Because wouldn’t that have made the perfect ending to a perfectly crappy day.
Pulse racing, but once again steady on her black suede heels, she jabbed at the light switch with her elbow and scowled down at the offending pile of post that was causing the slip hazard on the hall carpet. Her self-imposed workload these days meant she left the house well before the postman made his morning rounds, so she’d more or less succeeded in her efforts to forget that today was her birthday. But, judging by the number of gaily coloured envelopes littering her floor, it seemed that almost everyone else she knew was determined to make her remember.
And as well intentioned as she knew that reminder was meant to be, it only highlighted to Frankie how little she had to celebrate this year, and triggered unwanted comparisons with her last birthday—a day filled with love and laughter and lusty good fun, and a night overflowing with pleasure and passion and the positively pornographic use of chocolate frosting. Back then, she’d not only had her cake and eaten it—she’d had the sweet treat smeared on to and nibbled off the most intimate parts of her body as well. Parts that—dissatisfied with their current state of neglect—stirred into tingling life as she recollected the caress of soft, sticky fingers, and the lap of a hot, hungry tongue cleaning every last sugary smear from her quivering flesh.
What was becoming an all too familiar ache of unfulfilled need settled low in her belly, forcing Frankie to acknowledge how much had changed in twelve months—and why it was easier for her to just try to forget. She was only grateful that these days there was a cold, hard void in her chest where her heart used to be, sparing her from reliving an even worse pain.
With a weary sigh, she kicked the door shut and shuffled around the rainbow-coloured paper mountain blocking her hall, wondering if she could get away with shoving the whole lot straight in the recycling bin.
Appalled at the thought even as it popped into her head, Frankie felt a burning rush of shame at the uncharacteristic sense of ingratitude. She was lucky to have friends and family who so obviously loved her, she reprimanded herself. If she wasn’t careful, she might end up losing them—on top of everything else she’d already lost.
But that was just the problem—she couldn’t seem to bring herself to care much about anything anymore, not when she felt so damned tired all the time. Tired and angry.
Entering the sitting room, Frankie used the glow from the hallway light to pick her way around her landlord’s plain, functional furniture and unload half her burdens onto the coffee table. Taking the shopping bags with her into the kitchen, she turned on the harsh, fluorescent strip light and began unpacking the uninspiring selection of staples she’d bought by rote, storing the items away in her near-empty cupboards and fridge. After months of living there the place still had a depressingly temporary feel, reminding Frankie that she needed to make some time to get herself more settled in. Start making it less of a house, more of a home—her home—even though the basic accommodation and dated decor felt a million miles away from the comfortable, stylish riverside apartment she’d poured so much love and soul and hope into, and missed so much.
Pulling a box of chamomile tea from a bag, she considered putting the kettle on but found herself instead grimacing at the thought of the taste. It was only because her mother swore by it for calming the nerves that she persevered with the disgusting herbal beverage. A sudden loud pounding on the front door made Frankie jump, shriek and nearly drop the box, suggesting that either she wasn’t drinking enough of the stuff, or that, in her case, it wasn’t quite up to the job.
Moments later, a rowdy rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ and the hoot of party blowers joined the pounding, and Frankie couldn’t help but smile at the terrible racket as she recognised the loudest, most off-key wailing of the lot.
“Come on, you old bag. We know you’re there!” A female voice shouted through her letterbox. “Let us in or we’ll keep singing until your neighbours start complaining.”
Which would be any second now, Frankie reckoned, given that her little rented terraced house was situated in a quiet back street full of curtain-twitching Neighbourhood Watchers.
Hurrying down the hallway and taking a moment to sweep the hazardous pile of envelopes aside with her foot, she opened the door to the sight of her five closest girlfriends, grouped tightly together and sporting an assortment of silly party hats. The noise level increased substantially when they cheered and showered her with glittery confetti, followed by warm hugs and kisses as they each pushed their way past her into the house.
“We’ve come to help you celebrate,” Jess, the ring leader and Frankie’s best friend, announced.
“So you have.” Frankie smiled at Jess’ tendency to state the obvious. “But I wasn’t expecting anyone. I haven’t got anything in.”
“That’s okay. We knew you wouldn’t have bothered,” said Sarah Two, “so we’ve booked a table for nine at that new Italian down the road.”
“And to get us in the mood—ta-da!” Karen grabbed Claire’s wrist and raised it to show off a bottle of pink champagne. “Now go get some glasses so we can toast your old age.”
As Frankie began to move away, Jess spoke again, this time in that low, careful tone of hers that instantly spelled trouble to anyone who knew her. “You’ve just got in, haven’t you?” she accused, flicking her eyes from the envelopes strewn at their feet to Frankie’s coat still buttoned up over her work suit. “You haven’t even had a chance to open your cards yet.”
Sensing the shift in mood, the four other women in the hallway seemed to draw back a pace, holding their breath and doing their best to blend into the background. Cowards.
“You know how it is.” Frankie tried for a nonchalant shrug but, recognising the look settling across Jess’ face, retreated into the sitting room quick-smart, busying herself with turning on lamps as she went. “Things have been a bit hectic at the office.”
“Only because you make them hectic for yourself.” Jess followed close behind, radiating disapproval and disappointment. “I thought we’d agreed that you have to stop this workaholic nonsense, Frankie. You need to slow down before you fall down.”
“I’ve been trying,” Frankie said, scooping up the damning evidence of her laptop and project files from the coffee table and relocating them to a less conspicuous spot “In fact, I’ve been pretty good this week. Today was just particularly heavy.”
“Uh-huh.” Jess didn’t sound convinced. “So what are all these other cards doing here?” She pointed to the pile of post that Frankie had been dumping, unchecked, on a side table, and that harboured a further selection of multi-coloured envelopes. “I’m betting these ones didn’t arrive today, which means you haven’t had time to deal with them for the past day or so, at the very least.”
Neither the time nor the inclination. But Frankie knew better than to admit either one when her friend was getting up a head of steam.
“Go easy, Jess.” Claire came to the rescue, stepping between them in an attempt to diffuse the rising tension. “The poor thing’s got more than enough to deal with as it is.” Frankie sucked in a breath, dreading for a moment that Claire was going to break the unspoken rule between them and bring up the subject that should not be mentioned. But her friend only joked, “She is thirty today, after all,” and, with an exaggerated shudder, gave Frankie a little shove in the direction of the stairs. “Why don’t you go wash away the city grime then get yourself back down here in something more befitting a fabulous, if rather decrepit, party girl. In the meantime, we’ll start celebrating and opening your cards for you.”
“Just make sure you don’t take too long if you expect us to save you a glass of the good stuff.” Sarah One started towards the kitchen. “Oh, and we’ve bought you a present as well—a new smartphone.”
An instant chorus of protest sprang up around the room, and Sarah One, notorious for always spilling secrets, put her hands on her hips and glared at her friends. “What? Like she’s not gonna open the damn th
ing in five minutes and know what it is anyway?” Rolling her eyes, she turned back to Frankie. “Sorry it’s not very original, but we’re sick of you being out of touch since you lost your other one.”
Frankie bit her tongue. ‘Lost’ wasn’t quite the correct definition for what had happened to her last phone. The thing had been smashed to smithereens six months ago—Frankie remembered doing the smashing herself during a fit of hysterical rage when she’d seen who had been trying to call her. But that was another admission best kept to herself.
Leaving her friends to make themselves comfortable, she made her way up the stairs. The sound of good-natured bickering floated up after her, comforting and vibrant—a reminder of how few people she’d had around her in the months since she’d moved in here, of how lonely the solitary life could be.
Ten minutes later, retouched and refreshed, Frankie dabbed a final bit of gloss on to her lips and left the bedroom, feeling brighter than she had in ages and looking forward to a chilled glass of bubbly, a decent meal and some good gossipy company.
She was halfway down the stairs before the utter silence of the place hit her, and she frowned, wondering what her friends were up to.
Hoping whatever it was didn’t involve any jump-out-and-shout surprises that, given the state of her nerves, would likely give her a heart attack, she proceeded with caution to the sitting room doorway where she was relieved to discover them all hiding in plain sight, huddled around an armchair occupied by Jess.
Surrounded by the evidence of their recent industry—a littering of torn envelopes on the floor and neat displays of cards arranged on the window sill and shelves—their concentration seemed riveted on the sheet of paper Jess held on her lap. Beneath the assorted jolly hats, their faces all wore identical frozen expressions of shock.
Frankie’s relief vanished. “What?” She took a faltering step into the room, her stomach twisting in apprehension. “What is it?”
All five women jumped at the sound of her voice, turning to look at her before passing shifty glances among themselves. Jess cleared her throat and held the piece of paper out towards Frankie. “I’m sorry, I opened it by mistake. It–it’s a letter. From Mark.”
At the sound of that name, Frankie’s heart gave a throb so painful it had her clutching at her chest. “Get it out,” she snapped.
Jess didn’t move a muscle. Nobody did. All five women just looked at her with wide, stark gazes.
Frankie didn’t understand. “Why are you even reading it? Get it out. Now!”
Jess cleared her throat. “I think you should read it, Franks,” she said quietly.
“Are you mad?” Frankie’s temper—set to constant simmer mode these days—flared to the boil in an instant. She welcomed the heat of it over the icy grip of panic threatening to engulf her. “Of course I’m not going to read it. I’m not even going to touch the bloody thing.”
Jess gave her a long, searching look then straightened her spine. “Then I’ll read it to you.”
“What?” Frankie stared at her best friend in utter disbelief, shock draining the strength right out of her knees. “No. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I know you’re still angry with him, but I think we all agree that this is important.” Around Jess, four other heads began bobbing up and down. Whatever was causing Jess’ bout of temporary insanity was obviously contagious. “You really need to hear this—need to listen to what he’s got to say.”
“Fuck that!” Frankie spat. “I don’t need to do anything of the sort. I don’t owe him anything.”
“Please, just listen.”
“I won’t.” Frankie forced her shaky legs to propel her forwards into the room, hand outstretched for the offending item, even though the last thing she wanted to do was make contact with anything that the bastard had touched. “Give it here. I’ll shred and burn it myself.”
She couldn’t believe it when Jess pulled the paper back out of reach. “That’s exactly what he says you’ll do,” her friend said with a sad little smile, then her eyes dropped to the sheet and without further hesitation she began to read aloud. “My Dear Francesca…”
The sound of her full name hit Frankie like a blow to the belly, the impact stopping her dead in her tracks and nearly bending her double. Mark was the only person who ever used it. Frankie belonged to everyone, he’d always said. Francesca was just his. Special.
Yeah, right. She pushed the memory aside. He’d gone and shown her exactly how special she’d been, hadn’t he?
“Don’t do this, Jess,” she warned, her voice as shaky as her knees as she started forward again, needing to get that letter out of here before it led them all to a place of recriminations and regret.
“I hope, before you burn, shred or otherwise destroy this letter, that you will at least read some of it and know that I write these words for you and not as a salve to my own conscience.”
The words in question—his words—snaked out of Jess’ mouth to wrap around Frankie like a rope, tying her to the spot.
“As much as I wish for it, I know I can’t ask for your forgiveness. How could I expect it from you when I can’t even give it to myself? I understand only too well that the damage my actions have caused to you, to me, to us, is irreparable, and that if I were to apologise a thousand times it would never come close to being enough.”
“Jess, stop.” Frankie gasped, unable to draw a full breath as the verbal lasso continued to tighten, constricting her chest to the point of pain. Her friend winced at the raw sound of her tone but didn’t look up, didn’t stop.
“The facts are simple, irrefutable. You trusted me and I betrayed you. You loved me and I hurt you. I’d undo that in a heartbeat if I could, but we both know that changing the past is impossible. The important thing now is that you understand that my infidelity was no reflection on you, on what we had between us. It was never about me looking for something else, something more. How could it be, when you were already everything I ever wanted? What it was, Francesca, was just a horrible, careless moment of madness. A terrible, stupid mistake.”
An image of Mark popped unbidden into Frankie’s mind, showing him naked on a bed, his strong, athletic body pinning a smaller female frame to the mattress with the fast, powerful thrusts of his hips, his blond head lowered, his lips murmuring a stream of honeyed words. It was a scenario she was so intimately and frequently acquainted with that in an instant her body was responding, nipples tightening against the remembered rasp of chest hair, juices seeping between her legs to lubricate the passage of that solid, driving shaft. Only this time the woman beneath her husband wasn’t her.
Gulping for air, she shoved the distressing picture aside amid a wave of light-headedness and nausea. But it was her body’s physical arousal that made her truly sick to her stomach—the evidence that her flesh could still crave what her battered emotions rejected and her intellect despised.
“I need you to know that, to believe it, so that you can move on with your life, pursue your happiness with rightful confidence. I hope that is what you are doing because I can’t bear the thought that I’ve caused you sadness or pain. I’ve been unable to get word of you since the night you left as your friends and family have closed ranks. I can hardly blame them for protecting you, though it worries the hell out of me not knowing how you’re getting on.
Happy Birthday, Francesca. You’re in my thoughts, not only today, but all day, every day.
Mark.”
In the heavy silence that fell, Frankie’s blood pounded in her ears. She stared as Jess leant forward and placed the letter on the coffee table, her actions playing out as if in slow motion.
“Come and sit down, Franks,” Claire’s voice sounded, so close, yet strangely far away, and Frankie realised that her friend had her by the elbow and was trying to guide her into the nearest chair.
She jerked herself free. “I’m going to be sick.”
Knowing there was no time to try to make it upstairs to the bathroom, she stu
mbled for the kitchen and retched over the sink, her insides a turmoil of anguish and bitter anger at the memories churned up by Mark’s words. The things she’d worked so hard to push aside all came rushing back—the shock, the pain, the free fall as her happy, loving world had been pulled from beneath her feet.
Sucking in what air she could, Frankie gripped the worktop and fought to get her spiralling emotions under control, afraid of what might happen if she truly let herself go. God, hadn’t she been through enough sickening hurt because of that bastard already? Wasn’t he content that he’d already torn her life apart once? What made him think he had the right to barge back into it and make her feel like this all over again?
What made Jess—the traitor—think it was okay to let him?
Shaky and sweaty by the time she was done bringing up the past, Frankie turned on the tap and scooped handfuls of cold water to rinse the foul aftertaste of betrayal from her mouth. Straightening, she brushed away Claire’s efforts at fussing, and, without sparing a glance at the others, faced Jess who hung back in the doorway.
“I can’t even find the words to tell you how pissed off I am with you right now.”
Jess stood unflinching in the face of her anger, her eyes glistening with emotion as she nodded. “As long as you’re feeling something, Franks, that’s fine by me.”
The words were as unexpected as a slap. “What? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Jess took a breath and spoke carefully, “that it’s time for you to stop hiding behind anger, and work, and fear, and begin dealing with this situation.”
“Excuse me?” Frankie felt her eyes pop wide in astonishment. “I’ve done nothing but deal with this situation, as you put it, since the night my husband came home and told me he’d been with another woman.” Her voice rose, tight with outrage that she was under attack from her supposed best friend. “In a few short months I’ve ended my marriage, moved out of my home, set up house and started to build a new life for myself. What more do you expect me to do?”
One Night in A Bar Page 6