Cocktails for Three (8 page)

“I was two weeks late with this one. They had to induce me in the end.”

“Oh,” said Maggie. “Still—”

“Then he got stuck,” said Wendy. “His heartbeat started to fall and they had to pull him out with forceps.” She looked up and met Maggie's eye. “Twenty-nine stitches.”

“Dear God,” said Maggie. “You're joking.” Suddenly she thought she might faint. She took a deep breath, gripping the edge of her chair, and forced herself to smile at Wendy. Get off the subject of childbirth, she thought. Anything else at all. “So— do you . . . work at all?”

“No,” said Wendy, staring at her blankly. “Jake! Get off that!” Maggie turned, to see Jake balancing precariously on the piano stool. He gave his mother a murderous stare and began to bang on the piano keys.

“Here we are!” Paddy came into the room, carrying a tray. “I opened these rather nice almond biscuits, Maggie. Is that all right?”

“Absolutely,” said Maggie.

“Only I know what it's like when you've planned all your meals in advance, and then someone else comes and disrupts your store cupboard.” She gave a short little laugh, and Maggie smiled feebly back. She suspected that Paddy's idea of a store cupboard and her own were somewhat different.

“I've got some squash for Jake somewhere,” said Wendy. Her voice suddenly rose. “Jake, pack it in or you won't get a drink!” She deposited the baby on the floor and reached for her holdall.

“What a pet!” said Paddy, looking at the baby wriggling on the floor. “Maggie, why don't you hold him for a bit?” Maggie stiffened in horror.

“I don't think—”

“Here you are!” said Paddy, picking the baby up and putting him in Maggie's awkward arms. “Isn't he a poppet?”

Maggie stared down at the baby in her arms, aware that the other two were watching her, and felt a prickling
self-consciousness. What was wrong with her? She felt nothing towards this baby except distaste. It was ugly, it smelt of stale milk and it was dressed in a hideous pastel Babygro. The baby opened his blue eyes and looked at her, and she gazed down, trying to warm to him; trying to act like a mother. He began to squirm and chirrup, and she looked up in alarm.

“He might need to burp,” said Wendy. “Hold him upright.”

“OK,” said Maggie. With tense, awkward hands, she shifted the baby round and lifted him up. He screwed up his face and for an awful moment she thought he was going to scream. Then his mouth opened, and a cascade of warm regurgitated milk streamed onto her jersey.

“Oh my God!” said Maggie in horror. “He's thrown up on me!”

“Oh,” said Wendy dispassionately. “Sorry about that. Here, give him to me.”

“Never mind,” said Paddy briskly, handing Maggie a muslin cloth. “You'll have to get used to this kind of thing, Maggie! Won't she, Wendy!”

“Oh yeah,” said Wendy. “You just wait!”

Maggie looked up from wiping her jersey to see Paddy and Wendy both looking complacently at her, as though in triumph.
We've got you,
their eyes seemed to say. Inside, she began to shiver.

“Wanta do a poo,” Jake announced, wandering over to Wendy's side.

“Good boy,” she said, putting down her cup. “Just let me get the potty out.”

“Dear God, no!” cried Maggie, getting to her feet. “I mean— I'll make some more coffee, shall I?”

In the kitchen she flicked on the kettle and sank into
a chair, shaking, her jersey still damp with milk. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Was this really what motherhood was all about? And if so, what the hell had she done? She closed her eyes and thought, with a pang, of her office at the
Londoner.
Her organized, civilized office, full of grown-ups; full of wit and sophistication and not a baby in sight.

She hesitated, glancing at the door— then picked up the phone and quickly dialled a number.

“Hello?” As she heard Candice's voice, Maggie exhaled with relief. Just hearing those friendly, familiar tones made her relax.

“Hi, Candice! It's Maggie.”

“Maggie!” exclaimed Candice in surprise. “How's it going? Are you all right?”

“Oh, I'm fine,” said Maggie. “You know, lady of leisure . . .”

“I suppose you're still in bed, you lucky cow.”

“Actually,” said Maggie gaily, “I'm hosting a coffee morning. I have a real-live Stepford mum in my living room.” Candice laughed, and Maggie felt a warm glow of pleasure steal over her. Thank God for friends, she thought. Suddenly the situation seemed funny; an entertaining anecdote. “You won't
believe
what happened just now,” she added, lowering her voice. “I'm sitting on the sofa, holding this pig-ugly baby, and he starts to wriggle. And the next minute—”

“Actually, Maggie,” interrupted Candice, “I'm really sorry, but I can't really chat. Justin's holding some stupid meeting and we've all got to go.”

“Oh,” said Maggie, feeling a stab of disappointment. “Well . . . OK.”

“But we'll talk later, I promise.”

“Fine!” said Maggie brightly. “It doesn't matter at all. I was just calling on the off-chance. Have a good meeting.”

“I doubt that. Oh, but listen. Before I go, there's something I must tell you!” Candice's voice grew quieter. “You remember that girl, Heather, we saw last night? The cocktail waitress?”

“Yes,” said Maggie, casting her mind back to the evening before. “Of course I do.” Was it really only last night that they were all sitting in the Manhattan Bar? It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Well, I know you told me not to— but I introduced her to Ralph,” said Candice. “And he was so impressed, he offered her the job on the spot. She's starting as editorial assistant next week!”

“Really?” said Maggie in astonishment. “How extraordinary!”

“Yes,” said Candice, and cleared her throat. “Well, it turns out she's . . . she's very good at writing. Ralph was really impressed with her work. So he's decided to give her a chance.”

“Typical Ralph,” said Maggie. “Well, that's great.”

“Isn't it fantastic?” Candice lowered her voice even further. “Mags, I can't tell you what this means to me. It's as though I'm finally making amends for what my father did. I'm finally . . . doing something positive.”

“Then I'm really glad for you,” said Maggie more warmly. “I hope it all works out well.”

“Oh, it will,” said Candice. “Heather's a really nice girl. In fact, we're having lunch today, to celebrate.”

“Right,” said Maggie wistfully. “Well, have fun.”

“We'll toast you. Look, Mags, I've got to run. Talk soon.” And the phone went dead.

Maggie stared at the receiver for a moment, then slowly replaced it, trying not to feel left out. Already, within twenty-four hours, office life had moved on without her. But of course it had. What did she expect? She gave a sigh, and looked up, to see Paddy standing in the doorway, watching her with a curious expression.

“Oh,” said Maggie guiltily. “I was just talking to an old colleague about a . . . a work matter. Is Wendy all right?”

“She's upstairs, changing the baby's nappy,” said Paddy. “So I thought I'd give you a hand with the coffee.”

Paddy went to the sink, turned on the hot tap, then turned round and smiled pleasantly.

“You know, you mustn't cling onto your old life, Maggie.”

“What?” said Maggie in disbelief. “I'm not!”

“You'll soon find you put down roots here. You'll get to know some other young families. But it does require a bit of effort.” Paddy squirted washing-up liquid into the bowl. “It's a different way of life down here.”

“Not that different, surely,” said Maggie lightly. “People still have fun, don't they?” Paddy gave her a tight little smile.

“After a while, you may find you have less in common with some of your London friends.”

And more in common with Wendy? thought Maggie. I don't think so.

“Possibly,” she said, smiling back at Paddy. “But I'll make every effort to keep in touch with my old friends. There's a threesome of us who always meet up for cocktails. I'll certainly carry on seeing them.”

“Cocktails,” said Paddy, giving a short laugh. “How very glamorous.”

Maggie stared back at her and felt a sudden stab of resentment. What business was it of hers who her friends were? What business of hers was it what kind of life she led?

“Yes, cocktails,” she said, and smiled sweetly at Paddy. “My own personal favourite is Sex on the Beach. Remind me to give you the recipe some time.”

Chapter Five

The doorbell rang and Candice jumped, despite the fact that she'd been sitting still on the sofa, waiting for Heather's arrival, for a good twenty minutes. She glanced once more round the sitting room, making sure it was neat and tidy, then nervously headed towards the front door. As she opened it, she gasped in surprise, then laughed. All she could see was a huge bouquet of flowers. Yellow roses, carnations and freesias nestling in dark greenery, wrapped in gold-embossed cellophane and crowned with a large bow.

“These are for you,” came Heather's voice from behind the bouquet. “Sorry about the hideous bow. They put it on before I could stop them.”

“This is so kind of you!” said Candice, taking the rustling bouquet from Heather and giving her a hug. “You really shouldn't have.”

“Yes I should!” said Heather. “And more.” Her eyes met Candice's earnestly. “Candice, look at everything you're doing for me. A job, a place to stay . . .”

“Well, you know,” said Candice awkwardly, “I do have two bedrooms. And if your other place was grim . . .”

It had been purely by chance that, during their lunch together, Heather had happened to start talking about the flat where she lived. As she had talked, making light of its awfulness, Candice had suddenly hit on the idea of asking Heather to move in with her— and to her delight, Heather had agreed on the spot. Everything was falling wonderfully into place.

“It was like a hovel,” said Heather. “Six to a room. Utterly sordid. But this place . . .” She put down her suitcases and walked slowly into the flat, looking around incredulously. “Is this all yours?”

“Yes,” said Candice. “At least, I had a flatmate when I first moved in, but she moved out, and I never got round to—”

“It's a palace!” interrupted Heather, looking around. “Candice, it's beautiful!”

“Thanks,” said Candice, flushing in pleasure. “I . . . well, I like it.”

She was secretly rather proud of her attempts at home decoration. She'd spent a long time the previous summer stripping down the brown swirly wallpaper left by the previous occupant of the flat and covering the walls in a chalky yellow paint. The whole thing had taken rather longer than she'd imagined, and her arms had ached by the end of it, but it had been worth it.

“Look—the flowers I brought go perfectly with your walls,” said Heather, and her eyes danced a little. “We obviously think alike, you and me. That's a good omen, don't you think?”

“Absolutely!” said Candice. “Well, let's get your luggage in and you can . . .” She swallowed. “You can see your room.”

She picked up one of Heather's cases and hefted it down the hall, then, with a slight tremor, opened the first bedroom door.

“Wow,” breathed Heather behind her. It was a large room, decorated simply, with lavender walls and thick cream-coloured curtains. In the corner was a huge, empty oak armoire; on the night-stand beside the double bed was a pile of glossy magazines.

“This is fantastic!” said Heather. “I can't believe this place.” She looked round. “What's your room like? Is it this door?”

“It's . . . fine,” said Candice. “Honestly . . .”

But Heather was too quick for her. She had already opened the door, to reveal a much smaller room, furnished with a single bed and a cheap pine wardrobe.

“Is this yours?” she said in puzzlement— then looked slowly back at the lavender-painted room. “That one's yours, isn't it?” she said in surprise. “You've given me your room!”

She seemed astonished—almost amused—and Candice felt herself flush with embarrassment. She had felt so proud of her little gesture; had hummed merrily the night before as she'd transferred all her clothes out of her own bedroom to make way for Heather. Now, looking at Heather's face, she realized it had been a mistake. Heather would, of course, insist on swapping back. The whole incident would bring an awkwardness to their arrangement.

“I just thought you'd want your own space,” she said, feeling foolish. “I know what it's like, moving
into someone else's home— sometimes you need to get away. So I thought I'd give you the bigger room.”

“I see,” said Heather, and looked again at the lavender room. “Well— if you're quite sure.” She beamed at Candice and kicked one of her suitcases into the room. “It's very good of you. I'll love being in here.”

“Oh,” said Candice, half relieved, half secretly discomfited. “Right. Well . . . good. I'll leave you to unpack, then.”

“Don't be silly!” said Heather. “I'll unpack later. Let's have a drink first.” She reached into her holdall. “I brought some champagne.”

“Flowers
and
champagne!” Candice laughed. “Heather, this is too much.”

“I always drink champagne on special occasions,” said Heather, and her eyes sparkled at Candice. “And this occasion is very special indeed. Don't you agree?”

As Candice popped the champagne in the kitchen, she could hear the wooden floorboards of the sitting room creaking slightly as Heather moved about. She filled two champagne flutes— free gifts from a reception she'd once attended sponsored by Bollinger— then took them, together with the bottle, into the sitting room. Heather was standing by the mantelpiece, her blond hair haloed in the lamplight, gazing up at a framed photograph. As she saw her, Candice's heart began to thump. Why hadn't she put that photograph away? How could she have been so stupid?