Cocktails for Three

by Madeleine Wickham

  He and Roxanne had stood at the edge of a party full of strangers, drinking Buck’s Fizz, talking about the play and inventing stories about all the other guests. Then a jazz band had struck up, and the floor had crowded with couples. And after hesitating a second, Ralph had asked her to dance. As soon as she’d felt his arms around her and looked up into his eyes, she’d known. She’d simply known.

  A familiar spasm, half pain, half joy, went through Roxanne at the memory. She would always remember that night as one of the most magical in her life. Ralph had disappeared off to make a phone call which she hadn’t allowed herself to think about. Then he had returned to the table at which she was sitting, trembling with excitement. He had sat down opposite her, had met her eyes and said slowly, “I was thinking about going on somewhere from here. A hotel, perhaps. Would you . . . care to join me?” Roxanne had stared at him silently for a few seconds, then had put down her drink.

  She had intended to play it cool; to maintain a sophisticated reserve for as long as possible. But the moment they had got into their taxi, Ralph had turned to her, and she had found herself gazing back with an almost desperate longing. As their lips met she had thought, with a brief flash of humour, Hey, I’m kissing the boss. And then his kiss had deepened and her eyes had closed and her mind had lost its capacity for coherent thought. A capacity which had only returned in the morning, as she woke up in a Park Lane hotel with an adulterous man nineteen years her senior.

  “Glass of wine?” Ralph’s voice interrupted her and she opened her eyes to see him gazing fondly down at her. “I could open the bottle I brought.”

  “Only if it’s properly cold,” she said suspiciously. “If it’s warm, I’m sending it back.”

  “This one is cold,” said Ralph, smiling. “I put it in the fridge when I got here.”

  “It’d better be,” said Roxanne. She sat up and hugged her knees as he went back out to the kitchen. A minute later Ralph returned with two glasses full of wine.

  “Why weren’t you in the office today, by the way?” said Roxanne. She lifted her glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” replied Ralph. He took a long sip, then looked up and said easily, “I had a meeting with my accountant all morning and into lunch. It didn’t seem worth coming in.”

  “Oh, right,” said Roxanne, and took a sip of wine. “Slacker.”

  A half-smile flickered across Ralph’s face and he lowered himself slowly into a chair. Roxanne stared at him and frowned slightly.

  “Are you OK?” she said. “You look knackered.”

  “Bit of a late night last night,” said Ralph, and closed his eyes.

  “Oh well,” said Roxanne cheerfully. “In that case, you don’t get any sympathy from me.”

  Candice took another swig of wine and gazed around the packed restaurant.

  “I can’t believe how full it is!” she said. “I had no idea late-night shopping was such a big thing.”

  Heather laughed. “Have you never been shopping in the evening before?”

  “Of course. But I didn’t realize what a . . . party atmosphere there was here.” She took another swig of wine and looked around again. “You know, I might suggest to Justin that we do a piece on it. We could come down, interview some people, take some photographs . . .”

  “Good idea,” said Heather, and sipped at her wine. In front of her was a paper menu and a pen which their waiter had left behind, and Heather idly picked it up. She began to doodle on the menu: spiky star-like creations with far-reaching glittering rays. Candice watched her, slightly mesmerized, slightly drunk. They had had to wait half an hour for a table, during which time they had consumed a gin and tonic each and half a bottle of wine. Somehow she seemed to be drinking more quickly than Heather, and on an empty stomach the alcohol seemed stronger than usual.

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” said Heather, looking up suddenly. “We’re so close, and yet we don’t really know each other.”

  “I suppose not,” said Candice, and grinned. “Well, what do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about Justin,” said Heather after a pause. “Do you still like him?”

  “No!” said Candice, then laughed. “I suppose I can stand him as an editor. But I don’t have any . . . feelings for him. I think that was all a huge mistake.”

  “Really?” said Heather lightly.

  “He impressed me when I first met him. I thought he was incredibly clever and articulate and wonderful. But he’s not. Not when you actually listen to what he’s saying.” She took another gulp of wine. “He just likes the sound of his own voice.”

  “And there’s no-one else on the horizon?”

  “Not at the moment,” said Candice cheerfully. “And I can’t say I mind.”

  A waiter appeared at the table, lit the candle between them and began to lay out knives and forks. Heather waited until he’d gone, then looked up again, her face glowing in the candlelight.

  “So . . . men aren’t important to you.”

  “I don’t know,” said Candice, laughing a little. “I suppose the right one would be.” She watched as Heather picked up the bottle of wine, replenished Candice’s glass then looked up, her eyes shining with a sudden intensity.

  “So what is?” she asked softly. “What means most to you in the world? What do you . . . treasure?”

  “What do I treasure?” Candice repeated the question thoughtfully, staring into her glass. “I don’t know. My family, I suppose. Although my mother and I aren’t that close any more. And my friends.” She looked up with a sudden certainty. “I treasure my friends. Roxanne and Maggie especially.”

  “Your friends.” Heather nodded slowly. “Friends are such important things.”

  “And my job. I love my job.”

  “But not for the money,” probed Heather.

  “No! I don’t care about money!” Candice flushed slightly, and took a gulp of wine. “I hate materialism. And greed. And . . . dishonesty.”

  “You want to be a good person.”

  “I want to try.” Candice gave an embarrassed little laugh and put her wine glass down. “What about you? What do you treasure?”

  There was a short silence, and a curious expression flitted across Heather’s face.

  “I’ve learned not to treasure anything much,” she said eventually, and gave a quick smile. “Because you can lose it all overnight, with no warning. One minute you have it, the next you don’t.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”

  Candice stared at her in guilty misery, suddenly wanting to talk more; perhaps even reveal the truth.

  “Heather . . .” she said hesitantly. “I’ve . . . I’ve never—”

  “Look!” interrupted Heather brightly, gesturing behind Candice. “Here comes our food.”

  Roxanne took a last mouthful of pasta, put down her fork and sighed. She was sitting opposite Ralph at her tiny folding dining table, the lights were dim and Ella Fitzgerald was crooning softly in the background.

  “That was bloody delicious.” Roxanne hugged her stomach. “Aren’t you eating yours?”

  “Go ahead.” Ralph gestured to his half-full plate, and, wrinkling her brow slightly, Roxanne pulled it towards her.

  “No appetite?” she said. “Or is it still your hangover?”

  “Something like that,” said Ralph lightly.

  “Well, I’m not going to let it go to waste,” said Roxanne, plunging her fork into the pasta. “You know, I always miss your cooking when I go away.”

  “Do you?” said Ralph. “What about all those five-star chefs?”

  Roxanne pulled a face. “Not the same. They can’t do pasta like you.” She tilted her dining chair back so that it rested against the sofa, took a sip of wine and comfortably closed her eyes. “In fact, I think it’s very selfish of you not to come and cook me pasta every night.” She took another sip of wine, then another.

  Then, as the silence continued, she opened her eyes. Ralph was gazing speechlessly at her, a curious express
ion on his face.

  “I am selfish,” he said at last. “You’re right. I’ve treated you appallingly selfishly.”

  “No you haven’t!” said Roxanne, giving a little laugh. “I’m only joking.” She reached for the bottle of wine, replenished both their glasses, and took a gulp. “Nice wine.”

  “Nice wine,” echoed Ralph slowly, and took a sip.

  For a while they were both silent. Then Ralph looked up and, almost casually, said, “Suppose in a year’s time you could be doing anything. Anything at all. What would it be?”

  “In a year’s time,” echoed Roxanne, feeling her heart start to beat a little more quickly. “Why a year?”

  “Or three years,” said Ralph, making a vague gesture with his wine glass. “Five years. Where do you see yourself?”

  “Is this a job interview?” said Roxanne lightly.

  “I’m just interested, I suppose,” said Ralph, shrugging. “Idle fantasies.”

  “Well, I . . . I don’t know,” said Roxanne, and took a sip of wine, trying to stay calm.

  What was going on? She and Ralph, by tacit agreement, never discussed the future; never discussed any part of life that might cause hurt or resentment. They talked about work, about films, food and travel. They gossiped about colleagues and speculated about Roxanne’s dubious-looking downstairs neighbour. They watched television soap operas together and, in fits of laughter, ridiculed the wooden-faced acting. But, even when they were staring at adultery on the screen, they never talked about their own situation.

  In the early days, she had tearfully insisted on hearing about his wife, about his family; about every last detail. She had shaken with misery and humiliation each time he’d left; had thrown accusations and ultimatums at him to no avail. Now she behaved almost as though each evening, each night spent in his arms, were a one-off; a self-contained bubble. It was simple self-preservation. That way disappointment could creep up on her less easily. That way she could pretend— at least to herself— that she was conducting the relationship on her own terms; that this was what she’d wanted all along.

  She looked up, to see Ralph still waiting for an answer and, as she saw his expression, felt her stomach give a little flip. He was staring straight at her, his eyes glistening slightly, as if her answer really mattered to him. She took a gulp of wine, playing for time, then pushed her hair back and forced herself to smile unconcernedly.

  “In a year’s time?” she said lightly. “If I could be anywhere, I think I’d like to be lying on a white beach somewhere in the Caribbean— with you, naturally.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Ralph, his face crinkling into a smile.

  “But not just you,” said Roxanne. “A posse of attentive waiters in white jackets would see to our every need. They’d ply us with food and drink and witty stories. Then, as if by magic, they would discreetly disappear, and we’d be left on our own in the magical sunset.”

  She broke off, and took a sip of wine, then, after a short silence, looked up. As she met Ralph’s eyes, her heart was thumping. Does he realize, she thought, that what I have just described is a honeymoon?

  Ralph was staring at her with an expression she’d never seen in his eyes before. Suddenly he took hold of her hands and drew them up to his lips.

  “You deserve it,” he said roughly. “You deserve it all, Roxanne.” She gazed at him, feeling a hotness growing at the back of her throat. “I’m so sorry for everything,” he muttered. “When I think what I’ve put you through . . .”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Roxanne blinked hard, feeling tears smarting at her eyes. She drew him close across the table and kissed his wet eyes, his cheeks, his lips. “I love you,” she whispered, and felt a sudden swell of painful, possessive happiness inside her. “I love you, and we’re together. And that’s all that counts.”

  Chapter Nine

  The hospital was a large, Victorian building, with well-tended gardens at the front and a fenced area for children to play in. As Roxanne and Candice got out of the car and began to walk along the path towards the main entrance, Roxanne started laughing.

  “Typical Maggie,” she said, looking around the pleasant scene. “Even the hospital’s a bloody picture postcard. She couldn’t have her baby in some grim London hell-hole, could she?”

  “What do we want?” said Candice, squinting at a colour-coded signpost with arrows pointing in all directions. “Gynaecology. Labour suite.” She looked up. “We don’t want that, do we?”

  “You can visit the labour suite if you like,” said Roxanne, giving a little shudder. “As far as I’m concerned, ignorance is bliss.”

  “Neo-natal. Pre-natal. Maternity,” read Candice, and wrinkled her brow. “I can’t work this out at all.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Roxanne impatiently. “We’ll find her.”

  They strode into the spacious reception area and spoke to a friendly woman at a desk, who tapped Maggie’s name into a computer.

  “Blue Ward,” she said, looking up with a smile. “Follow the corridor round as far as you can go, then take the lift to the fifth floor.”

  As they walked along the corridors, Candice glanced around at the beige walls and pulled a face.

  “I hate the smell of hospitals,” she said. “Horrible places. I think if I ever had a baby, I’d have it at home.”

  “Of course you would,” said Roxanne. “With pan pipes playing in the background and aromatherapy candles scenting the air.”

  “No!” said Candice, laughing. “I’d just . . . I don’t know. Prefer to be at home, I suppose.”

  “Well, if I ever have a baby, I’ll have it by Caesarean,” said Roxanne drily. “Full anaesthesia. They can wake me up when it’s three years old.”

  They arrived at the lift and pressed the fifth-floor button. As they began to rise, Candice glanced at Roxanne. “I feel nervous!” she said. “Isn’t that weird?”

  “I feel a bit nervous, too,” said Roxanne, after a pause. “I suppose it’s just that one of us has finally grown up. Real life has begun. The question is— are we ready for it?” She raised her eyebrows, and Candice gazed at her critically.

  “You look tired, actually,” she said. “Are you feeling OK?”

  “I’m great,” said Roxanne at once, and tossed her hair back. “Never better.”

  But as they rose up in the lift, she stared at her tinted reflection in the lift doors and knew that Candice was right. She did look tired. Since that night with Ralph she had found it difficult to sleep; impossible to wrench her mind away from their conversation and what it had meant. Impossible to stop hoping.

  Of course, Ralph had said nothing definite. He had made no promises. After that one short conversation, he had not even referred to the future again. But something was going on; something was different. Thinking back, she’d realized there had been something different about him from the moment he stepped in the door. Something different in the way he looked at her, and talked to her. As they’d said goodbye he’d stared at her for minutes without speaking. It was as though inside, behind his eyes, he was coming to the hardest decision of his life.

  She knew it was a decision that couldn’t be hurried; that couldn’t be arrived at in a snap. But the stress of this constant uncertainty was unbearable. And they were both suffering because of it— Ralph looked more tired and strained these days than she’d ever seen him. She’d glimpsed him the other day at the office, and had realized with a shock that he was actually losing weight. What mental hell he must be going through. And yet if he would only make up his mind and take courage, the hell would be over for good.

  Once again, a surge of painful hope rose through her, and she clasped her bag more tightly. She shouldn’t allow herself to think like this. She should return to her former, disciplined state of mind. But it was too hard. After six frugal years of refusing to hope or even think about it, her mind was now gorging itself on fantasy. Ralph would leave his wife. They would both, finally, be able to relax; to enjoy each other. The
long hard winter would be over; the sun would come out and shine. Life would begin again for both of them. They would set up house together. Perhaps they would even—

  There she stopped herself. She could not let herself go that far; she had to keep some control on herself. After all, nothing had been said. Nothing was definite. But surely that conversation had meant something? Surely he was at least thinking about it?

  And she deserved it, didn’t she? She bloody well deserved it, after everything she’d been through. An unfamiliar resentment began to steal over her, and she forced herself to breathe slowly and calmly. Over the past few days, having let her mind break out into fantasy land, she had discovered that beneath the joyous hope there was a darker flip-side. An anger that she had suppressed for too many years. Six whole years of waiting and wondering and grabbing moments of happiness where she could. It had been too long. It had been a prison sentence.

  The lift doors opened and Candice looked up at Roxanne.

  “Well, here we are,” she said, and gave a little smile. “At last.”

  “Yes,” said Roxanne, and exhaled sharply. “At last.”

  They walked out of the lift and towards a swing door marked “Blue Ward.” Candice glanced up at Roxanne, then hesitantly pushed the door open. The room was large, but divided into cubicles by unnamed floral curtains. Candice raised her eyebrows at Roxanne, who shrugged back. Then a woman in a dark blue uniform, holding a baby, approached them.

  “Are you here to visit?” she said, smiling.

  “Yes,” said Roxanne, staring down at the baby in spite of herself. “Maggie Phillips.”