Cocktails for Three (23 page)

“Hello?”

“Hi! Paddy, it's Maggie.” A group of people entered the foyer and Maggie turned away slightly, covering her ear with one hand. “I just thought I'd see how things were going.”

“All's well,” said Paddy briskly. Her voice sounded thin and tinny, as though she were miles away. Which of course she is, thought Maggie miserably. “Lucia's been coughing a little, but I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.”

“Coughing?” said Maggie in alarm.

“I wouldn't worry,” said Paddy. “Giles will be back soon, and if there's any problem, we can always send for the doctor.” A thin cry came from the background; a moment later, Maggie felt a telltale dampness inside her bra. Oh shit, she thought miserably. Shit shit.

“Do you think she's OK?” she asked, a perilous wobble in her voice.

“Really, dear, I wouldn't worry. You just enjoy yourself.”

“Yes,” said Maggie, on the verge of tears. “Thanks. Well, I'll call later.” She clicked off the phone and leaned back against the wall, trying to breathe deeply; trying to gain some perspective. A cough was nothing to worry about. Lucia was fine with Paddy. This was her one night off; she was entitled to enjoy herself and forget about her responsibilities.

But suddenly it all seemed irrelevant. Suddenly the only person she wanted to be with was Lucia. A single tear ran down her face and she brushed it away roughly. She had to get a grip on herself. She had to go back in there and make an effort to be entertaining company.

Perhaps if it had just been the three of them, she thought miserably, she would have confided in the others. But she couldn't with Heather there. Heather with her smooth young skin and her innocent eyes and those constant snide little comments. She made Maggie feel slow-witted and middle-aged; the frump among the glamour girls.

“Hi!” A voice interrupted her and her head jerked up in shock. Heather was standing in front of her, an amused look on her face. “Baby OK?”

“Yes,” muttered Maggie.

“Good.” Heather shot her a patronizing smile and disappeared into the Ladies'. God, I hate you, thought Maggie. I
hate
you, Heather Trelawney.

Oddly enough, the thought made her feel a little better.

As soon as Heather had disappeared to the Ladies', Roxanne turned to Candice and said, “What the hell did you have to bring her for?”

“What do you mean?” said Candice in surprise. “I just thought it would be fun for us all to get together.”

“Fun? You think it's fun listening to that bitch?”

“What?” Candice stared at her incredulously. “Roxanne, are you drunk?”

“Maybe I am,” said Roxanne, stubbing out her cigarette. “But to steal a phrase, she'll still be a bitch in the morning. Didn't you
hear
her? ‘I always think smoking ages the skin. But that's just me.' “ Roxanne's voice rose in savage mimicry. “Stupid little cow.”

“She didn't mean anything by it!”

“Of course she did! Jesus, Candice, can't you see what she's like?”

Candice rubbed her face and took a few deep breaths, trying to stay calm. Then she looked up.

“You've had it in for Heather from day one, haven't you?”

“Not at all.”

“You have! You told me not to get involved with her, you gave her a nasty look at the office . . .”

“Oh, for God's sake,” said Roxanne impatiently.

“What's she ever done to you?” Candice's voice rose shakily above the chatter. “You haven't even
bothered
to get to know her . . .”

“Candice?” Maggie arrived at the table and looked from face to face. “What's wrong?”

“Heather,” said Roxanne.

“Oh,” said Maggie, and pulled a face. Candice stared at her.

“What, so you don't like her either?”

“I didn't say that,” said Maggie at once. “And that's beside the point, anyway. I just think it would have been nice if the three of us could have . . .” She was interrupted by Roxanne coughing.

“Hi, Heather,” said Candice miserably.

“Hi,” said Heather pleasantly, and slid into her seat. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” said Candice, her cheeks aflame. “I think I'll just . . . go to the loo. I won't be a minute.”

When she'd gone, there was silence around the table. In the corner, Marilyn Monroe had stepped up to the microphone and was singing a husky “Happy Birthday” to a delighted-looking man with a sweating face and paunch. As she reached his name, the crowd around him cheered, and he punched the air in a victory salute.

“Well,” said Maggie awkwardly. “Shall we all order another cocktail?”

“Yes,” said Roxanne. “Unless you think cocktails age the skin, Heather?”

“I wouldn't know,” said Heather politely.

“Oh, really?” said Roxanne, her voice slightly slurred. “That's funny. You seem to know about everything else.”

“Is that so?”

“Anyway,” said Maggie hastily. “There's a full one here.” She picked up a highball, filled with crushed ice and an amber-coloured liquid and decorated with frosted grapes. “Whose is this?”

“I think it was supposed to be mine,” said Heather. “But I don't want it. Why don't you have it, Roxanne?”

“Have your lips touched the glass?” said Roxanne. “If so, no thanks.”

Heather stared at her for a tense moment, then shook her head, almost laughing.

“You really don't like me, do you?”

“I don't like users,” said Roxanne pointedly.

“Oh, really?” said Heather, smiling sweetly. “Well, I don't like sad old lushes, but I'm still polite to them.”

Maggie gasped and looked at Roxanne.

“What did you call me?” said Roxanne very slowly.

“A sad old lush,” said Heather, examining her nails. She looked up and smiled. “A sad— old—lush.”

For a few seconds, Roxanne stared at her, shaking. Then, very slowly and deliberately, she picked up the highball full of amber liquid. She stood up and held the glass up to the glittering light for a moment.

“You wouldn't,” said Heather scathingly, but a flicker of doubt passed over her face.

“Oh yes she would,” said Maggie, and folded her arms. There was a moment of still tension as Heather stared disbelievingly up at Roxanne— then, with a sudden flick of the wrist, Roxanne up-ended the cocktail over Heather's head. The icy drink hit her straight in the face and she gasped, then spluttered furiously, brushing crushed ice out of her eyes.

“Jesus Christ!” she spat, getting to her feet. “You're a fucking . . . nutcase!” Maggie looked at Roxanne and broke into giggles. At the next table, people drinking cocktails put them down and began to nudge each other.

“Hope I haven't aged your skin,” drawled Roxanne, as Heather angrily pushed past. They both watched as Heather disappeared out of the door, then looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“Roxanne, you're wonderful,” said Maggie, wiping her eyes.

“Should have done it at the beginning of the evening,” said Roxanne. She surveyed the disarray on the table— empty glasses, puddles of liquid and crushed ice everywhere— then raised her head and met Maggie's eyes. “Looks like the party's over. Let's get the bill.”

Candice was washing her hands when Heather burst into the Ladies'. Her hair and face were drenched, the shoulders of her jacket were stained, and she had a murderous expression on her face.

“Heather!” said Candice, looking up in alarm. “What's happened?”

“Your bloody friend Roxanne, that's what!”

“What?” Candice, stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Heather, her jaw tight with anger, “that Roxanne tipped a whole fucking cocktail over my head. She's crazy!” She headed towards the brightly lit mirror, reached for a tissue and began to blot her hair.

“She tipped a
cocktail
over your head?” said Candice disbelievingly. “But why?”

“God knows!” said Heather. “All I said was, I thought she'd had enough to drink. I mean, how many has she had tonight? I just thought maybe she should move onto the soft stuff. But the moment I suggested it, she went berserk!” Heather stopped blotting for a moment and met Candice's eye in the mirror. “You know, I reckon she's an alcoholic.”

“I can't believe it!” said Candice in dismay. “I don't know what she can have been thinking of. Heather, I feel awful about this! And your poor jacket . . .”

“I'll have to go home and change,” said Heather. “I'm supposed to be meeting Ed in half an hour.”

“Oh,” said Candice, momentarily distracted. “Really? For a . . .” She swallowed. “For a date?”

“Yes,” said Heather, throwing a piece of sodden tissue into the bin. “God, look at my face!” Heather stared at her dishevelled reflection, then sighed. “Oh, I don't know, maybe I was tactless.” She turned round and met Candice's gaze. “Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“No!” exclaimed Candice, feeling fresh indignation on Heather's behalf. “God, don't blame yourself! You made every effort, Heather. Roxanne just—”

“She's taken against me all along,” said Heather, looking at Candice with distressed eyes. “I've done my best to be friendly . . .”

“I know,” said Candice, her jaw firming. “Well, I'm going to have a little word with Roxanne.”

“Don't argue!” said Heather, as Candice strode towards the door of the Ladies'. “Please don't argue over me!” But her words were lost as the door closed behind Candice with a bang.

Out in the foyer, Candice saw Roxanne and Maggie at the table, standing up. They were leaving! she thought incredulously. Without apologizing, without making any effort whatsoever . . .

“So,” she said, striding towards them. “I hear you've been making Heather feel welcome in my absence.”

“Candice, she had it coming,” said Maggie, looking up. “She really is a little bitch.”

“Waste of a good drink, if you ask me,” said Roxanne. She gestured to the green leather bill on the table. “Our share's in there. I've paid for the three of us. Not for her.”

“I don't believe you, Roxanne!” said Candice furiously. “Aren't you sorry? Aren't you going to apologize to her?”

“Is she going to apologize to me?”

“She doesn't have to! It was you who poured the drink over her! Bloody hell, Roxanne!”

“Look, just forget it,” said Roxanne. “Obviously you can see nothing wrong in your new best friend—”

“Well, maybe if you'd made more of an effort with her, and hadn't just taken against her for no good reason—”

“No good reason?” exclaimed Roxanne in an outraged voice. “You want to hear all the reasons, starting with number one?”

“Roxanne, don't,” said Maggie. “There's no point.” She sighed, and picked up her bag. “Candice, can't you understand? We came to see you. Not her.”

“What, so we're a little clique, are we? No-one else can enter.”

“No! That's not it. But—”

“You're just determined not to like her, aren't you?” Candice stared at them with a trembling face. “I don't know why we bother to meet up, if you can't accept my friends.”

“Well, I don't know why we bother to meet up if you're going to sit chatting about school all night to someone we don't know!” said Maggie, with a sudden heat in her voice. “I made huge sacrifices to be here, Candice, and I've hardly spoken a word to you all evening!”

“We can talk another time!” said Candice defensively. “Honestly—”

“I can't!” cried Maggie. “I don't
have
another time. This
was
my time!”

“Well, maybe I'd talk to you a bit more if you weren't so bloody gloomy!” Candice heard herself snapping. “I want to have fun when I go out, not just sit like a misery all night!”

There was an aghast silence.

“See you,” said Roxanne remotely. “Come on, Maggie.” She took Maggie's arm and, without looking again at Candice, led her away.

Candice watched them walk through the noisy crush of people and felt a cold shame spread through her. Shit, she thought. How could she have said such an awful thing to Maggie? How could the three of them have ended up yelling so aggressively at each other?

Her legs suddenly felt shaky, and she sank down onto a chair, staring miserably at the wet table, the chaos of ice and cocktail glasses and— like a reprimand— the bill in its green folder.

“Hi there!” said a waitress dressed as Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz,
stopping at the table. She briskly wiped the table and removed the debris of glasses, then smiled at Candice. “Can I take your bill for you? Or haven't you finished?”

“No, I've finished, all right,” said Candice dully. “Hang on.” She opened her bag, reached for her purse and counted off three notes. “There you are,” she said, and handed the bill to the waitress. “That should cover it.”