Cocktails for Three

by Madeleine Wickham

  “I love it,” said Candice. She took a few steps into the warm red kitchen and ran her hand over the wooden table. “When you said a house, I imagined . . . I had no idea.”

  “I stayed here quite a bit,” said Ed. “When my parents were splitting up. I used to sit in front of that window, playing with my trains. Sad little git, really.”

  “How old were you?” said Candice.

  “Ten,” said Ed. “The next year, I went away to school.”

  He turned away, staring out of the window. Somewhere in the house, a clock was still ticking; outside was a still, country silence. Over Ed’s shoulder, through the glass, Candice could see a bird pecking anxiously in a pink-painted flowerpot.

  “So,” said Ed, turning to face her. “What do you reckon I’d get for it?”

  “You’re not going to sell it!” said Candice in horror.

  “No,” said Ed, “I’m going to become a bloody farmer and live in it.”

  “You wouldn’t have to live in it all the time. You could keep it for—”

  “Weekends?” said Ed. “Drive down every Friday rush hour to sit and freeze? Give me a break, Candice.”

  “Oh well,” said Candice. “It’s your house.” She looked at a framed sampler on the wall. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Next to it was a charcoal drawing of a shell, and below that a child’s painting of three fat geese in a field. Looking more closely, Candice saw the name “Edward Armitage” written in a teacher’s hand in the bottom left-hand corner.

  “You never told me it was like this,” she said, turning round. “You never told me it was so . . .” She spread her hands helplessly.

  “No,” said Ed. “Well, you never asked.”

  “So what happened to my breakfast,” murmured Maggie, lying in the crook of Giles’s arm. Lazily he shifted, and opened one eye.

  “You want breakfast, too?”

  “You bet I do. You don’t get off that lightly.” Maggie sat up to allow Giles to move, then flopped back on the pillows and watched as he sat up and reached for his T-shirt. Halfway through putting it on, he stopped.

  “I don’t believe it!” he whispered. “Look at this!” Maggie sat up and followed his gaze. Lucia was fast asleep on the carpet, her little hands curled into fists.

  “Well, we obviously didn’t disturb her,” she said with a giggle.

  “How much did that cot cost?” said Giles ruefully. He tiptoed past Lucia, lifted the tray of breakfast off the table and presented it to Maggie.

  “Madam.”

  “Fresh coffee, please,” she said at once. “This is lukewarm.”

  “The management is devastated,” said Giles. “Please accept this complimentary glass of orange juice and array of fine croissants with our humblest apologies.”

  “Hmmm,” said Maggie, taking a doubtful sip. “Plus a meal for two at the restaurant of my choice?”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Giles. “It’s the least the management can do.”

  He took the cafetière and headed out of the room. Maggie sat up, pulled open a croissant and spread it thickly with the amber-coloured conserve. She took a huge bite and then another, savouring the buttery taste, the sweetness of the jam. Simple food had never tasted so delicious. She felt as though her taste buds, along with everything else, had been temporarily dulled and then sprung back to life.

  “This is more like it,” said Giles, coming back into the room with fresh coffee. He sat down on the bed, and smiled at Maggie. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Maggie, and took a gulp of tangy orange juice. Sunlight glinted off the glass as she put it back down on the tray and took another bite of apricot croissant. Warm colours, sweet and light, like heaven in her mouth. She looked out of the window again at the green fields, shining in the sunshine like an English paradise, and felt a momentary pull towards them.

  Brambles and weeds, she reminded herself. Mud and manure. Cows and sheep. Or cars and shops and taxis. Bright lights. People.

  “I think,” she said casually, “I might go back to work.” She took a sip of grainy, delicious coffee and looked up at Giles.

  “Right,” he said cautiously. “To your old job? Or . . .”

  “My old job,” said Maggie. “Editor of the Londoner. I was good at it, and I miss it.” She took another sip of coffee, feeling pleasurably in command of the situation. “I can still take a few months more maternity leave, and then we can hire a nanny, and I can go back.”

  Giles was silent for a few minutes. Cheerfully, Maggie finished her first croissant and began to spread jam on the second.

  “Maggie . . .” he said eventually.

  “Yes?” She smiled at him.

  “Are you sure about this? It would be hard work.”

  “I know. And so is being a full-time mother.”

  “And you think we could find a nanny . . . just like that?”

  “Thousands of families do,” said Maggie. “I don’t see why we should be any different.”

  Giles frowned. “It would be a very long day. Up on the train, all day at work, back again . . .”

  “I know. It would if we carried on living here.” Maggie looked at Giles and her smile broadened. “And that’s why we’re going to have to move back to London.”

  “What?” Giles stared at her. “Maggie, you’re not serious.”

  “Oh yes I am. Lucia agrees, too, don’t you, sweetheart? She wants to be a city girl, like me.” Maggie glanced fondly over at Lucia, still fast asleep on the floor.

  “Maggie . . .” Giles swallowed. “Darling, aren’t you overreacting just a tad? All our plans have always been—”

  “Your plans,” put in Maggie mildly.

  “But with my mother so close, and everything, it seems absolutely crazy to—”

  “Your mother agrees with me.” Maggie smiled. “Your mother, in case you didn’t know, is a star.”

  There was silence as Giles gazed at her in astonishment. Then, suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed.

  “You women! You’ve been bloody plotting behind my back, haven’t you?”

  “Maybe.” Maggie smiled wickedly.

  “You’ll be telling me next you’ve sent for house details in London.”

  “Maybe,” said Maggie after a pause, and Giles guffawed.

  “You’re unbelievable. And have you spoken to them at work?”

  “Not yet,” said Maggie. “But I’ll phone the new chap today. I want to catch up with what’s been going on, anyway.”

  “And do I have any function in any of this?” said Giles. “Any role whatsoever?”

  “Hmmm.” Maggie looked at him consideringly. “You could make some more coffee, if you like.”

  Candice and Ed sat outside in the sunshine, side by side on the front doorstep, drinking instant coffee out of oddly shaped pottery mugs. Beside them was a plate of elderly digestive biscuits, found in a tin and abandoned after the first bite.

  “You know the really stupid thing?” said Candice, watching a squirrel dart across the top of the barn roof. “I still feel guilty. I still feel guilty towards her.”

  “Heather?” said Ed in amazement. “You’re joking. After everything she did?”

  “Almost because of everything she did. If she could hate me that much . . .” Candice shook her head. “What does that mean about what my father did to her family? He must have utterly ruined their lives.” She looked soberly at Ed. “Every time I think about it I feel cold all over.”

  There was silence. In the distance a peewit called shrilly and flapped out of a tree.

  “Well, I don’t know a lot about guilt,” said Ed at last. “Being a lawyer.” He took a sip of coffee. “But one thing I do know is that you have nothing to feel bad about. You didn’t rip off Heather’s family. Your father did.”

  “I know. But . . .”

  “So. You can feel sorry about it— like you feel sorry about an earthquake. But you can’t feel guilty about it. You can’t blame yourself.” He looked directly at her.
“It wasn’t you, Candice. It wasn’t you.”

  “I know,” said Candice after a pause. “You’re right. In my head, I know you’re right. But . . .” She took a sip of coffee and sighed miserably. “I’ve got everything wrong, haven’t I? It’s as if I’ve been seeing everything upside down.” Carefully she put down her coffee cup and leaned back against the painted door frame. “I mean, these last few weeks, I was so happy. I really thought Heather and I were . . .”

  “In love with each other?”

  “Almost that.” Candice gave a shamefaced laugh. “We just got on so well . . . And it was silly things. Like . . .” She gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. One time she gave me a pen.”

  “A pen?” said Ed, grinning.

  “Yes,” said Candice defensively. “A pen.”

  “Is that all it takes to win your heart? A pen?” Ed put down his coffee and reached into his pocket.

  “No! Don’t be—” Candice stopped as Ed produced a scruffy old biro.

  “Here you are,” he said, presenting it to her. “Now do you like me?”

  “Don’t laugh at me!” said Candice, feeling a flush come to her cheeks.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are! You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” she said, and felt an embarrassed flush suffuse her face. “You think I’m just a stupid . . .”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

  “You despise me.”

  “You think I despise you.” Ed looked at her without the glimmer of a smile. “You really think I despise you, Candice.”

  Candice raised her head and looked up into his dark eyes. And as she saw his expression, she felt a sliding sensation, as though the ground had fallen away from beneath her; as though the world had swung into a different focus. She stared silently at Ed, unable to speak; scarcely able to breathe. A leaf blew into her hair, but she was barely aware of it.

  For an endless, unbearable time, neither of them moved. Then, very slowly, Ed leaned towards her, his eyes still pinned on hers. He raised one finger and ran it down her cheek. He touched her chin and then, very gently, the corner of her mouth. Candice gazed back, transfixed by a longing so desperate it was almost fear.

  Slowly he leaned closer, touched her earlobe, softly kissed her bare shoulder. His lips met the side of her neck and Candice shuddered, unable to control herself, unable to stop herself wanting more. And then, finally, he bent his head and kissed her, his mouth first gentle, then urgent. They paused, and looked at each other, not speaking; not smiling. As he pulled her, determinedly, to her feet and led her into the house, up the stairs, her legs were as staggery as those of a newborn calf.

  She had never made love so slowly; so intensely. The world seemed to have dwindled to Ed’s two dark eyes, staring into hers, mirroring her own hunger; her own gradual, unbelieving ecstasy. As she’d come to orgasm, she’d cried out in tears, at the relief of what seemed like a lifetime’s tension. Now, sated, she lay in his arms, gazing up at the ceiling, in a room whose details she was only now beginning to notice. Plain white walls; simple blue and white curtains; an old oak bed. A surprising haven of tranquillity after the riot of colour downstairs. Her gaze shifted to the window. In the distance she could see a flock of sheep hurrying down a hill, jostling each other as though afraid of being late.

  “Are you asleep?” said Ed after a while. His hand caressed her stomach and she felt a fresh, undeserved delight run through her body.

  “No.”

  “I’ve wanted you ever since I’ve known you.”

  There was a pause, then Candice said, “I know.” Ed’s hand moved slowly up to her breast and she felt a renewed frisson of self-consciousness; of strangeness at being so close to him.

  “Did you . . . want me?” he said.

  “I want you now,” said Candice, turning towards him. “Is that enough?”

  “It’ll do,” said Ed, and pulled her down to kiss him.

  Much later, as the evening sun crested the hills, they wandered downstairs.

  “There should be some wine somewhere,” said Ed, going into the kitchen. “See if you can find some glasses on the dresser.”

  Yawning slightly, Candice went into the little adjoining parlour. A pine dresser in the corner was covered with colourful crockery, postcards of paintings and thick, bubbled glasses. As she went towards it, she passed a writing desk, and glanced down as she did so. A handwritten letter was poking out of the tiny drawer, beginning, “Dear Edward.”

  Edward, she thought hazily. Ed. Dear Ed.

  Curiosity overwhelmed her. She struggled with herself for a few moments— then glanced back at the door and pulled the letter out a little further.

  Dear Edward, she read quickly. Your aunt was so pleased to see you last week; your visits do her the power of good. The last cheque was much appreciated and so generous. I can hardly believe—

  “Found them?” Ed’s voice interrupted Candice, and she hastily stuffed the letter away.

  “Yes!” she said, grabbing two glasses off the dresser. “Here we are.” As Ed entered the room she looked at him anew.

  “You must miss your aunt,” she said. “Did you . . . visit her much?”

  “A fair bit.” He shrugged. “She was a bit gaga by the end. Had a nurse living in, and everything.”

  “Oh, right,” said Candice casually. “That must have been pretty expensive.”

  A faint colour came to Ed’s cheeks.

  “The family paid,” he said, and turned away. “Come on. I’ve found some wine.”

  They sat outside, sipping wine, watching as the sun grew lower and a breeze began to blow. As it got chillier, Candice moved closer to Ed on the wooden bench, and he put an arm round her. The silence was complete, thought Candice. Unlike anything in London. Her mind floated absently for a while, landed on Heather and quickly bounced away again, before the flash of pain could catch light from her thoughts. No point thinking about it, she told herself. No point reliving it all.

  “I don’t want to go back,” she heard herself saying.

  “Then let’s not. Let’s stay the night,” said Ed.

  “Really?”

  “It’s my house,” said Ed, and his arm tightened around Candice’s shoulders. “We can stay as long as we like.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was three days later that Maggie got round to ringing Charles Allsopp about coming back to work. She waited until Paddy arrived for morning coffee, then handed Lucia to her, together with a load of house details.

  “I want to sound businesslike,” she explained. “No wailing babies in the background.”

  “Good idea,” said Paddy cheerfully. “Are these more London houses?”

  “Arrived this morning. I’ve put red crosses on the ones I think are possibles.”

  Maggie waited until Paddy had carried Lucia carefully off to the sitting room, then dialled the number of Allsopp Publications.

  “Hello, yes,” she said, as soon as the phone was answered. “Charles Allsopp, please. It’s Maggie Phillips.” Then she beamed in pleasure. “Yes, I’m fine, thanks, Doreen. Yes, she’s fine, too. An absolute poppet.”

  Paddy, from inside the sitting room, caught Maggie’s eye and gave her an encouraging smile. This, she thought, as she dangled a pink furry octopus in front of Lucia’s waving hands, this is what the real Maggie was like. Confident and cheerful and in command. Thriving on a challenge.

  “I’ll miss you,” she murmured to Lucia, letting the baby grasp her finger and tug at it. “I’ll miss you. But I think you’ll be happier. Don’t you?” Paddy reached for one of the estate agents’ house details and began to read the description, trying to conceal her shock at the pitiful size of the garden and the enormous figure printed in bold black and white at the top of the page. For that money around here . . . she found herself thinking— then smiled at herself. For that money around here you could buy The Pines. And look what a success that had been.

  “Yes, I look forward to it, too, Charle
s,” she could hear Maggie saying in the kitchen. “And I’ll be in contact with Justin. Oh, could you? Well, thank you. And I look forward to our meeting. Yes. Bye.” She looked up, caught Paddy’s eye and gave the thumbs-up, “He seems really nice!” she hissed. “He even suggested I have a computer set up at home, so I can . . . Oh, hello, Justin,” she said in a louder voice. “Just wondering how it’s all going?”

  “Shall we get you a computer?” said Paddy, smiling down at Lucia. “Would you like that?” She tickled Lucia’s little tummy and watched in pleasure as the baby began to chortle. “Are you going to be clever like your mummy? Are you going to be—”

  “What?” Maggie’s voice came ripping out of the kitchen, and both Paddy and Lucia jumped. “You did what?”

  “Goodness,” said Paddy. “I wonder . . .”

  “And she didn’t have any explanation?” Maggie stood up and began to pace furiously about the kitchen. “Oh, she did. And you followed that up, did you?” Maggie’s voice grew colder. “I see. And nobody thought to consult me?” There was a pause. “No, I’m not angry, Justin. I’m livid.” There was another pause. “Justin, I don’t give a fuck about your spot-checks!”

  “Goodness!” said Paddy again, and glanced nervously at Lucia.

  “Yes, I am challenging your authority!” shouted Maggie. “To be frank, you don’t deserve any!” She thrust the phone down and said angrily, “Wanker!” Then she picked up the phone again and jabbed in a number.

  “Oh dear,” said Paddy faintly. “I wonder what—”

  “Come on,” said Maggie in the kitchen, drumming her nails on the wooden table. “Come on, answer the phone. Candice, where the hell are you?”

  Candice was lying in the garden of the cottage, staring up at the leaves above her. The early summer sun was warm on her face and she could smell the sweet scent of lavender on the breeze. But she was cold inside as thoughts she had tried to put from her mind during the last few days came crowding in.

  She had been suspended from work. She had been publicly branded dishonest. And she had ruined the two friendships that meant most to her in the world. A sharp wave of pain went through Candice and she closed her eyes. How long ago was it that the three of them had been sitting in the Manhattan Bar, innocently ordering their cocktails, unaware that the girl in the green waistcoat standing at their table was about to enter their lives and ruin everything? If only she could rewind and play the scene again, thought Candice miserably. If only Heather hadn’t been serving that night. If only they’d gone to a different bar. If only . . . A sickening self-reproach went through Candice and she sat up, trying to escape her thoughts, wondering what Ed was doing. He had disappeared mysteriously off that morning, muttering something about a surprise. As long as it wasn’t more hideous local cider, she thought, and raised her face, enjoying the warm breeze on her cheeks.