Also by Madeleine Wickham
Praise for the novels of Madeleine Wickham
40 Love
“Wickham has a shrewdly malicious touch with her characters . . . and keeps a deft balance between black and drawing-room comedy.”
—The Atlantic Monthly
“Wickham’s breezy comedic touch keeps the novel at a fast-paced, enjoyable volley . . . An amusing first novel.”
—Entertainment Weekly
A Desirable Residence
“A remarkably assured tale of adultery, avarice, and angst.”
—The Daily Mail
“Sharp and funny.”
—Family Circle
The Wedding Girl
“Kinsella fans will feel right at home. . . At this Wedding, prepare to laugh, and maybe get a little misty.”
—USA Today
“A bride’s impetuous past comes back to haunt her in this yummy confection by Wickham.”
—People Magazine
Sleeping Arrangements
“Wickham spins a delightful story . . . [She] does a bang-up job of creating believable characters . . . Surprises abound as the plot unfolds.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A rare breed of beach read that’s breezy but doesn’t wriggle out of difficult adult choices.”
—Entertainment Weekly
The Gatecrasher
“Wickham creates memorable characters who are as unpredictable and multifaceted as they are stylish. Jolly fun.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] witty and deeply biting novel of modern manners and morals.”
—Library Journal
Praise for Cocktails for Three
“Deliciously funny . . . witty and wicked.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Wickham serves up a healthy dose of good-natured witticisms mixed with biting retorts.”
—Publishers Weekly
Cocktails
for Three
Madeleine Wickham
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS
ST. MARTIN’S PRESS
NEW YORK
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
Many thanks to my agent Araminta Whitley, to Linda Evans and Sally Gaminara and all at Transworld, for their constant enthusiasm and encouragement during the writing of this book.To my parents and sisters for their continual,cheerful support and to my friends Ana-Maria and George Mosley, for always being there with a cocktail shaker at the ready.
And finally to my husband Henry, without whom this book would have been impossible,and to whom it is dedicated.
Contents
Copyright Notice
chapter1
chapter2
chapter3
chapter4
chapter5
chapter6
chapter7
chapter8
chapter9
chapter10
chapter11
chapter12
chapter13
chapter14
chapter15
chapter16
chapter17
chapter18
chapter19
chapter20
chapter21
About the Author
Chapter One
Candice Brewin pushed open the heavy glass door of the Manhattan Bar and felt the familiar swell of warmth, noise, light and clatter rush over her. It was six o’clock on a Wednesday night and the bar was already almost full. Waiters in dark green bow ties were gliding over the pale polished floor, carrying cocktails to tables. Girls in slippy dresses were standing at the bar, glancing around with bright, hopeful eyes. In the corner, a pianist was thumping out Gershwin numbers, almost drowned by the hum of metropolitan chatter.
It was getting to be too busy here, thought Candice, slipping off her coat. When she, Roxanne and Maggie had first discovered the Manhattan Bar, it had been a small, quiet, almost secretive place to meet. They had stumbled on it almost by chance, desperate for somewhere to drink after a particularly fraught press day. It had then been a dark and old-fashioned-looking place, with tatty bar stools and a peeling mural of the New York skyline on one wall. The patrons had been few and silent— mostly tending towards elderly gentlemen with much younger female companions. Candice, Roxanne and Maggie had boldly ordered a round of cocktails and then several more— and by the end of the evening had decided, amid fits of giggles, that the place had a certain terrible charm and must be revisited. And so the monthly cocktail club had been born.
But now, newly extended, relaunched and written up in every glossy magazine, the bar was a different place. These days a young, attractive after-work crowd came flocking in every evening. Celebrities had been spotted at the bar. Even the waiters all looked like models. Really, thought Candice, handing her coat to the coat-check woman and receiving an art deco silver button in return, they should find somewhere else. Somewhere less busy, less obvious.
At the same time, she knew they never would. They had been coming here too long; had shared too many secrets over those distinctive frosted martini glasses. Anywhere else would feel wrong. On the first of every month, it had to be the Manhattan Bar.
There was a mirror opposite, and she glanced at her reflection, checking that her short cropped hair was tidy and her make-up—what little there was of it— hadn’t smudged. She was wearing a plain black trouser suit over a pale green T-shirt—not exactly the height of glamour, but good enough.
Quickly she scanned the faces at the tables, but couldn’t see Roxanne or Maggie. Although they all worked at the same place— the editorial office of the Londoner— it was rare they made the walk to the bar together. For a start, Roxanne was a freelance, and at times only seemed to use the office to make long-distance calls, arranging the next of her foreign jaunts. And Maggie, as editor of the magazine, often had to stay for meetings later than the others.
Not today, though, thought Candice, glancing at her watch. Today, Maggie had every excuse to slip off as early as she liked.
She brushed down her suit, walked towards the tables and, spotting a couple getting up, walked quickly forward. The young man had barely made it out of his chair before she was sliding into it and smiling gratefully up at him. You couldn’t hang about if you wanted a table at the Manhattan Bar. And the three of them always had a table. It was part of the tradition.
Maggie Phillips paused outside the doors of the Manhattan Bar, put down her bulky carrier bag full of bright, stuffed toys, and pulled unceremoniously at the maternity tights wrinkling around her legs. Three more weeks, she thought, giving a final tug. Three more weeks of these bloody things. She took a deep breath, reached for her carrier bag again and pushed at the glass door.
As soon as she got inside, the noise and warmth of the place made her feel faint. She grasped for the wall, and stood quite still, trying not to lose her balance as she blinked away the dots in front of her eyes.
“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 stil
l 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?”
“The 25th of April,” said Maggie brightly. “Three weeks to go.”
“Got your bag packed?” The woman twinkled at her. “Don’t want to leave it too late, do you?” Maggie’s skin began to prickle. What bloody business was it of anyone’s whether she’d packed her bag or not? Why did everyone keep talking to her about it? A complete stranger had come up to her in the pub at lunchtime, pointed to her wine glass and said, “Naughty!” She’d nearly thrown it at him.
“Your first, is it,” the lady added, with no hint of interrogation in her voice.
So it’s that obvious, thought Maggie. It’s that clear to the rest of the world that I, Maggie Phillips— or Mrs. Drakeford as I’m known at the clinic— have barely ever touched a baby. Let alone given birth to one.
“Yes, it’s my first,” she said, and extended her palm, willing the lady to hand over her silver coat-check button and release her. But the woman was still gazing fondly at Maggie’s protruding belly.
“I had four myself,” she said. “Three girls and a boy. And each time, those first few weeks were the most magical time of all. You want to cherish those moments, love. Don’t wish it all away.”
“I know,” Maggie heard herself saying, her mouth in a false beam.
I don’t know! she yelled silently. I don’t know anything about it. I know about page layout and editorial ratios and commissioning budgets. Oh God. What am I doing?
“Maggie!” A voice interrupted her and she wheeled round. Candice’s round, cheerful face smiled back at her. “I thought I saw you! I’ve nabbed a table.”
“Well done!” Maggie followed Candice through the throng, aware of the path her unwieldy bulk created; the curious glances following her. No-one else in the bar was pregnant. No-one was even fat. Everywhere she looked she could see girls with flat stomachs and stick legs and pert little breasts.
“OK?” Candice had reached the table and was carefully pulling out a chair for her. Biting back a retort that she wasn’t ill, Maggie sat down.
“Shall we order?” said Candice. “Or wait for Roxanne?”
“Oh, I dunno.” Maggie gave a grumpy shrug. “Better wait, I suppose.”
“Are you OK?” asked Candice curiously. Maggie sighed.
“I’m fine. I’m just sick of being pregnant. Being prodded and patted and treated like a freak.”
“A freak?” said Candice in disbelief. “Maggie, you look fantastic!”
“Fantastic for a fat woman.”
“Fantastic full stop,” said Candice firmly. “Listen, Maggie— there’s a girl across the road from me who’s pregnant at the moment. I tell you, if she saw the way you look, she’d throw up in jealousy.”
Maggie laughed. “Candice, I adore you. You always say the right things.”
“It’s true!” Candice reached for the cocktail menu— tall green leather with a silver tassle. “Come on, let’s have a look, anyway. Roxanne won’t be long.”
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 make-up 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.”
As she entered the bar, Roxanne saw Candice sitting alone, reading the cocktail menu, and an involuntary smile came to her lips. Candice always looked the same, wherever she was, whatever she was wearing. Her skin always looked well scrubbed and glowing, her hair was always cut in the same neat crop, she always dimpled in the same place when she smiled. And she always looked up with the same wide, trusting eyes. No wonder she was such a good interviewer, thought Roxanne fondly. People must just tumble into that friendly gaze.
“Candice!” she called, and waited for the pause, the lift of the head, the spark of recognition and wide smile.
It was a strange thing, thought Roxanne. She could walk past scores of adorable babies in pushchairs and never feel a tug on her maternal instinct. But sometimes, while looking at Candice, she would, with no warning, feel a pang in her heart. An obscure need to protect this girl, with her round face and innocent, childlike brow. But from what? From the world? From dark, malevolent strangers? It was ridiculous, really. After all, what was the difference between them in years? Four or five at most. Most of the time it seemed like nothing— yet sometimes Roxanne felt a generation older.
She strode up to the table and kissed Candice twice.
“Have you ordered?”
“I’m just looking,” said Candice, gesturing to the menu. “I can’t decide between a Summer Sunset or an Urban Myth.”
“Have the Urban Myth,” said Roxanne. “A Summer Sunset is bright pink and comes with an umbrella.”
“Does it?” Candice wrinkled her brow. “Does that matter? What are you having?”
“Margarita,” said Roxanne. “Same as usual. I lived on Margaritas in Antigua.” She reached for a cigarette, then remembered Maggie and stopped. “Margaritas and sunshine. That’s all you need.”
“So—how was it?” said Candice. She leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Any toyboys this time?”
“Enough to keep me happy,” said Roxanne, grinning wickedly at her. “One return visit in par tic u lar.”
“You’re terrible!” said Candice.
“On the contrary,” said Roxanne, “I’m very good. That’s why they like me. That’s why they come back for more.”
“What about your—” Candice broke off awkwardly.
“What about Mr. Married with Kids?” said Roxanne lightly.
“Yes,” said Candice, colouring a little. “Doesn’t he mind when you . . . ?”
“Mr. Married with Kids is not allowed to mind,??
? said Roxanne. “Mr. Married with Kids has got his wife, after all. Fair’s fair, don’t you think?” Her eyes glinted at Candice as though to forbid any more questions, and Candice bit her lip. Roxanne always discouraged talk of her married man. She had been with him for all the time that Candice had known her— but she had resolutely refused to divulge his identity, or even any details about him. Candice and Maggie had jokingly speculated between themselves that he must be somebody famous— a politician, perhaps— and certainly rich, powerful and sexy. Roxanne would never throw herself away on someone mediocre. Whether she was really in love with him, they were less sure. She was always so flippant, almost callous-sounding about the affair— it was as though she were using him, rather than the other way around.
“Look, I’m sorry,” said Roxanne, reaching again for her cigarettes. “Foetus or no foetus, I’m going to have to have a cigarette.”
“Oh, smoke away,” said Maggie, coming up behind her. “I’m sure it can’t be worse than pollution.” As she sat down, she beckoned to a cocktail waitress. “Hi. Yes, we’re ready to order.”
As the fair-haired girl in the green waistcoat came walking smartly over, Candice stared curiously at her. Something about her was familiar. Candice’s eyes ran over the girl’s wavy hair; her snub nose; her grey eyes, shadowed with tiredness. Even the way she shook her hair back off her shoulders seemed familiar. Where on earth had she seen her before?