Cocktails for Three (40 page)

“I was wondering,” began the saleswoman cautiously to Fleur. “You're quite sure that you want all six hats in black? We do have some other super colors this season.” She tapped her teeth thoughtfully. “There's a lovely emerald green which would look stunning with your hair…”

“Black,” said Fleur decisively. “I'm only interested in black.”

Cocktails for Three

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 makeup—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.

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?” inquired a voice to her left. Maggie swiveled 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?”

Roxanne Miller stood in the ladies' room of the Manhattan Bar, leaned forward, and carefully outlined her lips in cinnamon-colored 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 makeup 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 makeup 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.”

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

First published in Great Britain by Transworld Publishers

COCKTAILS FOR THREE

Copyright © 2000 by Madeleine Wickham.
Excerpt from
The Wedding Girl
copyright © 1999 by Madeleine Wickham.
Excerpt from
The Gatecrasher
copyright © 1998 by Madeleine Wickham.
Excerpt from
Sleeping Arrangements
copyright © 2001 by Madeleine Wickham.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 978-1-4299-0993-8
EAN: 978-1-4299-0993-8

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin's Press hardcover edition / May 2001
St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / December 2002

St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1