Cocktails for Three

 

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

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.

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 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?”

“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.