Cocktails for Three (19 page)

Chapter Eleven

Maggie leaned against a fence and closed her eyes, breathing in the clean country air. It was mid-morning, the sky was bright blue and there was a feel of summer about the air. In her previous life, she thought, she would have felt uplifted by the weather. She would have felt energized. But today, standing in her own fields, with her baby asleep in the pram beside her, all she could feel was exhausted.

She felt pale and drained through lack of sleep; edgy and constantly on the verge of tears. Lucia was waking every two hours, demanding to be fed. She could not breastfeed her in bed, because Giles, with his demanding job, needed to sleep. And so she seemed to be spending the whole night sitting in the rocking chair in the nursery, falling into a doze as Lucia fed, then waking with a start as the baby began to wail again. As the greyness of morning approached, she would rouse herself, pad blearily into the bedroom, holding Lucia in her arms.

“Good morning!” Giles would say, beaming sleepily from the big double bed. “How are my girls?”

“Fine,” Maggie said every morning, without elaborating. For what was the point? It wasn't as if Giles could feed Lucia; it wasn't as if he could make her sleep. And she felt a certain dogged triumph at her own refusal to complain; at her ability to smile and tell Giles that everything was going wonderfully, and see him believe her. She had heard him on the phone, telling his friends, in tones of pride, that Maggie had taken to motherhood like a duck to water. Then he would come and kiss her warmly and say that everyone was amazed at how competent she was; at how everything had fallen into place so quickly. “Mother of the Year!” he said one evening. “I told you so!” His delight in her was transparent. She couldn't spoil it all now.

So she would simply hand Lucia to him and sink into the warm comfort of the bed, almost wanting to cry in relief. Those half-hours every morning were her salvation. She would watch Giles playing with Lucia and meet his eyes over the little downy head, and feel a warm glow creep over her; a love so strong, it was almost painful.

Then Giles would get dressed and kiss them both, and go off to work, and the rest of the day would be hers. Hours and hours, with nothing to do but look after one small baby. It sounded laughably easy.

So why was she so tired? Why did every simple task seem so mountainous? She felt as if she would never shift the fog of exhaustion that had descended on her. She would never regain her former energy, nor her sense of humour. Things that would have seemed mildly irritating before the birth now reduced her to
tears; minor hitches that would once have made her laugh now made her panic.

The day before, she had taken all morning to get herself and Lucia dressed and off in the car to the supermarket. She had stopped halfway to feed Lucia in the Ladies', then had resumed and joined the queue— at which point Lucia had begun to wail. Maggie had flushed red as faces had begun to turn, and tried to soothe Lucia as discreetly as she could. But Lucia's cries had grown louder and louder until it seemed the whole shop was looking at her. Finally the woman in front had turned round and said knowledgeably, “He's hungry, poor little pet.”

To her own horror, Maggie had heard herself snapping, “It's a she! And she's not! I've just fed her!” Almost in tears, she had grabbed Lucia from the trolley and run out of the shop, leaving a trail of astonished glances behind her.

Now, remembering the incident, she felt cold with misery. How competent a mother could she be if she couldn't even manage a simple shopping trip? She saw other mothers coolly walking along the streets, chatting unconcernedly to their friends; sitting in cafés with their babies quietly sleeping beside them. How could they be so relaxed? She herself would never dare enter a café for fear that Lucia would start screaming: for fear of those irritated, judgmental glances from those trying to enjoy a quiet coffee. The sorts of glances she had always given mothers with squalling babies.

A memory of her old life rose in her mind— so tantalizing it made her want to sink down on the ground and weep. And immediately, as if on cue, Lucia began to cry; a small, plaintive cry, almost lost in the wind.
Maggie opened her eyes and felt the familiar weariness steal over her. That piercing little cry dogged her every hour: she heard it in her dreams, heard it in the whine of the electric kettle, heard it in the running of the taps when she attempted to take a bath. She could not escape it.

“OK, my precious,” she said aloud, smiling down into the pram. “Let's get you back inside.”

It was Giles who had suggested that she take Lucia outside for a walk that morning, and, seeing the cloudless blue sky outside, she had thought it a good idea. But now, pushing the pram back through resistant layers of thick mud, the countryside seemed nothing but a battleground. What was so superior about manure-scented air, anyway? she thought, shoving at the pram as it got stuck in a patch of brambles. Inside, Lucia began to wail even more piteously at the unaccustomed jolting movement.

“Sorry!” said Maggie breathlessly. She gave one final push, freeing the wheel, and began to march more quickly towards the house. By the time she arrived at the back door, her face was drenched in sweat.

“Right,” she said, taking Lucia out of the pram. “Let's get you changed, and feed you.”

Did talking to a four-week-old baby count as talking to oneself? she wondered as she sped upstairs. Was she going mad? Lucia was wailing more and more lustily, and she found herself running along the corridor to the nursery. She placed Lucia on the changing table, unbuttoned her snow suit and winced. Lucia's little sleeping suit was sodden.

“OK,” she crooned. “Just going to change you . . .” She pulled at the snowsuit and quickly unbuttoned the
sleeping suit, cursing her fumbling fingers. Lucia's wails were becoming louder and louder, faster and faster, with a little catch of breath in between. Tears appeared at the tiny creases of her eyes, and Maggie felt her own face flush scarlet with distress.

“I've just got to change you, Lucia,” she said, trying to stay calm. She quickly pulled apart Lucia's wet nappy, threw it on the floor and reached for another one. But the shelf was empty. A jolt of panic went through her. Where were the nappies? Suddenly she remembered taking the last one off the shelf before setting off for her walk; promising herself to open the box and restock the shelf. But of course, she hadn't.

“OK,” she said, pushing her hair back off her face. “OK, keep calm.” She lifted Lucia off the changing table and placed her on the safety of the floor. Lucia's screams became incomparably loud. The noise seemed to drive through Maggie's head like a drill.

“Lucia, please!” she said, feeling her voice rise dangerously. “I'm just getting you a new nappy, OK? I'll be as quick as I can!”

She ran down the corridor to the bedroom, where she had dumped the new box of nappies, and began to rip hastily at the cardboard. At last she managed to get the box open— to find the nappies snugly encased in plastic cocoons.

“Oh God!” she said aloud, and began to claw frenziedly at the plastic, feeling like a contestant on some hideous Japanese game of endurance. Eventually her fingers closed over a nappy and she pulled it out, panting slightly. She ran back down the corridor to find Lucia in wailing paroxysms.

“OK, I'm coming,” said Maggie breathlessly. “Just
let me put your nappy on.” She bent down over Lucia and fastened the nappy around her as quickly as she could— then, with the baby in one arm, scrambled to the rocking chair in the corner. Every second seemed to count, with the noise of Lucia growing louder and louder in her ears. She reached with one hand under her jumper to unfasten her bra, but the catch was stuck. With a tiny scream of frustration, she placed Lucia on her lap and reached with the other hand inside her jumper as well, trying to free the catch; trying to stay calm. Lucia's screams were getting higher and higher, faster and faster, as though the frequency on the record had been turned up.

“I'm coming!” cried Maggie, jiggling hopelessly at the catch. “I'm coming as quick as I can, OK!” Her voice rose to a shout. “Lucia, be quiet! Please be quiet! I'm coming!”

“There's no need to scream at her, dear,” came a voice from the door.

Maggie's head jerked up in fright— and as she saw who it was, she felt her face drain of colour. There, watching her, lips tight with disapproval, was Paddy Drakeford.

Candice stood, holding a cup of coffee, peering at her computer screen over the shoulder of the computer engineer and trying to look intelligent.

“Hmm,” said the engineer eventually, and looked up. “Have you ever had any virus screening programs installed?”

“Ahm . . . I'm not sure,” said Candice, and flushed at his glance. “Do you think that's what it is, a virus?”

“Hard to tell,” said the engineer, and punched a few
keys. Candice surreptitiously looked at her watch. It was already eleven-thirty. She had called out a computer engineer believing he would fix her machine in a matter of minutes, but he had arrived an hour ago, started tapping and now looked like he was settled in for the day. She had already called Justin, telling him she would be late, and he had “Hinm'd” with disapproval.

“By the way, Heather says, can you bring in her blue folder,” he'd added. “Do you want to have a word with her? She's right here.”

“No, I've . . . I've got to go,” Candice had said hastily. She had put down the phone, exhaled with relief, and sat down, her heart thudding slightly. This was getting ridiculous. She had to sort her own mind out; to rid herself of the tendrils of doubt that were growing inside her over Heather.

Outwardly, she and Heather were as friendly as ever. But inside, Candice had started to wonder. Were the others right? Was Heather using her? She had still paid no rent, neither had she offered to. She had barely thanked Candice for doing that large amount of work for her. And she had— Candice swallowed— she had blatantly stolen Candice's late-night shopping feature idea and presented it as her own.

A familiar twinge went through Candice's stomach and she closed her eyes. She knew that she should confront Heather on the matter. She should bring the subject up, pleasantly and firmly, and listen to what Heather had to say. Perhaps, reasoned a part of her brain, it had all been a misunderstanding. Perhaps Heather simply hadn't realized that it wasn't done to take credit for someone else's idea. It was no big deal—all
she had to do was mention it to Heather and see what the response was.

But she couldn't quite bring herself to. The thought of appearing to accuse Heather— of perhaps descending into an argument over it— filled her with horror. Things had been going so well between them— was it really worth risking a scene just over one little idea?

And so for more than a week she had said nothing, and had tried to forget about it. But there was a bad feeling inside her stomach which would not go away.

“Do you ever download from the Internet?” said the computer engineer.

“No,” said Candice, opening her eyes. Then she thought for a second. “Actually, yes. I tried to once, but it didn't really work. Does that matter?”

The engineer sighed, and she bit her lip, feeling foolish. Suddenly the door bell rang, and she breathed out in relief.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I'll be back in a minute.”

Standing in the hall was Ed, wearing an old T-shirt, shorts and espadrilles.

“So,” he said with no preamble. “Tell me about your flat-mate.”

“There's nothing to tell,” said Candice, flushing defensively in spite of herself. “She's just . . . living with me. Like flat-mates do.”

“I know that. But where's she from? What's she like?” Ed sniffed past Candice. “Is that coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Your flat always smells so nice,” said Ed. “Like a coffee shop. Mine smells like a shit-heap.”

“Do you ever clean it?”

“Some woman does.” He leaned further into the flat
and sniffed longingly. “Come on, Candice. Give me some coffee.”

“Oh, all right,” said Candice. “Come in.” At least it would be an excuse not to return to the computer engineer.

“I saw your friend leaving this morning without you,” said Ed, following her into the kitchen, “and I thought—aha. Coffee time.”

“Don't you have any plans today?” said Candice. “Properties to visit? Daytime TV to watch?”

“Don't rub it in!” said Ed. He reached for the salt cellar and tapped it on his palm. “This bloody gardening leave is driving me nuts.”

“What's wrong?” said Candice unsympathetically.

“I'm bored!” He turned the salt cellar upside down and wrote “Ed” in salt on the table. “Bored, bored, bored.”

“You obviously don't have any inner resources,” said Candice, taking the salt cellar from his fingers.

“No,” said Ed. “Not a one. I went to a museum yesterday. A
museum.
Can you believe it?”

“Which one?” said Candice.

“I dunno.” said Ed. “One with squashy chairs.” Candice gazed at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes and turned away to fill the kettle. Ed grinned, and began to mooch about the kitchen.

“So, who's this kid?” he said, looking at a photograph tacked up on the pinboard.

“That's the Cambodian child I sponsor,” said Candice, reaching for the coffee.

“What's his name?”

“Pin Fu. Ju,” she corrected herself. “Pin Ju.”

“Do you send him Christmas presents?”

“No. It's not considered helpful.” Candice shook coffee into the cafetière. “Anyway, he doesn't want some Western tat.”

“I bet he does,” said Ed. “He's probably dying for a Darth Vader. Have you ever met him?”

“No.”

“Have you ever spoken to him on the phone?”