Cocktails for Three

by Madeleine Wickham

  She ran down the corridor to the bedroom, where she had dumped the new box of nappies, and began to rip hastily at the cardboard. At last she managed to get the box open— to find the nappies snugly encased in plastic cocoons.

  “Oh God!” she said aloud, and began to claw frenziedly at the plastic, feeling like a contestant on some hideous Japanese game of endurance. Eventually her fingers closed over a nappy and she pulled it out, panting slightly. She ran back down the corridor to find Lucia in wailing paroxysms.

  “OK, I’m coming,” said Maggie breathlessly. “Just let me put your nappy on.” She bent down over Lucia and fastened the nappy around her as quickly as she could— then, with the baby in one arm, scrambled to the rocking chair in the corner. Every second seemed to count, with the noise of Lucia growing louder and louder in her ears. She reached with one hand under her jumper to unfasten her bra, but the catch was stuck. With a tiny scream of frustration, she placed Lucia on her lap and reached with the other hand inside her jumper as well, trying to free the catch; trying to stay calm. Lucia’s screams were getting higher and higher, faster and faster, as though the frequency on the record had been turned up.

  “I’m coming!” cried Maggie, jiggling hopelessly at the catch. “I’m coming as quick as I can, OK!” Her voice rose to a shout. “Lucia, be quiet! Please be quiet! I’m coming!”

  “There’s no need to scream at her, dear,” came a voice from the door.

  Maggie’s head jerked up in fright— and as she saw who it was, she felt her face drain of colour. There, watching her, lips tight with disapproval, was Paddy Drakeford.

  Candice stood, holding a cup of coffee, peering at her computer screen over the shoulder of the computer engineer and trying to look intelligent.

  “Hmm,” said the engineer eventually, and looked up. “Have you ever had any virus screening programs installed?”

  “Ahm . . . I’m not sure,” said Candice, and flushed at his glance. “Do you think that’s what it is, a virus?”

  “Hard to tell,” said the engineer, and punched a few keys. Candice surreptitiously looked at her watch. It was already eleven-thirty. She had called out a computer engineer believing he would fix her machine in a matter of minutes, but he had arrived an hour ago, started tapping and now looked like he was settled in for the day. She had already called Justin, telling him she would be late, and he had “Hinm’d” with disapproval.

  “By the way, Heather says, can you bring in her blue folder,” he’d added. “Do you want to have a word with her? She’s right here.”

  “No, I’ve . . . I’ve got to go,” Candice had said hastily. She had put down the phone, exhaled with relief, and sat down, her heart thudding slightly. This was getting ridiculous. She had to sort her own mind out; to rid herself of the tendrils of doubt that were growing inside her over Heather.

  Outwardly, she and Heather were as friendly as ever. But inside, Candice had started to wonder. Were the others right? Was Heather using her? She had still paid no rent, neither had she offered to. She had barely thanked Candice for doing that large amount of work for her. And she had— Candice swallowed— she had blatantly stolen Candice’s late-night shopping feature idea and presented it as her own.

  A familiar twinge went through Candice’s stomach and she closed her eyes. She knew that she should confront Heather on the matter. She should bring the subject up, pleasantly and firmly, and listen to what Heather had to say. Perhaps, reasoned a part of her brain, it had all been a misunderstanding. Perhaps Heather simply hadn’t realized that it wasn’t done to take credit for someone else’s idea. It was no big deal—all she had to do was mention it to Heather and see what the response was.

  But she couldn’t quite bring herself to. The thought of appearing to accuse Heather— of perhaps descending into an argument over it— filled her with horror. Things had been going so well between them— was it really worth risking a scene just over one little idea?

  And so for more than a week she had said nothing, and had tried to forget about it. But there was a bad feeling inside her stomach which would not go away.

  “Do you ever download from the Internet?” said the computer engineer.

  “No,” said Candice, opening her eyes. Then she thought for a second. “Actually, yes. I tried to once, but it didn’t really work. Does that matter?”

  The engineer sighed, and she bit her lip, feeling foolish. Suddenly the door bell rang, and she breathed out in relief.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Standing in the hall was Ed, wearing an old T-shirt, shorts and espadrilles.

  “So,” he said with no preamble. “Tell me about your flat-mate.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” said Candice, flushing defensively in spite of herself. “She’s just . . . living with me. Like flat-mates do.”

  “I know that. But where’s she from? What’s she like?” Ed sniffed past Candice. “Is that coffee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your flat always smells so nice,” said Ed. “Like a coffee shop. Mine smells like a shit-heap.”

  “Do you ever clean it?”

  “Some woman does.” He leaned further into the flat and sniffed longingly. “Come on, Candice. Give me some coffee.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Candice. “Come in.” At least it would be an excuse not to return to the computer engineer.

  “I saw your friend leaving this morning without you,” said Ed, following her into the kitchen, “and I thought—aha. Coffee time.”

  “Don’t you have any plans today?” said Candice. “Properties to visit? Daytime TV to watch?”

  “Don’t rub it in!” said Ed. He reached for the salt cellar and tapped it on his palm. “This bloody gardening leave is driving me nuts.”

  “What’s wrong?” said Candice unsympathetically.

  “I’m bored!” He turned the salt cellar upside down and wrote “Ed” in salt on the table. “Bored, bored, bored.”

  “You obviously don’t have any inner resources,” said Candice, taking the salt cellar from his fingers.

  “No,” said Ed. “Not a one. I went to a museum yesterday. A museum. Can you believe it?”

  “Which one?” said Candice.

  “I dunno.” said Ed. “One with squashy chairs.” Candice gazed at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes and turned away to fill the kettle. Ed grinned, and began to mooch about the kitchen.

  “So, who’s this kid?” he said, looking at a photograph tacked up on the pinboard.

  “That’s the Cambodian child I sponsor,” said Candice, reaching for the coffee.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Pin Fu. Ju,” she corrected herself. “Pin Ju.”

  “Do you send him Christmas presents?”

  “No. It’s not considered helpful.” Candice shook coffee into the cafetière. “Anyway, he doesn’t want some Western tat.”

  “I bet he does,” said Ed. “He’s probably dying for a Darth Vader. Have you ever met him?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever spoken to him on the phone?”

  “No. Don’t be stupid.”

  “So how do you know he exists?”

  “What?” Candice looked up. “Of course he exists! There he is.” She pointed at the photograph and Ed grinned wickedly at her.

  “You’re very trusting, aren’t you? How do you know they aren’t sending all you saps the same picture? Call him a different name each time; hive off the money for themselves. Does Pin Ju send you a personal receipt?”

  Candice rolled her eyes dismissively. Sometimes Ed wasn’t even worth responding to. She poured hot water into the cafetière and a delicious smell filled the kitchen.

  “So, you haven’t told me about Heather,” said Ed, sitting down. At the name, Candice felt a spasm inside her stomach, and looked away.

  “What about her?”

  “How do you know her?”

  “She’s . . . an old friend.” said Candice.<
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  “Oh yeah? Well, if she’s such an old friend, how come I never saw her before she moved in?” Ed leaned forward with an inquisitive gaze. “How come you never even mentioned her?”

  “Because . . . we lost touch, all right?” said Candice, feeling rattled. “Why are so you interested, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ed. “There’s something about her that intrigues me.”

  “Well, if she intrigues you so much, why don’t you ask her out?” said Candice curtly.

  “Maybe I will,” said Ed, grinning.

  There was a sharp silence in the kitchen. Candice handed Ed his cup of coffee and he took a sip. “You wouldn’t mind, would you, Candice?” he added, eyes gleaming slightly.

  “Of course not!” said Candice at once, and shook her hair back. “Why should I mind?”

  “Ahem.” The voice of the computer engineer interrupted them, and they both looked up.

  “Hi,” said Candice. “Have you found out what’s wrong?”

  “A virus,” said the engineer, pulling a face. “It’s got into everything, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh,” said Candice in dismay. “Well— can you catch it?”

  “Oh, it’s already long gone,” said the engineer. “These viruses are very slick. In and out before you know it. All I can do now is try to repair the damage it’s left behind.” He shook his head reprovingly. “And in future, Miss Brewin, I suggest you try to protect yourself a little better.”

  Maggie sat at her kitchen table, stiff with humiliation. At the Aga, Paddy lifted the kettle and poured scalding water into the teapot, then turned round and glanced at the Moses basket by the window.

  “She seems to be sleeping nicely now. I expect all that screaming wore her out.”

  The implied criticism was obvious, and Maggie flushed. She couldn’t bear to look Paddy in the eye; couldn’t bear to see that disapproving look again. You try! she wanted to scream. You try keeping calm after nights and nights of no sleep. But instead she stared silently down at the table, tracing the pattern of the wood round and round with her finger. Just keep going, she told herself, and clenched her other hand in her lap. Keep going till she’s gone.

  After arriving on the scene in the nursery, Paddy had left her alone to breastfeed and she had sat in misery, feeling like a punished child. She arrived downstairs, holding Lucia, to find that Paddy had tidied the kitchen, stacked the dishwasher and even mopped the floor. She knew she should have felt grateful— but instead she felt reproved. A good mother would never have let her kitchen descend into such a sordid state. A good mother would never have gone out without wiping down the kitchen surfaces.

  “Here you are,” said Paddy, bringing a cup of tea over to the table. “Would you like some sugar in it?”

  “No thanks,” said Maggie, still staring downwards. “I’m trying to keep tabs on my weight.”

  “Really?” Paddy paused, teapot in hand. “I found I needed to eat twice as much when I breastfed, otherwise the boys would have gone hungry.” She gave a short little laugh and Maggie felt a spasm of irrational hatred for her. What was she saying now? That she wasn’t feeding Lucia properly? That there was something inferior about her breast milk? A hot lump suddenly appeared in her throat and she swallowed hard.

  “And how are the nights going?” said Paddy.

  “Fine,” said Maggie shortly, and took a sip of tea.

  “Is Lucia settling into a routine?”

  “Not particularly,” said Maggie. “But actually, these days they don’t recommend bullying babies into routines.” She looked up and met Paddy’s gaze square-on. “They recommend feeding by demand and letting the baby settle into its own pattern.”

  “I see,” said Paddy, and gave another short laugh. “It’s all changed since my day.”

  Maggie took another gulp of tea and stared fixedly out of the window.

  “It’s a shame your parents couldn’t visit for a little longer,” said Paddy. A spasm of pain went through Maggie and she blinked hard. Did the woman have to twist every knife? Her parents had visited for two days while Maggie was in hospital— then, reluctantly, had had to leave. Both still worked, after all— and the drive from Derbyshire to Hampshire was a long one. Maggie had smiled brightly as they’d left, had promised she would be all right and would visit soon. But in truth their parting had hit her harder than she’d expected. The thought of her mother’s kindly face could still sometimes reduce her to tears. And here was Paddy, reminding her of the fact.

  “Yes, well,” she said, without moving her head, “they’re busy people.”

  “I expect they are.” Paddy took a sip of tea and reached into the tin for a biscuit. “Maggie—”

  “What?” Reluctantly, Maggie turned her head.

  “Have you thought about having any help with the baby? A nanny, for example.”

  Maggie stared at her, feeling as though she’d been hit in the face. So Paddy really did think she was an unfit mother; that she couldn’t care for her own child without paid help.

  “No,” she said, giving a laugh that was nearer tears. “Why, do you think I should?”

  “It’s up to you,” said Paddy, “of course—”

  “I’d rather look after my child myself,” said Maggie in a trembling voice. “I may not do it perfectly, but . . .”

  “Maggie!” said Paddy. “Of course I didn’t mean—” She broke off, and Maggie looked stiffly away. There was silence in the kitchen, broken only by Lucia’s sleeping snuffles.

  “Perhaps I should go,” said Paddy eventually. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

  “OK,” said Maggie, giving a tiny shrug.

  She watched as Paddy gathered her things together, shooting Maggie the odd anxious glance.

  “You know where I am,” she said. “Bye bye, dear.”

  “Bye,” said Maggie, with careless indifference.

  She waited as Paddy walked out of the kitchen and let herself out of the front door; waited as the car engine started and the gravel crackled under the wheels. And then, when the car had disappeared completely and she could hear nothing more, she burst into sobs.

  Chapter Twelve

  Roxanne sat on a wooden bench, her shoulders hunched and her face muffled in a scarf, staring across the road at Ralph Allsopp’s London home. It was a narrow house in a quiet Kensington square with black railings and a blue front door. A house that she’d seen the outside of too many times to count; a house that she’d cursed and wept at and stared at for hours— and never once stepped inside.

  At the beginning, years ago, she had secretly used to come and sit outside the house for hours. She would station herself in the square garden with a book and stare at the façade behind which Ralph and his family lived, as though trying to memorize each brick; each stone in the path, wondering if today she would catch a glimpse of her, or of him, or of any of them.

  For at that time, Cynthia had still spent most of her time in London— and Roxanne had quite often seen her coming up or down the steps with Sebastian, both dressed in exemplary navy blue overcoats. (From Harrods, probably, judging by the number of times Harrods delivery vans arrived at the front door.) The front door would open, and Roxanne would stiffen, and put down her book. Then Cynthia would appear. Cynthia Allsopp, with her elegant, oblivious face. And her little son Sebastian, with his innocent Christopher Robin haircut. Roxanne would sit and stare at them as they came down the steps and got into the car or walked off briskly down the road. She would take in every new addition to Cynthia’s wardrobe, every new hairstyle, every overheard word, every possible detail. The sight never failed to appal her; to fascinate her— and, ultimately, to depress her. Because Cynthia was his wife. That elegant, soulless woman was his wife. And she, Roxanne, was his mistress. His tawdry, tacky mistress. That initial excitement of seeing them— the feeling of power, almost— had always given way to a kind of emptiness; a black, destructive devastation.

  And yet she’d been unable to stop coming back—
unable to resist the draw of that blue front door— until the heart-stopping day when Ralph had come down the steps, holding a box full of books, glanced towards the garden square, and had seen her. She’d immediately hunched down, heart pounding, praying that he wouldn’t give her away; that he would remain cool. To his credit, he had done. But he had not been cool on the phone that evening. He had been angry— more angry than she’d ever known him. She’d pleaded with him, reasoned with him; promised never to set foot in the square again. And she’d kept that promise.

  But now she was breaking it. Now she didn’t give a fuck who saw her. Now she wanted to be seen. She reached into her pocket for her cigarettes and took out her lighter. The irony was, of course, that now, years later, it didn’t matter. The windows were dim; the house was empty. Cynthia didn’t even live in the bloody house now. She’d decamped to the country manor, and only came up for the Harrods sale. And Sebastian rode his little ponies, and everyone was happy. And that was the life Ralph was choosing over her.

  Roxanne inhaled deeply on her cigarette and exhaled with a shudder. She wasn’t going to cry any more. She’d ruined enough fucking make-up already. For the past two weeks, she’d sat at home, drinking vodka and wearing the same pair of leggings every day, and staring out of her window, sometimes crying, sometimes shaking, sometimes silent. She’d left the answer machine on and listened to messages mount up like dead flies— irrelevant, stupid messages from people she couldn’t be interested in. One, from Justin, had been to invite her to Ralph’s retirement drinks party— and she’d felt a pain shoot through her like an electric shock. He was really doing it, she’d thought, tears welling up yet again. He was really fucking doing it.

  Candice had left countless messages, and so had Maggie— and she had almost been tempted to phone back. Of all people, those were the ones she’d wanted to talk to. She’d even picked up the receiver once and begun to dial Candice’s number. And then she had stopped, shaking in terror, unable to think of what she would say; how she would even start. How she would halt the flow once she’d begun. It was too big a secret. Easier— so much easier— to say nothing. She’d had six years’ practice, after all.