“No they haven’t,” said Justin, frowning. “In fact, to tell you the truth, I’m a bit pissed off about that. Maggie’s done absolutely nothing about it. Just disappears off into domestic bliss and leaves me with two hundred bloody CVs to read.”
“Oh dear, poor you,” said Candice innocently. “Still, never mind. I’m sure someone’ll turn up.”
Roxanne took another sip of her drink and calmly turned the page of her paperback. He had said nine-thirty. It was now ten past ten. She had been sitting in this hotel bar for forty minutes, ordering Bloody Marys and sipping them slowly and feeling her heart jump every time anyone entered the bar. Around her, couples and groups were murmuring over their drinks; in the corner, an elderly man in a white tuxedo was singing “Someone to watch over me.” It could have been any bar in any hotel in any country of the world. There were women like her all over the globe, thought Roxanne. Women sitting in bars, trying to look lively, waiting for men who weren’t going to show.
A waiter came discreetly towards her table, removed her ashtray and replaced it with a fresh one. As he moved off, she sensed a flicker in his expression— sympathy, perhaps. Or disdain. She was used to both. Just as years of exposure to the sun had hardened her skin, so years of waiting, of disappointment and humiliation, had toughened her internal shell.
How many hours of her life had she spent like this? How many hours, waiting for a man who was often late and half the time didn’t show up at all? There was always an excuse, of course. Another crisis at work, perhaps. An unforeseen encounter with a member of his family. Once, she’d been sitting in a London restaurant, waiting for their third anniversary lunch— only to see him entering with his wife. He’d glanced over at her with an appalled, helpless expression, and she’d been forced to watch as he and his wife were ushered to a table. To watch, with pain eating like acid at her heart, as his wife sat frowning at him, obviously bored by his company.
He’d later told her that Cynthia had bumped into him on the street and insisted on joining him for lunch. He’d told her how he’d sat in misery, unable to eat; unable to make conversation. The next weekend, to make up, he’d cancelled everything else and taken Roxanne to Venice.
Roxanne closed her eyes. That weekend had been an intoxication of happiness. She’d known a pure single-minded joy which she’d never since experienced; a joy she still desperately sought, like an addict seeking that first high. They had walked hand in hand through dusty ancient squares; along canals glinting in the sunshine; over crumbling bridges. They’d drunk Prosecco in Piazza San Marco, listening to Strauss waltzes. They’d made love in the old-fashioned wooden bed at their hotel, then sat on their balcony watching the gondolas ride past; listening to the sounds of the city travelling over the water.
They hadn’t mentioned his wife or family once. For that weekend, four human beings simply hadn’t existed. Gone, in a puff of smoke.
Roxanne opened her eyes. She no longer allowed herself to think about his family. She no longer indulged in wicked fantasies about car crashes and avalanches. Down that road lay pain; self-reproach; indecision. Down that road lay the knowledge that she would never have him to herself. That there would be no car crash. That she was wasting the best years of her life on a man who belonged to another woman; a tall and noble woman whom he had vowed to love and cherish for all his life. The mother of his children.
The mother of his fucking children.
A familiar pain seared Roxanne’s heart and she drained her Bloody Mary, placed a twenty in the leather folder containing her bill and stood up in an unhurried motion, her face nonchalant.
As she made her way to the door of the bar, she almost bumped into a girl in a black Lurex dress, with thick make-up, over-dyed red hair and shiny gilt jewellery. Roxanne recognized her calling at once. There were women like this all over London. Hired as escorts for the evening from a fancy-named firm; paid to laugh and flirt and— for a fee— much more. Several steps up from the hookers at Euston; several steps down from the trophy wives in the dining room.
Once upon a time she would have despised such a person. Now, as she met the girl’s eyes, she felt something like empathy pass between them. They’d both fallen out of the loop. Both ended up in situations which, if predicted, would have made them laugh with disbelief. For who on earth planned to end up an escort girl? Who on earth planned to end up the other woman for six long years?
A bubble, half sob, half laughter rose up in Roxanne’s throat, and she quickly strode on past the escort girl, out of the bar and through the hotel foyer.
“Taxi, madam?” said the hotel doorman as she emerged into the cold night air.
“Thanks,” said Roxanne, and forced herself to smile brightly, hold her head high. So she’d been stood up, she told herself firmly. So what was new? It had happened before and it would happen again. That was the deal when the love of your life was a married man.
Chapter Four
Candice sat in the office of Ralph Allsopp, publisher of the Londoner, biting her nails and wondering where he was. She had hesitantly knocked on his door that morning, praying that he was in; praying that he wouldn’t be too busy to see her. When he’d opened the door, holding a phone to his ear, and gestured her in, she’d felt a spurt of relief. First hurdle over. Now all she had to do was persuade him to see Heather.
But before she’d been able to launch into her little speech, he’d put the phone down, said, “Stay there,” and disappeared out of the room. That was about ten minutes ago. Now Candice was wondering whether she should have got up and followed him. Or perhaps said boldly, “Where are you going— can I come too?” That was the sort of gumption Ralph Allsopp liked in his staff. He was famous for hiring people with initiative rather than qualifications; for admiring people not afraid to admit ignorance; for prizing and nurturing talent. He admired dynamic, energetic people, prepared to work hard and take risks. The worst crime a member of his staff could possibly commit was to be feeble.
“Feeble!” would come his roaring voice from the top floor. “Bloody feeble!” And all over the building, people would pull their chairs in, stop chatting about the weekend, and begin typing.
But those who made the grade, Ralph treated with the utmost respect. As a result, staff tended to join Allsopp Publications and stay for years. Even those who left to become freelance or pursue other careers would keep in touch; pop in for a drink or do some photocopying and float their latest ideas past Ralph’s enthusiastic ear. It was a sociable, relaxed company. Candice had been there five years and had never considered leaving.
She leaned back in her chair now and looked idly around Ralph’s desk— legendary for its untidiness. Two wooden in-trays overflowed with letters and memos; copies of the company’s publications competed for space with galley proofs covered in red ink; a telephone was perched on a pile of books. As she looked at it, the phone began to ring. She hesitated for a second, wondering if she ought to answer someone else’s phone— then imagined Ralph’s reaction if he came in to see her just sitting there, letting it ring. “What’s wrong, girl?” he’d roar. “Afraid it’ll bite you?”
Hastily she picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” she said in a businesslike voice. “Ralph Allsopp’s office.”
“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 c
uriously 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.”
Cocktails for Three Page 5
