Read Online Cocktails for Three by Madeleine Wickham - Free Book Online

for what seemed like at least an hour. When she emerged, she discovered she’d been in there for twenty minutes.
    Now it was nine-thirty. The day hadn’t even begun yet, but she felt as though she’d been sitting at her kitchen table for an eternity. How was it that time— such a precious, slipping-away commodity in London— seemed here to pass so slowly? Like honey dripping through an hourglass.
    Maggie closed her eyes, took another sip of coffee and tried to think of what she was usually doing at this hour. Any number of things. Strap-hanging on the tube, reading the paper. Striding into the office. Buying a cappuccino from the coffee shop on the corner. Answering a thousand e-mails. Sitting in an early meeting. Laughing, talking, surrounded by people.
    And stressed out, she reminded herself firmly, before the images became too positive. Buffeted by the crowds, choked by taxi fumes; deafened by the noise; pressured by deadlines. Whereas here, the only sound was that of a bird outside the window, and the air was as clean and fresh as spring water. And she had no pressures, no meetings, no deadlines.
    Except the big one of course— and that was utterly outside her own control. It almost amused her, the thought that she, who was so used to being boss, whowas so used to running the show, was in this case utterly powerless. Idly, she reached for her pregnancy handbook and allowed it to fall open. “At this point the pains will become stronger,” she found herself reading. “Try not to panic. Your partner will be able to offer support and encouragement.” Hastily she closed the book and took another gulp of coffee. Out of sight, out of fright.
    Somewhere at the back of her mind, Maggie knew she should have taken the midwives’ advice and attended classes on childbirth. Each of her friendly, well-meaning midwives had pressed on her a series of leaflets and numbers, and exhorted her to follow them up. But didn’t these women realize how busy she was? Didn’t they appreciate that taking time off work for hospital appointments was disruptive enough— and that the last thing she and Giles felt like doing at the end of a busy day was trekking off to some stranger’s house in order to sit on bean bags and talk about, frankly, quite private matters? She had bought a book and half watched a video—fast-forwarding through the gruesome bits— and that would have to be enough.
    Firmly she pushed the book behind the breadbin, where she couldn’t see it— and poured herself another cup of coffee. At that moment, the doorbell rang. Frowning slightly in surprise, Maggie heaved herself out of her chair and walked through the hall to the front door. There on the front step was her mother-in-law, dressed in a Puffa jacket, a stripy shirt and a blue corduroy skirt, straight to the knee.
    â€œHello, Maggie!” she said. “Not too early, am I?”
    â€œNo!” said Maggie, half laughing. “Not at all. Giles said you might pop round.” She leaned forward andawkwardly kissed Paddy, stumbling slightly on the step.
    Although she had been married to Giles for four years, she still did not feel she had got to know Paddy very well. They had never once sat down for a good chat— principally because Paddy never seemed to sit down at all. She was a thin, energetic woman, always on the move. Always cooking, gardening, running someone to the station or organizing a collection. She had run the village Brownies for twenty-five years, sang in the church choir, and had made all Maggie’s bridesmaids’ dresses herself. Now she smiled, and handed Maggie a cake tin.
    â€œA few scones,” she said. “Some raisin, some cheese.”
    â€œOh, Paddy!” said Maggie, feeling touched. “You shouldn’t have.”
    â€œIt’s no trouble,” said Paddy. “I’ll give you the recipe, if you like. They’re terribly easy to rustle