Cocktails for Three by Madeleine Wickham

perhaps. An unforeseen encounter with a member of hisfamily. Once, she’d been sitting in a London restaurant, waiting for their third anniversary lunch— only to see him entering with his wife. He’d glanced over at her with an appalled, helpless expression, and she’d been forced to watch as he and his wife were ushered to a table. To watch, with pain eating like acid at her heart, as his wife sat frowning at him, obviously bored by his company.
    He’d later told her that Cynthia had bumped into him on the street and insisted on joining him for lunch. He’d told her how he’d sat in misery, unable to eat; unable to make conversation. The next weekend, to make up, he’d cancelled everything else and taken Roxanne to Venice.
    Roxanne closed her eyes. That weekend had been an intoxication of happiness. She’d known a pure single-minded joy which she’d never since experienced; a joy she still desperately sought, like an addict seeking that first high. They had walked hand in hand through dusty ancient squares; along canals glinting in the sunshine; over crumbling bridges. They’d drunk Prosecco in Piazza San Marco, listening to Strauss waltzes. They’d made love in the old-fashioned wooden bed at their hotel, then sat on their balcony watching the gondolas ride past; listening to the sounds of the city travelling over the water.
    They hadn’t mentioned his wife or family once. For that weekend, four human beings simply hadn’t existed. Gone, in a puff of smoke.
    Roxanne opened her eyes. She no longer allowed herself to think about his family. She no longer indulged in wicked fantasies about car crashes and avalanches. Down that road lay pain; self-reproach; indecision.Down that road lay the knowledge that she would never have him to herself. That there would be no car crash. That she was wasting the best years of her life on a man who belonged to another woman; a tall and noble woman whom he had vowed to love and cherish for all his life. The mother of his children.
    The mother of his fucking children.
    A familiar pain seared Roxanne’s heart and she drained her Bloody Mary, placed a twenty in the leather folder containing her bill and stood up in an unhurried motion, her face nonchalant.
    As she made her way to the door of the bar, she almost bumped into a girl in a black Lurex dress, with thick make-up, over-dyed red hair and shiny gilt jewellery. Roxanne recognized her calling at once. There were women like this all over London. Hired as escorts for the evening from a fancy-named firm; paid to laugh and flirt and— for a fee— much more. Several steps up from the hookers at Euston; several steps down from the trophy wives in the dining room.
    Once upon a time she would have despised such a person. Now, as she met the girl’s eyes, she felt something like empathy pass between them. They’d both fallen out of the loop. Both ended up in situations which, if predicted, would have made them laugh with disbelief. For who on earth planned to end up an escort girl? Who on earth planned to end up the other woman for six long years?
    A bubble, half sob, half laughter rose up in Roxanne’s throat, and she quickly strode on past the escort girl, out of the bar and through the hotel foyer.
    â€œTaxi, madam?” said the hotel doorman as she emerged into the cold night air.
    â€œThanks,” said Roxanne, and forced herself to smile brightly, hold her head high. So she’d been stood up, she told herself firmly. So what was new? It had happened before and it would happen again. That was the deal when the love of your life was a married man.

Chapter Four
    Candice sat in the office of Ralph Allsopp, publisher of the
Londoner,
biting her nails and wondering where he was. She had hesitantly knocked on his door that morning, praying that he was in; praying that he wouldn’t be too busy to see her. When he’d opened the door, holding a phone to