Cocktails for Three

by Madeleine Wickham

  “What?”

  “I just heard it this morning. Wants to spend more time with his family, apparently,” said Justin. “So it looks like we’re all going to have a new boss. It seems one of his sons is going to take over. He’s coming in to meet us all next week.”

  “Gosh,” said Candice, taken aback. “I had no idea that was on the cards.” She frowned. “Does Maggie know about this?”

  “I doubt it,” said Justin, carelessly. “Why should she? She’s got other things to think about.” He took a sip of coffee, then glanced over her shoulder through the window at the editorial office. “That friend of yours is doing well, by the way.”

  “Who, Heather?” said Candice, with a glow of pride. “Yes, she is good, isn’t she? I told you she would be.” She turned to follow Justin’s gaze, met Heather’s eye and smiled.

  “She came to me with an excellent idea for a feature the other day,” said Justin. “I was impressed.”

  “Oh yes?” said Candice, turning back interestedly. “What’s the idea?”

  “Late-night shopping,” said Justin. “Do a whole piece on it.”

  “What?” Candice stared at him.

  “We’ll run it in the lifestyle section. Take a photographer down to a shopping mall, interview some customers . . .” Justin frowned at her flabbergasted expression. “What’s wrong? Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

  “Of course I do!” exclaimed Candice, feeling herself grow hot. “But . . .” She broke off feebly. What could she say without looking as though she wanted to get Heather into trouble?

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Candice slowly. She turned round again and glanced out of the window, but Heather had vanished. “It’s . . . it’s a great idea.”

  Heather stood by the coffee machine with Kelly, the editorial secretary. Kelly was a sixteen-year-old girl with long bony legs and a thin, bright-eyed face, always eager for the latest gossip.

  “You were working hard this morning,” she said, pressing the button for hot chocolate. “I saw you, typing hard!” Heather smiled, and leaned against the coffee machine. “And sending lots of things to Candice, weren’t you?” added Kelly.

  Heather’s head jerked up.

  “Yes,” she said carefully. “How could you tell that?”

  “I heard your e-mail pinging away!” said Kelly. “The two of you, pinging away all morning!” She laughed merrily, and picked up her polystyrene cup full of hot chocolate.

  “That’s right,” said Heather after a pause. “How observant of you.” She pressed the button for white coffee. “You know what all that e-mail was?” she said in a lower voice.

  “What?” said Kelly interestedly.

  “Candice makes me send all my work to her to be checked,” whispered Heather. “Every single word I write.”

  “You’re joking!” said Kelly. “Why does she do that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Heather. “I suppose she thinks I’m not up to scratch, or something . . .”

  “Bloody nerve!” said Kelly. “I wouldn’t stand for it.” She blew on her hot chocolate. “I’ve never liked that Candice very much.”

  “Really?” said Heather and moved casually nearer. “Kelly— what are you doing at lunchtime?”

  Roxanne sat opposite Ralph at her little dining table and looked accusingly at him across her mound of beef stroganoff.

  “You’ve got to stop cooking me such nice food!” she said. “I’m going to be fat now.”

  “Rubbish,” said Ralph, taking a sip of wine and running a hand down Roxanne’s thigh. “Look at that. You’re perfect.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” said Roxanne. “You haven’t seen me in a bikini.”

  “I’ve seen you in a lot less than a bikini.” Ralph grinned at her.

  “On the beach, I mean!” said Roxanne impatiently. “Next to all the fifteen-year-olds. There were scores of them in Cyprus. Horrible skinny things with long legs and huge brown eyes.”

  “Can’t stand brown eyes,” said Ralph obligingly.

  “You’ve got brown eyes,” pointed out Roxanne.

  “I know. Can’t stand them.”

  Roxanne laughed and leaned back in her chair, lifting up her feet so that they nestled in Ralph’s lap. As he reached down and began to massage them, she felt again the light tripping sensation in her heart; the lift of hope, of excitement. Ralph had arranged this meeting as an unexpected extra treat; a few days ago he had surprised her with a bouquet of flowers. It wasn’t her imagination— he was definitely behaving differently. Ever since she’d got back from Cyprus he’d been different. A sudden fizz of hope rose through Roxanne like sherbet in a glass of lemonade and she felt a smile spread across her face.

  “How did the trip go, by the way?” he added, stroking her toes. “I never asked. Same old thing?”

  “More or less,” said Roxanne. She reached for her wine and took a deep sip. “Oh, except you’ll never guess what. Nico Georgiou offered me a job.”

  “A job?” Ralph stared at her. “In Cyprus?”

  “At the new resort he’s building. Marketing manager or something.” Roxanne shook back her hair and looked provocatively at Ralph. “He’s offering a very good deal. What do you think? Shall I take it?”

  Over the years, she had often teased him like this. She would mention job opportunities in Scotland, in Spain, in America— some genuine, some fabricated. The teasing was partly in fun— and partly from a genuine need to make him realize that she was choosing to be with him; that she was not staying with him simply by default. If she was utterly honest with herself, it had also, in the past, been from a need to see him hurt. To see his face fall; to see him experience, just for a second, the feeling of loss that she felt every time he left her.

  But today, it was almost a test. A challenge. A way of getting him to talk about the future again.

  “He even sent me a box of tangerines,” she added, gesturing to the fruit bowl, where the tangerines were piled up in a shiny orange pyramid. “So he must be serious. What do you think?”

  What she expected was for him to grin, and say, “Well, he can sod off” as he usually did. What she wanted was for him to take her hands and kiss them and ask again what she wanted to be doing in a year’s time. But Ralph did neither. He stared at her as though she were a stranger— then, eventually, cleared his throat and said, “Do you want to take it?”

  “For God’s sake, Ralph!” said Roxanne, disappointment sharpening her voice. “I’m only joking! Of course I don’t want to take it.”

  “Why not?” He was leaning forward, looking at her with an odd expression on his face. “Wouldn’t it be a good job?”

  “I don’t know!” exclaimed Roxanne. “Since you ask, I expect it would be a marvellous job.” She reached for her cigarettes. “And naturally they’re desperate to have me. You know they’d even provide me with a house?” She lit her cigarette and looked at him through the smoke. “I haven’t noticed anyone at Allsopp Publications offering me any real estate.”

  “So—what did you say to them?” said Ralph, meshing his hands together as though in prayer. “How did you leave it?”

  “Oh, the usual,” said Roxanne. “Thanks but no thanks.”

  “So you turned it down.”

  “Of course I did!” said Roxanne, giving a little laugh. “Why? Do you think I should have said yes?”

  There was silence, and Roxanne looked up. At Ralph’s tense expression she felt a sudden coldness inside her.

  “You’re joking,” she said, and tried to smile. “You think I should have said yes?”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to move on. Take one of these opportunities up.” Ralph reached for his glass of wine with a trembling hand and took a sip. “I’ve held you back far too long. I’ve got in your way.”

  “Ralph, don’t be stupid!”

  “Is it too late to change your mind?” Ralph looked up. “Could you still go to them and say you’re interested?”


  Roxanne stared at him in shock, feeling as though she’d been slapped.

  “Yes,” she said eventually. “I suppose I could, in theory . . .” She swallowed, and pushed her hair back off her face, scarcely able to believe they were having this conversation. “Are you going to tell me I should? Do you . . . do you want me to take this job?” Her voice grew more brittle. “Ralph?”

  There was silence, then Ralph looked up.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do. I think you should take it.”

  There was silence in the room. This is a bad dream, thought Roxanne. This is a fucking bad dream.

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” she said at last, trying to stay calm. “Ralph, what’s going on? You were talking about the future. You were talking about Caribbean beaches!”

  “I wasn’t, you were.”

  “You asked me!” said Roxanne furiously. “Jesus!”

  “I know I did. But that was . . . dreaming. Idle fantasies. This is real life. And I think if you have an opportunity in Cyprus, then you should take it.”

  “Fuck the opportunity!” She felt close to tears, and swallowed hard. “What about you and me? What about that opportunity?”

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” said Ralph abruptly. “There’s something which will . . . make a difference to you and me.” He stood up, walked to the window, then, after a long pause, turned round. “I’m planning to retire, Roxanne,” he said without smiling. “To the country. I want to spend more time with my family.”

  Roxanne stared at his straight brown eyes. At first she didn’t comprehend what he was saying. Then, as his meaning hit her, she felt a stabbing pain in her chest.

  “You mean it’s over,” she whispered, her mouth suddenly dry. “You mean you’ve had your fun. And now you’re off to . . . to play happy families.”

  There was silence.

  “If you want to put it that way,” said Ralph eventually, “then yes.” He met her eye, then looked away quickly.

  “No,” said Roxanne, feeling her whole body starting to shake. “No. I won’t let you. You can’t.” She flashed a desperate smile at him. “It can’t be over. Not just like that.”

  “You’ll go to Cyprus,” said Ralph, a slight tremor in his voice. “You’ll go to Cyprus and you’ll make a wonderful new life for yourself. Away from all . . . all this.” He lifted a hand to his brow and rubbed it. “It’s for the best, Roxanne.”

  “You don’t want me to go to Cyprus. You don’t mean it. Tell me you don’t mean it.” She felt out of control, almost dizzy. In a minute she would start grovelling on the floor. “You’re joking.” She swallowed. “Are you joking?”

  “No, Roxanne. I’m not joking.”

  “But you love me!” Her smile grew even wider; tears began to drip down her cheeks. “You love me, Ralph.”

  “Yes,” said Ralph in a suddenly choked voice. “I do. I love you, Roxanne. Remember that.”

  He stepped forward, took her hands and squeezed them hard against his lips. Then, without saying anything he turned, picked up his coat from the sofa and left.

  Through a sea of pain, Roxanne watched him go; heard the front door shut. For a second she was silent, white-faced, quivering slightly, as though waiting to vomit. Then with a trembling hand she reached for a cushion, held it up to her face with both hands and screamed silently into it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Maggie leaned against a fence and closed her eyes, breathing in the clean country air. It was mid-morning, the sky was bright blue and there was a feel of summer about the air. In her previous life, she thought, she would have felt uplifted by the weather. She would have felt energized. But today, standing in her own fields, with her baby asleep in the pram beside her, all she could feel was exhausted.

  She felt pale and drained through lack of sleep; edgy and constantly on the verge of tears. Lucia was waking every two hours, demanding to be fed. She could not breastfeed her in bed, because Giles, with his demanding job, needed to sleep. And so she seemed to be spending the whole night sitting in the rocking chair in the nursery, falling into a doze as Lucia fed, then waking with a start as the baby began to wail again. As the greyness of morning approached, she would rouse herself, pad blearily into the bedroom, holding Lucia in her arms.

  “Good morning!” Giles would say, beaming sleepily from the big double bed. “How are my girls?”

  “Fine,” Maggie said every morning, without elaborating. For what was the point? It wasn’t as if Giles could feed Lucia; it wasn’t as if he could make her sleep. And she felt a certain dogged triumph at her own refusal to complain; at her ability to smile and tell Giles that everything was going wonderfully, and see him believe her. She had heard him on the phone, telling his friends, in tones of pride, that Maggie had taken to motherhood like a duck to water. Then he would come and kiss her warmly and say that everyone was amazed at how competent she was; at how everything had fallen into place so quickly. “Mother of the Year!” he said one evening. “I told you so!” His delight in her was transparent. She couldn’t spoil it all now.

  So she would simply hand Lucia to him and sink into the warm comfort of the bed, almost wanting to cry in relief. Those half-hours every morning were her salvation. She would watch Giles playing with Lucia and meet his eyes over the little downy head, and feel a warm glow creep over her; a love so strong, it was almost painful.

  Then Giles would get dressed and kiss them both, and go off to work, and the rest of the day would be hers. Hours and hours, with nothing to do but look after one small baby. It sounded laughably easy.

  So why was she so tired? Why did every simple task seem so mountainous? She felt as if she would never shift the fog of exhaustion that had descended on her. She would never regain her former energy, nor her sense of humour. Things that would have seemed mildly irritating before the birth now reduced her to tears; minor hitches that would once have made her laugh now made her panic.

  The day before, she had taken all morning to get herself and Lucia dressed and off in the car to the supermarket. She had stopped halfway to feed Lucia in the Ladies’, then had resumed and joined the queue— at which point Lucia had begun to wail. Maggie had flushed red as faces had begun to turn, and tried to soothe Lucia as discreetly as she could. But Lucia’s cries had grown louder and louder until it seemed the whole shop was looking at her. Finally the woman in front had turned round and said knowledgeably, “He’s hungry, poor little pet.”

  To her own horror, Maggie had heard herself snapping, “It’s a she! And she’s not! I’ve just fed her!” Almost in tears, she had grabbed Lucia from the trolley and run out of the shop, leaving a trail of astonished glances behind her.

  Now, remembering the incident, she felt cold with misery. How competent a mother could she be if she couldn’t even manage a simple shopping trip? She saw other mothers coolly walking along the streets, chatting unconcernedly to their friends; sitting in cafés with their babies quietly sleeping beside them. How could they be so relaxed? She herself would never dare enter a café for fear that Lucia would start screaming: for fear of those irritated, judgmental glances from those trying to enjoy a quiet coffee. The sorts of glances she had always given mothers with squalling babies.

  A memory of her old life rose in her mind— so tantalizing it made her want to sink down on the ground and weep. And immediately, as if on cue, Lucia began to cry; a small, plaintive cry, almost lost in the wind. Maggie opened her eyes and felt the familiar weariness steal over her. That piercing little cry dogged her every hour: she heard it in her dreams, heard it in the whine of the electric kettle, heard it in the running of the taps when she attempted to take a bath. She could not escape it.

  “OK, my precious,” she said aloud, smiling down into the pram. “Let’s get you back inside.”

  It was Giles who had suggested that she take Lucia outside for a walk that morning, and, seeing the cloudless blue sky outside, she had thought it a good idea. But now, pushing the pram back through resistan
t layers of thick mud, the countryside seemed nothing but a battleground. What was so superior about manure-scented air, anyway? she thought, shoving at the pram as it got stuck in a patch of brambles. Inside, Lucia began to wail even more piteously at the unaccustomed jolting movement.

  “Sorry!” said Maggie breathlessly. She gave one final push, freeing the wheel, and began to march more quickly towards the house. By the time she arrived at the back door, her face was drenched in sweat.

  “Right,” she said, taking Lucia out of the pram. “Let’s get you changed, and feed you.”

  Did talking to a four-week-old baby count as talking to oneself? she wondered as she sped upstairs. Was she going mad? Lucia was wailing more and more lustily, and she found herself running along the corridor to the nursery. She placed Lucia on the changing table, unbuttoned her snow suit and winced. Lucia’s little sleeping suit was sodden.

  “OK,” she crooned. “Just going to change you . . .” She pulled at the snowsuit and quickly unbuttoned thesleeping suit, cursing her fumbling fingers. Lucia’s wails were becoming louder and louder, faster and faster, with a little catch of breath in between. Tears appeared at the tiny creases of her eyes, and Maggie felt her own face flush scarlet with distress.

  “I’ve just got to change you, Lucia,” she said, trying to stay calm. She quickly pulled apart Lucia’s wet nappy, threw it on the floor and reached for another one. But the shelf was empty. A jolt of panic went through her. Where were the nappies? Suddenly she remembered taking the last one off the shelf before setting off for her walk; promising herself to open the box and restock the shelf. But of course, she hadn’t.

  “OK,” she said, pushing her hair back off her face. “OK, keep calm.” She lifted Lucia off the changing table and placed her on the safety of the floor. Lucia’s screams became incomparably loud. The noise seemed to drive through Maggie’s head like a drill.

  “Lucia, please!” she said, feeling her voice rise dangerously. “I’m just getting you a new nappy, OK? I’ll be as quick as I can!”