Cocktails for Three (12 page)

As she watched, the blond girl looked up and met Roxanne's gaze. Her eyes flickered briefly, then she smiled sweetly.

“Hello,” she said. “You probably don't remember me.”

“Oh yes I do,” said Roxanne, smiling back. “It's Heather, isn't it?”

“That's right.” Heather's smile became even sweeter. “And you're Roxanne.”

“Roxanne!” said Candice, looking up, eyes shining. “Isn't it wonderful news about the baby?”

“Fantastic,” said Roxanne. “Did Giles call you last night?”

“Yes. He sounded absolutely overwhelmed, didn't you think?” Candice gestured to the piece of paper. “Look, we're designing a card for the Art Department to make up. Then we'll get everyone to sign it. What do you think?”

“It's an excellent idea,” said Roxanne, looking fondly at her. “Maggie'll love it.”

“I'll take it down to the studio,” said Candice, standing up. Then she looked a little hesitantly from Heather to Roxanne. “You remember Heather, don't you, Roxanne?”

“Of course,” said Roxanne. “Maggie told me all about Heather joining the team. That certainly was quick work.”

“Yes,” said Candice, colouring slightly. “It's . . . it's all worked out really well, hasn't it?” She glanced again at Heather. “Right, well— I'll just pop down with this card. I won't be long.”

When she'd gone, there was silence between them. Roxanne gave Heather an appraising look and Heather stared back innocently, twisting a lock of hair around her finger.

“So, Heather,” said Roxanne at last, in a friendly tone. “How are you enjoying the
Londoner
?”

“It's wonderful,” said Heather, gazing at her earnestly. “I feel so lucky to be working here.”

“And I gather you're living with Candice now.”

“Yes, I am,” said Heather. “She's been so incredibly kind.”

“Has she?” said Roxanne pleasantly. “Well, you know, that doesn't surprise me at all.” She paused thoughtfully. “Candice is a very kind, generous person. She finds it very difficult to say no to people.”

“Really?” said Heather.

“Oh yes. I'm surprised you haven't picked that up.” Roxanne nonchalantly examined her nails for a moment. “In fact, her friends— including myself— sometimes get quite worried about her. She's the sort of person it would be so easy to take advantage of.”

“Do you think so?” Heather smiled sweetly at Roxanne. “I would have thought Candice could take pretty good care of herself. How old is she now?”

Well, thought Roxanne, almost impressed. She certainly gives as good as she gets.

“So,” she said, abruptly changing the subject, “I gather you've never worked on a magazine before.”

“No,” said Heather unconcernedly.

“But you're a very good writer, I hear,” said Roxanne. “You obviously impressed Ralph Allsopp tremendously at your interview.”

To her surprise, a faint pink flush began to creep up Heather's neck. Roxanne stared at it with interest until it faded away again.

“Well, Heather,” she said. “Lovely to meet you again. We'll be seeing lots of each other, I'm sure.”

She watched as Heather sauntered away, into Justin's office, noticing that Justin looked up with a smile as
Heather entered. Typical male, she thought acidly. He'd clearly already been seduced by Heather's sweet smile.

Roxanne stared through the window at Heather's cute, snub-nosed profile, trying to work her out. She was young, she was pretty, and probably talented to some degree. She was charming— on the surface. At face value, a lovely girl. So why did she make Roxanne's hackles rise? The consideration passed through Roxanne's mind that she might simply be jealous of Heather— and immediately she dismissed it.

As she stood, staring, Candice came back into the office, holding a colour page proof.

“Hi!” said Roxanne, smiling warmly at her. “Listen— fancy a quick drink after work?”

“I can't,” said Candice regretfully. “I promised Heather I'd go shopping with her. I'm going to find a present for Maggie.”

“No problem,” said Roxanne lightly. “Another time.”

She watched as Candice went into Justin's office, grinned at Heather and started talking. Justin immediately began to gesture, frowning, at the page proof— and Candice nodded earnestly and began to gesture herself. As they both stared, engrossed, at the proof, Heather slowly turned and met Roxanne's eyes coolly through the window. For a moment, they simply stared at each other— then Roxanne abruptly turned away.

“Roxanne!” Justin was looking up and calling. “Can you come and have a look at this?”

“In a minute!” called Roxanne and strode out of the office. She didn't wait for the lift but hurried, with a
sudden rush of adrenalin, up the stairs and straight along the corridor to Ralph Allsopp's office.

“Janet!” she said, stopping at his elderly secretary's desk. “Can I see Ralph for a moment?”

“He's not in, I'm afraid,” said Janet, looking up from her knitting. “Not in at all today.”

“Oh,” said Roxanne, subsiding slightly. “Damn.”

“He does know about Maggie's baby, though,” said Janet. “I told him when he rang in this morning. He was thrilled. Such a lovely name, too. Lucia.” She gestured to her knitting. “I'm just running her up a little matinée jacket.”

“Really?” said Roxanne, looking at the bundle of lemon wool as though it were a curiosity from another land. “That's very clever of you.”

“It takes no time, really,” said Janet, clicking briskly with her needles. “And she doesn't want to be dressing the little thing in shop-bought cardigans.”

Doesn't she? thought Roxanne in puzzlement. Why on earth not? Then she shook her head impatiently. She wasn't here to talk about baby clothes.

“Listen, Janet,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask,” said Janet, picking up her knitting again and beginning to click. “Doesn't mean you'll get.”

Roxanne grinned, and lowered her voice slightly.

“Has Ralph said anything to you about this new editorial assistant, Heather?”

“Not really,” said Janet. “Just that he was giving her the job.”

Roxanne frowned. “But when he interviewed her. He must have said something.”

“He thought she was very witty,” said Janet. “She'd written a very funny article about London Transport.”

“Really?” Roxanne looked at her in surprise. “Was it really any good?”

“Oh yes,” said Janet. “Ralph gave a copy of it to me to read.” She put down her knitting, leafed through a pile of papers on her desk and produced a piece of paper. “Here. You'll like it.”

“I doubt that,” said Roxanne. She glanced at the piece of paper, then put it in her bag. “Well, thanks.”

“And do give my love to Maggie when you speak to her,” added Janet fondly, shaking out the little yellow matinée jacket. “I do hope motherhood isn't too much of a shock for her.”

“A shock?” said Roxanne in surprise. “Oh no. Maggie'll be fine. She always is.”

A voice calling her name dragged Maggie from a vivid, frenzied dream in which she was running after something nameless and invisible. She opened her eyes in a flurry of panic and blinked a few times disorientatedly at the bright overhead light.

“Maggie?” Her eyes snapped into focus, and she saw Paddy, standing at the end of her hospital bed, holding an enormous bunch of lilies. “Maggie, dear, I wasn't sure if you were asleep. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” said Maggie in a scratchy voice. “I'm fine.” She tried to sit up, wincing slightly at her aching body, and pushed her hair back off her dry face. “What time is it?”

“Four o'clock,” said Paddy, looking at her watch, “just gone. Giles will be along any moment.”

“Good,” whispered Maggie. Giles, along with all
the other visitors, had been ejected from the ward at two o'clock so that the new mothers could catch up on some rest. Maggie had lain tensely awake for a while, waiting for Lucia to cry, then had obviously drifted off to sleep. But she didn't feel rested. She felt bleary and unfocused; unable to think straight.

“And how's my little granddaughter?” Paddy looked into the plastic cradle beside Maggie's bed. “Asleep like a lamb. What a good little baby! She's been an angel, hasn't she?”

“She was awake quite a lot of the night,” said Maggie, pouring herself a glass of water with shaking hands.

“Was she?” Paddy smiled fondly. “Hungry, I expect.”

“Yes.” Maggie looked through the glass of the crib at her daughter. A little bundle in a cellular blanket, her tiny, screwed-up face just visible. She didn't seem real. None of it seemed real. Nothing had prepared her for what this would be like, thought Maggie. Nothing.

The birth itself had been like entering another, alien world, in which her body responded to some force she had no control over. In which her dignity, her ideals, her self-control and self-image were obliterated; in which none of the rules of normal life applied. She had wanted to object; to call a halt to the whole proceedings. To produce some last-minute get-out clause. But it had been too late. There was no get-out clause; no escape route. No alternative but to grit her teeth and do it.

Already the hours of pain were fading from her memory. In her mind the whole event seemed to have kaleidoscoped around those last few minutes— the bright white lights and the arrival of the paediatrician and the actual delivery of the baby. And that, thought Maggie, had been the most surreal moment of all. The
delivery of another, living, screaming human being from inside her. Looking around the maternity ward at the faces of the other mothers, she could not believe how calmly they seemed to be taking this momentous, extraordinary event; how they seemed able to chat about brands of nappies and plots of soap operas, as though nothing of any importance had happened.

Or perhaps it was just that they'd all done it before. None of the other women on the ward was a first-time mother. They all dandled their little bundles with accustomed ease. They could simultaneously breastfeed and eat their breakfasts and talk to their husbands about redecorating the spare room. During the night, she had heard the girl in the bed next to hers joking with the midwife on duty about her baby.

“Greedy little bugger, isn't he?” she'd said, and laughed. “Won't leave me alone.” And Maggie, on the other side of the floral curtain, had felt tears pouring down her face as, once again, she tried to persuade Lucia to feed. What was wrong with her? she had thought frantically, as, yet again, Lucia sucked for a few seconds, then opened her mouth in a protesting shout. As the baby's squawls had become louder and louder, a midwife had appeared, looked at Maggie and pursed her lips with disapproval.

“You've let her get too wound up,” she'd said. “Try to calm her down first.”

Flushed with distress and humiliation, Maggie had tried to soothe a flailing, wailing Lucia. She had once read in an article that a newborn baby already knew its mother's smell; that a baby even a few hours old could be calmed by hearing its mother's voice. The article had concluded that the bond between mother and child
was one that could not be paralleled. But as Maggie had rocked her own newborn baby, Lucia's screams had only become louder and louder. With a sigh of impatience, the midwife had eventually reached for her. She had laid the baby on the bed, wrapped her up tightly in a blanket, and lifted her up again. And almost immediately, Lucia's cries had ceased. Maggie had stared at her own baby, peaceful and quiet in someone else's arms, and had felt cold with failure.

“There,” the midwife had said more kindly. “Try again.” Stiff with misery, Maggie had taken the baby from her, fully expecting Lucia to protest. She had held Lucia to her breast and, almost magically, the baby had begun to feed contentedly.

“That's more like it,” the midwife had said. “You just need a bit of practice.”

She had waited a few minutes, then had looked more closely at Maggie's red-rimmed eyes. “Are you OK? Not feeling too down?”

“Fine,” Maggie had said automatically, and forced herself to smile brightly at the midwife. “Honestly. I just need to get to grips with it.”

“Good,” the midwife had said. “Well, don't worry. Everyone has trouble at first.”

She'd glanced at Lucia, then left the flowery cubicle. As soon as she'd gone, tears had begun to pour down Maggie's face again. She'd stared straight ahead at the end of her bed, feeling the hot wetness on her cheeks, but not daring to move or make a sound lest she disturbed Lucia— or even worse, was heard by one of the other mothers. They would think her a freak, to be crying over her baby. Everybody else in the ward was happy. She should be happy, too.

“These lilies arrived for you just as I was leaving,” Paddy was saying now. “Shall we find another vase here, or shall I take them back to the house?”

“I don't know,” said Maggie, rubbing her face. “Did . . . did my mother call?”

“Yes,” said Paddy, beaming. “She's coming down tomorrow. Unfortunately she couldn't take today off. Some crucial meeting.”

“Oh,” said Maggie, trying not to let her disappointment show on her face. After all, she was a grown woman. What did she need her mother for?

“And look, here's Giles!” said Paddy brightly. “I'll go and fetch us all a nice cup of tea, shall I?” She laid the lilies carefully on the bed and walked off briskly. Where she was going to find a nice cup of tea, Maggie had no idea. But then, Paddy was that kind of woman. Abandoned in the middle of the jungle with nothing but a penknife, she would still, no doubt, be able to rustle up a nice cup of tea— and probably a batch of scones as well.

Maggie watched as mother and son greeted each other. Then, as Giles approached her bed, she tried to compose her features into light-hearted friendliness; a suitable expression for a happy, loving wife. The truth was, she felt dissociated from him, unable to communicate on anything but a surface level. In a matter of twenty-four hours she had moved into a new world without him.