“No!” she said hastily. “No, of course we weren’t! It was . . . something else completely. It really doesn’t matter.”
“Well—if you’re sure,” said Heather, and gazed at Candice with luminous eyes. “Because I’d hate to cause any trouble.”
“You’re not causing trouble!” said Candice, laughing. “Come on, I’ll show you your desk.”
Chapter Six
Maggie was in her large, cool bedroom, sitting by the rain-swept window and staring out at the muddy green fields disappearing into the distance. Fields and fields, as far as the eye could see. Proper, old-fashioned English countryside. And twenty acres of it belonged to her and Giles.
Twenty whole acres— vast by London standards. The thought had thrilled her beyond measure in those first exhilarating months after they’d decided to move. Giles— used to his parents’ paddocks and fields full of sheep— had been pleased to acquire the land, rather than excited. But to Maggie, after her own suburban upbringing and the tiny patch of land they’d called a garden in London, twenty acres had seemed like a country estate. She’d imagined striding around her land like a gentleman farmer, getting to know every corner, planting trees; picnicking in her favourite shady spot.
That first October weekend after they’d moved in, she’d made a point of walking to the furthest point of the plot and looking back towards the house— greedily taking in the swathe of land that now belonged to her and Giles. The second weekend it had rained, and she’d huddled inside by the Aga. The third weekend, they’d stayed up in London for a friend’s party.
Since then, the thrill of ownership had somewhat paled. Admittedly, Maggie still liked to drop her twenty acres into the conversation. She still liked to think of herself as a landowner and talk carelessly about buying a horse. But the thought of going and actually trudging through her own muddy fields exhausted her. It wasn’t as if they were particularly beautiful or interesting. Just fields.
The phone rang and she looked at her watch. It would be Giles, wanting to know what she had been doing with herself. She had told herself— and him— that she would go up to the attic bedrooms today and plan their redecoration. In fact, she had done nothing more than go downstairs, eat some breakfast and come back upstairs again. She felt heavy and inert; slightly depressed by the weather; unable to galvanize herself into action.
“Hi, Giles?” she said into the receiver.
“How are you doing?” said Giles cheerily down the line. “It’s lashing it down here.”
“Fine,” said Maggie, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. “It’s raining here, too.”
“You sound a bit down, my sweet.”
“Oh, I’m OK,” said Maggie gloomily. “My back hurts, it’s pissing with rain and I haven’t got anyone to talk to. Apart from that, I’m doing great.”
“Did the cot arrive?”
“Yes, it’s here,” said Maggie. “The man put it up in the nursery. It looks lovely.”
Suddenly she felt a tightening across the front of her stomach, and drew in breath sharply.
“Maggie?” said Giles in alarm.
“It’s OK,” she said, after a few seconds. “Just another practice contraction.”
“I would have thought you’d had enough practice by now,” said Giles, and laughed merrily. “Well, I’d better shoot off. Take care of yourself.”
“Wait,” said Maggie, suddenly anxious for him not to disappear off the line. “What time do you think you’ll be home?”
“It’s bloody frantic here,” said Giles, lowering his voice. “I’ll try and make it as early as I can— but who knows? I’ll ring you a bit later and let you know.”
“OK,” said Maggie disconsolately. “Bye.”
After he’d rung off she held the warm receiver to her ear for a few minutes more, then slowly put it down and looked around the empty room. It seemed to ring with silence. Maggie looked at the still telephone and felt suddenly bereft, like a child at boarding school. Ridiculously, she felt as though she wanted to go home.
But this was her home. Of course it was. She was Mrs. Drakeford of The Pines.
She got to her feet and lumbered wearily into the bathroom, thinking that she would have a warm bath to ease her back. Then she must have some lunch. Not that she felt very hungry— but still. It would be something to do.
She stepped into the warm water and leaned back, just as her abdomen began to tighten again. Another bloody practice contraction. Hadn’t she had enough already? And why did nature have to play such tricks, anyway? Wasn’t the whole thing bad enough as it was? As she closed her eyes, she remembered the section in her pregnancy handbook on false labour. “Many women,” the book had said patronizingly, “will mistake false contractions for the real thing.”
Not her, thought Maggie grimly. She wasn’t going to have the humiliation of summoning Giles from the office and rushing excitedly off to the hospital, only to be told kindly that she’d made a mistake. You think that’s labour? the silent implication ran. Ha! You just wait for the real thing!
Well, she would. She’d wait for the real thing.
Roxanne reached for her orange juice, took a sip and leaned back comfortably in her chair. She was sitting at a blue and green mosaic table on the terrace of the Aphrodite Bay Hotel, overlooking the swimming pool and, in the distance, the beach. A final drink in the sunshine, a final glimpse of the Mediterranean, before her flight back to England. Beside her on the floor was her small, well-packed suitcase, which she would take onto the plane as hand luggage. Life was far too short, in her opinion, to spend waiting by airport carousels for suitcases of unused clothes.
She took another sip and closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of the sun blazing down on her cheeks. It had been a good week’s work, she thought. She had already written her two-thousand-word piece for the Londoner on holidaying in Cyprus. She had also visited enough new property developments to be able to write a comprehensive survey for the property pages of one of the national newspapers. And for one of their rivals, under a pseudonym, she would pen a lighthearted diary-type piece on living in Cyprus as an expatriate. The Londoner had funded half the cost of her trip— with these extra pieces of work she would more than pay for the rest of it. Nice work if you can get it, she thought idly, and began to hum softly to herself.
“You are enjoying the sun,” came a voice beside her and she looked up. Nico Georgiou was pulling a chair out and sitting down at the table. He was an elegant man in his middle years, always well dressed; always impeccably polite. The quieter, more reserved of the two Georgiou brothers.
She had met them both on her first trip to Cyprus, when she had been sent to cover the opening of their new hotel, the Aphrodite Bay. Since then, she had never stayed anywhere else in Cyprus, and over the years, had got to know Nico and his brother Andreas well. Between them, they owned three of the major hotels on the island, and a fourth was currently under construction.
“I adore the sun,” said Roxanne now, smiling. “And I adore the Aphrodite Bay.” She looked around. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed my stay here.”
“And we have, as always, enjoyed having you,” said Nico. He lifted a hand, and a waiter came rushing to attention.
“An espresso, please,” said Nico, and glanced at Roxanne. “And for you?”
“Nothing else, thanks,” said Roxanne. “I have to leave soon.”
“I know,” said Nico. “I will drive you to the airport.”
“Nico! I’ve booked a taxi.”
“And I have unbooked it,” said Nico, smiling. “I want to talk to you, Roxanne.”
“Really?” said Roxanne. “What about?”
Nico’s coffee arrived and he waited for the waiter to retreat before he spoke again.
“You have been to visit our new resort, the Aphrodite Falls.”
“I’ve seen the construction site,” said Roxanne. “It looks very impressive. All those waterfalls.”
“It will be impressive,” sa
id Nico. “It will be unlike anything previously seen in Cyprus.”
“Good!” said Roxanne. “I can’t wait till it opens.” She grinned at him. “If you don’t invite me to the launch party you’re in trouble.” Nico laughed, then picked up his coffee spoon and began to balance it on his cup.
“The Aphrodite Falls is a very high-profile project,” he said, and paused. “We will be looking for a . . . a dynamic person to run the launch and marketing of the resort. A person with talent. With energy. With contacts in journalism . . .” There was silence, and Nico looked up. “Someone, perhaps, who enjoys the Mediterranean way of life,” he said slowly, meeting Roxanne’s eyes. “Someone, perhaps, from Britain?”
“Me?” said Roxanne disbelievingly. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am utterly serious,” said Nico. “My brother and I would be honoured if you would join our company.”
“But I don’t know anything about marketing! I don’t have any qualifications, any training—”
“Roxanne, you have more intelligence and flair than any of these so-called qualified people,” said Nico, gesturing disparagingly. “I have hired these people. The training seems to dull their wits. Young people go into college with ideas and enthusiasm, and come out with only flip-charts and ridiculous jargon.”
Roxanne laughed. “You do have a point.”
“We would provide accommodation for you,” said Nico, leaning forward. “The salary would be, I think, generous.”
“Nico—”
“And, of course, we would expect you to continue with a certain amount of travel, to other comparable resorts. For . . . research purposes.” Roxanne looked at him suspiciously.
“Has this job been tailor-made for me?”
A smile flickered over Nico’s face. “In a way . . . perhaps yes.”
“I see.” Roxanne stared into her glass of orange juice. “But . . . why?”
There was silence for a while— then Nico said in a deadpan voice, “You know why.”
A strange pang went through Roxanne and she closed her eyes, trying to rationalize her thoughts. The sun was hot on her face; in the distance she could hear children shrieking excitedly on the beach. “Mama!” one of them was calling, “Mama!” She could live here all year round, she thought. Wake up to sunshine every day. Join the Georgiou family for long, lazy celebration meals— as she once had for Andreas’s birthday.
And Nico himself. Courteous, self-deprecating Nico, who never hid his feelings for her— but never forced them on her either. Kind, loyal Nico; she would die rather than hurt him.
“I can’t,” she said, and opened her eyes to see Nico gazing straight at her. The expression in his dark eyes made her want to cry. “I can’t leave London.” She exhaled sharply. “You know why. I just can’t—”
“You can’t leave him,” said Nico, and, in one movement, drained his espresso.
Something was ringing in Maggie’s mind. A fire alarm. An alarm clock. The doorbell. Her mind jerked awake and she opened her eyes. Dazedly, she glanced at her watch on the side of the bath and saw to her astonishment that it was one o’clock. She’d been in her bath for almost an hour, half dozing in the warmth. As quickly as she could, she stood up, reached for a towel, and began to dry her face and neck before getting out.
Halfway out of the bath another practice contraction seized her and in slight terror she clung onto the side of the bath, willing herself not to slip over. As the painful tightness subsided, the doorbell rang again downstairs, loud and insistent.
“Bloody hell, give me a minute!” she yelled. She wrenched angrily at a towelling robe on the back of the door, wrapped it around herself and padded out of the room. As she passed the mirror on the landing she glanced at herself and was slightly taken aback at her pale, strained reflection. Hardly a picture of blooming health. But then, in the mood she was in, she didn’t care what she looked like.
She headed for the front door, already knowing from the thin shadowy figure on the other side of the frosted glass that her visitor was Paddy. Barely a day went by without Paddy popping in with some excuse or other— a knitted blanket for the baby, a cutting from the garden, the famous recipe for scones, copied onto a flowery card. “She’s keeping bloody tabs on me!” Maggie had complained, half jokingly, to Giles the night before. “Every day, like clockwork!” On the other hand, Paddy’s company was better than nothing. And at least she hadn’t brought Wendy back for a visit.
“Maggie!” exclaimed Paddy, as soon as Maggie opened the door. “So glad to have caught you in. I’ve been making tomato soup, and, as usual, I’ve made far too much. Can you use some?”
“Oh,” said Maggie. “Yes, I should think so. Come on in.” As she stood aside to let Paddy in, another contraction began— this one deeper and more painful than the others. She gripped the door, bowing her head and biting her lip, waiting for it to pass— then looked up at Paddy, a little out of breath.
“Maggie, are you all right?” said Paddy sharply.
“Fine,” said Maggie, breathing normally again. “Just a practice contraction.”
“A what?” Paddy stared at her.
“They’re called Braxton-Hicks contractions,” explained Maggie patiently. “It’s in the book. Perfectly normal in the last few weeks.” She smiled at Paddy. “Can I make you a cup of coffee?”
“You sit down,” said Paddy, giving Maggie an odd look. “I’ll do it. Are you sure you feel all right?”
“Really, Paddy, I’m fine,” said Maggie, following Paddy into the kitchen. “Just a bit tired. And my back aches a bit. I’ll take some paracetamol in a minute.”
“Good idea,” said Paddy, frowning slightly. She filled the kettle, switched it on and took two mugs down from the dresser. Then she turned round.
“Maggie, you don’t think this could be it?”
“What?” Maggie stared at Paddy and felt a little plunge of fear. “Labour? Of course not. I’m not due for another two weeks.” She licked her dry lips. “And I’ve been having practice contractions like this all week. It’s . . . it’s nothing.”
“If you say so.” Paddy reached inside a cupboard for the jar of coffee, then stopped.
“Shall I run you up to the hospital, just to make sure?”
“No!” said Maggie at once. “They’ll just tell me I’m a stupid woman and send me home again.”
“Isn’t it worth being on the safe side?” said Paddy.
“Honestly, Paddy, there’s nothing to worry about,” said Maggie, feeling the tightness begin again inside her. “I’m just . . .” But she couldn’t manage the rest of her sentence. She held her breath, waiting for the pain to pass. When she looked up, Paddy was standing up and holding her car keys.
“Maggie, I’m no expert,” she said cheerfully, “but even I know that wasn’t a practice contraction.” She smiled. “My dear, this is it. The baby’s coming.”
“It can’t be,” Maggie heard herself say. She felt almost breathless with fright. “It can’t be. I’m not ready.”
It was raining, a soft slithery rain, when Roxanne emerged from London Underground at Barons Court. The skies were dark with clouds, the pavements were wet and slimy, and an old Mars Bar wrapper was floating in a puddle next to a pile of Evening Standards. It felt, to Roxanne, like the middle of winter. She picked up her case and began to walk briskly along the street, wincing as a passing lorry spattered her legs with dirty water. It seemed hardly believable that only a few hours ago she’d been sitting in the blazing heat of the sun.
Nico had driven her to the airport in his gleaming Mercedes. He had, despite her protestations, carried her suitcase into the airport terminal for her, and had ensured that everything was in order at the check-in desk. Not once had he mentioned the job at the Aphrodite Bay. Instead he had talked generally, about politics and books, and his planned trip to New York— and Roxanne had listened gratefully, glad of his tact. Only as they’d been about to bid farewell to one another at the departure desk had he said, wi
th a sudden vehemence, “He is a fool, this man of yours.”
“You mean I’m a fool,” Roxanne had responded, trying to smile. Nico had shaken his head silently, then taken her hands.
“Come back to visit us soon, Roxanne,” he’d said in a low voice. “And . . . think about it? At least think about it.”
“I will,” Roxanne had promised, knowing that her mind was already made up. Nico had scanned her face, then sighed and kissed her fingertips.
“There is no-one like Roxanne,” he’d said. “Your man is very lucky.”
Roxanne had smiled back at him, and laughed a little, and waved cheerfully as she went through the departure gate. Now, with rain dripping down her neck and buses swooshing by every few seconds, she felt less cheerful. London seemed a grey unfriendly place, full of litter and strangers. What was she living here for, anyway?
She reached her house, ran up the steps to the front door and quickly felt inside her bag for her keys. Her tiny little flat was on the top floor, with what estate agents described as far-reaching views over London. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was out of breath. She unlocked the door to her flat, pushed it open, and stepped over a pile of post. The air was cold and unheated and she knew her hot water would be off. Quickly she went into the little kitchen and switched on the kettle, then wandered back into the hall. She picked up her mail and began to flip through it, dropping all the uninteresting bills and circulars back onto the floor. Suddenly, at a handwritten white envelope, she stopped. It was a letter from him.
With cold hands, still wet from the rain, she tore it open and sank her eyes into the few lines of writing.
My darling Rapunzel
As many apologies as I can muster for Wednesday night. Will explain all. Now as my deserved punishment— must wait jealously for your return. Hurry home from Cyprus. Hurry, hurry.
The letter ended, as ever, with no name but a row of kisses. Reading his words, she could suddenly hear his voice; feel his touch on her skin; hear his warm laughter. She sank to the floor and read the letter again, and again, devouring it greedily with her eyes. Then eventually she looked up, feeling in some strange way restored. The truth was, that there was no conceivable alternative. She couldn’t stop loving him; she couldn’t just move to a new country and pretend he didn’t exist. She needed him in her life, just as she needed food and air and light. And the fact that he was rationed, the fact that she could not have him properly, simply made her crave him all the more.
Cocktails for Three Page 8
