Free Cocktails for Three by Madeleine Wickham

burp,” said Wendy. “Hold him upright.”
    â€œOK,” said Maggie. With tense, awkward hands, she shifted the baby round and lifted him up. He screwed up his face and for an awful moment she thought he was going to scream. Then his mouth opened, and a cascade of warm regurgitated milk streamed onto her jersey.
    â€œOh my God!” said Maggie in horror. “He’s thrown up on me!”
    â€œOh,” said Wendy dispassionately. “Sorry about that. Here, give him to me.”
    â€œNever mind,” said Paddy briskly, handing Maggie a muslin cloth. “You’ll have to get used to this kind of thing, Maggie! Won’t she, Wendy!”
    â€œOh yeah,” said Wendy. “You just wait!”
    Maggie looked up from wiping her jersey to see Paddy and Wendy both looking complacently at her, as though in triumph.
We’ve got you,
their eyes seemed to say. Inside, she began to shiver.
    â€œWanta do a poo,” Jake announced, wandering over to Wendy’s side.
    â€œGood boy,” she said, putting down her cup. “Just let me get the potty out.”
    â€œDear God, no!” cried Maggie, getting to her feet. “I mean— I’ll make some more coffee, shall I?”
    In the kitchen she flicked on the kettle and sank intoa chair, shaking, her jersey still damp with milk. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was this really what motherhood was all about? And if so, what the hell had she done? She closed her eyes and thought, with a pang, of her office at the
Londoner.
Her organized, civilized office, full of grown-ups; full of wit and sophistication and not a baby in sight.
    She hesitated, glancing at the door— then picked up the phone and quickly dialled a number.
    â€œHello?” As she heard Candice’s voice, Maggie exhaled with relief. Just hearing those friendly, familiar tones made her relax.
    â€œHi, Candice! It’s Maggie.”
    â€œMaggie!” exclaimed Candice in surprise. “How’s it going? Are you all right?”
    â€œOh, I’m fine,” said Maggie. “You know, lady of leisure . . .”
    â€œI suppose you’re still in bed, you lucky cow.”
    â€œActually,” said Maggie gaily, “I’m hosting a coffee morning. I have a real-live Stepford mum in my living room.” Candice laughed, and Maggie felt a warm glow of pleasure steal over her. Thank God for friends, she thought. Suddenly the situation seemed funny; an entertaining anecdote. “You won’t
believe
what happened just now,” she added, lowering her voice. “I’m sitting on the sofa, holding this pig-ugly baby, and he starts to wriggle. And the next minute—”
    â€œActually, Maggie,” interrupted Candice, “I’m really sorry, but I can’t really chat. Justin’s holding some stupid meeting and we’ve all got to go.”
    â€œOh,” said Maggie, feeling a stab of disappointment. “Well . . . OK.”
    â€œBut we’ll talk later, I promise.”
    â€œFine!” said Maggie brightly. “It doesn’t matter at all. I was just calling on the off-chance. Have a good meeting.”
    â€œI doubt that. Oh, but listen. Before I go, there’s something I must tell you!” Candice’s voice grew quieter. “You remember that girl, Heather, we saw last night? The cocktail waitress?”
    â€œYes,” said Maggie, casting her mind back to the evening before. “Of course I do.” Was it really only last night that they were all sitting in the Manhattan Bar? It seemed like a lifetime ago.
    â€œWell, I know you told me not to— but I introduced her to Ralph,” said Candice. “And he was so impressed, he offered her the job on the spot. She’s starting as editorial assistant next week!”
    â€œReally?” said Maggie in astonishment. “How extraordinary!”
    â€œYes,” said Candice, and cleared her