Francesca's Party (15 page)

He picked up the phone and dialled Nikki’s private line. ‘Yes?’ she said crisply.

‘I’ve sent the e-mail.’

‘Good, now let’s get on with our lives, Mark. It’s a great way to start the new year. Have to go, I’ve a meeting scheduled. Well done.’

Mark hung up and walked over to the office window. A flurry of snow swirled against the glass. Was it a good start to the new year? Right now he just didn’t know.

‘Did you hear about
the
e-mail?’ Elaine, Nikki’s secretary, bubbled excitedly to her best friend Imelda. They were standing at the photocopier pretending to work.

‘I certainly did,’ Imelda admitted. ‘At first I thought it was someone playing a joke. But it’s legit.’

‘Can you credit it?’ Elaine’s eyes sparkled. ‘Mark and Hot Shot Langan. How long has it been going on?’

‘
You
should know.
You’re
her secretary,’ Imelda retorted.

‘I swear, they never gave any indication. You never
see
them together. I’m just gobsmacked.’ Elaine shook her head. ‘I never thought he’d be her type. He’s too old, forty if he’s a day. And he’s very stand-offish.’ Elaine removed Imelda’s photocopy from the copier and inserted a recipe for salmon mousse that she was longing to try out.

‘He might be past his prime but he has a certain something. I’d say he was a great ride in his day,’ Imelda said wistfully. She’d always rather fancied the reserved Mr Kirwan. He was sort of Mr Darcyish, she decided.

‘He obviously keeps Super Nicks happy so he must still have some tea left in his teapot,’ Elaine giggled.

Imelda snorted as she gathered her photocopying together and hastened down the corridor to discuss the most gloriously delicious piece of gossip to have hit the office in a long time with her friend Brona in Foreign Exchange.

Nikki strode into the canteen and took her place in the queue. She knew all eyes were upon her as a little ripple spread around the typists’ table.

Silly cows, she thought dismissively as she ordered a portion of chicken and a side salad. She had debated whether to eat in the canteen today, knowing that Mark had sent the e-mail, but she had no lunch meetings scheduled so instead of skulking off downtown she decided to grab the bull by the horns and get it over with. It had to be done sometime.

She paid for her meal and saw John McNally sitting at a table by the window. He was one of the
dealers
and she liked him. He wasn’t a bullshitter like so many of them.

‘Mind if I sit with you, John?’ She plonked her tray on the table.

‘Sure,’ John said easily. ‘I’ll bathe in your reflected notoriety.’

‘You heard about the e-mail then?’ she said drily.

‘Sure did. Caused quite a stir.’

‘See WestAir went belly up.’ Nikki deliberately changed the subject. ‘Glad I didn’t buy shares in them.’

‘Me too,’ John sipped his coffee. ‘I knew a few people who’ve taken a hit. Lorcan Donnelley for one.’

Nikki whistled. ‘Know-All Donnelley. Well, well!’ She laughed, much to the chagrin of the typists who had hoped she’d have the decency to look just the tiniest bit mortified. They should have known better. Nikki Langan was made of sterner stuff.

FRANCESCA READ THE
kind and diplomatically worded letter from Alison Curtis and sighed. During the second week of January she had sat down and written to a few dear friends and told them of her separation. She’d been putting it off but Mark had phoned her to let her know that he had sent an e-mail to key people at work and that the news was out. It had made the break-up seem very final and she’d been so hurt, she’d just snapped, ‘Thanks for telling me,’ and hung up.

Larry Grimes, Mark’s MD, had phoned the following day to say how sorry he was and to ask after her welfare. She knew she had to get down to the task of telling people. Writing was her preferred method. She’d kept the notes short but every time she wrote that she and Mark had separated and that he was with someone else she wanted to stab him. Her anger was unspeakable.

Yet, as angry as she was, fear was her strongest emotion. It had really hit her just how vulnerable she
was
when she’d written a cheque for the central heating oil. The price had increased by over £100 from the previous refill. She was at Mark’s mercy financially and it was a most unsettling feeling. He wasn’t mean, but nevertheless she was entirely dependent on him for money and she began to suffer from insomnia that left her exhausted. Night after night she would toss and turn, her mind a whirl as thoughts raced around her brain and she wondered what would become of her. Her stomach would clench into knots and her heart would start palpitating and it would often be dawn before she fell into an exhausted sleep.

She tried her best to hide her distress from Owen, who had come back from America full of enthusiasm about going to work there for the summer and beyond.

‘You could come too, Mam. It would be good for you,’ he urged.

‘Stop worrying about me, Owen. You don’t want me in America with you when you’re sowing your wild oats, now do you?’ she teased.

‘I don’t like leaving you here on your own,’ Owen fretted.

‘I might sow a few wild oats myself when you’re gone, never you fear.’ Francesca planted a kiss on his cheek and smiled at him.

He was a great son, she thought gratefully as she slid Alison’s note back in the envelope and slipped it into the drawer of her desk. She stood up, agitated. She had to get out of the house. Owen was back in college and the long day stretched ahead of her. She had a few bits and pieces of grocery shopping to do.
It
would get her out and about for an hour. She decided to drive down to Clontarf. She didn’t want to bump into any of her neighbours in Superquinn. She just wasn’t up to social chit-chat.

Francesca did a bigger shop than she anticipated in Nolan’s and was grateful as she packed the boot that at least it wasn’t raining. She pushed the trolley back to the bay and idly scanned the noticeboard. A small typed advert caught her eye.

A mad impulse found her rooting in her bag for her mobile and before she knew it, she had dialled the number given. A harassed male voice answered and she explained that she was ringing in answer to the advertisement.

‘When can you come for an interview?’ he demanded.

‘Now,’ she blurted.

‘Excellent. We’re on Seafield Road, the Vernon Avenue end.’ He gave her the number. ‘My name is Edward Allen. Just ring the bell and announce yourself. What’s your name?’

‘Francesca Kirwan,’ Francesca replied. Her voice quivered. Was she mad?

‘Right. See you shortly.’ Edward Allen clicked off and she was left looking at the mobile in astonishment.

She hurried to the car and got in. She flicked open
her
compact mirror and brushed some bronzing powder over her cheeks and touched up her lipstick. Nothing could hide the suitcases under her eyes, she thought dolefully. Hopefully he wouldn’t hire her for her looks. She was wearing black trousers, a tangerine roll-neck jumper, and her fawn winter coat edged with fur trim. Like all her clothes, it was a casually elegant outfit. Still the bank manager’s wife, she thought drily as she ran a brush through her hair.

What was maternity leave these days? About three months? If she got the job it would be something on her CV and it would give her a taste of what it would be like getting back into the workforce.

Before she lost her nerve, she started the ignition and drove off. She was less than five minutes away from her destination. She pulled up outside the red-brick house and her heart began to pound. It wasn’t too late. She could drive off and forget the crazy impulse that had set her off on this totally unexpected quest.

‘Don’t be a coward,’ she muttered as she got out of the car and drew her coat around her. She pressed the intercom and said her name. The buzzer went and she pushed open the door and found herself in a shabby hallway. The red carpet on the floor and stairs was threadbare in patches and there was a faintly musty smell about the place.

A bespectacled plump grey-haired woman popped her head out of a door along the hall. ‘Mr Allen’s room is the one across the hall. He’s waiting for you,’ she said, and disappeared.

‘Thanks,’ Francesca murmured faintly, to thin air.
She
knocked on the cream-painted door. The paintwork was chipped and cracked. It might be a busy accountant’s office but it certainly could do with a lick of paint, she thought as she waited to enter.

‘Come!’ a voice said gruffly.

Francesca pushed open the door and her eyes widened at the chaos that surrounded her. Six filing cabinets groaned under the weight of box files and folder files. Bookshelves overflowed with tomes on tax and accountancy. Finance magazines littered the floor. Edward Allen sat at a big mahogany desk in the middle of the chaos. Computer and phone cables and extension leads snaked untidily across the floor.

The accountant had a gaunt lugubrious face that reminded her of a particularly sad-looking bloodhound. His hair was slicked over the side to cover his bald patch and his grey suit hung ill-fittingly on his bony frame. He stood to greet her, his handshake limp and uninterested.

‘You must be Mrs Kirwan?’ He had a slow, ponderous voice. Clearly they would not be on first-name terms, Francesca realized as she sat opposite him in the chair he indicated.

‘Yes, Mr Allen,’ she said politely.

‘What experience of office work do you have?’ He joined his fingertips in a steeple and peered at her through his bi-focals.

‘Well, I can type, file, answer phones,’ Francesca murmured.

‘Hmm. What was your last position?’

She had a wild urge to say ‘the missionary’. This
was
ludicrous. Could she seriously see herself working for this dry old stick?

‘I’m just coming back to the workforce. My children are reared and I want to get back to work, but I haven’t actually worked outside the home for twenty years.’

‘Hmm. But you can type?’

‘Oh yes,’ Francesca assured him. She could do a passable two-fingers style of typing, so she wasn’t really fibbing she assured herself.

‘We were badly let down by a young madam from one of the agencies. She stayed half an hour and left us completely in the lurch. Maybe an older woman would be more reliable.’ He eyed Francesca up and down. ‘January is a particularly busy time as you know. We have to have our returns in and the pressure is intense. Miss Carter, my assistant, works in the other room across the hall. Your domain would be the room to the front of the house. It is also the clients’ waiting room. I would expect you to keep it tidy at all times and to make coffee for me as I require it, as well as attending to your clerical duties. The job is for three months’ duration with a possibility of it becoming permanent if Mrs Sullivan decides not to return. The salary is two hundred pounds per week. When can you start?’

‘Oh!’ Francesca was so surprised to be offered the job she couldn’t think straight.

‘Tomorrow,’ prompted Edward Allen.

‘Fine,’ Francesca stammered.

‘Very well. Nine sharp. Punctuality is of the utmost importance, I’m sure you’ll agree. I live upstairs so you don’t need a key.’ He picked up the
phone
and pressed a button. ‘Miss Carter, could you come into my office please?’ he instructed.

Moments later Miss Carter plodded into the room. About fifty, with a helmet of iron-grey hair, she wore a navy pleated skirt and a navy cardigan buttoned up to the neck. A pearl brooch was her only adornment. She wore no make-up.

‘Miss Carter, this is Mrs Kirwan. She is our new receptionist. She is starting work for the firm tomorrow,’ Edward announced.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Miss Carter said tightly in a prim little voice. She held out a pudgy little hand that was withdrawn almost as soon as Francesca had extended hers. Her little brown eyes were hard and unfriendly as she studied Francesca from head to toe.

‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ Francesca said brightly.

‘Excellent.’ A hint of a smile hovered briefly on Edward’s face. Miss Carter remained grim-faced as she surreptitiously studied Francesca.

‘See you tomorrow then,’ Francesca repeated as she backed out the door.

She let herself out of the hall door, pulling it shut behind her.

What on earth had she let herself in for? She shook her head in bemusement. Wait until Millie heard this. And Owen. She wouldn’t tell Mark until she was good and ready.

She might not tell Millie or Owen for a while either, she thought doubtfully. Edward Allen & Co. wasn’t exactly at the cutting edge of high finance.

She drove home and set to work on a marathon
cook-up.
Feeding Owen was her number-one priority. All she’d have to do for the rest of the week was pop the made-up dinners in the microwave. She could have a bite to eat in Clontarf at lunchtimes and at least she wouldn’t have too far to travel. Maybe it would work out very well. She heard her son’s key in the door.

‘Hi, Ma.’ He raced into the kitchen, flung his bag under the table, gave her a kiss, divested himself of his coat and said, ‘What’s for dinner? I’m starving.’

Francesca laughed. He said the same thing every day. ‘Roast stuffed pork steak,’ she informed him.

‘Oh yessss!’ Owen rubbed his hands.

‘Owen … umm … I wasn’t going to say it for a couple of days until I see how it goes but I got myself a job today,’ she blurted out as she busied herself serving their meal.

‘A job! Doing what?’ Her son was astonished.

‘It’s in an accountant’s in Clontarf. It’s clerical and reception work.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘I’m not an imbecile, Owen,’ Francesca said indignantly.

‘I didn’t mean that, Ma,’ he assured her hastily. ‘I was just wondering how did it come about?’

‘I saw an ad in a shop window today and when I phoned about it they asked me to come for an interview immediately. They want me to start tomorrow.’