Cocktails for Three (3 page)

“Thanks very much,” said Maggie.

“No problem,” said the girl, and smiled— and as she did so, Candice knew, in a flash, who she was.

“Heather Trelawney,” she said aloud, before she could stop herself. And then, as the girl's eyes slowly turned towards her, she wished with all her soul that she hadn't.

Chapter Two

“I'm sorry,” began the girl puzzledly. “Do I—” She stopped, took a step nearer and peered at Candice. Then suddenly her face lit up. “Of course!” she said. “It's Candice, isn't it? Candice . . .” She wrinkled her brow. “Sorry, I've forgotten your last name.”

“Brewin,” said Candice in a frozen voice, barely able to utter the syllables. Her name seemed to rest in the air like a physical presence; a target, inviting attack.
Brewin.
As she saw Heather frowning thoughtfully, Candice flinched, waiting for the jolt of recognition, the anger and recriminations. Why had she not just kept her stupid mouth shut? What hideous scene was going to ensue?

But as Heather's face cleared, it was obvious that she recognized Candice as nothing but an old school acquaintance. Didn't she know? thought Candice incredulously.
Didn't she know?

“Candice Brewin!” said Heather. “That's right! I should have recognized you straight away.”

“How funny!” said Maggie. “How do you two know each other?”

“We were at school together,” said Heather brightly. “It must be
years
since we've seen each other.” She looked again at Candice. “You know, I thought there was something about you, when I took your order. But . . . I don't know. You look different, somehow. I suppose we've all changed since then.”

“I suppose so,” said Candice. She picked up her glass and took a sip, trying to calm her beating heart.

“And I know this is going to sound bad,” said Heather, lowering her voice, “but after you've been waitressing for a while, you stop looking at the customers' faces. Is that awful?”

“I don't blame you,” said Maggie. “I wouldn't want to look at our faces either.”

“Speak for yourself,” retorted Roxanne at once, and grinned at Maggie.

“You know, I once took an order from Simon Le Bon,” said Heather. “Not here, at my old place. I took the order, and I didn't even notice who he was. When I got back to the kitchen, everyone was going ‘what's he like?' and I didn't know what they were talking about.”

“Good for you,” said Roxanne. “It does these people good not to be recognized.”

Maggie glanced at Candice. She was staring at Heather as though transfixed. What the hell was wrong with her?

“So, Heather,” she said quickly, “have you been working here long?”

“Only a couple of weeks,” said Heather. “It's a nice place, isn't it? But they keep us busy.” She glanced towards the bar. “Speaking of which, I'd better get on. Good to see you, Candice.”

She began to move off, and Candice felt a jolt of alarm.

“Wait!” she said. “We haven't caught up properly.” She swallowed. “Why don't you . . . sit down for a minute?”

“Well, OK,” said Heather after a pause. She glanced again at the bar. “But I can't be long. We'll have to pretend I'm advising you on cocktails or something.”

“We don't need any advising,” said Roxanne. “We
are
the cocktail queens.” Heather giggled.

“I'll just see if I can find a chair,” she said. “Back in a tick.”

As soon as she had walked away, Maggie turned to Candice.

“What's wrong?” she hissed. “Who is this girl? You're staring at her as though you've seen a bloody ghost!”

“Is it that obvious?” said Candice in dismay.

“Darling, you look as if you're practising to play Hamlet,” said Roxanne drily.

“Oh God,” said Candice. “And I thought I was doing quite well.” She picked up her cocktail with a shaking hand and took a gulp. “Cheers, everybody.”

“Never mind bloody cheers!” said Maggie. “Who is she?”

“She's—” Candice rubbed her brow. “I knew her years ago. We were at school together. She— she was a couple of years below me.”

“We know all that!” said Maggie impatiently. “What else?”

“Hi!” Heather's bright voice interrupted them, and they all looked up guiltily. “I found a chair at last.” She
set it at the table and sat down. “Are the cocktails good?”

“Wonderful!” said Maggie, taking a gulp of her Shooting Star. “Just what the midwife ordered.”

“So—what are you up to now?” said Heather to Candice.

“I'm a journalist,” said Candice.

“Really?” Heather looked at her wistfully. “I'd love to do something like that. Do you write for a newspaper?”

“A magazine. The
Londoner.
“

“I know the
Londoner
!” said Heather. “I've probably even read articles you've written.” She looked around the table. “Are you all journalists?”

“Yes,” said Maggie. “We all work together.”

“God, that must be fun.”

“It has its moments,” said Maggie, grinning at Roxanne. “Some better than others.”

There was brief silence, then Candice said, with a slight tremor in her voice, “And what about you, Heather? What have you done since school?” She took another deep gulp of her cocktail.

“Oh well . . .” Heather gave a quick little smile. “It was all a bit grim, actually. I don't know if you know— but the reason I left Oxdowne was my father lost all his money.”

“How awful!” said Maggie. “What— overnight?”

“Pretty much,” said Heather. Her grey eyes darkened slightly. “Some investment went wrong. The stock markets or something— my dad never said exactly what. And that was it. They couldn't afford school fees any more. Or the house. It was all a bit horrendous. My dad got really depressed over it, and my mum blamed
him . . .” She broke off awkwardly. “Well, anyway.” She picked up a paper coaster and began to fiddle with it. “They split up in the end.”

Maggie glanced at Candice for a reaction, but her face was averted. She had a cocktail stirrer in her hand and was stirring her drink, round and round.

“And what about you?” said Maggie cautiously to Heather.

“I kind of lost it, too, for a bit.” Heather gave another quick little smile. “You know, one minute I was at a nice fee-paying school with all my friends. The next, we'd moved to a town where I didn't know anyone, and my parents were arguing all the time, and I went to a school where they all gave me a hard time for talking posh.” She sighed, and let the coaster drop from her fingers. “I mean, looking back, it was quite a good comprehensive. I should have just stuck it out and gone on to college . . . but I didn't. I left as soon as I was sixteen.” She pushed back her thick, wavy hair. “My dad was living in London by then so I moved in with him and got a job in a wine bar. And that was it, really. I never did a degree, or anything.”

“What a shame,” said Maggie. “What would you have done, if you'd stayed on?”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Heather. She gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Done something like you're doing, maybe. Become a journalist, or something. I started a creative writing course once, at Goldsmiths', but I had to give it up.” She looked around the bar and shrugged. “I mean, I do like working here. But it's not really . . . Anyway.” She stood up and tugged at her green waistcoat. “I'd better get going, or André will kill me. See you later!”

As she walked away, the three of them sat in silence, watching her. Then Maggie turned to Candice, and said carefully,

“She seems nice.”

Candice didn't reply. Maggie looked questioningly at Roxanne, who raised her eyebrows.

“Candice, what's wrong?” said Maggie. “Is there some history between you and Heather?”

“Darling, speak to us,” said Roxanne.

Candice said nothing, but continued stirring her cocktail, faster and faster and faster, until the liquid threatened to spill over the sides of the glass. Then she looked up at her friends.

“It wasn't the stock markets,” she said in a flat voice. “It wasn't the stock markets that ruined Frank Trelawney. It was my father.”

Heather Trelawney stood at the corner of the bar, by the entrance to the kitchen, watching Candice Brewin's face through the crush of people. She couldn't take her eyes off the sight. Gordon Brewin's daughter, large as life, sitting at the table with her friends. With her nice haircut, and her good job, and money for cocktails every night. Oblivious of what suffering her father had caused. Unaware of anything except herself.

Because she'd come out all right, hadn't she? Of course she had. Good-Time Gordon had been very clever like that. He'd never used his own money. He'd never put his own life on the line. Only other people's. Other poor saps, too greedy to say no. Like her poor reckless, stupid dad. At the thought, Heather's chin tightened, and her hands gripped her silver tray harder.

“Heather!” It was André, the head waiter, calling from the bar. “What are you doing? Customers waiting!”

“Coming!” called back Heather. She put down her silver tray, shook out her hair and tied it back tightly with a rubber band. Then she picked up her tray and walked smartly to the bar, never once taking her eyes off Candice Brewin.

“They called him Good-Time Gordon,” said Candice in a trembling voice. “He was there at every single party. Life and soul.” She took a gulp of her cocktail. “And every school function. Every concert, every gym display. I used to think it was because— you know, he was proud of me. But all the time, he just wanted to pick up new contacts to do business with. Frank Trelawney wasn't the only one. He got to all our friends, all our neighbours . . .” Her hand tightened around her glass. “They all started popping up after the funeral. Some had invested money with him, some had lent him money and he'd never paid it back . . .” She took a swig of her cocktail. “It was horrendous. These people were our friends. And we'd had no idea.”

Roxanne and Maggie glanced at each other.

“So how do you know Heather's father was involved?” said Maggie.

“I found out when we went through the paperwork,” said Candice blankly. “My mother and I had to go into his study and sort out the mess. It was . . . just awful.”

“How did your mum take it?” asked Maggie curiously.

“Terribly,” said Candice. “Well, you can imagine.

He'd actually told some people he needed to borrow money from them because she was an alcoholic and he wanted to put her through rehab.”

Roxanne snorted with laughter, then said,

“Sorry.”

“I still can't talk to her about it,” said Candice. “In fact, I think she's pretty much persuaded herself it never happened. If I even mention it, she gets all hysterical . . .” She lifted a hand and began to massage her forehead.

“I had no idea about this,” said Maggie. “You've never even mentioned any of this before.”

“Yes, well,” said Candice shortly. “I'm not exactly proud of it. My father did a lot of damage.”

She closed her eyes as unwanted memories of that dreadful time after his death came flooding back into her mind. It had been at the funeral that she'd first noticed something wrong. Friends and relatives, clumped in little groups, had stopped talking as soon as she came near. Voices had been hushed and urgent; everyone had seemed to be in on one big secret. As she'd passed one group, she'd heard the words, “
How
much?”

Then the visitors had started arriving, ostensibly to pay their condolences. But sooner or later the conversation had always turned to money. To the five or ten thousand pounds that Gordon had borrowed. To the investments that had been made. No hurry, of course— they quite understood things were difficult . . . Even Mrs. Stephens, their cleaning lady, had awkwardly brought up the subject of a hundred pounds, loaned some months ago and never repaid.

At the memory of the woman's embarrassed face, Candice felt her stomach contract again with humiliation;
with a hot, teenage guilt. She still felt as though she were somehow to blame. Even though she'd known nothing about it; even though there was nothing she could have done.

“And what about Frank Trelawney?” said Maggie. Candice opened her eyes dazedly, and picked up the cocktail stirrer again.

“He was on a list of names in the study,” she said. “He'd invested two hundred thousand pounds in some venture capital project which folded after a few months.” She began to run the silver stirrer around the rim of her glass. “At first I didn't know who Frank Trelawney was. It was just another name. But it seemed familiar . . . And then I suddenly remembered Heather Trelawney leaving school with no warning. It all made sense.” She bit her lip. “I think that was the worst moment of all. Knowing that Heather had lost her place at school because of my father.”

“You can't just blame your father,” said Maggie gently. “This Mr. Trelawney must have known what he was doing. He must have known there was a certain risk.”

“I always used to wonder what happened to Heather,” said Candice, as though she hadn't heard. “And now I know. Another life ruined.”

“Candice, don't beat yourself up about this,” said Maggie. “It's not your fault. You didn't do anything!”

“I know,” said Candice. “Logically, you're right. But it's not that easy.”

“Have another drink,” advised Roxanne. “That'll cheer you up.”

“Good idea,” said Maggie, and drained her glass. She lifted her hand and, on the other side of the room, Heather nodded.

Candice stared at Heather as she bent down to pick up some empty glasses from a table and wipe it over, unaware she was being watched. As she stood up again, Heather gave a sudden yawn and rubbed her face with tiredness, and Candice felt her heart contract with emotion. She had to do something for this girl, she thought suddenly. She had to absolve her guilt for at least one of her father's crimes.