Francesca's Party (2 page)

‘Come on, come on,’ she urged a green Fiesta dawdling up the ramp ahead of her and taking the only available parking spot. A silver Volvo pulled out ahead and Francesca shot into the vacant space, grabbed Mark’s phone and jumped out of the car. She gazed frantically around looking for someone to
explain
her predicament to. The last thing she wanted was to be clamped. She saw an airport policeman and breathlessly explained the problem to him, waving Mark’s phone to emphasize the urgency of the situation.

‘That’s OK, go on. Try not to be too long,’ the policeman said kindly as a Tannoy announcement declared that Departures was a set-down area only. Francesca gave a wry smile and ran.

She gazed around frantically at the passengers hurrying to and fro. She didn’t know his flight number. But he was going to Brussels. What was the Check-in-desk number for Brussels? She was about to stand back to look up at the big monitors when by chance she glanced over at the escalators and saw her husband’s tawny head disappear from view. Relief flooded her. Great! She called his name but he didn’t hear her. What on earth was he going downstairs to Arrivals for? she thought, perplexed, as she made her way over to the escalators. She could see Mark at the very end and was about to step on the escalator herself and call his name when her eyes widened in shock and her voice caught in her throat.

A young woman had stepped forward to greet him and, to Francesca’s absolute horror, Mark wrapped his arms around her and kissed her ardently.

FRANCESCA FELT THE
blood drain from her face. Her heart lurched sickeningly. It was as though someone had just punched her hard in the solar plexus. She couldn’t breathe. She stepped back involuntarily and bumped into a man who was waiting to go down the escalator. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she apologized, her voice seeming to come from a long distance as she moved out of the way.

You’re dreaming
, she told herself, incredulously. She looked down again. No! It was no dream. Mark and the young woman were moving away, talking and laughing animatedly.

Fear gripped Francesca. What was going on? She vaguely remembered the glamorous brunette. She worked in the Acquisitions and Mergers department of Mark’s bank. She’d seen her at a few functions but hadn’t taken much notice of her. She couldn’t remember her name.

Hesitantly, she moved towards the stairs that paralleled the escalators. She took a few steps down
and
saw Mark and the woman striding purposefully along. They weren’t checking in for a flight to Brussels. They seemed to be heading for Area 9, the Check-in area for domestic flights.

She shadowed them, loitering in O’Brien’s Sandwich Bar until they had checked in and sauntered towards their boarding area, obviously now in no rush.

Francesca walked past the small queue at the desk and looked at the flight destination.

Cork.

Mark and the woman were on their way to Cork and she knew exactly where they were going.

How could he? How
could
he have an affair and bring his tart to the hotel that he’d taken Francesca to, just a few weeks ago, to celebrate her fortieth birthday?

But he couldn’t be having an affair. It wasn’t possible, she thought frantically, not knowing what to do. Should she follow them and confront them? She felt sick. She started to shake as shock set in. Taking a deep breath Francesca turned and retraced her steps. She needed to get to the car, needed to be alone to try and make sense of this nightmare that her life had suddenly become.

‘Did you find him?’ the airport policeman asked as she emerged shaken and stunned through the exit doors. He noted the mobile still clutched in her hand. ‘Oh, you didn’t.’

‘No. No, he’d gone through. Thanks anyway,’ Francesca replied. She was surprised at how normal her voice sounded, but her fingers shook as she went to put the key into the ignition.

Tears welled in her eyes as she drove off the ramp and she blinked frantically to try and clear them. Her throat was so constricted she could hardly swallow and in desperation she drove into the hotel car park, stopped and put her head in her hands. Then she cried her eyes out.

Why was this happening to her? To them? How could one’s life be flowing along smoothly one minute and the next be an absolute catastrophe? How long had Mark been seeing this woman? Did he come from her bed to Francesca’s? The thought made her feel nauseous.

How had he been able to keep it from her? What did this mean for their marriage? How could she tell the boys that their father was a philanderer? What was she going to do?

The questions whirled around her head, thick and fast like a blizzard swamping her, smothering her. She couldn’t think straight, not sitting here in an anonymous car park with rain pelting against the windows and the roar of planes taking off filling the air.

Francesca took a tissue from her bag and wiped her eyes. Mark’s phone lay on the seat beside her. No doubt he’d called
her
on it many times and made plans to meet, while lying through his teeth to Francesca.

She felt a hatred and rage bubble up inside her, so strong that she could almost taste it. She’d make him pay for what he’d done to her. She’d given him twenty-two years of her life and what had it meant to him? Nothing! He was a deceiving, lying, despicable bastard. She had always looked up to him, respected
him,
admired him. She’d thought that her husband was a man of honour. How wrong she’d been.

‘I was beginning to get worried. Thought you weren’t going to show. Thought you were going to be a wuss.’ Nikki Langan slanted a glance up at Mark as they sat sipping cappuccinos in the coffee dock of the boarding area.

‘Don’t be daft! Of course I was going to show. Of all the days for the taxi not to turn up. That’s really pissed me off. Are they mad or what? That’s a lucrative account and they’ve lost it through sheer carelessness,’ Mark retorted. He eyeballed her. ‘So you think I’m a wuss, do you? Let’s see if that’s what you think when I get you into that big double bed down in Oaklands.’

Nikki slid her hand up his thigh and pressed lightly with the tips of her fingers.

‘Stop it, Nikki.’ But Mark couldn’t suppress the pleasure that shot through him.

‘You
are
a wuss,’ Nikki taunted as her hand moved higher.

‘Nikki!’ Mark’s hand shot down and caught hers. She giggled.

‘Party pooper!’

‘You’re incorrigible. People will see.’

‘They’ll just be green with envy that I’m sitting with a gorgeous, sexy man dying to have my wicked way with him. Did you ever do it on an aeroplane?’ She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him.

‘You’re plain wicked.’ Mark grinned at her.

‘You’ve just led a sheltered life, darling. Just as well I’m here to change that,’ Nikki drawled.

A Tannoy announcement called their flight for boarding and Nikki uncoiled her long legs from the bar stool. ‘At last. If we don’t do it soon, I’ll explode. The sooner we get to Cork the better,’ she purred.

‘Me too,’ Mark said huskily as he followed her to the gate. He still couldn’t believe that a beautiful, bright, sexy, sensual woman like Nikki Langan would even give him a second glance, let alone be consumed with desire for him. Happiness filled his heart. He felt young and carefree and eager and horny. He hadn’t felt like that in a long, long time.

They ran across the rain-splattered tarmac, laughing as he sheltered her within the confines of his coat. As he looked down at her he felt that he was the luckiest man alive.

‘Don’t forget to turn off your mobile,’ she reminded him as she switched off her own phone once they had settled into their seats.

Mark reached into his inside pocket and a frown crossed his face. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘I forgot the bloody thing.’

‘You can use mine if you need to,’ Nikki said airily as she buckled her seatbelt.

‘I hate being without my mobile. I’ll need to call Francesca and tell her to take the phone out of the car before she takes it into the garage. I don’t want any of those rip-off merchants ringing Australia.’

‘Well, you’d better call her now before we take off. Here.’ Nikki handed him her phone.

Mark grimaced. He didn’t want to call Francesca with Nikki sitting beside him. He was as guilty as hell about having an affair, so he tried not to think about it. It was the easiest thing to do. He supposed that he
loved
his wife, they’d been together a long time. But this was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he was going to make the most of it.

He dialled her mobile but it rang unanswered until it went into divert. She obviously hadn’t got it with her. Irritation swamped him. Typical Francesca. She was always leaving her phone behind or forgetting to turn it on. What was the point of having the damn thing if she didn’t bother to carry it with her? He left a curt message on her line, clicked off and handed the phone back to Nikki. He scowled. For some reason the incident had punctured his good humour. It was stupid of him to forget his mobile. What could he have been thinking of? If Francesca needed to contact him she could start ringing Brussels and that could lead to complications. Why didn’t she have her bloody phone with her so that he could reach her and nip any problems in the bud? There were times that Francesca drove him mad. Right now was one of them.

DRIVING FOCUSED HER
mind. The traffic was heavy and the pelting rain had started to turn to flurries of snow and sleet. Francesca turned up the heating. She felt desperately cold despite the warmth of the car. Her hands and feet worked the gears and brakes automatically: her life had just been destroyed, yet she could still do something as normal as driving. In the distance she could hear a jet roar up into the sky. Was it their plane? Were her husband and his mistress sitting together up there, hand in hand, giggling and laughing like teenagers?

Francesca shook her head. It was incredible. Mark having an affair. He couldn’t be. They weren’t the kind of people this type of appalling thing happened to. They had a good marriage.

Of course there were couples in their wide set of acquaintances where the husband or wife was playing away. Francesca had seen it happen, often. But they were ‘other people’. Never in a million years had she thought it would happen in
her
marriage.

An Audi cut in in front of her and she had to brake sharply. She jammed her thumb on the horn and kept it there. ‘Bastard!’ she swore savagely, cursing not only the anonymous driver but all men and especially her husband. ‘Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!’

She knew she had to keep focused. Collins Avenue junction at rush hour was no place for a driver who hadn’t her wits about her. ‘Concentrate!’ She gripped the wheel tighter in an effort to pay attention to her driving.

Twenty-five minutes later she drove into the circular drive of their big detached red-brick Victorian home, which nestled into a secluded hillside overlooking Howth. She fumbled in her bag looking for her keys. Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks again. When she entered the hall Trixie, her beloved cocker spaniel, bounded up to greet her.

Francesca knelt and buried her face in Trixie’s soft white pelt. ‘Oh Trixie, Trixie, why? How could he do it to me? I’ll never get over this,’ she cried, the pain in her heart so intense she could hardly breathe. Her little dog whimpered, gazing at her with perplexed melting brown eyes.

‘Oh God! Oh God! What will I do?’ She had never known fear until this moment but now she was in its grip. Her stomach clenched and unclenched, knotted, painful. Waves of panic washed over her as her heartbeat raced and weird fluttery sensations made her feel as though everything inside her had turned to water.

From a great distance, or so it seemed, she heard the tinkling of ‘Für Elise’ and knew that her mobile phone was ringing. She didn’t want to answer it. She
didn’t
want to do anything except stay curled up on the floor with her arms around Trixie.

The ringing persisted but she ignored it and let it ring out. She couldn’t talk to anyone right now. She stayed where she was as her grief poured out of her while Trixie licked her frantically and snuggled in close in an effort to comfort her distraught mistress.

The main phone rang and she cursed it. ‘Leave me alone,’ she shouted. ‘Just leave me alone.’

She heard the answering machine cut in and the voice of Owen, her youngest son, echoed cheerfully around the hall. ‘Mam, I won’t be home tonight. We’re playing an away match and going for a few pints afterwards so I’m going to stay with Sean in town. See ya, Mam, and could you take my jeans out of the washing machine and stick them in the tumble dryer. Thanks, Mam.’

Owen was such a carefree soul. He breezed through life full of optimism, enjoying it to the limit, unlike his older brother Jonathan, who was more serious and intense. Jonathan was working as a systems analyst in a big American corporation in New York and had already been promoted in his first year. Like his father, he was hard-working and ambitious. Owen was more like her.

Francesca and Mark had flown to New York to visit Jonathan just two months ago and had had a wonderful trip. Bitterness swamped her as a memory came flooding back. Mark had been on his mobile phone one day when she had walked in on him in the bedroom. He’d been speaking softly, smiling as he listened to the caller at the other end of the phone. When he’d seen her he’d become brisk and
businesslike
and quickly ended the call. Francesca hadn’t taken much notice except to think that he’d terminated the call very quickly. But then he was always on the phone: always taking and making calls even when he was supposed to be on his holidays.

He’d been talking to that woman, Francesca was sure of it now. And he’d been so eager to get back home. When they got home from the airport he’d had a shower and gone out immediately after. Said he was going to the office for an hour or so. He must have gone straight to her.

Now she knew that Mark was unfaithful, there were so many indications, so many little pointers that she hadn’t picked up on – until now. The phone calls telling her that he wouldn’t be home until later and not to keep dinner for him. Going back to the gym and losing half a stone. His renewed interest in his clothes and appearance. His concerns about his greying hair. And, of course, she thought contemptuously, remembering his off-hand kiss earlier, his new aftershave.