Cocktails for Three by Madeleine Wickham Page B

you to continue with a certain amount of travel, to other comparable resorts. For . . . research purposes.” Roxanne looked at him suspiciously.
    â€œHas this job been tailor-made for me?”
    A smile flickered over Nico’s face. “In a way . . . perhaps yes.”
    â€œI see.” Roxanne stared into her glass of orange juice. “But . . . why?”
    There was silence for a while— then Nico said in a deadpan voice, “You know why.”
    A strange pang went through Roxanne and she closed her eyes, trying to rationalize her thoughts. The sun was hot on her face; in the distance she could hear children shrieking excitedly on the beach. “Mama!” one of them was calling, “Mama!” She could live here all year round, she thought. Wake up to sunshine every day. Join the Georgiou family for long, lazy celebration meals— as she once had for Andreas’s birthday.
    And Nico himself. Courteous, self-deprecating Nico, who never hid his feelings for her— but never forced them on her either. Kind, loyal Nico; she would die rather than hurt him.
    â€œI can’t,” she said, and opened her eyes to see Nico gazing straight at her. The expression in his dark eyes made her want to cry. “I can’t leave London.” She exhaled sharply. “You know why. I just can’t—”
    â€œYou can’t leave him,” said Nico, and, in one movement, drained his espresso.

    Something was ringing in Maggie’s mind. A fire alarm. An alarm clock. The doorbell. Her mind jerked awake and she opened her eyes. Dazedly, she glanced at her watch on the side of the bath and saw to her astonishment that it was one o’clock. She’d been in her bath for almost an hour, half dozing in the warmth. As quickly as she could, she stood up, reached for a towel, and began to dry her face and neck before getting out.
    Halfway out of the bath another practice contraction seized her and in slight terror she clung onto the side of the bath, willing herself not to slip over. As the painful tightness subsided, the doorbell rang again downstairs, loud and insistent.
    â€œBloody hell, give me a minute!” she yelled. She wrenched angrily at a towelling robe on the back of the door, wrapped it around herself and padded out of the room. As she passed the mirror on the landing she glanced at herself and was slightly taken aback at her pale, strained reflection. Hardly a picture of blooming health. But then, in the mood she was in, she didn’t care what she looked like.
    She headed for the front door, already knowing from the thin shadowy figure on the other side of the frosted glass that her visitor was Paddy. Barely a day went by without Paddy popping in with some excuse or other— a knitted blanket for the baby, a cutting from the garden, the famous recipe for scones, copied onto a flowery card. “She’s keeping bloody tabs on me!” Maggie had complained, half jokingly, to Giles the night before. “Every day, like clockwork!” On the other hand, Paddy’s company was better than nothing.And at least she hadn’t brought Wendy back for a visit.
    â€œMaggie!” exclaimed Paddy, as soon as Maggie opened the door. “So glad to have caught you in. I’ve been making tomato soup, and, as usual, I’ve made far too much. Can you use some?”
    â€œOh,” said Maggie. “Yes, I should think so. Come on in.” As she stood aside to let Paddy in, another contraction began— this one deeper and more painful than the others. She gripped the door, bowing her head and biting her lip, waiting for it to pass— then looked up at Paddy, a little out of breath.
    â€œMaggie, are you all right?” said Paddy sharply.
    â€œFine,” said Maggie, breathing normally again. “Just a practice contraction.”
    â€œA what?” Paddy stared at her.
    â€œThey’re called Braxton-Hicks contractions,”