Cocktails for Three (31 page)

“I'll never be the same again,” she said, without quite meaning to. Ed swivelled in his seat and looked at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I'll never be so . . . trusting. I was a stupid, gullible fool.” She rested her elbow on the door, supporting her head with her hand. “What a bloody disaster. What a bloody . . .”

“Candice, don't get like that,” said Ed. Candice turned her head to look at him.

“What?” she said sarcastically. “Don't blame myself?”

Ed shrugged. “Don't tear yourself to bits. What you did, helping Heather— it was a . . . a generous, positive thing to do. If Heather'd been a different person, maybe it would have worked out fine.”

“I suppose so,” muttered Candice after a pause.

“It wasn't your fault she was a nutter, was it? She didn't arrive with a sign round her neck.”

“But I was so bloody . . . idealistic about the whole thing.”

“Of course you were,” said Ed. “That's what makes you . . . you.”

There was a sudden stillness between them. Candice
gazed back into Ed's dark, intelligent eyes and felt a faint tinge in her cheeks. Then, behind them, a horn sounded. Without speaking, Ed put the car into gear and drove off, and Candice sat back in her seat and closed her eyes, her heart thumping.

When she opened her eyes again, they were on the motorway. The sky had clouded over a little and the wind had become too strong to allow talking. Candice struggled up to a sitting position and looked about. There were fields, and sheep, and a familiar country smell. Her legs felt stiff and her face dry from the wind, and she wondered how much further away it was.

As though reading her mind, Ed signalled left and turned off the motorway.

“Are we nearly there?” shouted Candice. He nodded, but said nothing more. They passed through a village and she peered with interest at the cottages and houses, wondering what Ed's house might be like. He had said nothing about it; she didn't know if it was large or small, old or new. Suddenly the car was swinging off the main road up a narrow track. They bumped along for two miles or so, then Ed turned in at a gate. The car crackled down a sloping drive, and Candice gazed ahead of her in disbelief.

They were approaching a low, thatched cottage, turned slightly away from them as though too shy to show its face. The walls were painted a soft apricot; the window frames were turquoise; from inside a window she caught a splash of lilac. Around the corner she could see several brightly painted pots clustering outside the wooden front door.

“I've never seen anything like it,” Candice said in astonishment. “It's like a fairytale.”

“What?” said Ed. He switched the engine off and looked around with a suppressed gleam. “Oh yes. Didn't I say? She was a paint er, my aunt. Liked a bit of colour.” He opened the car door. “Come on. Come and see inside.”

The front door opened onto a low hall; a bunch of dried flowers hung from a low beam.

“That's to warn tall bastards,” said Ed. He glanced at Candice, who was peering into the flagstoned kitchen. “What do you think? You like it?”

“I love it,” said Candice. She took a few steps into the warm red kitchen and ran her hand over the wooden table. “When you said a house, I imagined . . . I had no idea.”

“I stayed here quite a bit,” said Ed. “When my parents were splitting up. I used to sit in front of that window, playing with my trains. Sad little git, really.”

“How old were you?” said Candice.

“Ten,” said Ed. “The next year, I went away to school.”

He turned away, staring out of the window. Somewhere in the house, a clock was still ticking; outside was a still, country silence. Over Ed's shoulder, through the glass, Candice could see a bird pecking anxiously in a pink-painted flowerpot.

“So,” said Ed, turning to face her. “What do you reckon I'd get for it?”

“You're not going to sell it!” said Candice in horror.

“No,” said Ed, “I'm going to become a bloody farmer and live in it.”

“You wouldn't have to live in it all the time. You could keep it for—”

“Weekends?” said Ed. “Drive down every Friday rush hour to sit and freeze? Give me a break, Candice.”

“Oh well,” said Candice. “It's your house.” She looked at a framed sampler on the wall.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder
. Next to it was a charcoal drawing of a shell, and below that a child's painting of three fat geese in a field. Looking more closely, Candice saw the name “Edward Armitage” written in a teacher's hand in the bottom left-hand corner.

“You never told me it was like this,” she said, turning round. “You never told me it was so . . .” She spread her hands helplessly.

“No,” said Ed. “Well, you never asked.”

“So what happened to my breakfast,” murmured Maggie, lying in the crook of Giles's arm. Lazily he shifted, and opened one eye.

“You want breakfast,
too
?”

“You bet I do. You don't get off that lightly.” Maggie sat up to allow Giles to move, then flopped back on the pillows and watched as he sat up and reached for his T-shirt. Halfway through putting it on, he stopped.

“I don't believe it!” he whispered. “Look at this!” Maggie sat up and followed his gaze. Lucia was fast asleep on the carpet, her little hands curled into fists.

“Well, we obviously didn't disturb her,” she said with a giggle.

“How much did that cot cost?” said Giles ruefully. He tiptoed past Lucia, lifted the tray of breakfast off the table and presented it to Maggie.

“Madam.”

“Fresh coffee, please,” she said at once. “This is lukewarm.”

“The management is devastated,” said Giles. “Please accept this complimentary glass of orange juice and array of fine croissants with our humblest apologies.”

“Hmmm,” said Maggie, taking a doubtful sip. “Plus a meal for two at the restaurant of my choice?”

“Absolutely,” agreed Giles. “It's the least the management can do.”

He took the cafetière and headed out of the room. Maggie sat up, pulled open a croissant and spread it thickly with the amber-coloured conserve. She took a huge bite and then another, savouring the buttery taste, the sweetness of the jam. Simple food had never tasted so delicious. She felt as though her taste buds, along with everything else, had been temporarily dulled and then sprung back to life.

“This is more like it,” said Giles, coming back into the room with fresh coffee. He sat down on the bed, and smiled at Maggie. “Isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Maggie, and took a gulp of tangy orange juice. Sunlight glinted off the glass as she put it back down on the tray and took another bite of apricot croissant. Warm colours, sweet and light, like heaven in her mouth. She looked out of the window again at the green fields, shining in the sunshine like an English paradise, and felt a momentary pull towards them.

Brambles and weeds, she reminded herself. Mud and manure. Cows and sheep. Or cars and shops and taxis. Bright lights. People.

“I think,” she said casually, “I might go back to work.” She took a sip of grainy, delicious coffee and looked up at Giles.

“Right,” he said cautiously. “To your old job? Or . . .”

“My old job,” said Maggie. “Editor of the
Londoner
. I was good at it, and I miss it.” She took another sip of coffee, feeling pleasurably in command of the situation. “I can still take a few months more maternity leave, and then we can hire a nanny, and I can go back.”

Giles was silent for a few minutes. Cheerfully, Maggie finished her first croissant and began to spread jam on the second.

“Maggie . . .” he said eventually.

“Yes?” She smiled at him.

“Are you sure about this? It would be hard work.”

“I know. And so is being a full-time mother.”

“And you think we could find a nanny . . . just like that?”

“Thousands of families do,” said Maggie. “I don't see why we should be any different.”

Giles frowned. “It would be a very long day. Up on the train, all day at work, back again . . .”

“I know. It would if we carried on living here.” Maggie looked at Giles and her smile broadened. “And that's why we're going to have to move back to London.”

“What?” Giles stared at her. “Maggie, you're not serious.”

“Oh yes I am. Lucia agrees, too, don't you, sweetheart? She wants to be a city girl, like me.” Maggie glanced fondly over at Lucia, still fast asleep on the floor.

“Maggie . . .” Giles swallowed. “Darling, aren't you overreacting just a tad? All our plans have always been—”

“Your plans,” put in Maggie mildly.

“But with my mother so close, and everything, it seems absolutely crazy to—”

“Your mother agrees with me.” Maggie smiled. “Your mother, in case you didn't know, is a star.”

There was silence as Giles gazed at her in astonishment. Then, suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed.

“You women! You've been bloody plotting behind my back, haven't you?”

“Maybe.” Maggie smiled wickedly.

“You'll be telling me next you've sent for house details in London.”

“Maybe,” said Maggie after a pause, and Giles guffawed.

“You're unbelievable. And have you spoken to them at work?”

“Not yet,” said Maggie. “But I'll phone the new chap today. I want to catch up with what's been going on, anyway.”

“And do I have any function in any of this?” said Giles. “Any role whatsoever?”

“Hmmm.” Maggie looked at him consideringly. “You could make some more coffee, if you like.”

Candice and Ed sat outside in the sunshine, side by side on the front doorstep, drinking instant coffee out of oddly shaped pottery mugs. Beside them was a plate of elderly digestive biscuits, found in a tin and abandoned after the first bite.

“You know the really stupid thing?” said Candice, watching a squirrel dart across the top of the barn roof. “I still feel guilty. I still feel guilty towards her.”

“Heather?” said Ed in amazement. “You're joking. After everything she did?”

“Almost
because
of everything she did. If she could hate me that much . . .” Candice shook her head. “What does that mean about what my father did to her family? He must have utterly ruined their lives.” She looked soberly at Ed. “Every time I think about it I feel cold all over.”

There was silence. In the distance a peewit called shrilly and flapped out of a tree.

“Well, I don't know a lot about guilt,” said Ed at last. “Being a lawyer.” He took a sip of coffee. “But one thing I do know is that you have nothing to feel bad about. You didn't rip off Heather's family. Your father did.”

“I know. But . . .”

“So. You can feel sorry about it— like you feel sorry about an earthquake. But you can't feel guilty about it. You can't blame yourself.” He looked directly at her. “It wasn't you, Candice. It wasn't you.”

“I know,” said Candice after a pause. “You're right. In my head, I know you're right. But . . .” She took a sip of coffee and sighed miserably. “I've got everything wrong, haven't I? It's as if I've been seeing everything upside down.” Carefully she put down her coffee cup and leaned back against the painted door frame. “I mean, these last few weeks, I was so happy. I really thought Heather and I were . . .”

“In love with each other?”

“Almost that.” Candice gave a shamefaced laugh. “We just got on so well . . . And it was silly things. Like . . .” She gave a little shrug. “I don't know. One time she gave me a pen.”

“A pen?” said Ed, grinning.

“Yes,” said Candice defensively. “A pen.”

“Is that all it takes to win your heart? A pen?” Ed put down his coffee and reached into his pocket.

“No! Don't be—” Candice stopped as Ed produced a scruffy old biro.

“Here you are,” he said, presenting it to her. “Now do you like me?”

“Don't laugh at me!” said Candice, feeling a flush come to her cheeks.

“I'm not.”

“You are! You think I'm a fool, don't you?” she said, and felt an embarrassed flush suffuse her face. “You think I'm just a stupid . . .”

“I don't think you're stupid.”

“You despise me.”

“You think I despise you.” Ed looked at her without the glimmer of a smile. “You really think I despise you, Candice.”

Candice raised her head and looked up into his dark eyes. And as she saw his expression, she felt a sliding sensation, as though the ground had fallen away from beneath her; as though the world had swung into a different focus. She stared silently at Ed, unable to speak; scarcely able to breathe. A leaf blew into her hair, but she was barely aware of it.

For an endless, unbearable time, neither of them moved. Then, very slowly, Ed leaned towards her, his eyes still pinned on hers. He raised one finger and ran it down her cheek. He touched her chin and then, very gently, the corner of her mouth. Candice gazed back, transfixed by a longing so desperate it was almost fear.

Slowly he leaned closer, touched her earlobe, softly
kissed her bare shoulder. His lips met the side of her neck and Candice shuddered, unable to control herself, unable to stop herself wanting more. And then, finally, he bent his head and kissed her, his mouth first gentle, then urgent. They paused, and looked at each other, not speaking; not smiling. As he pulled her, determinedly, to her feet and led her into the house, up the stairs, her legs were as staggery as those of a newborn calf.

She had never made love so slowly; so intensely. The world seemed to have dwindled to Ed's two dark eyes, staring into hers, mirroring her own hunger; her own gradual, unbelieving ecstasy. As she'd come to orgasm, she'd cried out in tears, at the relief of what seemed like a lifetime's tension. Now, sated, she lay in his arms, gazing up at the ceiling, in a room whose details she was only now beginning to notice. Plain white walls; simple blue and white curtains; an old oak bed. A surprising haven of tranquillity after the riot of colour downstairs. Her gaze shifted to the window. In the distance she could see a flock of sheep hurrying down a hill, jostling each other as though afraid of being late.