Cocktails for Three (20 page)

“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.

“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.

They, of course, had assumed she was abroad. “Or perhaps you're with Mr. Married,” Maggie had said on one of her messages, and Roxanne had actually found
herself half laughing, half crying. Dear Maggie. If she only knew. “But we'll see you on the first,” Maggie had continued anxiously. “You will be there, won't you?”

Roxanne looked at her watch. It was the first of the month. It was six o'clock. In half an hour's time they would be there. The two faces— at this moment— dearest to her in the world. She stubbed out her cigarette, stood up and faced Ralph Allsopp's house square-on.

“Fuck you,” she said out loud. “Fuck you!” Then she turned and strode away, her heels clicking loudly on the wet pavement.

Ralph Allsopp lifted his head from the chair he was sitting in and looked towards the window. Outside, the sky was beginning to darken, and the street lights of the square were beginning to come on. He reached for a lamp and switched it on, and immediately the dim room brightened.

“Is there a problem?” said Neil Cooper, glancing up from his papers.

“No,” said Ralph. “I just thought I heard something. Probably nothing.” He smiled. “Carry on.”

“Yes,” said Neil Cooper. He was a young man, with a severe haircut and a rather nervous manner. “Well, as I was explaining, I think your easiest option, in this instance, is to add a short codicil to the will.”

“I see,” said Ralph. He stared at the panes of the window, wet with London rain. Wills, he thought, were like family life itself. They started off small and simple— then expanded over the years with marriage and children; grew even more complex with infidelity; with accumulated wealth; with divided loyalties. His own
will was now the size of a small book. A conventional family saga.

But his life had not been a mere conventional family saga.

“A romance,” he said aloud.

“I'm sorry?” said Neil Cooper.

“Nothing,” said Ralph, shaking his head as though to clear it. “A codicil. Yes. And can I draw that up now?”

“Absolutely,” said the lawyer, and clicked his pen expectantly. “If you give me, first of all, the name of the beneficiary?”

There was silence. Ralph closed his eyes, then opened them and exhaled sharply.

“The beneficiary's name is Roxanne,” he said, and his hand tightened slightly around the arm of his chair. “Miss Roxanne Miller.”

Maggie sat at a plastic table in a Waterloo café and took another sip of tea. Her train had arrived in London an hour ago, and originally she had thought she might take the opportunity to go shopping. But, having made her way off the train, the very thought of shops and crowds had exhausted her. Instead, she had come in here and ordered a pot of tea and had sat, immobile, ever since. She felt shell-shocked by the effort it had taken to get herself here; could scarcely believe she had once made that long journey every single day.