Francesca's Party (44 page)

Mark stretched his legs out in front of him. So the house was finally going up for sale. He’d received Francesca’s e-mail with some surprise. When she’d been with him she hadn’t known one end of a computer from another and here she was e-mailing. What next? he wondered drily.

He couldn’t fault her choice of estate agents. Lloyd & Flood were top notch. There’d be no messing about there. She could deal with it, he thought stubbornly. She could do the Judas act. Soon enough he’d have no home of his own. He’d have to do something about that. He’d never envisaged living the rest of his life in Nikki’s apartment. It was unthinkable. He liked to be his own man. Decisions were going to have to be made. His heart sank at the prospect.

A sense of loneliness enveloped him. All that he knew, all that was familiar had changed so completely. Once the future had held no fears for him, now he felt like a rudderless ship adrift on the edge of a whirlpool. The sale of his house would be the end of an era for him but where he would go from there he had no idea.

Ralph lay on the floor snoring, an empty whiskey bottle beside him. His phone rang, its piercing tone making no impression on his befuddled brain. On and on it rang, at regular intervals, to no avail. Dusk turned to darkness and slowly the night hours passed until a pale pink tinge in the eastern sky heralded the dawning of a new day. Oblivious to everything, Ralph slept in a drunken stupor, a little smile playing around his lips.

FRANCESCA SAT IN
the kitchen drinking coffee. Upstairs she could hear William Lloyd, the estate agent, going from room to room. She’d watched him making notes in his leather bound notepad and wondered idly what his description of her home would be. She felt almost detached about the sale. The sooner it was over the better.

Once William Lloyd and his notebook were gone she was going to start the mother and father of a clearout. There was another thing she was going to have to do soon, and that was to tell her parents that she was getting a divorce. That wasn’t going to go down well. Millie had told her that her mother had confided that she was praying to St Jude, the patron saint for hopeless causes, that she and Mark would have a reconciliation.

Fat chance, Francesca mused, given that they could hardly talk to each other without trading insults.

She heard William Lloyd stride into the bathroom.
He
was extremely thorough. He’d been upstairs for so long he must be writing a novel, she thought moodily. No phone call from Ralph so far. She’d be dining alone, as usual, this weekend, it seemed.

Eventually the estate agent made his way downstairs to the kitchen. ‘Excellent property, Mrs Kirwan,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘Couldn’t ask for better. I’ll have the photographer come out and take some shots whenever suits.’

‘The sooner the better. I’m anxious for a quick sale,’ Francesca informed him politely.

‘Fine, fine, that’s what I like to hear. I’ll take a look at the grounds, if you don’t mind.’ Out came the black notebook as she opened the french doors for him and he strode out into the garden, pen poised. She saw him writing busily as he stood on the deck and couldn’t help but smile. Definitely a novel, or at least a full page advertisement in the
Irish Times
.

The weekend passed slowly. Now that events were in motion she wanted to be gone. It was too painful to stay. A sense of failure enveloped her. This was never the way it should have been. She filled black rubbish sacks and charity bags, determined to be ruthless. But it was lonely work, as memory after memory surfaced and she cried for the recollection of what had once been a happy marriage.

‘You’re very down in the dumps, Frannie. What’s wrong?’ Ken asked as they had a quick cup of coffee the following Monday afternoon.

‘I’ve put the house up for sale. I was throwing out stuff and giving things to charity. I felt terribly lonely,’ she confessed.

‘That’s tough. It’s bad enough moving when
there’s
only one of you. You have to make decisions what to throw out and what to keep for four people. Would your husband not give you a hand?’

‘Are you kidding me? The last time we were together I gave him a sock on the jaw,’ Francesca confessed.

‘Oops!’ Ken grimaced. ‘That bad?’

‘That bad.’

‘Let him clear out his stuff when you’re not there,’ Ken suggested.

‘That’s what I’ll have to do. Once the notice is in the paper, I’ll e-mail him and tell him to get his ass in gear,’ Francesca declared. ‘And if he doesn’t bloody well do it, I’ll get a skip and dump the lot of it in it.’

‘Ruthless, aren’t you?’ teased Ken as he rinsed her cup for her.

‘Could I have an hour or two off some morning this week to let the photographer take some photos of the house for the paper?’

‘I’d be afraid to say no,’ Ken said. ‘I don’t want a sock in the jaw, thanks.’

‘Don’t tell anyone I told you that,’ warned Francesca.

‘
Moi?
I heard nuttin’,’ he assured her. ‘Take whatever time you want.’

She was sending newspaper cuttings to clients the following Wednesday afternoon when the phone rang. ‘Ken Kennedy PR, can I help you?’ she said politely.

‘Have dinner with me,’ a deep familiar voice said.

‘Hi,’ she said, smiling. ‘How are you?’

‘I’ve been up to my eyes,’ Ralph said. ‘Brenda Carroll had a deadline. “Stress-busters for the
Stressed-out
Career Woman”. And I had a Fine Arts auction to cover. How are things with you?’

‘Well, the estate agent came. The house will be in the paper next week—’ The other line buzzed. ‘Hold on a sec, my other phone’s ringing.’

‘Look, how about I pick you up tonight at home around seven-thirty and we go and have a bite to eat and catch up?’ he suggested.

‘OK then,’ Francesca said impulsively. ‘Have to go.’

She dealt with her caller, the organizer of a theatre festival, then sat back in her chair nibbling the top of her pen. What would she wear tonight? Would she have time to get a quick blow dry at lunchtime? She’d like to look her best. She picked up the phone to ring Millie to tell her the news. Her sister would be heading off to France soon, for a month. She’d miss her. They’d always been close but Millie had been a rock of strength through her marriage break-up. She was lucky to have a sister like her.

Ralph swirled a spoon in his glass of Alka-Seltzer and gulped it down. He felt lousy. He went back to his laptop and tried to concentrate on an article he was writing on antiques for a glossy magazine. He’d fed Francesca a hell of a spoof, he thought wryly. Today was the first day he’d even attempted to work after his bender. That was it, he vowed. He was swearing off the drink for good this time. He cursed as he closed the file by mistake. His fingers weren’t too steady; he kept hitting the wrong keys. He needed to have the article in on time. He couldn’t afford to lose the commission, he needed the money. He had
maintenance
to pay. If he was a second late with it, Jill was on his back screeching like a fishwife. She’d given him hell about missing Sally’s play. He might go to collect his daughter from school and make a fuss of her tomorrow. But he’d need to clear it with Jill or she’d cause a rumpus.

He picked up the phone and dialled his wife’s number. ‘Hello, it’s me.’

‘What do you want?’ Jill’s icy tone boded ill.

‘I was hoping to pick Sally up from school tomorrow and take her out for the afternoon.’

‘I’m not going to say a word to the child. If you’re there you’re there and if you’re not, she’ll be none the wiser. I’ll go to collect her just in case. I’m not going to take the risk of you not turning up.’

‘There’s no need—’ he was in the middle of protesting when she hung up on him. Ralph groaned. A cranky woman was the last thing he needed right now. Jill never gave him a break. She’d always expected far too much from him. He was only human, for crying out loud.

Thank God for a lovely soft woman like Francesca. He was looking forward to seeing her again.

The doorbell’s chimes surprised Francesca and she almost nicked her ankle with her Ladyshave. She glanced at the alarm clock on her bedside locker. It was only six-thirty. Ralph wasn’t due to pick her up for another hour. It couldn’t possibly be Mark again. She couldn’t face another row. She slipped into Owen’s room to peep out the front window to see if Mark’s car was in the drive. It wasn’t. Unfortunately
she
couldn’t see the front door to see who was there. She wrapped the belt of her towelling robe around her and hurried downstairs. Her heart sank to her boots when she opened the door and saw Viv Cassidy smiling sweetly at her.

‘Francesca, dear. I got such a shock when I saw the “For Sale” sign being erected. I’m
devastated
to think we’re losing you as a neighbour.’

‘Oh, Viv, hi. Come in. I can’t offer you anything. I’m getting ready to go out,’ she said politely.

‘Anywhere nice?’ Viv twinkled.

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Oh, a surprise. With someone special, I hope,’ she probed.

‘Just a colleague from work,’ Francesca murmured.

‘Dear, you were so lucky to get that job. It landed in your lap. Some women have such a difficult time when their marriages break up. You got along marvellously.’ There was a hint of accusation in the saccharine observation. Francesca felt like saying,
Sorry for not collapsing in a heap, Viv, and ending up a basket case just to suit you
. She said nothing.

‘And, dear, how much are you expecting for the house? It would be nice to have a guideline price should we ever consider moving.’

‘It will all be in the property pages shortly, Viv. Now I really must go, but thanks for calling.’ She ushered her nosy neighbour out the door.

‘But where are you moving to?’ Viv squeaked, discommoded.

‘Haven’t a clue. Bye, Viv,’ Francesca said cheerfully.

‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, dear? People can make big mistakes under stress.
Very
big mistakes,’ she added for emphasis.

‘I’m perfectly sure I’m doing the right thing. Bye now.’ Francesca waved, closing the door. ‘Nosy old bat,’ she muttered as she raced upstairs. Viv was one person she certainly wouldn’t miss. She went and stood in front of her wardrobe. Ralph hadn’t specified where they were eating. Should she dress up or dress down? Was it formal, informal or mega posh?

Five outfits later, she settled on a black sleeveless Dolce & Gabbana polo and a pair of cream linen trousers and a fitted black jacket. It was casually elegant. It would have to do. She slipped a slim gold bangle onto her wrist and inserted a pair of gold earrings in her ears. She didn’t want to overdo the jewellery. She studied herself critically in the mirror. She certainly looked better than she had three months ago, she acknowledged. She’d managed to keep the weight down but she could certainly do with dropping another half-stone at least. She still had a tan. Her eyes were bright, her hair lustrous. Not bad for a forty-year-old broad. She traced coral lipstick onto her lips and sat down to paint her nails.

Viv was such a begrudging old bitch, she reflected. Yes, the job had landed in her lap, and she hadn’t suffered any financial hardship, but that was due to luck and circumstances. It didn’t lessen the emotional trauma. At least she’d hauled herself out of her shock and depression and got on with things. And if Viv or anyone else didn’t like it, that was their problem. She was proud of herself, she decided. She
blew
on her nails to dry them. People were strange, for sure. Mark wanted her to stay in a rut, dependent on him for the rest of her life while he enjoyed a new relationship. Viv didn’t seem to like the idea of things going right for her. Well, tough! She didn’t have to answer to anybody now. She was her own woman, she thought with a grin. That sounded good. Her own woman!

She wondered if Ralph would be on time. She liked punctuality. Thought it showed respect. He had nice manners. Old-fashioned manners. He’d walked on the outside and held the car door open for her. That made her feel very feminine. Such a simple thing but she liked it, she thought with a little smile.

Ralph arrived at seven-twenty-nine. He carried a bunch of white lilies.

‘For you.’ He bowed gallantly.

‘They’re lovely, Ralph. Thank you.’ She was touched.

‘You look lovely.’ His heavy-lidded gaze travelled lazily up and down.

She smiled. ‘You look pretty snazzy yourself.’ He was wearing a casual beige suit and black T-shirt. It suited his lanky figure. His eyes looked tired and faintly bloodshot. He must have been spending a lot of time on his computer, she thought sympathetically.

‘Do you fancy the Trocadero? Or La Stampa? I haven’t booked anywhere, I thought we’d just take pot luck?’

‘We could always go out to Howth. The King Sitric does lovely seafood and we could go for a walk on the pier afterwards, if you’d like,’ she suggested
hesitantly.
Now that he was here, all dressed up, she felt a little shy.

‘Perfect! That would be very nice,’ he agreed. ‘I could do with a good blast of sea air.’

‘Stuck at your computer for too long?’

‘Yeah, you could say that, I suppose,’ Ralph replied. ‘Ready? I hope you’re hungry.’

‘I’m starving,’ laughed Francesca. ‘I have to confess I was a bit nervous about this evening so I didn’t eat much today.’

‘Nervous? You? Of going to dinner with me?’

‘Don’t forget you’ve had a year’s head start,’ she reminded him. ‘This is my first dinner-date since Mark and I separated.’

‘True. But I’m a pussy cat,’ he assured her as she locked the door behind her.

Dinner was a pleasure. They talked and laughed as though they’d known each other for years and the food was mouth-watering. Francesca had lemon sole with almond butter; Ralph stuffed sea bass. As she sipped a glass of chilled white wine, Francesca began to relax. It was most enjoyable to be in a man’s company again, she reflected. Ken was a pet, but he was younger than her as well as being her boss: it wasn’t quite the same. Ralph was mature, sophisticated, her own age and a very entertaining companion. She hadn’t laughed so much in months. It was only as they walked along the pier, much later, that she thought of Mark. This had been one of their haunts.