Cocktails for Three

by Madeleine Wickham

  They had been down at the cottage for four days now, but it felt as though it could have been weeks. They had done little but sleep and eat and make love, and lie on the grass in the early summer sun. Their only forays into the local village had been to buy essentials: food, soap and toothbrushes. Neither had brought any spare clothes— but in the spare room, Ed had found a pile of colourful extra-large T-shirts advertising a screen-printing exhibition, and, for Candice, a wide-brimmed straw hat decorated with a bunch of cherries. They had not spoken to a soul, had not even read a paper. It had been a haven; a place for sanctuary and healing.

  But although her body was well rested, thought Candice, her mind was not. She could push the thoughts from her brain, but they only came rushing back in when she wasn’t expecting it. Emotions would suddenly hit her, causing pain to spread through her body and tears to start to her eyes. She felt bruised, humiliated; full of shame. And her mind constantly circled around Heather.

  Heather Trelawney. Blond hair, grey eyes, snub nose. Warm hands which had held Candice’s affectionately; bubbling infectious laughter. Thinking back, Candice felt sickened, almost violated. Had every single moment of their friendship been an act? She could hardly believe it.

  “Candice!” Ed’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she stood up, shaking out her stiff legs. He was coming towards her, a strange look in his eye. “Candice,” he said, “don’t get angry— but I’ve got someone to see you.”

  “What?” Candice stared at him. “What do you mean, someone to see me?” Her gaze shifted over his shoulder but she could see no-one.

  “He’s in the house,” said Ed. “Come on.”

  “Who is?” said Candice, her voice truculent. Ed turned and looked at her steadily. “Someone I think you need to speak to,” he said.

  “Who?” She followed him with hasty legs, stumbling with nerves. “Who is it? Oh God, I know who it is,” she said at the door, her heart pounding. “It’s Justin, isn’t it?”

  “No,” said Ed, and pushed the door open.

  Candice peered into the gloom and saw a young man of about twenty standing by the dresser in the kitchen. He looked up apprehensively and pushed a hand back through his long fair hair. Candice stared at him in puzzlement. She had never seen him before in her life.

  “Candice,” said Ed, “this is Hamish.”

  “Hamish,” said Candice wrinkling her brow. “You’re . . .” She stopped as a memory surfaced in her mind like a bubble. “Oh my God. You’re Heather’s ex-boyfriend, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not,” said Hamish, and looked at her with steady grey eyes. “I’m her brother.”

  Roxanne sat in the office of Strawson and Co., sipping tea out of a bone china cup and wishing that her hand wouldn’t shake every time she put it down. There was a smooth, thickly carpeted silence about the place; an air of solid opulence and respectability which made her feel flimsy and cheap, even though she was wearing one of the most expensive, sober outfits she possessed. The room she was sitting in was small but grand— full of heavy oak bookcases and a muted atmosphere, as though the very walls themselves were aware of the confidential nature of their contents.

  “I’m so glad you decided to come,” said Neil Cooper.

  “Yes, well,” said Roxanne shortly. “Curiosity won in the end.”

  “It often does,” said Neil Cooper, and picked up his own cup to take a sip.

  He was much younger than Roxanne had expected, and had an earnest, guarded expression on his face, as though he didn’t want to disappoint her. As though he didn’t want to let down the hopes of the gold-digging mistress. A flash of humiliation passed through Roxanne and she put down her cup.

  “Look,” she said, more aggressively than she’d intended. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we? I wasn’t expecting anything, so whatever it is, I’ll just sign for it and leave.”

  “Yes,” said Neil Cooper carefully. “Well, it’s not quite as simple as that. If I can just read to you a codicil which the late Mr. Allsopp added to his will shortly before dying . . .”

  He reached for a black leather folder, opened it and shuffled some papers together, and Roxanne stared at his calm, professional face in sudden realization.

  “Oh God,” she said, in a voice which shook slightly. “He really has left something to me, hasn’t he? Something serious. What is it? Not money.”

  “No,” said Neil Cooper, and looked up at her with a tiny smile. “Not money.”

  “We’re fine for money,” said Hamish, taking a sip of tea from the mug Ed had made. “In fact, we’re pretty loaded. After my parents split up, my mum remarried this guy Derek. He’s . . . well, he’s stinking. He gave me my car . . .” He gestured out of the window, to where a new Alfa Romeo was sitting smartly on the gravel next to Ed’s BMW. “He’s been really good to us. Both of us.”

  “Oh,” said Candice. She rubbed her face, trying to marshal her thoughts; trying to let yet another astonishing fact sink in. She was sitting across the table from Hamish, and every time she looked up at him she could see Heather in his face. Heather’s little brother. She hadn’t even known Heather had a brother. “So . . . so why was Heather working as a cocktail waitress?”

  “It’s the kind of thing she does,” said Hamish. “She starts something like an art course or a writing course and then she drops out and takes some crummy job so we all feel bad.”

  “Oh,” said Candice again. She felt slow and very stupid, as though her brain had overloaded on information.

  “I knew she’d gone to live with you,” said Hamish. “And I thought she might do something stupid. I told her the two of you should just talk about it. You know— work it out. But she wouldn’t listen.” He paused, and looked at Candice. “I really didn’t think she’d go as far as . . .” He broke off, and took another sip of tea.

  “So . . . she really hated me,” said Candice, managing to keep her voice low and calm.

  “Oh God,” said Hamish, exhaling sharply. “This is . . .” He was silent for a few moments, then looked up. “Not you,” he said. “Not you as a person. But . . .”

  “But what I represented.”

  “You have to understand. What your dad did— it split up our family. My dad was wrecked. He went a bit crazy. And my mum couldn’t cope with it, so . . .” Hamish broke off for a few moments. “And it was easy to blame your dad for everything. But now I look back— I think maybe it would have happened anyway. It wasn’t like my parents had such a great marriage.”

  “But Heather didn’t agree?” said Candice tentatively.

  “Heather never saw the whole picture. She was away at school, so she didn’t see my parents rowing the whole time. She thought they had the perfect set-up. You know, big house, perfect marriage . . . Then we lost all our money and they split up. And Heather couldn’t deal with it. She went a bit . . . screwy.”

  “So when she saw me in the Manhattan Bar . . .” Candice rested her head in her hands.

  “Candice, let me get this straight,” said Ed, leaning forward. “Both of you knew about what your dad had done— but neither of you ever mentioned it?”

  “Heather behaved as if she had no idea!” said Candice defensively. “And I didn’t say anything to her because I didn’t want her to think I was helping her out of pity. I wanted to . . .” She flushed slightly. “I really wanted to be her friend.”

  “I know,” said Hamish. He met Candice’s eyes. “For what it’s worth, I think you were probably the best friend she ever had. But of course she wouldn’t have seen that.”

  There was silence in the kitchen, then Candice said apprehensively, “Do you know where she is now?”

  “No idea,” said Hamish. “She disappears for weeks. Months. But she’ll turn up eventually.”

  Candice swallowed. “Would you . . . would you do me a favour?”

  “What?”

  “Come and tell Justin, my boss, what Heather’s really like? Tell him that she set me up?”

  There was
a long pause.

  “No,” said Hamish at last. “No, I won’t. I love my sister, even if she is a bit—” He broke off. “I’m not going to go into some office and tell them she’s a conniving, crazy bitch. I’m sorry.” He looked at Candice, then pushed his chair back with a scraping sound. “I have to get going.”

  “Yes,” said Candice. “Well . . . thanks for coming.”

  “I hope everything works out,” said Hamish, shrugging slightly.

  Ed followed him out, then after a few minutes came back into the kitchen as the Alfa Romeo disappeared up the track. Candice stared at him, then said incredulously, “How did you find him?”

  “Heather told me her family lived in Wiltshire. I looked them up and paid them a visit.” Ed gave a rueful grin. “To be honest, I was half hoping to find her there, too. Catch her out.”

  Candice shook her head. “Not Heather.”

  Ed sat down beside Candice and took her hand.

  “But anyway. Now you know.”

  “Now I know. Now I know I was harbouring a psychopath.” Candice smiled at him, then buried her head in her hands. Tears began to ooze out of the corners of her eyes.

  “What?” said Ed in alarm. “Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry. I should have warned you. I shouldn’t have just—”

  “It’s not that.” Candice looked up and wiped her eyes. “It’s what Hamish said about me being a good friend.” She stared straight ahead, her face trembling slightly. “Roxanne and Maggie were the best friends I ever had. They tried to warn me about Heather. And what did I do?” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I got angry with them. I argued with them. I was so . . . besotted with Heather, I would rather lose them than hear the truth.”

  “You haven’t lost them!” said Ed. “I’m sure you haven’t.”

  “I said some unforgivable things, Ed. I behaved like a...”

  “So call them.”

  “I tried,” said Candice miserably. “Maggie put the phone down on me. And Roxanne is furious with me. She thinks I was keeping Ralph’s illness a secret from her, or something . . .”

  “Well, it’s their loss,” said Ed. “It’s their bloody loss.”

  “It’s not, though, is it?” said Candice, as tears began to roll down her face again. “It’s mine.”

  Roxanne stared at Neil Cooper, feeling a whooshing in her head, a pounding in her ears. The walls of the office seemed to be closing in on her; for the first time in her life, she thought she might faint.

  “I . . . that can’t be right,” she managed. “It can’t be right. There must be . . .”

  “To Miss Roxanne Miller,” repeated Neil Cooper deliberately, “I leave my London house. 15 Abernathy Square, Kensington.” He looked up from his leather folder. “It’s yours. To live in, sell— whatever you prefer. We can provide you with advice on the matter if you like. But obviously there’s no hurry to decide. In any case, it will all take a while to go through.”

  Roxanne stared back at him, unable to speak; unable to move. Ralph had left her his house. He’d sent a message to her— and to the world— that she had meant something. That she hadn’t been a nothing. He’d almost . . . legitimized her.

  Something hot and powerful began to rise up inside her body; she felt as though she was going to be sick.

  “Would you like another cup of tea?” said Neil Cooper.

  “I . . .” Roxanne stopped, and swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she gulped, as tears suddenly began to stream down her face. “Oh God. It’s just I never expected . . .”

  Sobs were overtaking her; she was powerless to stop them. Furiously she scrabbled for a tissue, trying to control herself, aware of Neil Cooper’s politely sympathetic gaze.

  “It’s just . . .” she managed eventually “. . . a bit of a shock.”

  “Of course it is,” said Neil Cooper diplomatically, and hesitated. “Do you . . . know the property?”

  “Only the outside,” said Roxanne, wiping her eyes. “I know every blasted brick of the outside. But I’ve never been inside.”

  “Well. If you would like to visit it, that can be arranged.”

  “I . . . No. I don’t think so. Not yet.” Roxanne blew her nose, and watched as Neil Cooper made a note on the pad in front of him.

  “What about . . .” she began, then stopped, almost unable to say the words. “The . . . the family. Do they know?”

  “Yes,” said Neil Cooper. “Yes, they do.”

  “Are they . . .” Roxanne broke off, and took a deep breath. “Do they hate me?”

  “Miss Miller,” said Neil Cooper earnestly, “there’s no need for you to concern yourself with the other members of the Allsopp family. Let me just reassure you that Mr. Allsopp’s will was very generous to all parties concerned.” He paused, and met her gaze. “But his bequest to you is between you and him.”

  There was a pause, then Roxanne nodded.

  “OK,” she said quietly. “Thanks.”

  “If you have any further questions . . .”

  “No,” said Roxanne. “No thanks. I think I’d just like to go and . . . digest it all.” She stood up and met the young man’s eyes. “You’ve been very kind.”

  As they walked to the panelled door, she caught a glimpse of herself in a wall mirror and winced at her bloodshot eyes. It was obvious she’d been crying— but then, that was probably pretty standard for a family law firm, she thought with a half-grin.

  Neil Cooper adroitly opened the door for her and stood aside, and Roxanne walked into the hall to see a man in a navy blue overcoat standing at the reception desk.

  “I’m sorry,” he was saying. “I am rather early . . .”

  Roxanne stopped in her tracks. Beside her, she was aware of Neil Cooper giving a small start of shock. At the desk, Charles Allsopp looked up, saw Roxanne and froze.

  There was an instant of silence, as they stared at each other— then Roxanne turned quickly away, trying to keep calm.

  “Well, thank you very much,” she said to Neil Cooper in a voice which trembled with nerves. “I’ll . . . I’ll be in touch. Thanks very much.” And without looking him in the eye she began to walk towards the exit.

  “Wait.” Charles Allsopp’s voice halted her in her tracks. “Please.”

  Roxanne stopped and very slowly turned round, aware that her cheeks were flushed; that her mouth was lipstickless and reddened; that her legs were still shaking. But she didn’t care. And suddenly, as she met his gaze, she wasn’t nervous. Let him say what he liked. He couldn’t touch her.

  “Are you Roxanne Miller?”

  “I really think,” said Neil Cooper, hurrying forward protectively, “that for all parties concerned . . .”

  “Wait,” said Charles Allsopp, and lifted a hand. “All I wanted was to introduce myself. That’s all.” He hesitated— then slowly held out his hand. “How do you do. My name’s Charles Allsopp.”

  “Hello,” said Roxanne after a pause, and cleared her throat. “I’m Roxanne.”

  Charles nodded gravely and Roxanne found herself wondering how much he knew about her; whether Ralph had said anything to his eldest son before he died.

  “I hope they’re looking after you,” said Charles, glancing towards Neil.

  “Oh,” said Roxanne, taken aback. “Yes. Yes, they are.”

  “Good,” said Charles Allsopp, and looked up at an elderly lawyer descending the stairs into the hall. “Well, I must go,” he said. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” said Roxanne awkwardly, watching as he walked towards the stairs. “And . . . and thanks.”

  Outside, on the pavement, she leaned against a wall and took a few deep breaths. She felt confused; euphoric; shattered with emotion. Ralph had left her his house: the house she’d spent obsessive hours staring at. It was hers. A house worth a million pounds was hers. The thought made her feel tearful, almost sick.

  She hadn’t expected Ralph to leave her anything. She hadn’t expected Charles Allsopp to behave so politely to her. Th
e world was suddenly being nice to her, and she didn’t know how to react.

  Roxanne reached inside her bag for her cigarettes, and as she did so, felt again the vibrating motion of her mobile phone. She’d noticed it several times during the meeting; someone was trying to contact her. She hesitated, then took the phone out and half reluctantly put it to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Roxanne! Thank God.” Maggie’s voice crackled urgently down the line. “Listen, have you spoken to Candice recently?”

  “No,” said Roxanne. “Is something wrong?”

  “That little twerp Justin has suspended her from work. Some nonsense about expenses.”

  “What?” exclaimed Roxanne, her mind snapping back into focus.

  “And she’s disappeared off the face of the earth. No-one knows where she is. She isn’t answering her phone . . . she could be dead in a ditch somewhere.”

  “Oh my God,” said Roxanne, her heart beginning to thump. “I had no idea.”

  “Hasn’t she called you, either? When did you last speak to her?”

  “At the funeral,” said Roxanne. She paused. “To be honest, we didn’t part very well.”

  “The last time I spoke to her was when she phoned up to apologize,” said Maggie miserably. “I snapped at her and put the phone down.”