The Gatecrasher
Page 28
“Are you all right, my love?” enquired a voice to her left. Maggie swivelled her head and, as her vision cleared, made out the kindly face of the coat-check lady.
“I’m fine,” she said, flashing a tight smile.
“Are you sure? Would you like a nice drink of water?”
“No, really, I’m fine.” As if to emphasize the point, she began to struggle out of her coat, self-consciously aware of the coat-check lady’s appraising gaze on her figure. For pregnancy wear, her black Lycra trousers and tunic were about as flattering as you could get. But still there it was, right in front her, wherever she moved. A bump the size of a helium balloon. Maggie handed over her coat and met the coat lady’s gaze head on.
If she asks me when it’s due, she thought, I swear I’ll smother her with Tinky Winky.
“When’s it due?”
Roxanne Miller stood in the ladies’ room of the Manhattan Bar, leaned forward and carefully outlined her lips in cinnamon-coloured pencil. She pressed them together, then stood back and studied her reflection critically, starting—as she always did—with her best features. Good cheekbones. Nothing could take away your cheekbones. Blue eyes a little bloodshot, skin tanned from three weeks in the Caribbean. Nose still long, still crooked. Bronzy-blond hair tumbling down from a beaded comb in her hair. Tumbling a little too wildly, perhaps. Roxanne reached into her bag for a hairbrush and began to smooth it down. She was dressed, as she so often was, in a white T-shirt. In her opinion, nothing in the world showed off a tan better than a plain white T-shirt. She put her hairbrush away and smiled, impressed by her own reflection in spite of herself.
Then, behind her, a lavatory flushed and a cubicle door opened. A girl of about nineteen wandered out and stood next to Roxanne to wash her hands. She had pale, smooth skin and dark sleepy eyes, and her hair fell straight to her shoulders like the fringe on a lampshade. A mouth like a plum. No make-up whatsoever. The girl met Roxanne’s eyes and smiled, then moved away.
When the swing doors had shut behind her, Roxanne still stayed, staring at herself. She suddenly felt like a blowsy tart. A thirty-three-year-old woman, trying too hard. In an instant, all the animation disappeared from her face. Her mouth drooped downwards and the gleam vanished from her eyes. Dispassionately, her gaze sought out the tiny red veins marking the skin on her cheeks. Sun damage, they called it. Damaged goods. Then there was a sound from the door and her head jerked round.
“Roxanne!” Maggie was coming towards her, a wide smile on her face, her nut-brown bob shining under the spotlights.
“Darling!” Roxanne beamed, and gaily thrust her makeup bag into a larger Prada tote. “I was just beautifying.”
“You don’t need it!” said Maggie. “Look at that tan!”
“That’s Caribbean sun for you,” said Roxanne cheerfully.
“Don’t tell me,” said Maggie, putting her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to know. It’s not even approaching fair. Why did I never do a single travel feature while I was editor? I must have been mad!” She jerked her head towards the door. “Go and keep Candice company. I’ll be out in a moment.”