Cocktails for Three (22 page)

She surrendered her coat to the coat check, took her silver button and turned towards the throng. At first she
thought she must be the first to arrive. But then, suddenly, she spotted Roxanne. She was sitting alone at a table in the corner, a drink already in front of her. As she turned her head, unaware she was being watched, Maggie's stomach gave a small lurch. Roxanne looked terrible. Her face was shadowed, her eyes looked bloodshot, and there was a weary downward crease to her mouth. A hangover, Maggie would have thought, or jetlag— had it not been for the expression in Roxanne's eyes. Those bright snappy eyes, usually so full of wit and verve, were tonight dull and unseeing, as though nothing around her interested her. As Maggie watched, Roxanne picked up her glass and took a deep gulp. Whatever was in it was obviously strong, thought Maggie, and she felt a slight pang of alarm.

“Roxanne!” she called, and began to make her way to the table, threading through the crowds of people. “Roxanne!”

“Maggie!” Roxanne's face lit up and she stood up, holding her arms out. The two women embraced for slightly longer than usual; as Maggie pulled away, she saw that Roxanne's eyes were glistening with tears.

“Roxanne, are you OK?” she said cautiously.

“I'm fine!” said Roxanne at once. She flashed a bright smile and reached into her bag for her cigarettes. “How are
you
? How's the babe?”

“We're all fine,” said Maggie slowly. She sat down, staring at Roxanne's trembling hands as she scrabbled for her lighter.

“And Giles? How's he enjoying being a father?”

“Oh, he loves it,” said Maggie drily. “All ten minutes a day of it.”

“Not exactly a New Man, then, our Giles?” said Roxanne, lighting up.

“You could say that,” said Maggie. “Roxanne—”

“Yes?”

“Are you OK? Seriously.”

Roxanne looked at her through a cloud of smoke. Her blue eyes were full of pain; she seemed to be struggling to keep control.

“I've been better,” she said eventually. “Thanks for all your messages, by the way. They really kept me going.”

“Kept you going?” Maggie stared at her, aghast. “Roxanne, what's going on? Where have you been?”

“I haven't been anywhere.” Roxanne gave a wobbly smile and dragged on her cigarette. “I've been at home, drinking lots of vodka.”

“Roxanne, what the hell's happened?” Maggie's eyes sharpened. “Is it Mr. Married?”

Roxanne looked for a moment at the still-burning end of her cigarette, then stubbed it out with a suddenly vicious movement.

“You know I said watch this space? Well, you needn't have bothered.” She looked up. “Mr. Married is out of the picture. His choice.”

“Oh my God,” whispered Maggie. She reached for Roxanne's hands across the table. “God, you poor thing. The bastard!”

“Hello there!” A cheery voice interrupted them and they both looked up. Scarlett O'Hara was smiling at them, notebook in hand. “May I take your order?”

“Not yet,” said Maggie. “Give us a few minutes.”

“No, wait,” said Roxanne. She drained her glass and gave it to Scarlett. “I'd like another double vodka and
lime.” She smiled at Maggie. “Vodka is my new best friend.”

“Roxanne—”

“Don't worry! I'm not an alcoholic. I'm an alcohollover. There's a difference.”

Scarlett disappeared, and the two friends looked at each other.

“I don't know what to say,” said Maggie, and her hands clenched the table. “I feel like going over to wherever he lives, and—”

“Don't,” cut in Roxanne. “It's . . . it's fine, really.” Then, after a pause, she looked up with a glint in her eye. “What, out of interest?”

“Scraping his car,” said Maggie fiercely. “That's where it hurts them.” Roxanne threw back her head and roared with laughter.

“God, I've missed you, Maggie.”

“You too,” said Maggie. “Both of you.” She sighed, and looked around the humming bar. “I've been looking forward to this evening like a little kid. Counting off the days!”

“I would have thought there was no room in your grand country life for us any more,” said Roxanne, grinning slyly at her. “Aren't you too busy going to hunt balls and shooting things?” Maggie gave her a wan smile, and Roxanne frowned. “Seriously, Maggie. Is it all OK? You look pretty beat-up.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“You're welcome.”

“Here you are!” The voice of Scarlett O'Hara interrupted them. “One double vodka with lime.” She put the glass down and smiled at Maggie. “And can I get you anything?”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Maggie, picking up the cocktail menu and putting it down again. “I was going to wait until we were all here.”

“Where is Candice, anyway?” said Roxanne, lighting another cigarette. “She is definitely coming?”

“I suppose so,” said Maggie. “Oh, come on, I can't wait any longer.” She looked up at the waitress. “I'll have a Jamaican Rumba, please.”

“And a Margarita for me,” said Roxanne. “Can't have you starting on the cocktails without me,” she added, at Maggie's look. As the waitress retreated, she leaned back in her chair and looked appraisingly at Maggie. “So, come on. What's it like, being Mummy Drakeford of The Pines?”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Maggie, after a pause. She picked up a silver coaster and stared at it, twisting it round and round in her fingers. Part of her yearned to confide in someone. To share her feelings of weariness and loneliness; to describe her deteriorating relationship with Giles's mother; to try and paint a picture of the monotonous drudgery that her life seemed, overnight, to have become. But another part of her couldn't bring herself to admit such defeat, even to such a close friend as Roxanne. She was used to being Maggie Phillips: editor of the
Londoner
, clever and organized and always on top of things. Not Maggie Drakeford, a pale, fatigued, disillusioned mother who couldn't even bring herself to go shopping.

And how could she begin to explain how these feelings of weariness and depression were bound up inextricably with a love; a joy so intense it could leave her feeling faint? How could she describe the wonderment every time she saw the flash of recognition in Lucia's
eyes; every time those tiny wrinkled features broke into a smile? How could she convey the fact that during some of her happiest moments she was, nevertheless, in tears of exhaustion?

“It's different,” she said eventually. “Not quite how I imagined it.”

“But you're enjoying it.” Roxanne's eyes narrowed. “Aren't you?”

There was silence. Maggie put the coaster down on the table and began to trace circles on it with her finger.

“I'm enjoying it, of course I am,” she began after a while. “Lucia's wonderful, and . . . and I love her. But at the same time . . .” She broke off and sighed. “Nobody can have any idea what it's—”

“Look, there's Candice,” interrupted Roxanne. “Sorry, Maggie. Candice!” She stood up and peered through the throng. “What's she doing?”

Maggie turned in her seat and followed Roxanne's gaze.

“She's talking to someone,” she said, wrinkling her brow. “I can't quite see who . . .” She broke off in dismay. “Oh no.”

“I don't believe it,” said Roxanne slowly. “I don't believe it! She's brought that bloody girl.”

As Candice picked her way through the crowd of people to the table where Maggie and Roxanne were sitting, she felt Heather tugging at her sleeve, and turned back.

“What's wrong?” she said, looking at Heather's anxious expression in surprise.

“Look, Candice, I'm not sure about this,” said
Heather. “I'm not sure I'm going to be welcome. Maybe I'd better just go.”

“You can't go!” said Candice. “Honestly, they'll be delighted to see you. And it'll be nice for you to meet them properly.”

“Well . . . OK,” said Heather after a pause.

“Come on!” Candice smiled at Heather and took her hand, pulling her forward. She felt buoyant tonight; overflowing with good spirits and affection. Towards Heather, towards Maggie and Roxanne; even towards the waitress dressed as Doris Day who crossed their path, forcing them to stop. “Isn't this fun?” she said, turning to Heather. “Just think, a few weeks ago it would have been you, dressing up.”

“Until you rescued me from my sad waitressing life,” said Heather, squeezing Candice's hand. “My own Princess Charming.” Candice laughed, and pushed on through the crowds.

“Hi!” she said, arriving at the table. “Isn't it busy tonight!”

“Yes,” said Roxanne, looking at Heather. “Overpopulated, one might say.”

“You remember Heather, don't you?” said Candice cheerfully, looking from Roxanne to Maggie. “I thought I'd ask her along.”

“Evidently,” muttered Roxanne.

“Of course!” said Maggie brightly. “Hello, Heather. Nice to see you again.” She hesitated, then moved her chair round to make space at the little table.

“Here's another chair,” said Candice. “Plenty of room!” She sat down and smiled at her two friends. “So, how are you both? How's life, Roxanne?”

“Life's just fine,” said Roxanne, after a pause, and took a gulp of her vodka.

“And you, Maggie? And the baby?”

“Yes, fine,” said Maggie. “Everything's fine.”

“Good!” said Candice.

There was an awkward silence. Maggie glanced at Roxanne, who was sipping her vodka, stony-faced. Candice smiled encouragingly at Heather, who grinned nervously back. Then, in the corner of the bar, the jazz band began to play “Let's Face the Music” and suddenly a man in top hat and tails appeared, leading a woman in a white Ginger Rogers dress. As the crowd cleared a space for them, the two began to dance, and a round of applause broke out. The noise seemed to bring the group back to life.

“So, are you enjoying working for the
Londoner,
Heather?” said Maggie politely.

“Oh yes,” said Heather. “It's a great place to work. And Justin's a wonderful editor.” Roxanne's head jerked up.

“That's what you think, is it?”

“Yes!” said Heather. “I think he's fantastic!” Then she looked at Maggie. “Sorry, I didn't mean—”

“No,” said Maggie, after a pause. “Don't be silly. I'm sure he's doing marvellously.”

“Congratulations on the birth of your baby, by the way,” said Heather. “I gather she's very sweet. How old is she?”

“Seven weeks,” said Maggie, smiling.

“Oh right,” said Heather. “And you've left her at home, have you?”

“Yes. With my mother-in-law.”

“Is it OK to leave them that young?” Heather spread
her hands apologetically. “Not that I know anything about babies, but I once saw a documentary saying you shouldn't leave them for the first three months.”

“Oh, really?” Maggie's smile stiffened a little. “Well, I'm sure she'll be fine.”

“Oh, I'm sure she will!” Heather blinked innocently. “I don't know anything about it, really. Look, here comes a waiter. Shall we order?” She picked up her cocktail menu, looked at it for a second, then lifted her eyes to meet Roxanne's.

“And what about you, Roxanne?” she said sweetly. “Do you think you'll ever have children?”

By the time the others were all ordering their second cocktails, Roxanne was on her fifth drink of the evening. She had eaten nothing since lunchtime, and the potent combination of vodka and Margaritas was beginning to make her head spin. But it was either keep drinking, and try somehow to alleviate the tension inside her, or scream. Every time she looked up and met Heather's wide-eyed gaze she felt acid rising in her stomach. How could Candice have fallen for her smooth talk? How could Candice— one of the most sensitive, observant people she knew— be so utterly blind in this case? It was crazy.

She glanced up, met Maggie's eye over her cocktail and rolled her eyes ruefully. Maggie looked about as cheerful as she felt. What a bloody disaster.

“I don't actually think much of this place,” Heather was saying dismissively. “There's a really great bar in Covent Garden I used to go to. You should try it.”

“Yes, why not?” said Candice, looking around the table. “We could probably do with a change.”

“Maybe,” said Maggie, and took a sip of her cocktail.

“That reminds me!” said Heather, suddenly bubbling over with laughter. “Do you remember that school trip to Covent Garden, Candice? Were you on it? Where we all got lost and Anna Staples got her shoulder tattooed.”

“No!” said Candice, her face lighting up. “Did she really?”

“She had a tiny flower done,” said Heather. “It was really cute. But she got in terrible trouble. Mrs. Lacey called her in, and she'd put a plaster over it. So then Mrs. Lacey said, ‘Is something wrong with your shoulder, Anna?' “ Heather and Candice both dissolved into giggles, and Roxanne exchanged disbelieving looks with Maggie.

“Sorry,” said Candice, looking up with bright eyes. “We're boring you.”

“Not at all,” said Roxanne. She took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to Heather.

“No thanks,” said Heather. “I always think smoking ages the skin.” She smiled apologetically. “But that's just me.”

There was silence as Roxanne lit up, blew out a cloud of smoke and looked through it at Heather with dangerously glittering eyes.

“I think I'll go and check on Lucia,” said Maggie, and pushed her chair back. “I won't be a minute.”

The quietest place to call from was the foyer. Maggie stood by the glass door looking out onto the street, watching as a group of people in black tie hurried past. She felt flushed, hyped up by the evening and yet exhausted. After all the preparation, all the effort, she
was not enjoying herself as much as she had hoped. Partly it was that Candice had ruined the cosy familiar threesome by bringing along her awful friend. But partly it was because she herself felt frighteningly brain-dead; as though she could not keep up with the conversation. Several times she had found herself groping for the right word and having to give up. She, who was supposed to be an intelligent, articulate person. As she leaned against the wall and took out her mobile phone, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror opposite, and felt a jolt of shock at how fat she looked; how grey her face looked, despite the make-up she had carefully put on. Her eyes looked miserably back at her, and suddenly she found herself wishing she were at home, away from Candice's hateful friend and her insensitive comments, away from the bright lights and the pressure to sparkle.