Francesca's Party (31 page)

It was hard to believe that the holiday was over. It had flown by so quickly. She’d enjoyed it though. For the first time in years she’d had no-one to fuss over or compromise with. Mark wasn’t a sun-worshipper like she was. He liked visiting art galleries and museums and touring around whatever country they were in. Often on holiday with Mark she’d ended up wandering around an art gallery, going bananas because the sun was shining outside and she longed to be relaxing in it. Not so with Millie. It had been glorious just to plonk herself on her lounger and read her books, knowing that her sister was perfectly happy to do the same. Now the idyllic few days were over and it was back to reality.

At least she had her job to go to, she thought gratefully. It was better than sitting home alone feeling sorry for herself. ‘Sure you won’t stay the night?’ Millie sat down alongside her, laden down with bags.

‘No, Millie, I won’t, but thanks for asking,’ Francesca smiled.

‘Well, let’s have one last drink, to send us on our way even though the sun isn’t over the yardarm yet,’ Millie suggested, ‘loose lushes that we are.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ laughed Francesca.

It was after four by the time she slid the key into her front door. She’d had coffee at Millie’s and enjoyed the excitement as her nieces had opened their presents. Trixie had greeted her joyfully, licking
her
all over and gazing up at her with her big brown eyes, her tail wagging furiously. She’d been very well fed during her sojourn with Aidan and the girls. She’d need some brisk exercise just like her mistress, Francesca thought wryly as she patted her silky coat. Aidan dropped her home and carried her case into the house and when she closed the door behind him, the silence dropped around her like a cloak and her heart ached with loneliness.

She walked through the rooms feeling the emptiness. Once this house had been her castle. She’d reigned happily as its queen. Now it was her prison. Maybe Millie was right. She should sell up and get a smaller place of her own. Close that chapter of her life and start a new one. It was much easier said than done, though. Selling the house would be an admission that her marriage was well and truly over and part of her wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

She unpacked her suitcase and filled the washing machine. The silence was driving her nuts. ‘Come on, Trixie, let’s get out of here,’ she muttered. She changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. It was cold after the heat of Portugal. The sky was grey and the breeze fresh and cool as she walked out to the garage to get the car. She’d only had one G and T at the airport, and that was hours ago, like another lifetime ago, she thought, half shocked at coming back to earth and reality with such a bang.

She drove down to Howth Pier, parked and set off on a brisk walk with Trixie tugging on the leash excitedly. Gulls circled and screamed overhead as the trawlers sailed into harbour with their catch. The wind on the top of the pier was fresh and salt laden
and
she inhaled deeply as she walked along. This time yesterday she’d been sitting on her balcony in Oura Praia sipping a beer while Millie had her shower.

‘Deal with it,’ she muttered, head down as she hurried along pushing against the wind. On a whim, on the way home she drove into Corr Castle, an exclusive new development that still had apartments for sale. She drove around the well-laid-out complex and felt a stirring of interest. There’d be no harm in having a look at the show apartment, she decided. In fact she should start looking at the property pages just to see what was on the market. She wasn’t sure if apartment living appealed to her. She’d miss her garden. A dormer bungalow might be nice, she mused. It would be fun to decorate and furnish from scratch. She’d go for a completely different look to the plush elegance of home. Lots of wood and glass and light. That would be nice, she reflected as she drove back out onto the main road. She’d start viewing property and show houses at the weekends. It would give her something to do. There was no harm in keeping a weather eye open.

By Tuesday of the following week Francesca felt as though she’d never been away. There was a large backlog of filing to get through and 200 invitations to be enveloped and addressed when she arrived in the office on Monday morning and the phone never stopped ringing. She’d gone home that evening exhausted and fallen asleep in the armchair.

At four-thirty the following afternoon she headed across town to Smithfield to link up with Ken at Chief O’Neill’s for the launch of an art exhibition.
Several
artists were exhibiting and nerves were fraught as they argued over the right and wrong way to hang the paintings.

‘Look, why should Darina get prime position? I’m a far better artist than she is. At least I’m original. Picasso could sue her for plagiarism,’ a wild-haired, bespectacled young man ranted.

‘You obviously don’t understand the meaning of plagiarism, you illiterate little shit. Nor do you know anything about hanging paintings. Go back to your crèche and practise colouring in, it’s all you’re good for,’ Darina, a tall anorexic-looking girl, sneered.

‘Skinny bitch! Grow your hair a bit longer and they could use you for a paintbrush,’ the bespectacled one insulted her back, magnificently in Francesca’s opinion. Darina’s eyes glittered dangerously.

‘Listen here, you pathetic little nerd, the cavemen could paint better than you. We’ll see who sells the most paintings tonight and I can tell you right now it won’t be you.’

‘Do you want to put your money where your smartass mouth is?’

Francesca slipped away to find Ken, leaving them to trade insults. Her boss was on his mobile, left hand gesticulating wildly. Something was up. Ken only gesticulated when he was agitated. He saw her and waved frantically in her direction as he ended his conversation. ‘The guest of honour just phoned to say he’s got the trots and he’s waiting for his doctor to give him a shot. That’s all I need. Have you heard that lot?’ He indicated the arguing artists.

‘I have,’ said Francesca.

‘It’s going to be one of those nights. I hope the art critics savage them,’ Ken said nastily. ‘They’re worse than children. Oh hell, here’s the TV crew, they’re doing a spot for an arts programme. They’ll be wanting to set up lights and cameras. Francesca, would you make sure the bar is organized and sort out the caterers?’

‘Sure,’ Francesca agreed, looking around to find out where the drinks were to be served. She saw a long trestle table covered in white tablecloths and set off to do her duty.

By the time the unfortunate guest of honour had arrived and been introduced, the artists were well lubricated and all animosities were forgotten as they hugged and congratulated each other. Despite his affliction, the guest, an artist and gallery owner Francesca had never heard of, made a short, witty speech that was well received, and once the rest of the speeches were over and the photos had been taken, Ken pushed his way through the crammed, stuffy room towards her.

‘All’s well that ends well. They can do what they like from now on, our bit’s done and dusted.’ He rubbed his hands together happily and surveyed the vibrant throng. ‘Three newspaper critics, one art magazine writer, TV spot and radio interview, two social diarists. A good haul, Frannie.’

‘Stop it,’ she warned.

‘Spoilsport!’ he grinned. ‘Why don’t you head on home if you like? I can take it from here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Do you really want to be here with this lot? Go
on,
it’s been a long day and you’re only back from your holliers.’

‘Are you insisting?’

‘I’m insisting,’ he assured her.

‘Thanks, Ken,’ she said gratefully. ‘I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.’

She eased her way through the crowd. Her feet were killing her. She’d worn sandals for the entire week of her holiday and her high heels were murder. It was starting to rain as she left the building and she hurried to her car hoping to avoid the downpour.

It had been clamped. She couldn’t believe her eyes. But there it was, the bright yellow wheel clamp like a limpet on her tyre.

‘You wanky, fucking bastards,’ she yelled as the heavens opened and she was drenched. She dialled the number on the notice and gave details of her whereabouts to the clamping firm. She’d been so busy sorting things out inside she’d forgotten to come out and feed her meter.

‘I hope you get the pox,’ Francesca cursed the unknown clamper as she sat fuming in her car waiting to be freed. She couldn’t bring herself to speak to the middle-aged man who unclamped her half an hour later and she wrote out her cheque in a fury before driving off like a bat out of hell.

She had just stepped out of the shower in her en suite and was towelling her hair dry when the doorbell rang. Puzzled, she glanced at her watch. It was just after nine, she wasn’t expecting anyone. Maybe it was Millie. She hoped it was, she needed someone to unload to.

She slipped into her towelling robe and shoved her
feet
into a pair of mules and hurried downstairs. Trixie came galloping out of the kitchen, nearly tripping her up. She was barking excitedly.

‘Shush! Be quiet,’ Francesca said as she pulled her belt tighter around her and opened the door. Her heart sank when she saw Mark standing on the doorstep.

‘Well, this is a perfect end to a perfect day,’ she said sarcastically as she stood glaring at him.

‘AS CIVIL AS
ever, I see,’ Mark observed drily as he stooped to pat Trixie who was licking him ecstatically.
Traitor
, Francesca thought churlishly.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

‘I’d like to come in, if you don’t mind,’ he said coolly. ‘I don’t want Viv Cassidy out with her binoculars.’

Francesca stood back to let him in. He looked tired, she noted. He was wearing a beautifully cut grey mohair suit. New since he’d been with her. She wondered if Nikki went shopping for his clothes with him.

He walked into the kitchen and stood looking out at the back garden. ‘It looks really nice. And it’s so private. You never get gardens like that now. The roses are flying, aren’t they?’ he said wistfully.

No thanks to you, she wanted to say, but she kept silent. ‘I must organize to get the deck treated. It could do with a coat of something,’ he remarked casually.

Francesca felt resentment bubble. He was going on as if he still lived here. Why didn’t he just butt out of her life? If she wanted the deck treated she could get someone and bill him for half of it. He was being far too familiar.

‘It looks fine to me,’ she said.

‘There’s no point in letting it go, Francesca. It needs doing at some stage.’ He was speaking to her as though she were a ten-year-old.

‘Fine,’ she snapped. Maybe he was right. It would be worse if he refused to spend the money on it, she supposed.

‘Did you have a good holiday? You look very well,’ he said politely, turning to face her.

‘It was a lovely holiday, thank you, Mark, but I’ve had a long and tiring day. What was it you wanted to see me about?’ she said pointedly as she began to dry her hair with the towel it was wrapped in.

‘Would you mind if I put the kettle on for a cup of tea? I’m on my way ho— … er, from the airport and I’d love a cup,’ he ventured.

She shrugged. She hadn’t missed the way he’d been about to say he was on his way ‘home’ but changed it. Did he think he was saving her feelings? she thought bitterly. So the posh apartment was ‘home’ now. It hurt.

‘What were you doing that made the day so long and tiring?’ he asked diffidently as he busied himself filling the kettle and getting two mugs down from the press. It was like old times, she thought with a funny little heartache as she bent her head forward and dried the back of her hair.

‘Well, I got clamped for one thing,’ she sighed as
she
rubbed hard, the towel hanging down the sides of her face.

‘Oh Lord! Bastards! Where did that happen?’ He was genuinely sympathetic.

‘Outside Chief O’Neill’s.’

‘Who’s Chief O’Neill when he’s out and about?’ Mark rooted in the fridge for the milk.

‘It’s a hotel in Smithfield.’

‘What were you doing in Smithfield, in the name of God?’

‘I was working,’ she explained, off guard, annoyed at his disparaging tone.

‘
Working!
’

Francesca’s heart lurched.
Oh damn!
she thought, cursing her stupidity. Now it looked as though she hadn’t planned to tell him, as though she was doing something sneaky. She kept her head under the towel.

‘Yes. I was working. I’ve just started a new job.’ She was mega impressed with how casual she sounded.

‘And when were you going to tell me about this new job, Francesca? This has tax implications for me, you know. That’s unless you’re being paid under the counter.’ His censorious attitude was like a red rag to a bull, especially when he added irritably, ‘What do you need a job for? I pay you more than enough to keep you in comfort.’

She flung back her head, spraying him with little droplets of water. ‘Look, I started the week before I went on holiday. I’m just back. I was going to get in touch about it when I had a minute. And the reasons I got a job are
my
business,’ she said heatedly.

‘And what are you working at?’ he drawled, unimpressed.

‘I’m working for a PR company as it happens.’

‘Which one?’ He dumped two teabags into the teapot.

‘Ken Kennedy PR.’

‘Never heard of them,’ he said dismissively. ‘Is it legit or under the counter?’

‘It’s legit,’ Francesca retorted.

‘That’s going to affect my tax-free allowance and that’s going to be a real pain in the ass. How much are you earning?’

‘Fifteen thousand plus bonuses,’ she answered sullenly.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Francesca, it’s a pittance.’

His condescending tone made her want to slap him hard across the face but she curled her hands in the pockets of her robe and said tightly, ‘Well, it might be a pittance to you, but it’s
my
pittance and you can deduct my salary from your monthly allowance. You can buy little trinkets for your mistress with it,’ she said icily.