Cocktails for Three (36 page)

They stopped as they saw Candice and there was a tense silence as the three gazed at each other.

“It's you,” whispered Candice at last.

“It's us,” said Roxanne, nodding. “Isn't it, Maggie?”

Candice stared at her friends' unsmiling faces through a haze of fear. They hadn't forgiven her. They were never going to forgive her.

“I . . . Oh God. I'm so sorry.” Tears began to stream down her face. “I'm so sorry. I should have listened to you. I was wrong and you were right. Heather was . . .” She swallowed desperately. “She was a . . .”

“It's OK,” said Maggie. “It's OK, Candice. Heather's gone.”

“And we're back,” said Roxanne, and started to walk towards Candice with glittering eyes. “We're back.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The grave was plain and white; almost anonymous-looking amongst the rows in the suburban, functional cemetery. Perhaps it was a little untidier than most— overgrown with grass, its gravel scattered around the plot. But it was the plainly engraved name which differentiated it; which turned it from a meaningless slab of stone into a memorial of a life. She stared at it, chiselled into the stone in capital letters. The name she'd been ashamed of for all her adult life. The name she'd come, over the years, to dread hearing.

Candice clutched her bunch of flowers more tightly, and walked towards her father's grave. She hadn't been to visit it for years. Neither, judging by its state, had her mother. Both of them too consumed by anger, by shame, by denial. Both wanting to look ahead; to forget the past.

But now, staring at the overgrown stone, Candice felt a sense of release. She felt as though, in the last few weeks, she had handed all the blame, all the guilt, back to her father. It was his again, every last drop of it; her
shoulders were light again. And in return she was beginning to be able to forgive him. After years of feeling nothing for him but shame and hatred, she was beginning to recall her father in a different light; to remember all those good qualities which she'd almost forgotten. His wit, his warmth. His ability to put people at their ease; to singlehandedly entertain a whole table full of dullards. His generosity; his impulsiveness. His sheer enjoyment of the good things in life.

Gordon Brewin had caused a lot of misery in his life. A lot of pain and a lot of suffering. But he had also given a lot of people a great deal of pleasure. He had brought light and laughter; treats and excitement. And he had given her a magical childhood. For nineteen unsullied years, right up until his death, she had felt loved, secure and happy. Nineteen years of happiness. That was worth something, wasn't it?

With shaky legs, Candice took a step nearer the grave. He hadn't been an evil man, she thought. Only a man with flaws. A happy, dishonest, generous man with too many flaws to count. As she stared at his name, etched in the stone, hot tears came to her eyes and she felt again a childish, unquestioning love for him. She bent down, placed the flowers on his grave and brushed some of the spilled gravel back onto the plot, tidying the edges of the grave. She stood up and stared at it silently for a few moments. Then she turned abruptly and walked away, back to the gates where Ed was waiting for her.

“Where's the other godmother?” said Paddy, bustling up to Maggie in a rustle of blue flowery crêpe. “She's not going to be late, is she?”

“On her way, I'm sure,” said Maggie calmly. She
fastened a final button on Lucia's christening robe and held her up to be admired. “What do you think?”

“Oh, Maggie!” said Paddy. “She looks an angel.”

“She does look rather fine, doesn't she?” said Maggie, surveying the frothing trail of silk and lace. “Roxanne, come in here! See your god-daughter!”

“Let's have a look,” said Roxanne, and sauntered into the room. She was wearing a tightly fitted black and white suit, and a stiff, wide-brimmed hat with a curling ostrich feather. “Very nice,” she said. “Very nice indeed. Although I'm not sure about that bonnet affair. Too many ribbons.” Maggie gave a little cough.

“Actually,” she said, “Paddy very kindly made this bonnet, especially to match the christening robe. And I . . . I rather like the ribbons.”

“All my boys wore that robe when they were christened,” put in Paddy proudly.

“Hmm,” said Roxanne, looking the robe up and down. “Well, that explains a lot.” She met Maggie's eye and, without meaning to, Maggie gave a snort of laughter.

“Paddy,” she said, “do you think the caterers have brought napkins, or should we have provided them?”

“Oh dear,” said Paddy, looking up. “Do you know, I'm not sure. I'll just pop down and check, shall I?”

When she'd left the bedroom, there was silence for a while. Maggie popped Lucia under her baby gym on the floor and sat down at the dressing table to do her make-up.

“Budge up,” said Roxanne presently, and sat down next to her on the wide stool. She watched as Maggie hastily brushed shadow onto her eyelids and stroked mascara onto her lashes, checking her appearance peremptorily after each stage.

“Glad to see you still take your time with your maquillage,” she said.

“Oh absolutely,” said Maggie, reaching for her blusher. “We mothers enjoy nothing more than spending an hour in front of the mirror.”

“Slow down,” said Roxanne, and reached for a lip pencil. “I'll do your lips. Properly.” She swivelled Maggie's face towards her and carefully began to outline her mouth in a warm shade of plum. She finished the outline, studied her work, then reached for a lipstick and a lip brush.

“Listen here, Lucia,” she said as she brushed the colour on. “Your mother needs time to put on her lipstick, OK? So you just give her time. You'll realize why it's important when you're a bit bigger.” She finished, and handed Maggie a tissue. “Blot.”

Maggie pressed her lips slowly on the tissue, then drew it away from her mouth and looked at it.

“God, I'm going to miss you,” she said. “I'm really going to . . .” She exhaled sharply and shook her head. “Cyprus. I mean,
Cyprus
. Couldn't it have been . . . the Isle of Wight?”

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

 

Visit Madeleine online and sign up for her newsletter at
http://www.sophiekinsella.co.uk