She’d shaken the bin bag open with trembling fingers, sickened by its slithery touch. She had never felt so sordid; so humiliated. Around the room, everyone was working silently at their computers, which meant they were all listening. Almost unable to believe she was doing it, Candice had opened her top desk drawer and looked at its familiar contents. Notebooks, pens, old disks, a box of raspberry tea-bags.
“Don’t take any disks,” Justin had said, passing by. “And don’t touch the computer. We don’t want any company information walking out with you.”
“Just leave me alone!” Candice had snapped savagely, tears coming to her eyes. “I’m not going to steal anything.”
Now, standing outside on the hard pavement, a hotness rose to her eyes again. They all believed she was a thief. And why shouldn’t they? The evidence was convincing enough. Candice closed her eyes. She still felt dizzy at the idea that Heather had fabricated evidence about her. That Heather had, all the time, been plotting behind her back. Her mind scurried backwards and forwards, trying to think logically; trying to work it all out. But she could not think straight while she was fighting tears; while her face was flushed and her throat blocked by something hard.
“All right, love?” said a man in a denim jacket, and Candice’s head jerked up.
“Yes thanks,” she muttered, and felt a small tearescape onto her cheek. Before he could say anything else she began walking along the pavement, not knowing where she was going, her mind skittering wildly about. The bin liner banged against her legs, the plastic was slippery in her grasp; she imagined that everyone she passed looked at it with a knowing glance. In a shop window she glanced at her reflection and was shocked at the sight. Her face was white, and busy with suppressed tears. Her suit was already crumpled; her hair had escaped from its smooth fastening. She had to get home, she thought frantically. She would take off her suit, take a bath, hide away mindlessly like a small animal in a hole until she was feeling able to emerge.
At the corner she reached a telephone box. She pulled open the heavy door and slipped inside. The interior was cool and quiet; a temporary haven. Maggie, she thought frantically, picking up the receiver. Or Roxanne. They would help her. One of them would help her. Roxanne or Maggie. She reached to dial, then stopped.
Not Roxanne. Not after the way they’d parted at Ralph’s funeral. And not Maggie. Not after the things she’d said to her; not after that awful phone call.
A cold feeling ran down Candice’s spine and she leaned against the cool glass of the kiosk. She couldn’t call either of them. She’d lost them both. Somehow she’d lost her two closest friends in the world.
Suddenly a banging on the glass of the telephone box jolted her, and she opened her eyes in shock.
“Are you making a call?” shouted a woman holding a toddler by the hand.
“No,” said Candice dazedly. “No, I’m not.”
She stepped out of the telephone box onto the street, shifted her bin liner to the other hand and looked around confusedly, as though resurfacing from a tunnel. Then she began to walk again in a haze of misery, barely aware of where she was going.
As Roxanne came up the stairs, holding a loaf of bread and a newspaper, she heard the telephone ringing inside her flat. Let it ring, she thought. Let it ring. There was no-one she wanted to hear from. Slowly she reached for her key, inserted it into the lock of the front door and opened it. She closed the door behind her, put down the loaf of bread and the newspaper, and stared balefully at the phone, still ringing.
“You don’t bloody give up, do you?” she said, and reached for the receiver. “Yes?”
“Am I speaking to Miss Roxanne Miller?” said a strange male voice.
“Yes,” said Roxanne. “Yes, you are.”
“Good,” said the voice. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Neil Cooper and I represent the firm of Strawson and Co.”
“I don’t have a car,” said Roxanne. “I don’t need car insurance. And I don’t have any windows.”
Neil Cooper gave a nervous laugh. “Miss Miller, I should explain. I am a lawyer. I’m telephoning you in connection with the estate of Ralph Allsopp.”
“Oh,” said Roxanne. She stared at the wall and blinked furiously. Hearing his name unexpectedly on other people’s lips still took her by surprise; still sent shock-waves through her body.
“Perhaps I could ask you to come into the office?” the man was saying, and Roxanne’s mind snapped into focus. Ralph Allsopp. The estate of Ralph Allsopp.
“Oh God,” she said, and tears began to run freely down her face. “He’s gone and left something to me, hasn’t he? The stupid, sentimental bastard. And you’re going to give it to me.”
“If we could just arrange a meeting . . .”
“Is it his watch? Or that crappy ancient typewriter.” Roxanne gave a half-laugh in spite of herself. “That stupid bloody Remington.”
“Shall we say half-past four on Thursday?” the lawyer said, and Roxanne exhaled sharply.
“Look,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but Ralph and I weren’t exactly . . .” She paused. “I’d rather stay out of the picture. Can’t you just sent whatever it is to me? I’ll pay the postage.”
There was silence down the line, then the lawyer said, more firmly, “Half-past four. I’ll expect you.”
Candice became aware that her steps were, unconsciously, taking her towards home. As she turned into her street she stopped at the sight of a chugging taxi outside her house. She stood still, staring at it, her mind ticking over— then stiffened as Heather appeared, coming out of the front door. She was wearing jeans and a coat and carrying a suitcase. Her blond hair was just as bouncy as ever, her eyes just as wide and innocent— and as Candice stared at her she felt herself falter in confusion.
Was she really accusing Heather— this cheery, warmhearted friend— of deliberately setting her up? Logically, the facts drew her to that conclusion. But as she gazed at Heather talking pleasantly to the taxi driver, everything in her resisted it. Could there not be some other plausible explanation? she thought frantically. Some other factor she knew nothing about?
As she stood transfixed, Heather turned as though aware of Candice’s gaze, and gave a slight start of surprise. For a few moments the two girls stared at each other silently. Heather’s gaze ran over Candice, taking in the bin bag; her flustered face, her bloodshot eyes.
“Heather.” Candice’s voice sounded hoarse to her own ears. “Heather, I need to talk to you.”
“Oh yes?” said Heather calmly.
“I’ve just been . . .” She paused, barely able to say the words aloud. “I’ve just been suspended from work.”
“Really?” said Heather. “Shame.” She smiled at Candice, then turned and got into the taxi.
Candice stared at her and felt her heart begin to pound.
“No,” she said. “No.” She began to run along the pavement, her breath coming quickly, her bin bag bouncing along awkwardly behind her. “Heather, I . . . I don’t understand.” She reached the taxi door just as Heather was reaching to close it, and grabbed hold of it.
“Let go!” snapped Heather.
“I don’t understand,” said Candice breathlessly. “I thought we were friends.”
“Did you?” said Heather. “That’s funny. My father thought your dad was his friend, too.”
Candice’s heart stopped. She stared at Heather and felt her face suffuse with colour. Her grip on the door weakened and she licked her lips.
“When . . . when did you find out?” Her voice was strangled; something like cotton wool seemed to be blocking her airway.
“I didn’t have to find out,” said Heather scathingly. “I knew who you were all along. As soon as I saw you in that bar.” Her voice harshened. “My whole family knows who you are, Candice Brewin.”
Candice stared at Heather speechlessly. Her legs were trembling; she felt almost dizzy with shock.
“And now you know how I felt,” said Hea
ther. “Now you know what it was like for me. Having everything taken away, with no warning.” She gave a tiny, satisfied smile and her gaze ran again over Candice’s dishevelled appearance. “So— are you enjoying it? Do you think it’s fun, losing everything overnight?”
“I trusted you,” said Candice numbly. “You were my friend.”
“And I was fourteen years old!” spat Heather with a sudden viciousness. “We lost everything. Jesus, Candice! Did you really think we could be friends, after what your father did to my family?”
“But I tried to make amends!” said Candice. “I tried to make it up to you!” Heather shook her head, and wrenched the taxi door out of Candice’s grasp. “Heather, listen!” said Candice in panic. “Don’t you understand?” She leaned forward, almost eagerly. “I was trying to make it up to you! I was trying to help you!”
“Yes, well,” said Heather coldly. “Maybe you didn’t try hard enough.”
She gave Candice one final look, then slammed the door.
“Heather!” said Candice through the open window, her heart thumping. “Heather, wait! Please. I need my job back.” Her voice rose in desperation. “You have to help me! Please, Heather!”
But Heather didn’t even turn round. A moment later the taxi zoomed away up the street.
Candice watched it go in disbelief, then sank shakily down onto the pavement, the bin bag still clutched in her hand. A couple passing by with their dog looked at her curiously, but she didn’t react. She was oblivious of the outside world, oblivious of everything except her own thudding shock.
Chapter Seventeen
There was a sound behind her and Candice looked up. Ed was standing at the door of the house, gazing at her, for once without any glint of amusement in his eye. He looked serious, almost stern.
“I saw her getting all her stuff together,” he said. “I tried to call you at work, but they wouldn’t put me through.” He took a couple of steps towards her, and looked at the bin liner lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. “Does that mean what I think it does?”
“I’ve been . . . suspended,” said Candice, barely able to manage the words. “They think I’m a thief.”
“So—what went wrong?”
“I don’t know,” said Candice, rubbing her face wearily. “I don’t know what went wrong. You tell me. I just . . . All I wanted, all along, was to do the right thing. You know?” She looked up at him. “I just wanted to . . . do a good deed. And what happens?” Her voice began to thicken dangerously. “I lose my job, I lose my friends . . . I’ve lost everything, Ed. Everything.”
Two tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her jacket. Ed looked at her consideringly for a moment.
“It’s not so bad,” he said. “You haven’t lost your looks. If that’s of any interest to you.” Candice stared at him, then gave a shaky giggle. “And you haven’t lost—” He broke off.
“What?”
“You haven’t lost me,” said Ed, looking straight at her. “Again— if that’s of any interest to you.”
There was a taut silence.
“I . . .” Candice swallowed. “Thanks.”
“Come on.” Ed held out his hand. “Let’s get you inside.”
“Thanks,” whispered Candice, and took his hand gratefully. “Thanks, Ed.”
They trudged up the stairs in silence. As she arrived at the front door of her flat Candice hesitated, then pushed it open. Immediately she had a feeling of emptiness. Heather’s coat was gone from the stand in the hall; her message pad had disappeared from the little phone table; her bedroom door was ajar and the wardrobe visibly empty.
“Is everything still there?” said Ed behind her. “If she’s stolen anything we can call the police.”
Candice walked a few steps into the sitting room and looked around.
“I think everything’s still here,” she said. “Everything of mine, anyway.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Ed. “Isn’t it?”
Candice didn’t reply. She walked over to the mantelpiece and looked silently at the photograph of herself, her mother and her father. Smiling into the sun, innocently happy, before any of it happened. Her breath began to come more quickly; something hot seemed to rise through her, burning her throat, her face, her eyes.
“I feel so . . . stupid,” she said. “I feel so completely stupid.” Tears of humiliation began to run down her cheeks and she buried her face in her hands. “I believed every bloody thing she said. But she was lying. Everything she said was . . . lies.”
Ed leaned against the door frame, frowning.
“So—what—she had it in for you?”
“She had it in for me all along.” Candice looked up and wiped her eyes. “It’s a . . . it’s a long story.”
“And you had no idea.”
“I thought she liked me. I thought we were best friends. She told me what I wanted to hear, and I . . .” A fresh wave of humiliation passed through Candice. “And I fell for it.”
“Come on, Candice,” said Ed. “You can’t just blame yourself. She fooled everyone. Face it, she was good.”
“You weren’t fooled by her though, were you?” retorted Candice, looking up with a tearstained face. “You told me you thought she was mad.”
“I thought she was a bit weird,” said Ed, shrugging. “I didn’t realize she was a fucking psycho.”
There was silence. Candice turned away from the mantelpiece and took a few steps towards the sofa. But as she reached it she stopped, without sitting down. The sofa no longer seemed welcoming. It no longer seemed hers. Everything in the flat suddenly seemed tainted.
“She must have been plotting all along,” she said, and began to pick distractedly at the fabric of the sofa. “From the moment she walked in the door with all those flowers. Pretending to be so grateful.” Candice closed her eyes, feeling a sharp pain run up her body. “Always so sweet and grateful. Always so . . .” She swallowed hard. “In the evenings, we used to sit on this sofa together watching the telly. Doing each other’s nails. I’d be thinking what a great friend she was. I’d be thinking I’d found a soulmate. And what was Heather thinking?” Candice opened her eyes and looked bleakly at Ed. “What was she really thinking?”
“Candice—”
“She was sitting there, hating me, wasn’t she? Wondering what she could do to hurt me.” Fresh tears began to fall down Candice’s face. “How could I have been so stupid? I did all her bloody work for her, she never paid me a penny rent . . . and I kept thinking I still owed her! I kept feeling guilty about her. Guilty!” Candice wiped her streaming nose. “You know what she told them at work? She said I was bullying her.”
“And they believed her?” said Ed incredulously.
“Justin believed her.”
“Well,” said Ed. “That figures.”
“I tried to tell him,” said Candice, her voice rising in distress. “I tried to explain. But he wouldn’t believe me. He just looked at me as though I was a . . . criminal.”
She broke off into a shuddering silence. Outside in the distance, a siren gave a long wail, as though in imitation of her voice, then broke into whoops and faded away.
“You need a stiff drink,” said Ed finally. “Have you got any drink in the house?”
“Some white wine,” said Candice after a pause. “In the fridge.”
“White wine? What is it with women and white wine?” Ed shook his head. “Stay here. I’m going to get you a proper drink.”
Roxanne took a sip of cappuccino and stared blankly out of the café window at a group of lost tourists on the street. She had told herself that today she would spring back into action. She’d had, in all, nearly a month off. Now it was time to get back on the phone, start working again; start leading her former life.
But instead, here she was, sitting in a Covent Garden café, sipping her fourth cappuccino, letting the morning slip past. She felt unable to concentrate on anything constructive; unable to pretend to
herself that life was anything like back to normal. Grief was like a grey fog that permeated every move, every thought; that made everything seem pointless. Why write any more articles? Why make the effort? She felt as if everything she had ever done over the last few years had been in relation to Ralph. Her articles had been written to entertain him, her trips abroad had been to provide anecdotes that would make him laugh; her clothes had been bought because he would like them. She had not realized it at the time, of course. She’d always thought herself completely, ferociously independent. But now he was gone— and the point seemed to have gone out of her life.
She reached in her bag for her cigarettes and, as she did so, her fingers came across the scrap of paper bearing the name of Neil Cooper and an address. Roxanne looked at the paper for a few steady seconds, then thrust it away from her, feeling sick. She had been thrown by the lawyer’s call; still felt shaky when she remembered it. In her memory, his voice seemed to have had a patronizing note. A smooth, oh-so-discreet knowingness. A firm like his probably dealt with dead clients’ mistresses every day. There was probably a whole bloody department dedicated to them.
Tears stung Roxanne’s eyes and she flicked her lighter savagely. Why had Ralph had to tell a fucking lawyer about the two of them? Why had he had to tell anyone? She felt exposed; vulnerable at the idea that an entire plushy office was laughing at her. She would walk in and they would smile behind their hands; eye her outfit and hairstyle; suppress a giggle as they asked her to sit down. Or, even worse, stare at her with blatant disapproval.
For they were on Cynthia’s side, weren’t they? These lawyers were all part of that secure, established life Ralph had enjoyed with his wife. A union that had been legitimized by a marriage certificate, by children, by solid shared property; that had been buttressed by family friends, by distant cousins, by accountants and lawyers. An entire support system, dedicated to propping up and validating the joint entity of Ralph and Cynthia.
And what had she and Ralph had in comparison? Roxanne drew on her cigarette, feeling the acrid smoke burning her lungs. What had she and Ralph had? Mere ephemera. Fleeting experiences, memories, stories. A few days here, a few days there. Furtive embraces; secretly whispered endearments. Nothing public, nothing solid. Six whole years of wishes and whimsy.