Cocktails for Three (11 page)

“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, with 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.

The phone rang and, with a sudden lift of hope, she
reached for the receiver. “Yes?” she said lightly, thinking that if it was him, she would get in a taxi and go to him straight away.

“Roxanne, it's Giles Drakeford.”

“Oh,” said Roxanne in surprise. “Is Maggie all—”

“It's a girl,” said Giles, sounding more emotional than she'd ever heard him. “It's a girl. Born an hour ago. A perfect little girl. Six pounds eight. The most beautiful baby in the world.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Maggie was . . . fantastic. She was so quick, I only just made it in time. God, it was just the most amazing experience. Everyone cried, even the mid-wives. We've decided we're going to call her Lucia. Lucia Sarah Helen. She's . . . she's perfect. A perfect little daughter.” There was silence. “Roxanne?”

“A daughter,” said Roxanne, in a strange voice. “Congratulations. That's . . . that's wonderful news.”

“I can't talk long,” said Giles. “To be honest, I'm bloody shattered. But Maggie wanted you to know.”

“Well, thanks for calling,” said Roxanne. “And congratulations again. And s-send all my love to Maggie.”

She put the phone down, and looked at it silently for a minute. Then, with no warning at all, she burst into tears.

Chapter Seven

The next day dawned bright and clear, with the smell of summer and good spirits in the air. On the way to the office, Roxanne stopped off at a florist and chose an extravagantly large bunch of lilies for Maggie from an illustrated brochure entitled “A New Arrival.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” enquired the florist, typing the details into her computer.

“A girl,” said Roxanne, and beamed at the woman. “Lucia Sarah Helen. Isn't that pretty?”

“LSH,” said the florist. “Sounds like a drug. Or an exam.” Roxanne gave the woman an annoyed glance, and handed her a Visa card. “They'll go out this afternoon,” added the woman, swiping the card. “Is that all right?”

“Fine,” said Roxanne, and imagined Maggie sitting up like one of the women in the brochure, in a crisp white bed, rosy-cheeked and serene. A tiny sleeping baby in her arms, Giles looking on lovingly and flowers all around. Deep inside her she felt something tug
at her heart, and quickly she looked up with a bright smile.

“If you could just sign there,” said the florist, passing a slip of paper to Roxanne, “and write your message in the box.” Roxanne picked up the biro and hesitated.

“Can't wait to mix Lucia her first cocktail,” she wrote eventually. “Much love and congratulations to you both from Roxanne.”

“I'm not sure that'll fit on the card,” said the florist doubtfully.

“Then use two cards,” snapped Roxanne, suddenly wanting to get away from the sickly scent of flowers; the brochure full of winsome photographs of babies. As she strode out of the shop, a petal fell from a garland onto her hair like confetti, and she brushed it irritably away.

She arrived at the editorial office a little after nine-thirty, to see Candice sitting cross-legged on the floor sketching something out on a piece of paper. Sitting next to her, head also bent over the piece of paper, was the blond-haired girl from the Manhattan Bar. For a few moments Roxanne gazed at them, remembering Maggie's phone call. Was this girl really trouble? Was she really using Candice? She looked outwardly innocuous, with her freckled snub nose and cheerful smile. But there was also, Roxanne noticed, a firmness to her jaw when she wasn't smiling, and a curious coolness to her grey eyes.