eyes and wait for them to pass. One night, as she sat at her corner table in the bar, the band struck up a song that she used to listen to with Ralph— and with no warning she felt a stabbing in her chest that brought
tears to her eyes. But she sat quietly, allowing the tears to dry on her cheeks rather than rub them away. And then the song ended, and another began, and her Margarita arrived. And by the time she'd finished it, she was thinking of something else completely.

After two weeks she woke up and strode to her window and felt the first stirrings of ennui. She felt energetic and restless; suddenly the confines of the hotel seemed narrow and limited. They had provided security, but now they were prison-like. She had to get away, she thought suddenly. Much further away. Without pausing to reconsider, she reached for her suitcase and began to pack. She didn't want to allow herself to sit still and think about her options. Thinking brought pain. Travelling brought hope and excitement.

By the time she kissed Gerhard farewell in the hotel foyer, she had booked herself a seat on a flight to Nairobi and called her friends at the Hilton. A week at half-rate and concessions on a two-week safari. She would write the whole thing up for the
Londoner
and as many others as she could. She would take photographs of elephants and watch the sun rise over the horizon. She would sink her eyes into the vastness of the African plains and lose herself completely.

The flight was only half full, and after some discussion with the girl at the check-in desk, Roxanne managed to get herself an upgrade. She strode onto the plane with a satisfied smirk on her face and settled comfortably into her wide seat. As the flight attendants demonstrated the safety procedures, she reached for a complimentary copy of the
Daily Telegraph
and began to read the front-page stories, letting the familiar names and references fall onto her parched mind like
rain. It seemed like a lifetime since she'd been in England. She flicked over a few pages and stopped at a feature about holiday fashions.

They were on the runway now, and moving more quickly; the roar of the engines was getting louder, almost deafening. The plane picked up speed until it seemed that it couldn't go any faster— and then, with a tiny jolt, lifted into the air. At that moment Roxanne turned the page again, and felt a mild surprise. Ralph was staring back at her, in stark black and white. Automatically, her mind skimmed over any acquisitions he'd been planning; over any newsworthy event he might have been involved with.

Then, as she realized what page she was on, her face grew rigid with disbelief.

Ralph Allsopp
, read the obituary title.
Publisher who brought life to defunct magazine the “Londoner.”

“No,” said Roxanne in a voice that didn't sound like hers. “No.” Her hands were shaking so much, she could barely read the text.

Ralph Allsopp, who died on Monday . . .

“No,” she whispered, searching the page desperately for a different answer, a punchline.

He left a wife, Cynthia, and three children.

Pain hit Roxanne like a hammer. She stared at his picture and felt herself start to shudder, to retch. With useless hands, she began to tug at her safety strap. “No,” she heard herself saying. “I've got to go.”

“Madam, is everything all right?” A stewardess appeared in front of her, smiling frostily.

“Stop the plane,” said Roxanne to the stewardess. “Please. I've got to go. I have to go back.”

“Madam—”

“No! You don't understand. I have to go back. It's an emergency.” She swallowed hard, trying to keep outwardly calm. But something was bubbling up uncontrollably inside her, taking hold of her body.

“I'm afraid—”

“Please. Just turn the plane round!”

“We can't do that, I'm afraid,” said the stewardess, smiling slightly.

“Don't you fucking laugh at me!” Roxanne's voice rose to a roar; suddenly she couldn't keep control of herself any more. “Don't laugh at me!” Tears began to course down her face in hot streams.

“I'm not laughing!” said the stewardess in surprise. She glanced at the crumpled page in Roxanne's hand and her face changed. “I'm not laughing,” she said gently. She crouched down and put her arms around Roxanne. “You can fly back from Nairobi,” she said quietly into Roxanne's hair. “We'll sort it out for you.” And as the plane soared higher and higher into the clouds, she knelt on the floor, ignoring the other passengers, stroking Roxanne's thin, sobbing back.

Chapter Fifteen

The funeral was nine days later, at St. Bride's, Fleet Street. Candice arrived early, to find groups of people clustering outside, exchanging the same numb, disbelieving looks they'd been exchanging all week. The whole building had been silenced by the news that Ralph had died only two weeks after being admitted into hospital. People had sat blankly at their computers, unable to believe it. Many had wept. One nervous girl, on hearing the news, had laughed— then burst into mortified tears. Then, while they were all still shell-shocked, the phones had started ringing and the flowers had started to arrive. And so they had been forced to put on brave faces and start dealing with the messages pouring in; the expressions of sympathy; the curious enquiries about the future of the company, veiled in layers of concern.

Ralph's son Charles had been glimpsed a few times, pacing the corridors with a stern look on his face. He had been at the company for such a short time, no-one knew what he was like, beneath the good looks and the
expensive suit. His face was familiar, from the rows of photographs on Ralph's wall, but he was still a stranger. As he had toured the offices directly after his father's death, there had been a chorus of murmured sympathy; shy comments about what a wonderful man Ralph had been. But no-one dared approach Charles Allsopp one-to-one; no-one dared to ask him what his plans for the company were. Certainly not until after the funeral. And so business had carried on as usual, with heads down and voices low and a feeling of slight unreality.

Candice shoved her hands in her pockets and went to sit alone on a bench. The news of Ralph's death had brought back her own father's death with a painful vividness. She could still remember the disbelief she'd felt; the shock, the grief. The hope every waking morning that it had all been a bad dream. The sudden realization she'd had, looking at her mother one morning, that their family unit was now down to two— that instead of expanding, it was prematurely closing in on itself. She could remember feeling suddenly alone and very vulnerable. What if her mother died, too, she'd thought? What if she was left all alone in the world?

And then, just as she'd felt she was levelling out and beginning to cope, the descent into nightmare had begun. The discoveries; the humiliation. The realization that the beloved husband and father had been a swindler, a conman. Roughly, Candice brushed a tear from her eye and stared at the ground, blinking hard. There was no-one she could share these memories and emotions with. Her mother would change the subject immediately. And Roxanne and Maggie— the only other two who knew the story— were out of the picture.
Nobody had heard from Roxanne for weeks. And Maggie . . . Candice winced. She had tried to call Maggie, the day after the announcement of Ralph's death. She had wanted to apologize; to make friends again; to share the shock and grief. But as she'd said, falteringly, “Hi, Maggie, it's Candice,” Maggie had snapped back, “Oh, I'm interesting now, am I? I'm worth talking to, am I?”

“I didn't mean . . .” Candice had begun helplessly. “Maggie, please . . .”

“Tell you what,” Maggie had said. “You wait until Lucia's eighteen, and call me then. OK?” And the phone had been slammed down.

Candice flinched again at the memory, then forced herself to look up. It was time to forget her own problems; to concentrate on Ralph. She glanced about the milling crowd for familiar faces. Alicia was standing alone, looking glum; Heather was in a corner comforting a weeping Kelly. There were lots of people she half recognized and even a few mildly famous ones. Ralph Allsopp had made many friends over the years, and had lost few.

Candice stood up, brushed down her coat and prepared to walk over to Heather. Then, as her gaze passed over the gates, she stopped. Coming in, looking more suntanned than ever, her bronzy-blond hair cascading down over a black coat, was Roxanne. She was wearing dark glasses and walking slowly, almost as though she were ill. At the sight of her, Candice's heart contracted, and tears suddenly stung her eyes. If Maggie wouldn't make up, Roxanne would.

“Roxanne,” she said, hurrying forward, almost tripping over herself. She reached her and looked up
breathlessly. “Roxanne, I'm so sorry about the other night. Can we just forget it ever happened?”