Cocktails for Three by Madeleine Wickham Page A

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 amember of his staff could possibly commit was to be feeble.
    â€œFeeble!” 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.
    â€œHello,” she said in a businesslike voice. “Ralph Allsopp’s office.”
    â€œIs Mr. Allsopp there?” enquired a female voice.
    â€œI’m afraid not,” said Candice. “May I take a message?”
    â€œIs this his personal assistant?” Candice glanced outof the office window at the desk of Janet, Ralph’s secretary. It was empty.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œRight,” said Candice, scribbling on a piece of paper. “OK. I’ll tell him.”
    She put the phone down and looked curiously at the message.
    â€œSo! 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.
    â€œSomething 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.
    â€œYou just got this message,” she said almost unwillingly, handing him the bit of paper.
    â€œAh,” 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