Cocktails for Three

by Sophie Kinsella

  She had not intended it to be that way. She had wanted him there beside her; with her in every sense. But by the time the message had got to him at work, she had been well into the throes of labour. He had arrived just in time for the last half-hour, by which time she had barely been aware of his existence. Now, although he could claim to have been present at his daughter’s birth, she felt that he had seen the denouement without experiencing any of the build-up; that he would never fully understand what she had been through.

  As she had stared, shocked and silent at her new daughter, he had cracked jokes with the nurses and poured glasses of champagne. She had craved some time alone together; a moment or two of quiet in which to gather her thoughts. A chance for the two of them to acknowledge the unbelievable nature of what had just passed. A chance for her to talk honestly, without putting on an act. But after what seemed like only a few minutes, a midwife had come and gently told Giles it was time for all visitors to leave the maternity ward and that he could return in the morning. As he’d gathered his belongings, Maggie had felt her heart start to thud with panic. But instead of letting him see her fear, she’d smiled cheerfully as he’d kissed her goodbye, and even managed a crack about all the other women waiting for him at home. Now she smiled again.

  “You took your time.”

  “Did you have a nice sleep?” Giles sat down on the bed and stroked Maggie’s hair. “You look so serene. I’ve been telling everyone how wonderful you were. Everyone sends their love.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Everyone I could think of.” He looked at the crib. “How is she?”

  “Oh, fine,” said Maggie lightly. “She hasn’t done much since you left.”

  “Nice flowers,” said Giles, looking at the lilies. “Who are they from?”

  “I haven’t even looked!” said Maggie. She opened the little envelope and two embossed cards fell out. “Roxanne,” she said, laughing. “She says she’s going to mix Lucia her first cocktail.”

  “Typical Roxanne,” said Giles.

  “Yes.” As Maggie stared down at the message, she could hear Roxanne’s husky, drawling voice in her mind, and to her horror, felt the treacherous tears pricking her eyes again. Hurriedly she blinked, and put the cards down on the bedside table.

  “Here we are!” came Paddy’s voice. She was carrying a tray of cups and accompanied by a midwife Maggie didn’t recognize. Paddy put the tray down and beamed at Maggie. “I thought perhaps, after your tea, you could give Lucia her first bath.”

  “Oh,” said Maggie, taken aback. “Yes, of course.”

  She took a sip of tea and tried to smile back at Paddy, but her face was red with embarrassment. It hadn’t even occurred to her that Lucia would need a bath. It hadn’t even occurred to her. What was wrong with her?

  “Has she fed recently?” said the midwife.

  “Not since lunchtime.”

  “Right,” said the midwife cheerfully. “Well, maybe you’d like to feed her now. Don’t want to leave her too long. She’s only a little thing.”

  A renewed stab of guilt went through Maggie’s chest and her face flushed even brighter.

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll . . . I’ll do it now.”

  Aware of everyone’s eyes on her she reached into the crib, picked up Lucia and began to unwrap the tiny cellular blanket.

  “Let me hold her for a moment,” said Giles suddenly. “Let me just look at her.” He picked Lucia up, nestling her comfortably into the crook of his arm. As he did so, she gave an enormous yawn, then her tiny screwed-up eyes suddenly opened. She stared up at her father, her little pink mouth open like a flower.

  “Isn’t that the most beautiful sight?” said Paddy softly.

  “Can I have a little look?” said the midwife.

  “Of course,” said Giles. “Isn’t she perfect?”

  “Such a healthy colour!” said Paddy.

  “That’s what I was wondering about,” said the midwife. She placed Lucia on the bed and briskly unbuttoned her sleepsuit. She stared at Lucia’s chest, then looked up at Maggie. “Has she always been this colour?”

  “Yes,” said Maggie, taken aback. “I . . . I think so.”

  “She’s got a tan,” said Giles, and laughed uncertainly.

  “I don’t think so,” said the midwife, and frowned. “Someone should have picked this up. I think she’s got jaundice.”

  The unfamiliar word hung in the air like a threat. Maggie stared at the midwife and felt the colour drain from her cheeks; felt her heart begin to thump. They’d lied to her. They’d all lied. Her baby wasn’t healthy at all.

  “Is it very serious?” she managed.

  “Oh no! It’ll clear up in a few days.” The woman looked up at Maggie’s face and burst into laughter. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. She’ll live.”

  Ralph Allsopp sat on a bench outside the Charing Cross Hospital, watching as a man with a broken leg painfully made his way past on crutches; as two nurses greeted each other and began to chatter animatedly. On his lap was a greetings card he had bought from the hospital shop, depicting a crib, a bunch of flowers and a winsome, grinning baby. “My dear Maggie,” he had written shakily inside the card. Then he had stopped and put the pen down, unable to write any more.

  He felt ill. Not from the disease itself: that had crept up quietly, unnoticed, like a friendly confidence trickster. It had slipped one silent toe inside him, and then another— and then had spread quickly about his body with the assurance of a welcome guest. Now it had squatter’s rights. It could do as it pleased; could not be dislodged. It was stronger than him. And perhaps because of that fact— because it knew its own power— it had, until now, treated him with relative kindness. Or maybe that was all part of its strategy. It had tiptoed around him, setting up camp wherever it could find a foothold, letting him remain unaware of its presence until it was too late.

  Now, of course, he was no longer unaware. Now he knew it all. He had had his disease explained to him carefully by three separate doctors. Each had apparently been concerned that he should understand every single detail completely, as though he were entering an exam on the subject. Each had looked him straight in the eye with a practised, compassionate expression; had mentioned counselling and hospices and Macmillan Nurses— then, after a pause, his wife. It had been taken for granted that his wife and family would be told; that his staff would be told; that the world would be told. It had been taken for granted that this dissemination of information was his task; his choice; his responsibility.

  And it was this responsibility which made Ralph feel ill; which made him feel a coldness up and down his spine, a nausea in the pit of his stomach. The responsibility was too much. Whom to tell. What to tell. How many boats to rock at once. For the moment the words were out of his lips, everything would change. It seemed to him that he would immediately become public property. His life— his limited, diminishing life— would no longer be his own. It would belong to those he loved. And therein lay the problem; the heartache. To whom did those last months, weeks, days, belong?

  By speaking now, he would grant the rest of his life to his wife, to his three children, to the closest of his friends. And so it should be. But to include was also to exclude; to reveal was also to attract scrutiny. By speaking now, it seemed to him, his last months would at once be placed under a giant magnifying glass, allowing no secrets; no intruders; no unexpected elements. He would be obliged to play out the remainder of his life in conventional, noble fashion.

  For, after all, cancer patients were not adulterers, were they?

  Ralph closed his eyes and massaged his brow wearily. Those doctors thought they owned the sum of the world’s knowledge, with their graphs and scans and statistics. What they didn’t know was that outside the consulting room, life was more complicated than that. That there were factors they knew nothing about. That the potential for hurt and misery was enormous.

  He could, of course, have told them everything. Offered them his dilemma
as he had offered his body; watched them whispering and conferring and consulting their textbooks. But what would have been the point? There was no solution, just as there was no cure to his illness. All ways forward would be painful; the most he could hope was to minimize the pain as much as possible.

  Feeling a sudden shaft of determination, he picked up his pen again. “A new little light in the world,” he wrote in the baby card. “With many congratulations and love from Ralph.” He would buy a magnum of champagne, he suddenly decided, put the card in with that and send the whole lot by special delivery. Maggie deserved something special.

  He sealed the envelope, stood up stiffly, and looked at his watch. Half an hour to go. Half an hour to rid his pockets of all leaflets, all pamphlets, all evidence; to rid his nostrils of that cloying hospital smell. To turn from a patient back into an ordinary person. A taxi was cruising slowly along the street and he hurried forward to hail it.

  As it moved off through the thick evening traffic, he stared out of the window. People were bad-temperedly barging past one another as they crossed the road and he gazed at them, relishing the normality of their expressions after the guarded looks of the doctors. He would hold on to that normality for as long as possible, he thought fiercely. He would hold on to that easy, wonderful disregard for the miracle of human existence. People weren’t designed to roam the earth constantly and gratefully aware of their healthy functioning bodies. They were designed to strive, to love, to fight and bicker; to drink too much and eat too much and lie too long in the sun.

  He got out of the taxi at a corner and walked slowly along the street to the house in which she lived. As he looked up he could see all her windows lit up and uncurtained in a brilliant, defiant blaze. The sight seemed suddenly to have a strange poignancy. His unwitting Rapunzel in her tower, unaware of what the future held. A dart of pain went through his heart and for a moment, he desperately wanted to tell her. To tell her that very night; to hold her tight and weep with her into the small hours.

  But he would not. He would be stronger than that. Taking a deep breath, he quickened his pace and arrived at her front door. He pressed the buzzer and after a few moments the front door was released. Slowly he climbed the stairs, arrived at the top and saw her waiting at her front door. She was wearing a white silk shirt and a short black skirt and the light from behind was burnishing her hair. For a few moments he just stared at her. “Roxanne,” he said eventually. “You look . . .” “Good,” she said, and her mouth curved in a half-smile. “Come on in.”

  Chapter Eight

  The gift shop was small and quiet and sweetly scented— and, although the rest of the shopping mall seemed to be crowded with people, practically empty. Candice walked around, listening to her own footsteps on the wooden floor and looking doubtfully at sampler cushions and mugs saying “It’s a Girl!” She stopped by a shelf of stuffed toys, picked up a teddy bear and smiled at it. Then she turned it over to look at the price and, as she saw the ticket, felt herself blanch.

  “How much?” said Heather, coming up behind her.

  “Fifty pounds,” said Candice in an undertone, and hastily stuffed the bear back onto the shelf.

  “Fifty quid?” Heather stared at the teddy incredulously, then began to laugh. “That’s outrageous! It hasn’t even got a nice face. Come on. We’ll go somewhere else.”

  As they walked out of the shop, Heather unselfconsciously took Candice’s arm in hers, and Candice felt herself blush slightly with pleasure. She could hardly believe it was only a week since Heather had moved in with her. Already they felt like old friends; like soulmates. Every night, Heather insisted on cooking a proper supper and opening a bottle of wine; every night she had another entertainment planned. One evening she had given Candice a facial, another evening she’d brought home videos and popcorn; the next, she’d brought home an electric juicer and announced she was setting up a juice bar in the kitchen. By the end of that evening their hands had been raw from peeling oranges and they’d produced approximately one glass of warm, unappealing juice— but they’d both been in fits of giggles. Even now, remembering it, Candice felt a giggle rising.

  “What?” said Heather, turning towards her.

  “The juicer.”

  “Oh God,” said Heather. “Don’t remind me.” She paused by the entrance to a big department store. “Here, what about in here? There must be a baby department.”

  “Oh, that’s a good idea,” said Candice.

  “In fact, I’m just going to slip off,” said Heather. “I’ve got something I need to buy. So I’ll see you in the baby department.”

  “OK,” said Candice, and headed for the elevator. It was seven o’clock at night, but the shop was as crowded and bustling as though it were the middle of the day. As she arrived at the baby department she felt a sudden slight selfconsciousness, but forced herself to walk forward, among all the pregnant women staring at prams. A row of little embroidered dresses took her eye and she began to leaf through the rack.

  “Here you are!” Heather’s voice interrupted her and she looked up.

  “That was quick!”

  “Oh, I knew what I wanted,” said Heather, and flushed slightly. “It’s . . . actually, it’s for you.”

  “What?” Puzzled, Candice took the paper bag Heather was holding out to her. “What do you mean, it’s for me?”

  “A present,” said Heather, gazing earnestly at her. “You’ve been so good to me, Candice. You’ve . . . transformed my life. If it weren’t for you, I’d be . . . well. Something quite different.”

  Candice stared back at her wide grey eyes and felt suddenly shamefaced. If Heather only knew. If she only knew the real reason for Candice’s generosity; knew the trail of guilt and dishonesty that lay behind their friendship. Would she still be standing there, looking at Candice with such candid, friendly eyes?

  Feeling suddenly sick at her own deceit, Candice ripped the bag open and drew out a slim silver pen.

  “It’s not much,” said Heather. “I just thought you’d like it. For when you’re writing up your interviews.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Candice, feeling tears coming to her eyes. “Heather, you really shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” said Heather. She took Candice’s arm and squeezed it. “I’m so glad I ran into you, that night. There’s something really . . . special between us. Don’t you think? I feel as if you’re my closest friend.” Candice looked at her, then impetuously leaned forward and hugged her. “I know your other friends don’t like me,” came Heather’s voice in her ear. “But . . . you know, it doesn’t matter.”

  Candice withdrew her head and looked at Heather in surprise.

  “What do you mean, my other friends don’t like you?”

  “Roxanne doesn’t like me.” Heather gave a quick little smile. “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.”

  “But this is awful!” exclaimed Candice, frowning. “Why don’t you think she likes you?”

  “I might have got it wrong,” said Heather at once. “It was just a look she gave me . . . Honestly, Candice, don’t hassle about it. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She flashed a quick grin. “Come on, choose one of these dresses, and then let’s go and try on some proper clothes.”

  “OK,” said Candice. But as she began to pick up the baby dresses again, her face was creased in a frown.

  “Look, now I feel terrible!” said Heather. “Please, Candice, forget I said anything.” She lifted a thumb and ran it slowly down the crease in Candice’s forehead. “Forget about Roxanne, OK? I’m probably just sensitive. I probably got it all wrong.”

  Roxanne lay happily on the sofa in a T-shirt, listening to low, jazzy music and, in the background, the sounds of Ralph cooking in the kitchen. He always cooked the supper— partly because he claimed to enjoy it, and partly because she was useless at it. She associated some of their happiest moments together with meals that he had cooked, after sex. Those were the times she cherished
the most, she thought. The times when she could almost believe that they lived together; that they were a normal couple.

  Of course, they weren’t a normal couple. Perhaps they never would be. Automatically— and almost dispassionately— Roxanne’s thoughts flicked to Ralph’s youngest son Sebastian. Sweet little Sebastian, the afterthought. The blessing. The accident, let’s face it. And still only a child; still only ten years old. Ten years, five months and a week.

  Roxanne knew Sebastian Allsopp’s age to the minute. His older brother and sister were in their twenties, safely off in their own lives. But Sebastian lived at home, went to school, brushed his teeth and still had a teddy bear. Sebastian was too young to bear the turmoil of a divorce. Not until he was eighteen, Ralph had said once after a few brandies. Eighteen. Another seven years, six months and three weeks. In seven years she would be forty.

  For the sake of the children. It was a phrase which had once meant nothing to her. Now it seemed burnt into her soul with a branding iron. For the sake of Sebastian. He’d been four years old that night when she and Ralph had first danced together. A poppet in pyjamas, sleeping in his bed, while she looked into his father’s eyes and realized with a sudden urgency that she wanted more of them. That she wanted more of him. She’d been twenty-seven, then. Ralph had been forty-six. Anything in the world had seemed possible.

  Roxanne closed her eyes, remembering. It had been at the first night of a star-laden visiting production of Romeo and Juliet at the Barbican. Ralph had been sent two complimentary tickets and, at the last minute, had wandered into the editorial office of the Londoner, looking for a second taker. When Roxanne had jumped at the chance, his face had registered slight surprise, which he had tactfully hidden. He had, he’d later confessed, always thought of her as a glossy, materialistic girl— bright and talented but with no real depth. When he turned to her at the end of the play to see her still staring forward, her face streaked unashamedly with tears, he’d felt a lurch of surprise, and an unexpected liking for her. Then, when she’d pushed her hair back off her brow, wiped her eyes and said, with her customary spirit, “I’m bloody parched. How about a cocktail?” he’d thrown back his head and laughed. He’d produced two invitations for the post-performance party—which he hadn’t been intending to use— had called his wife and told her that he would be a little later than he’d thought.