Cocktails for Three

by Madeleine Wickham

  Roxanne laughed. “Can you see me living on the Isle of Wight?”

  “Well, I can’t see you living in Cyprus!” retorted Maggie. There was a long pause, then she said reluctantly, “Well— perhaps I can. If I try hard.”

  “I’ll be back at least every month,” said Roxanne. “You won’t know I’m gone.” Her blue gaze met Maggie’s in the mirror. “And I meant what I said, Maggie. I still stand by it. If you ever feel down, if you’re ever depressed— ring me. Whatever time it is.”

  “And you’ll fly back,” said Maggie, laughing.

  “I’ll fly back,” said Roxanne. “That’s what you do for family.”

  As Ed turned into the drive of The Pines, he gave an impressed whistle.

  “So this is the house she’s selling? What the hell’s wrong with it?”

  “She wants to live in London again,” said Candice. “They’re going to live in Ralph’s house. Roxanne’s house. Whatever.” She looked anxiously in the mirror. “Do I look all right?”

  “You look bloody fantastic,” said Ed without turning his head.

  “Should I have worn a hat?” She stared at herself. “I hate hats. They make my head look stupid.”

  “No-one wears hats to christenings,” said Ed.

  “Yes they do!” As they approached the house, Candice gave a wail. “Look, there’s Roxanne. And she’s wearing a hat. I knew I should have worn one.”

  “You look like a cherub.” Ed leaned over and kissed her. “Babyface.”

  “I’m not supposed to be the baby! I’m supposed to be the godmother.”

  “You look like a godmother, too.” Ed opened his door. “Come on. I want to meet your friends.”

  As they crunched over the gravel, Roxanne turned and beamed at Candice. Then her gaze shifted to Ed and her eyes narrowed appraisingly.

  “Jesus Christ,” muttered Ed to Candice. “She’s checking me out with her bloody X-ray vision.”

  “Don’t be silly! She loves you already.” Candice strode breathlessly towards Roxanne and hugged her. “You look fantastic!”

  “And so do you,” said Roxanne, standing back and holding Candice by the shoulders. “You look happier than you have for a long time.”

  “Well . . . I feel happy,” said Candice, and glanced shyly at Ed. “Roxanne, this is—”

  “This is the famous Ed, I take it.” Roxanne’s gaze swivelled and her eyes gleamed dangerously. “Hello, Ed.”

  “Roxanne,” replied Ed. “Delighted to meet your hat. And you, of course.” Roxanne inclined her head pleasantly and surveyed Ed’s face.

  “I have to say, I thought you’d be better looking,” she said eventually.

  “Yup. Easy mistake to make,” said Ed, unperturbed. “A lot of people make it.” He nodded confidentially at Roxanne. “Don’t let it worry you.”

  There was a short silence, then Roxanne grinned.

  “You’ll do,” she said. “You’ll do nicely.”

  “Hey, godmothers!” came Maggie’s voice from the front door. “In here! I need to give you this sheet on what your duties are.”

  “We have duties?” said Roxanne to Candice, as they walked together across the gravel. “I thought we just had to be able to pick out silver.”

  “And remember birthdays,” said Candice.

  “And wave our magic wands,” said Roxanne. “Lucia Drakeford, you shall go to the ball. And here’s a pair of Prada shoes to go in.”

  The church was thick-walled and freezing, despite the heat of the day outside, and Lucia wailed lustily as the unheated water hit her skin. When the ceremony was over, Candice, Roxanne and Lucia’s godfather— an old university friend of Giles— posed together for photographs in the church porch, taking turns to hold her.

  “I find this very stressful,” muttered Roxanne to Candice through her smile. “What if one of us drops her?”

  “You won’t drop her!” said Candice. “Anyway, babies bounce.”

  “That’s what they say,” said Roxanne ominously. “But what if they forgot to put the indiarubber in this one?” She looked down at Lucia’s face and gently touched her cheek. “Don’t forget me,” she whispered, so quietly that not even Candice could hear. “Don’t forget me, little one.”

  “OK, that’s enough pictures,” called Maggie eventually, and looked around the crowd of milling guests. “Everybody, there’s champagne and food at the house.”

  “Well, come on then!” said Roxanne. “What are we waiting for?”

  Back at The Pines, a long trestle table had been laid out on the lawn and covered with food. A pair of ladies from the village were serving champagne and offering canapés, and a Mozart overture was playing from two speakers lodged in trees. Roxanne and Candice collected their drinks, then wandered off, a little way from the main crowd.

  “Delicious!” said Candice, taking a sip of icy cold champagne. She closed her eyes and let the warm summer sun beat down on her face, feeling herself expand in happiness. “Isn’t this lovely? Isn’t it just . . . perfect?”

  “Nearly perfect,” said Roxanne, and gave a mysterious grin. “There’s just one more thing we have to do.” She raised her voice. “Maggie! Bring your daughter over here!”

  As Candice watched in puzzlement, she reached into her chic little bag, produced a miniature of brandy and emptied it into her champagne glass. Then she produced a sugar lump and popped that in, too.

  “Champagne cocktail,” she said, and took a sip. “Perfect.”

  “What is it?” Maggie joined them, holding Lucia, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Didn’t it all go well? Wasn’t Lucia good?”

  “It was beautiful,” said Candice, squeezing her shoulder. “And Lucia was an angel.”

  “But it’s not quite over,” said Roxanne. “There’s one more vital ceremony that needs to be performed.” Her voice softened slightly. “Come here, Lucia.”

  As the others looked on in astonishment, Roxanne dipped her finger into the champagne cocktail and wetted Lucia’s brow.

  “Welcome to the cocktail club,” she said.

  For a few moments there was silence. Maggie stared down at her daughter’s tiny face, then looked up at the others. She blinked hard a few times, then nodded. Then, without speaking, the three turned and slowly walked back across the grass to the party.

  THE END

  MADELEINE WICKHAM is the author of several novels, including COCKTAILS FOR THREE, A DESIRABLE RESIDENCE, and THE GATECRASHER. As Sophie Kinsella, she has written a number of bestsellers including the Shopaholic series.

  Photo Credit: John Foley/Opale

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  Keep reading for a sneak peek of more

  Madeleine Wickham novels you won’t want to miss!

  40 LOVE

  Patrick Chance has the perfect setting for a tennis party—his beautiful new country house complete with stable, bar, Jacuzzi, and, of course, the tennis court. As his guests gather on the sunny terrace, it seems obvious who is winning in life and who is losing. But by the end of the party, nothing will be certain. As the first ball is served over the net, it signals the start of two days of tempers, shocks, revelations, the arrival of an uninvited guest, and the realization that the weekend is about anything but tennis. In this funny, penetrating, an
d perceptive novel, Madeleine Wickham is in stellar form, sure to please her many fans and gain her new ones as well.

  A DESIRABLE RESIDENCE

  Liz and Jonathan Chambers were stuck with two mortgages, mounting debts, and a miserable adolescent daughter. Then realtor Marcus Witherstone came into their lives—and it seemed he would solve all their problems. But soon Liz is lost in blissful dreams of Marcus, Jonathan is left to run their business, and neither of them has time to notice that their teenage daughter is developing an unhealthy passion for the tenants, Piers and Ginny. Everyone is tangled up with everyone else, and in the most awkward possible way. A wicked comedy of what happens when deceptions are just a bit too close to home.

  WEDDING GIRL

  Engaged to a man who is wealthy, serious, and believes her to be perfect—she is facing the biggest and most elaborate wedding imaginable. Milly’s past is locked away so securely she has almost persuaded herself that it doesn’t exist—until, with only four days to go, her secret catches up with her…. And when “I do” gives you déjà vu, it could be a problem. A delightful comedy that will leave readers desperately wanting more wonderful Wickham!

  SLEEPING ARRANGEMENTS

  When two families arrive at a villa in Spain for their vacation, they get a shock—it has been double booked. An uneasy week of sharing begins, and tensions soon mount in the soaring heat. But the temperature isn’t solely to blame: there’s a secret history between the families—and as tempers fray, an old passion begins to resurface…. Sit back, grab a cool drink, and get ready for a wonderfully wicked trip you’ll not soon forget!

  THE GATECRASHER

  Fleur Daxeny goes through more rich men than she does designer hats. Beautiful, charming, and utterly irresistible, her success at crashing funerals to find wealthy men is remarkable. Fleur is not one to wear her heart on her Chanel sleeves, but she soon finds her latest conquest, the handsome and rich widower Richard Favour, more lovable than she could have thought possible. Can she trust her heart, or will she cut ties and run away as fast as her Prada pumps can take her?

  COCKTAILS FOR THREE

  Each month, three staffers of The Londoner gather at a nearby lounge for a night of cocktails and gossip. But the events of one April evening will have permanent repercussions for the trio. Madeleine Wickham combines her trademark humor with poignant insight to create an edgy, romantic tale of secrets, strangers, and a splash of scandal.

  40 Love

  It was the sort of warm, scented evening that Caroline Chance associated with holidays in Greece; with glasses of ouzo and flirtatious waiters and the feel of cool cotton against burnt shoulders. Except that the sweet smell wafting through the air was not olive groves, but freshly mown English grass. And the sound in the distance was not the sea, but Georgina’s riding instructor, intoning—always with the same monotonous inflection—“Trot on. Trot on.”

  Caroline grimaced and resumed painting her toenails. She didn’t object to her daughter’s passion for riding—but neither did she comprehend it. The moment they had moved to Bindon from Seymour Road, Georgina had started clamoring for a pony. And, of course, Patrick had insisted she should be given one.

  In fact, Caroline had grown quite fond of the first pony. It was a sweet little thing, with a shaggy mane and a docile manner. Caroline had sometimes gone to look at it when no one was About, and had taken to feeding it Ferrero Rocher chocolates. But this latest creature was a monster—a huge great black thing that looked quite wild. At eleven, Georgina was tall and strong, but Caroline couldn’t understand how she could even get onto the thing, let alone ride it and go over jumps.

  She finished painting her right foot and took a slug of white wine. Her left foot was dry, and she lifted it up to admire the pearly color in the evening light. She was sitting on the wide terrace outside the main drawing room of the house. The White House had been built—rather stupidly, Caroline felt, given the English climate—as a sun trap. The stark white walls reflected the sun into the central courtyard, and the main rooms faced south. A vine bearing rather bitter grapes had been persuaded to creep along the wall above Caroline’s head, and several exotic plants were brought out of the greenhouse every summer to adorn the terrace. But it was still bloody freezing England. There wasn’t much they could do about that.

  Today, though, she had to concede, had been about as perfect as it could get. Translucent blue sky; scorching sun; not a gust of wind. She had spent most of the day getting ready for tomorrow, but luckily the tasks she had allotted herself—arranging flowers, preparing vegetables, waxing her legs—were the sort of thing that could be done outside. The main dishes—vegetable terrine for lunch; seafood tartlets for dinner—had arrived from the caterers that morning, and Mrs. Finch had already decanted them onto serving plates. She had raised an eyebrow—couldn’t you even bring yourself to cook for eight people?—but Caroline was used to Mrs. Finch’s upwardly mobile eyebrows and ignored them. For Christ’s sake, she thought, pouring herself another glass of wine, what was the point of having money and not spending it?

  A Desirable Residence

  There wasn’t much point, Liz told herself, in getting upset. It wasn’t his fault, poor man. The estate agent had finished talking and was looking at her concernedly, expecting a response. To gain time, she glanced out of the sash window of the office, the panes bright with the sun and raindrops of a confused September’s day. There was a little courtyard garden outside, walled, with a white wrought-iron bench and tubs of flowers. It must be nice in the summer, she thought, forgetting that this still was, to all intents and purposes, the summer. Her mind always worked at least half a term ahead.

  “Mrs. Chambers…?”

  “Oh yes, sorry,” said Liz, and turned back. “I was listening.” She smiled at the estate agent. He didn’t smile back.

  “I did warn your husband at the time the property went on the market,” he said, “that this might happen. I advised a price rather lower than your asking price.”

  “I know you did,” agreed Liz. She wondered why he felt it necessary to remind her. Was he feeling defensive? Did he experience a need to justify himself, explain why their house had been on the market for ten months with his agency and had failed to sell? She studied his young, well- shaven face for signs of I-told-you-so; if-you’d-listened-to-me…But his face was serious. Concerned. He was probably, she thought, not the sort of person who would countenance recriminations. He was simply pointing out the facts.

  “And now,” he was saying, “you must make a decision. You have, as I see it, two realistic options.”

  And a few unrealistic ones? Liz wanted to ask, but instead she looked intelligently at him, leaning forward slightly in her chair to show she was interested. She was beginning to feel rather hot; the sun was beating brightly through the panes of glass onto her cheeks. As usual, she had completely misjudged the early morning weather and dressed for a brisk autumn day. She should perhaps remove a layer of clothing. But the thought of taking off her unwieldy jersey—which would necessitate first removing her spectacles and Alice band—to reveal a crumpled denim shirt, which might or might not be stained with coffee, seemed too much to contemplate. Especially in front of this smooth estate agent. She glanced surreptitiously at him. He didn’t seem to be too hot; his face was tanned but not at all flushed, and his cuffs looked crisp and cool. Starched, probably, she thought, by his girlfriend. Or perhaps, bearing in mind how young he looked, his mother. The thought amused her.

  “Two options,” she said, more agreeably than she had intended.

  A flicker of something like relief passed across his face. Perhaps he had been expecting a scene. But before Liz could react to it, he was back into well-grooved, grown-up professionalism. “The first option,” he said, “would be to put your house back on the market and drop the price considerably.” Of course, thought Liz. Any fool could have told me that.

  “By about how much?” she asked politely. “Realistically speaking,” she added for good meas
ure, stifling a sudden, inappropriate urge to giggle. This conversation was unreal. Next thing she’d be saying, Let’s have the cards on the table, or, Would you run that by me again…Pull yourself together, she told herself sternly. This is serious.

  “Fifty thousand pounds. At least.”

  Liz’s head jerked up in shock. The giggle rising up inside her suddenly subsided; she felt shamefaced. No wonder this boy’s handsome face was so concerned. He was more worried about her situation than she was. And, to give him his due, it was worrying. “We’ve already reduced it by twenty,” she said, noting with slight horror that her voice was shaking. “And that’s less than the mortgage.”

  “I know,” he said. He looked down at the papers on his desk. “I’m afraid the market has dropped considerably since you bought.”

  “Not that much. It can’t have.” Belated worry made her belligerent. Of course she had seen the headlines in the papers. But she’d always skimmed them with her eyes; assumed they had no relevance to her. She’d avoided the chat of friends, some overtly anxious, others smugly triumphant. The property market this, the property market that. For heaven’s sake. Stupid phrase, anyway. The property market…It made her think of rows of market stalls covered in tiny houses, each with a price label tied around the chimney.

  “We can’t sell it for so little,” she added. She could feel her cheeks growing even more hot. “We just can’t. We won’t have enough to pay back the bank, and we only got the mortgage for the tutorial college on the basis of selling the house. We had some people interested in it then; they actually made an offer.” She stopped. A tide of humiliation seeped through her. How much older than this young man was she? And here she was, blurting out all her money worries, looking to him for an answer.