Cocktails for Three (7 page)

“Is Mr. Allsopp there?” enquired a female voice.

“I'm afraid not,” said Candice. “May I take a message?”

“Is this his personal assistant?” Candice glanced out
of the office window at the desk of Janet, Ralph's secretary. It was empty.

“I'm . . . standing in for her,” said Candice. There was a pause, then the voice said, “This is Mr. Davies's assistant Mary calling from the Charing Cross Hospital. Please could you tell Mr. Allsopp that Mr. Davies is unfortunately unable to make the two o'clock appointment, and wondered if three would be con ve nient instead.”

“Right,” said Candice, scribbling on a piece of paper. “OK. I'll tell him.”

She put the phone down and looked curiously at the message.

“So! My dear girl.” Ralph's breezy voice interrupted her, and she gave a startled jump. “What can I do for you? Here to complain about your new editor already? Or is it something else?”

Candice laughed.

“Something else.”

She watched as he made his way round to the other side of the desk, and thought again what an attractive man he must have been when he was younger. He was tall— at least six foot three— with dishevelled greying hair and intelligent, gleaming eyes. He must be in his fifties now, she guessed— but still exuded a relentless, almost frightening energy.

“You just got this message,” she said almost unwillingly, handing him the bit of paper.

“Ah,” said Ralph, scanning it expressionlessly. “Thank you.” He folded the note up and put it in his trouser pocket.

Candice opened her mouth to ask if he was all right— then closed it again. It wasn't her place to start
enquiring about her boss's health. She had intercepted a private call; it was nothing to do with her. Besides, it occurred to her, it might be something minor and embarrassing that she didn't want to hear about.

“I wanted to see you,” she said instead, “about the editorial assistant's job on the
Londoner
.”

“Oh yes?” said Ralph, leaning back in his chair.

“Yes,” said Candice, garnering all her courage. “The thing is, I know somebody who I think would fit the bill.”

“Really?” said Ralph. “Well, then, invite him to apply.”

“It's a girl,” said Candice. “And the thing is, I don't think her CV is that spectacular. But I know she's talented. I know she can write. And she's bright, and enthusiastic . . .”

“I'm glad to hear it,” said Ralph mildly. “But you know, Justin's the one you should be talking to.”

“I know,” said Candice. “I know he is. But—” She broke off, and Ralph's eyes narrowed.

“Now, look,” he said, leaning forward. “Tell me plainly— is there going to be trouble between you two? I'm quite aware of the situation between you, and if it's going to cause problems . . .”

“It's not that!” said Candice at once. “It's just that . . . Justin's very busy. It's his first day, and I don't want to bother him. He's got enough on his plate. In fact . . .” She felt her fingers mesh tightly together in her lap. “In fact, he was complaining yesterday about having to read through all the applications. And after all, he is only
acting
editor . . . So I thought perhaps—”

“What?”

“I thought perhaps you could interview this girl yourself?” Candice looked entreatingly at Ralph. “She's downstairs in reception.”

“She's
where
?”

“In reception,” said Candice falteringly. “She's just waiting— in case you say yes.”

Ralph stared at her, an incredulous look on his face, and for a dreadful moment Candice thought he was going to bellow at her. But suddenly his face broke into a laugh. “Send her up,” he said. “Since you've dragged her all this way, let's give the poor girl a chance.”

“Thanks,” said Candice. “Honestly, I'm sure she'll be—” Ralph raised a hand to stop her.

“Send her up,” he said. “And we'll see.”

Maggie Phillips sat alone in her magnificent Small-bone kitchen, sipping coffee and staring at the table and wondering what to do next. She had woken that morning at the usual early hour and had watched as Giles got dressed, ready for his commute into the City.

“Now, you just take it easy,” he'd said, briskly knotting his tie. “I'll try and be home by seven.”

“OK,” Maggie had said, grinning up at him. “Give the pollution my love, won't you.”

“That's right, rub it in,” he'd retorted humorously. “You bloody ladies of leisure.”

As she'd heard the front door slam, she'd felt a delicious feeling of freedom spread through her body. No work, she'd thought to herself. No work! She could do what she liked. At first, she'd tried to go back to sleep, closing her eyes and deliberately snuggling back under the duvet. But lying down was, perversely,
uncomfortable. She was too huge and heavy to find a comfortable position. So after a few tussles with the pillows, she'd given up.

She'd come downstairs and made herself some breakfast and eaten it, reading the paper and admiring the garden out of the window. That had taken her until eight-thirty. Then she'd gone back upstairs, run a bath and lain in it for what seemed like at least an hour. When she emerged, she discovered she'd been in there for twenty minutes.

Now it was nine-thirty. The day hadn't even begun yet, but she felt as though she'd been sitting at her kitchen table for an eternity. How was it that time— such a precious, slipping-away commodity in London— seemed here to pass so slowly? Like honey dripping through an hourglass.

Maggie closed her eyes, took another sip of coffee and tried to think of what she was usually doing at this hour. Any number of things. Strap-hanging on the tube, reading the paper. Striding into the office. Buying a cappuccino from the coffee shop on the corner. Answering a thousand e-mails. Sitting in an early meeting. Laughing, talking, surrounded by people.

And stressed out, she reminded herself firmly, before the images became too positive. Buffeted by the crowds, choked by taxi fumes; deafened by the noise; pressured by deadlines. Whereas here, the only sound was that of a bird outside the window, and the air was as clean and fresh as spring water. And she had no pressures, no meetings, no deadlines.

Except the big one of course— and that was utterly outside her own control. It almost amused her, the thought that she, who was so used to being boss, who
was so used to running the show, was in this case utterly powerless. Idly, she reached for her pregnancy handbook and allowed it to fall open. “At this point the pains will become stronger,” she found herself reading. “Try not to panic. Your partner will be able to offer support and encouragement.” Hastily she closed the book and took another gulp of coffee. Out of sight, out of fright.

Somewhere at the back of her mind, Maggie knew she should have taken the midwives' advice and attended classes on childbirth. Each of her friendly, well-meaning midwives had pressed on her a series of leaflets and numbers, and exhorted her to follow them up. But didn't these women realize how busy she was? Didn't they appreciate that taking time off work for hospital appointments was disruptive enough— and that the last thing she and Giles felt like doing at the end of a busy day was trekking off to some stranger's house in order to sit on bean bags and talk about, frankly, quite private matters? She had bought a book and half watched a video—fast-forwarding through the gruesome bits— and that would have to be enough.

Firmly she pushed the book behind the breadbin, where she couldn't see it— and poured herself another cup of coffee. At that moment, the doorbell rang. Frowning slightly in surprise, Maggie heaved herself out of her chair and walked through the hall to the front door. There on the front step was her mother-in-law, dressed in a Puffa jacket, a stripy shirt and a blue corduroy skirt, straight to the knee.

“Hello, Maggie!” she said. “Not too early, am I?”

“No!” said Maggie, half laughing. “Not at all. Giles said you might pop round.” She leaned forward and
awkwardly kissed Paddy, stumbling slightly on the step.

Although she had been married to Giles for four years, she still did not feel she had got to know Paddy very well. They had never once sat down for a good chat— principally because Paddy never seemed to sit down at all. She was a thin, energetic woman, always on the move. Always cooking, gardening, running someone to the station or organizing a collection. She had run the village Brownies for twenty-five years, sang in the church choir, and had made all Maggie's bridesmaids' dresses herself. Now she smiled, and handed Maggie a cake tin.

“A few scones,” she said. “Some raisin, some cheese.”

“Oh, Paddy!” said Maggie, feeling touched. “You shouldn't have.”

“It's no trouble,” said Paddy. “I'll give you the recipe, if you like. They're terribly easy to rustle up. Giles always used to love them.”

“Right,” said Maggie after a pause, remembering her one disastrous attempt to make a cake for Giles's birthday. “That would be great!”

“And I've brought someone to see you,” said Paddy. “Thought you'd like to meet another young mum from the village.”

“Oh,” said Maggie in surprise. “How nice!”

Paddy beckoned forward a girl in jeans and a pink jersey, holding a baby and clutching a toddler by the hand.

“Here you are!” she said proudly. “Maggie, meet Wendy.”

As Candice tripped down the stairs to reception she felt elated with her success. Powerful, almost. It just
showed what could be achieved with a little bit of initiative, a little effort. She arrived at the foyer and walked quickly to the chairs where Heather was sitting, dressed in a neat black suit.

“He said yes!” she said, unable to conceal her triumph. “He's going to see you!”

“Really?” Heather's eyes lit up. “What, now?”

“Right now! I told you, he's always willing to give people chances.” Candice grinned with excitement. “All you've got to do is remember everything I told you. Lots of enthusiasm. Lots of drive. If you can't think of an answer to the question, tell a joke instead.”

“OK.” Heather tugged nervously at her skirt. “Do I look all right?”

“You look brilliant,” said Candice. “And one more thing. Ralph is sure to ask if you've brought an example of your writing.”

“What?” said Heather in alarm. “But I—”

“Give him this,” said Candice, suppressing a grin, and handed a piece of paper to Heather.

“What?” Heather gazed at it incredulously. “What is it?”

“It's a short piece I wrote a few months ago,” said Candice. “On how ghastly London transport is in summer. It was never used in the magazine, and the only other person who read it was Maggie.” A couple of visitors entered the foyer, and she lowered her voice. “And now it's yours. Look— I've put your byline at the top.”

“ ‘London's Burning,' “ read Heather slowly. “ ‘By Heather Trelawney.' “ She looked up, eyes dancing. “I don't believe it! This is wonderful!”

“You'd better read it over quickly before you go in,” said Candice. “He might ask you about it.”

“Candice . . . this is so good of you,” said Heather. “I don't know how I can repay you.”

“Don't be silly,” said Candice at once. “It's a pleasure.”

“But you're being so kind to me. Why are you being so kind to me?” Heather's grey eyes met Candice's with a sudden intensity, and Candice felt her stomach give a secret guilty flip. She stared back at Heather, cheeks growing hot and, for a heightened instant, considered telling Heather everything. Confessing her family background; her constant feeling of debt; her need to make amends.

Then, almost as she was opening her mouth, she realized what a mistake it would be. What an embarrassing situation she would put Heather— and herself— in by saying anything. It might make her feel better, it might act as a kind of catharsis— but to unburden herself would be selfish. Heather must never find out that her motives were anything but genuine friendship.

“It's nothing,” she said quickly. “You'd better go up. Ralph's waiting.”

Paddy had insisted on making the coffee, leaving Maggie alone with Wendy. Feeling suddenly a little nervous, she ushered Wendy into the sitting room, and gestured to the sofa. This was the first fellow mother she'd met. And a neighbour, too. Perhaps this girl would become her bosom pal, she thought. Perhaps their children would grow up lifelong friends.

“Do sit down,” she said. “Have you . . . lived in the village long?”

“A couple of years,” said Wendy, dumping her huge
holdall on the floor and sitting down on Maggie's cream sofa.

“And . . . do you like living here?”

“S'all right, I suppose. Jake, leave that alone!”

Maggie looked up and, with a spasm of horror, saw Wendy's toddler reaching up towards the blue Venetian glass bowl Roxanne had given them as a wedding present.

“Oh gosh,” she said, getting to her feet as quickly as her bulk would allow. “I'll just . . . move that, shall I?” She reached the glass bowl just as Jake's sticky fingers closed around it. “Thanks,” she said politely to the toddler. “Ahm . . . would you mind . . .” His fingers remained tight around it. “It's just that . . .”

“Jake!” yelled Wendy, and Maggie jumped in fright. “Leave it!” Jake's face crumpled, but his grip obediently loosened. Quickly, Maggie withdrew the bowl from his grasp and placed it on top of the tallboy.

“They're monsters at this age,” said Wendy. Her eyes ran over Maggie's bump. “When are you due?”

“Three weeks,” said Maggie, sitting back down. “Not long now!”

“You might be late,” said Wendy.

“Yes,” said Maggie after a pause. “I suppose I might.” Wendy gestured to the baby on her lap.