Cocktails for Three

by Madeleine Wickham

  “No, it’ll be Drakeford, won’t it?” said Candice. “Maggie Drakeford.”

  “Oh yes,” said the woman pleasantly. “In the corner.”

  Roxanne and Candice glanced at each other, then advanced slowly down the ward. Slowly, Candice pushed back the curtain of the final cubicle, and there she was, Maggie, looking familiar but unfamiliar, sitting up in bed with a tiny baby in her arms. She looked up, and for a still moment none of them said anything. Then Maggie gave a wide smile, held up the baby to face them and said, “Lucia, meet the cocktail queens.”

  Maggie had had a good night. As she watched Roxanne and Candice advance hesitantly towards the bed, eyes glued on Lucia’s tiny face, she allowed herself to feel a warm glow of contentment. A bit of sleep, that was all. A bit of sleep every night, and the world changed.

  The first three nights had been hell. Utter misery. She had lain stiffly in the darkness, unable to relax; unable to sleep while there was even the smallest chance that Lucia might wake. Even when she had drifted off to sleep, every snuffle from the tiny crib would wake her. She would hear cries in her dreams and jerk awake in a panic, only to find Lucia peacefully asleep and some other baby wailing. Then she would fear that the other baby’s cries would wake Lucia— and she would tense up with apprehension, unable to fall asleep again.

  On the fourth night, at two in the morning, Lucia had refused to go back to sleep. She had cried when Maggie tried to place her in her cot, thrashed about when Maggie tried to feed her, and screamed protestingly when, in desperation, Maggie began to sing. After a few minutes, a face had appeared round Maggie’s floral curtain. It was an elderly midwife on night duty whom Maggie had not met before, and at the sight of Lucia, she shook her head comically.

  “Young lady, your mother needs her sleep!” she’d said, and Maggie’s head had jerked up in shock. She had expected a lecture on demand feeding or mother-baby bonding. Instead, the midwife had advanced inside Maggie’s cubicle, looked at her shadowed face and sighed. “This is no good! You look exhausted!”

  “I feel a bit tired,” Maggie had admitted in a wobbly voice.

  “You need a break.” The midwife had paused, then said, “Would you like me to take her to the nursery?”

  “The nursery?” Maggie had stared at her blankly. Nobody had told her about any nursery.

  “I can keep an eye on her, and you can have a sleep. Then, when she needs feeding, I can bring her back.”

  Maggie had stared at the midwife, wanting to burst into tears with gratitude.

  “Thank you. Thank you . . . Joan,” she had managed, reading the woman’s name-badge in the dim light. “I . . . will she be all right?”

  “She’ll be fine!” Joan had said reassuringly. “Now, you get some rest.”

  As soon as she had left the cubicle, wheeling Lucia’s crib, Maggie had fallen into the first relaxed sleep she’d had since Lucia’s birth. The deepest, sweetest sleep of her life. She had woken at six, feeling almost restored, to see Lucia back in the cubicle again, ready for feeding.

  Since then, Joan had appeared at Maggie’s bedside each night, offering the services of the nursery— and Maggie had found herself guiltily accepting every time.

  “No need to feel guilty,” Joan had said one night. “You need your sleep to produce milk. No good wearing yourself out. You know, we used to keep mothers in for two weeks. Now, they shoo you all off after two days. Two days!” She clucked disapprovingly. “You’d be home already if it weren’t for the baby’s jaundice.”

  But despite Joan’s reassuring comments, Maggie did feel guilty. She felt she should be with Lucia twenty-four hours a day, as all the books recommended. Anything less was failure. And so she hadn’t mentioned Joan to Giles or to Paddy— or, in fact, to anyone.

  Now she smiled at Roxanne and Candice and said, “Come on in! Sit down. It’s so good to see you!”

  “Mags, you look wonderful!” said Roxanne. She embraced Maggie in a cloud of scent, then sat down on the edge of the bed. She was looking thinner and more glamorous than ever, thought Maggie. Like an exotic bird of paradise in this room full of dopey-eyed mother ducks. And for an instant, Maggie felt a twinge of jealousy. She’d imagined that straight after the birth she would regain her old figure; that she would slip back into her old clothes with no problem. But her stomach, hidden under the bedclothes, was still frighteningly flabby, and she had no energy to exercise it.

  “So, Mags,” drawled Roxanne, looking around the ward. “Is motherhood all it’s cracked up to be?”

  “Oh, you know.” Maggie grinned. “Not too bad. Of course, I’m an old hand now.”

  “Maggie, she’s beautiful!” Candice looked up with shining eyes. “And she doesn’t look ill at all!”

  “She’s not, really,” said Maggie, looking at Lucia’s closed-up, sleeping face. “She had jaundice, and it’s taken a while to clear up. It just meant we had to stay in hospital a bit longer.”

  “Can I hold her?” Candice held out her arms and, after a pause, Maggie handed the baby over.

  “She’s so light!” breathed Candice.

  “Very sweet,” said Roxanne. “You’ll be making me broody in a moment.”

  Maggie laughed. “Now, that would be a miracle.”

  “Do you want to hold her?” Candice looked up at Roxanne, who rolled her eyes comically.

  “If I must.”

  She had held scores of babies before. Little bundles belonging to other people, that aroused in her no feeling other than tedium. Roxanne Miller did not coo over babies— she yawned over them. She was famous for it. Whether she was genuinely uninterested, or whether this was a defensive response deliberately cultivated over the years, she had never allowed herself to consider.

  But as she looked into the sleeping face of Maggie’s baby, Roxanne felt her defences begin to crumble; found herself thinking thoughts she had never let herself think before. She wanted one of these, she found herself thinking. Oh God. She actually wanted one. The thought frightened her; exhilarated her. She closed her eyes and, without meaning to, imagined herself holding her own baby. Ralph’s baby. Ralph looking fondly over her shoulder. The picture made her almost sick with hope— and with fear. She was treading on forbidden ground, allowing her mind to venture into dangerous places. And on what basis? On the basis of one conversation. It was ridiculous. It was foolhardy. But, having started, she couldn’t seem to stop.

  “So, what do you reckon, Roxanne?” said Maggie, looking at her amusedly. Roxanne stared at Lucia a few seconds longer, then forced herself to look up with a nonchalant expression.

  “Very nice, as babies go. But I warn you, she’d better not pee on me.”

  “I’ll take her back,” said Maggie, smiling, and a ridiculous thud of disappointment went through Roxanne.

  “Here you are then, Mummy,” she drawled, handing the bundle back.

  “Oh, Maggie, I brought you these,” said Candice, rescuing the bouquet of flowers which she’d deposited on the floor. “I know you’ll have heaps already . . .”

  “I did have,” said Maggie. “But they’re all dead. They don’t last five minutes in here.”

  “Oh good! I mean—”

  “I know what you mean,” said Maggie, smiling. “And they’re lovely. Thank you.”

  Candice looked around the cubicle. “Have you got a vase?”

  Maggie pulled a doubtful face.

  “There might be one in the corridor. Or one of the other wards.”

  “I’ll find one.” Candice put the flowers down on the bed and headed out of the ward. When she’d gone, Maggie and Roxanne smiled at each other.

  “So—how are you?” asked Maggie, stroking Lucia’s cheek gently with the tip of her finger.

  “Oh, fine,” said Roxanne. “You know, life goes on . . .”

  “How’s Mr. Married with Kids?” asked Maggie cautiously.

  “Still got kids,” said Roxanne lightly. “Still married.” They both laughed, and Lucia stirred slightly in her slee
p. “Although . . . you never know,” Roxanne couldn’t resist adding. “Changes may be afoot.”

  “Really?” said Maggie in astonishment. “You’re not serious!”

  “Who knows?” A smile spread over Roxanne’s face. “Watch this space.”

  “You mean we might actually get to meet him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Roxanne’s eyes flashed in amusement. “I’ve got used to him being my little secret.”

  Maggie glanced at her, then looked around for her watch.

  “What time is it? I should offer you a cup of tea. There’s an urn in the day room . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” said Roxanne, suppressing a shudder at the idea. “I’ve brought a little liquid refreshment. We can have it when Candice gets back.” She looked around the maternity ward, trying to find something polite to say about it. But it seemed, to her, an overheated floral hell. And Maggie had been here for well over a week. How could she bear it? “How much longer are you in here for?” she asked.

  “I go home tomorrow. The paediatrician has to check Lucia over— and then we’re out of here.”

  “I bet you’re relieved.”

  “Yes,” said Maggie, after a pause. “Yes, of course I am. But . . . but let’s not talk about hospitals.” She smiled at Roxanne. “Tell me about the outside world. What have I been missing?”

  “Oh God, I don’t know,” said Roxanne lazily. “I never know the gossip. I’m always away when things happen.”

  “What about that girl of Candice’s?” said Maggie, suddenly frowning. “Heather Whatsername. Have you met her again?”

  “Yes, I saw her at the office. Didn’t exactly warm to her.” Roxanne pulled a face. “Bit sickly sweet.”

  “I don’t know why I got so worked up about her,” said Maggie ruefully. “Pregnancy paranoia. She’s probably a lovely girl.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But I tell you what—” Roxanne sat up and reached for her bag. “She can certainly write.”

  “Really?”

  “Look at this.” Roxanne pulled a sheet of paper from her bag. “I got it from Janet. It’s actually very funny.”

  She watched as Maggie read the first two lines of the piece, frowned, then scanned further down to the end.

  “I don’t believe it!” she exclaimed as she looked up. “Did she really get a job at the Londoner on the strength of this piece?”

  “I don’t know,” said Roxanne. “But you’ve got to admit, it’s on the nail.”

  “Of course it is,” said Maggie drily. “Everything Candice writes is on the nail.”

  “What?” Roxanne stared at her.

  “Candice wrote this for the Londoner,” said Maggie, hitting the piece of paper with her hand. “I remember it. Word for word. It’s her style and everything.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “No wonder Ralph was impressed,” said Maggie, rolling her eyes. “God, Candice can be an idiot sometimes.”

  Candice had taken longer than she had expected to find a vase, and had struck up a conversation with one of the midwives on another ward. As she finally made her way, humming, back into the ward, she saw Roxanne and Maggie staring at her, ominous expressions on their faces.

  “So,” said Roxanne as she neared the bed. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “What?” said Candice.

  “This,” said Maggie, producing the piece of paper with a flourish. Candice stared at it in bewilderment— then, as her gaze focused on the text, realized what it was. A flush spread over her cheeks and she looked away.

  “Oh, that,” she said. “Well . . . Heather didn’t have any examples of her writing. So I—” She broke off awkwardly.

  “So you thought you’d supply her with an entire portfolio?”

  “No!” said Candice. “Just one little piece. Just . . . you know.” She shrugged defensively. “Something to get her started. For God’s sake, it’s no big deal.”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “Candice, it’s not fair. You know it’s not fair. It’s not fair on Ralph, it’s not fair on all the other people who applied for the job . . .”

  “It’s not fair on Heather, come to that,” put in Roxanne. “What happens when Justin asks her to write another piece just like that one?”

  “He won’t! And she’s fine. You know, she has got talent. She can do the job. She just needed a chance.” Candice looked from Roxanne to Maggie, feeling a sudden impatience with them both. Why couldn’t they see that in some cases the ends more than justified the means? “Come on, be honest,” she exclaimed. “How many jobs are got through nepotism? How many people drop names and use contacts and pretend they’re better than they are? This is just the same.”

  There was silence— then Maggie said, “And she’s living with you.”

  “Yes.” Candice looked from face to face, wondering if she’d missed something. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Is she paying you rent?”

  “I . . .” Candice swallowed. “That’s our business, don’t you think?”

  She had not yet mentioned rent to Heather— nor had Heather ever brought the subject up. In her heart she had always assumed that Heather would offer to pay something, at least— but then even if she didn’t, Candice thought with a sudden fierceness, what was the big deal? Some people paid rent to their friends, and some people didn’t. And it wasn’t as if she was desperate for the money.

  “Of course it is,” said Roxanne mildly. “As long as she isn’t using you.”

  “Using me?” Candice shook her head disbelievingly. “After what my father did to her family?”

  “Candice—”

  “No, listen to me,” said Candice, her voice rising a little. “I owe her one. OK? I owe her one. So maybe I got her this job under slightly false pretences, and maybe I’m being more generous to her than I normally would. But she deserves it. She deserves a break.” Candice felt her face growing hot. “And I know you don’t like her, Roxanne, but—”

  “What?” said Roxanne in outrage. “I’ve barely spoken to her!”

  “Well, she has the impression you don’t like her.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t like me. Had you thought of that?”

  “Why wouldn’t she like you?” retorted Candice indignantly.

  “I don’t know! Why wouldn’t I like her, for that matter?”

  “This is ridiculous!” cut in Maggie. “Stop it, both of you!”

  At her raised voice, Lucia gave a sudden wriggle and began to wail, plaintively at first, then more lustily.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” said Maggie.

  “Oh,” said Candice, and bit her lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”

  “No,” said Roxanne. “Neither did I.” She put a hand out and squeezed Candice’s. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure Heather’s a great girl. We just . . . worry about you.”

  “You’re too blinking nice,” put in Maggie, then winced. The others turned and, in appalled fascination, watched her putting Lucia to her breast.

  “Does it hurt?” said Candice, watching Maggie’s face involuntarily screw up in pain.

  “A bit,” said Maggie. “Just at first.” The baby began to suck and gradually her face relaxed. “There. That’s better.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Roxanne, staring blatantly at Maggie’s breast. “Rather you than me.” She pulled a face at Candice, who gave a sudden giggle.

  “She likes a drink, anyway,” she said, watching Lucia greedily sucking.

  “Like her mother,” said Roxanne. “Speaking of which . . .” She reached into her bag and, after some rummaging, produced a large silver cocktail shaker.

  “No!” exclaimed Maggie in disbelief. “You haven’t!”

  “I told you we’d toast the baby with cocktails,” said Roxanne.

  “But we can’t!” said Maggie, giggling. “If somebody sees us, I’ll get thrown out of the Good Mother club.”

  “I thought
of that, too,” said Roxanne. With a completely straight face, she reached into the bag again and produced three little baby bottles.

  “What—”

  “Wait.”

  She unscrewed each of the bottles, placed them in a row on the bedside table, picked up the cocktail shaker and gave it a good shake as the other two watched in amazement. Then she removed the lid of the cocktail shaker and solemnly poured a thick white liquid into each of the bottles.

  “What is it?” said Candice, staring at it.

  “Not milk, surely?” said Maggie.

  “Pina Colada,” said Roxanne airily.

  At once, Candice and Maggie exploded into giggles. Pina Colada was a standing joke between them— ever since that first uproarious night at the Manhattan Bar, when Roxanne had announced that if anyone ordered Pina Colada she was disowning them.

  “I mustn’t!” wailed Maggie, trying not to shake. “I mustn’t laugh. Poor Lucia.”

  “Cheers,” said Roxanne, handing her a baby bottle.

  “To Lucia,” said Candice.

  “Lucia,” echoed Roxanne, holding her bottle up.

  “And to you two,” said Maggie, smiling at Roxanne and Candice. She took a gulp and closed her eyes in delight. “God, that’s good. I haven’t tasted proper alcohol for weeks.”

  “The thing is,” said Candice, taking a slurp, “that actually, Pina Colada is bloody delicious.”

  “It’s not bad, is it?” said Roxanne, sipping thoughtfully. “If they could just call it something classier . . .”

  “Talking of alcohol, Ralph Allsopp sent us a magnum of champagne,” said Maggie. “Wasn’t that nice of him? But we haven’t opened it yet.”

  “Great minds think alike,” said Roxanne lightly.

  “Mrs. Drakeford?” A man’s voice came from outside the floral curtains and the three looked guiltily at each other. The next moment, a doctor’s cheerful head popped round the side of the curtain and grinned at them all. “Mrs. Drakeford, I’m one of the paediatricians. Come to check up on little Lucia.”

  “Oh,” said Maggie weakly. “Ahm . . . come in.”

  “I’ll take your . . . milk, shall I?” said Roxanne helpfully, and reached for Maggie’s baby bottle. “Here. I’ll leave it on your bedside table for later.”