‘No, Owen. I know that you’ve planned to go skiing and it’s only a couple of months since I was in the States. And anyway …’ She paused, unsure. ‘I suppose I’ll have to start cutting down a bit until things are sorted.’
‘But what will you do? You can’t stay here on your own for Christmas.’ Owen was aghast.
‘Of course I’m not staying here on my own for Christmas,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ve arranged to go to Millie and you know how I love being with the girls, so that will be nice for me.’
‘It’s going to be a bummer of a Christmas,’ Owen blurted out.
‘Owen, it will be what we make it and my life will be much better and happier if I know that you’re having a good time with your brother.’
‘He’s a bollocks, Ma! Da’s a bollocks.’ The tears came to Owen’s eyes and he cried like a baby, great gulping sobs that broke her heart as she wrapped her arms around him. The youthful, musky scent of him brought the tears to her own eyes.
‘Don’t say that, Owen. He’s your father,’ she whispered.
‘Well, I wish he wasn’t after what he’s done to you,’ he said brokenly.
She couldn’t answer and they held each other for a long time, crying out their grief for what would never be again.
Chapter Thirteen
SHE COULD HONESTLY say it was the worst Christmas of her life, Francesca reflected as she ironed Owen’s shirt and added it to the growing pile under the ironing board. Owen was packing for his trip to America and his bedroom was in a state of absolute chaos. She didn’t have the heart to nag him about it. He had enough to contend with, she thought guiltily.
The phone rang. She was loath to answer it. She didn’t want to talk to people. The answering machine clicked in. She heard her oldest son’s deep voice begin a message. Hastily she snatched up the receiver of the kitchen extension.
‘Hi, Jonathan. I’m here. Hold on until I switch off the machine.’ She hurried into the hall, switched off the answering machine and picked up the receiver. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi, Mam. How are you feeling?’ Jonathan asked awkwardly. He’d been totally shocked when his father had phoned him to say that he and Francesca had separated and that he was with someone else. He’d phoned Francesca immediately and offered to come home, but, touched as she was by his concern, she wouldn’t hear of it.
‘I’m OK, Jon, I’m just ironing your brother’s shirts. If he was left to his own devices he’d come over to you looking like a ragamuffin,’ she said lightly.
‘Are you sure that you won’t come with him? Or are you sure that you wouldn’t like me to come home?’
‘No, love, to tell you the truth I’m looking forward to a bit of time on my own to think things out and see where I go from here. I’m really glad that Owen’s going out to you. It’s been very tough on him here. It will do him good,’ Francesca said firmly.
‘Well, if you’re sure. We’ll ring you at Millie’s on Christmas Day,’ Jonathan assured her.
Francesca smiled. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ They chatted briefly and she put the phone down reluctantly, wanting to maintain the contact.
It had all been extremely difficult, especially when she’d had to explain to her parents why Mark and the boys would not be visiting on Christmas Day. Francesca groaned as she ironed a particularly stubborn crease on a pair of jeans remembering her mother and father’s shock when she’d initially told them that she and Mark had separated.
‘But why? We all go through difficult times. We have to get over them. That’s what marriage is all about. We can’t just turn and run when the going gets tough,’ Maura Johnson said bossily. ‘Your father and I had to tough things out. This divorce thing has made life far too easy for people. You can’t run away from problems, Francesca.’
Francesca gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not running away, Mother.’
‘Well then, tell Mark to come home and stop this nonsense and sort it out. You have two children to think of, after all. Poor things. What about them?’ Her mother was clearly not at all impressed and certainly felt no sympathy for her.
Francesca held her tongue. She couldn’t bear to tell her mother that Mark was with someone else. Her mother was dreadful for interfering, and she still treated the boys as if they were five years old.
Several phone calls later, with Maura demanding to know if Mark was back home and had they sorted themselves out for Christmas, Francesca flipped.
‘Mother, I’ve told you, we’ve separated. There isn’t going to be a family Christmas this year. Owen’s gone to spend Christmas with Jonathan. Mark’s with another woman, so for God’s sake will you leave me alone!’
‘He’s with another woman?’ Maura’s voice went into orbit. A brief silence followed as she digested the news. Then: ‘Why is he with another woman? Were you refusing him his … his marital rights?’ she demanded.
Francesca thought she was going to explode. ‘No, Mother, I was not refusing to have sex with him. You’ll have to ask him why he’s seeing someone else. Goodbye.’ She slammed down the phone in a temper. Her mother was still so old-fashioned about marriage and sex. She’d led a very sheltered life as a young girl and had grown up with the notion that sex was a duty, not a pleasure. No wonder Francesca had been terrified of sleeping with Mark before their marriage, she thought resentfully, remembering his complaints about having to get married to have decent sex.
‘Well now, Francesca, you hardly expected any different? Poor Ma,’ Millie laughed a few days later when Francesca conveyed this latest nugget. ‘You know you’ve disgraced the family by separating. What on earth is she going to tell “the Relations”? You don’t think Mother’s going to change at this stage in her life, now do you?’ Millie added quizzically.
‘As if I haven’t enough on my plate.’ Francesca scowled. ‘Thanks for having me stay with you over Christmas. I’d go loony otherwise.’
‘Well, what would you be rattling around the house for on your own now that Owen’s gone?’ Millie declared.
Owen had left for New York the previous day, still protesting that he wanted to be with Francesca for Christmas. She’d made a supreme effort and put on such a façade that she was coping and looking forward to a flop time with her sister that he’d half believed her, but his eyes studied her intently as he prepared to go airside.
‘Are you sure, Mam?’
‘Honest, I’m positive.’ She grinned. ‘Now have a ball, Owen, and for God’s sake don’t break your neck on the ski slopes.’
‘I won’t, Ma, don’t worry. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?’
‘Scoot.’ She gave him a playful shove. ‘And give Jonathan a huge big hug and a kiss for me.’
‘I will,’ he promised. And she knew it would be a relief for him to get away and be normal and not have to consider her feelings and state of mind. Sometimes she felt the trauma of the break-up was hardest on him. She could see him watching her carefully as if he were afraid that she would crack up; sometimes she found it difficult to keep a show of normality going for his sake when all she wanted to do was to stay in bed all day and cry and feel sorry for herself.
Nevertheless, it was the loneliest moment of her life as she watched him disappear from view amidst all the festive glitter of the airport.
Mark had returned home several times before Owen went away. He’d always phoned her first to make sure that she’d be there. He’d had to collect bits and pieces and Francesca wished that he’d come home some day and take everything that belonged to him so that he would no longer have an excuse for dropping by.
Owen had always remained in his room until he had gone, ignoring requests to talk or go for a drink. It gave Francesca some satisfaction to see that Mark didn’t appear too happy himself. He looked grey and strained and uncomfortable and their conversations were clipped and polite.
Gerald had not phoned again and Francesca was agog with curiosity to know what Mark had told him, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to ask. She was still using th
eir joint account; money was not a problem. Mark, whatever his faults, was not mean, but Francesca knew that she would feel much better when their financial situation was ironed out.
‘There’re the Christmas cards that have arrived so far. I’m not sending cards this year,’ she’d informed him curtly on his last visit to the house.
‘That’s a bit rude,’ he’d remarked coolly.
‘What do you want me to do? Write and say, “Happy Christmas, love Francesca, Mark, Nikki and family”?’ she drawled sarcastically.
‘There’s no need for that,’ he snapped.
‘Look, Mark, it might come as a surprise to you, but I won’t be celebrating Christmas this year and when Owen is gone, I won’t be putting on a good face for anyone. And if that doesn’t suit you, tough.’
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ he asked diffidently.
‘As if you care.’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.
‘I do care. If you want me to, I’ll have lunch with you, so that you won’t be on your own.’
‘How … kind …’ she said scornfully. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mark. I’ve made my own arrangements, thank you very much.’
‘Look, I’m just trying to make this a little bit easier all round,’ he said heatedly. ‘Let’s at least try and be civilized.’
‘ “Try and be civilized,” ’ she echoed. ‘Of course. Why not? Much easier to pretend we’re civilized, much easier for you than for me to behave like a wagon that right now just hates your guts. Stop treating me like an idiot, Mark, and at least acknowledge that I’ve a right to my feelings no matter how uncomfortable they make you,’ she stormed, turning on her heel and walking out of the lounge.
He didn’t follow and shortly after she heard him leave. It was the last time she saw him before Christmas.
She spent the two days following Owen’s departure ensconced in her bed, drained and exhausted, unable and unwilling to make an effort to see or talk to people. She turned the phone down, unplugged the extension in her bedroom and when it rang, as it did constantly, didn’t answer it. She knew that friends were phoning to make arrangements to meet over Christmas as they usually did but she could not bring herself to talk to them or to tell them of her new circumstances. When Millie called to see her, concerned, she simply said that she had a bit of a cold and she was staying in bed to shake it off and that she’d see her on Christmas Eve. With just the faithful Trixie for company she shut out the world and wallowed in her misery.
It was a relief not to have to make the effort even to dress herself. She lay in bed replaying every key scene between herself and Mark and when she got tired of that she fantasized about meeting a wealthy, gorgeous, handsome man who would sweep her off her feet. She visualized with pleasure Mark’s horror when he realized that he’d lost her for good and had no hope of getting her back. An even better fantasy was of him coming to the understanding that it was she, not Nikki, that he wanted to spend his life with. She spent hours creating and polishing the scene where he begged her to take him back, telling her what a fool he’d been, and she telling him that she didn’t want him. She had a new life to lead.
In between her fantasies, she drowsed and tried to read, but she couldn’t concentrate on her book, her thoughts invariably returning to her own far more consuming trauma.
By Christmas Eve she was heartily sick of herself and desperately lonely. She went to the hairdresser’s for an appointment she’d booked weeks previously and managed to get a manicure as well. It lifted her spirits somewhat and gave her enough of a boost to finish the Christmas shopping that she had left until the last minute.
Look at me, I’m shopping. I’m being normal even though my life is destroyed, she thought in faint astonishment as she flicked through racks of little girls’ outfits in Adams. Two hours in Grafton Street and Wicklow Street were all her frayed nerves could take and she scurried back to Duke Street car park and inched her way home in the chaotic Christmas Eve traffic.
The house was mausoleum silent. Francesca stood in the hall, cuddling Trixie who came scudding out to greet her. It was the weirdest Christmas Eve that she had ever spent, she reflected as she flicked through the last-minute post. Usually the house would be alive with the sounds and scents of Christmas. She’d be up to her eyes preparing for the champagne and smoked salmon supper they always had for friends and neighbours before going to Midnight Mass with Mark and the boys and, of course, Gerald. A big bedecked tree would grace the lounge, the open fire would be blazing and the house would be decorated with enormous arrangements of holly, poinsettias, azaleas, roses and chrysanthemums.
This year, not one festive flower arrangement, glittering bauble or otherwise decorated the house. There was nothing to indicate that it was anything other than an ordinary day. It was like the house of a bereaved person, which she was in a way, she acknowledged. She didn’t want to be here, she thought despondently. The phone rang; she ignored it. When Christmas was over she’d write a note to all her friends telling them that she and Mark were separated. It would be the easiest thing to do, she thought wearily. Right now she was like the proverbial ostrich and the more sand she could bury her head in the better.
Throwing a few clothes into a case, she gathered together the champagne, smoked salmon, pâtés, cheeses and other foodstuffs that she was taking to Millie’s and packed up the car. Ten minutes later, with the house locked up and alarmed and Trixie on her rug in the back seat, she drove down the drive and didn’t look back. The sooner Christmas was over and life was back to some semblance of normality the better. Although Millie had told her that she could be as miserable as she liked, she knew that she would have to make some effort not to ruin their Christmas. The thought of it daunted her.
I hope that Nikki bitch chokes on her turkey drumstick, and Mark too, she thought savagely as she closed the wrought-iron gates behind her and headed off to her sister’s house.
Chapter Fourteen
MARK STOOD FROWNING in front of a jeweller’s window in Wicklow Street. What on earth was he going to give Nikki for Christmas? He should have bought something the last time he was in Brussels instead of leaving it until the last minute. Shopping on Christmas Eve was a nightmare. He studied the contents of the window intently. He didn’t want to send the wrong message. A ring would be far too personal. Women had a way of getting the wrong idea when you gave them a ring. Earrings, even though she wore them all the time, were a bit too wishy-washy as a gift and very much a matter of personal taste.
It was strange to be standing outside a jeweller’s and not to be looking for a gift for Francesca. He would have liked to exchange Christmas presents with her. Just because he was with Nikki didn’t mean that he no longer had feelings for her. Francesca had been part of the tapestry of his life for so long, and always would be, if she wanted to. But right now she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Women were so intense about these things, dwelling on imagined slights and affronts. Seeing insults where none was intended. Why did she have to take it all so personally? Couldn’t she understand his point of view at all? It wasn’t as if he’d cut off her cash and cancelled her credit cards. He’d behaved in a most generous manner, he thought, aggrieved, as he moved along to where the watches were displayed.
You’d think he was a murderer or something the way Owen was treating him. At least Jonathan had been a bit more civil, if very shocked when he’d phoned him with the news.
‘I think you’re making a big mistake, Dad,’ he’d remonstrated. ‘Maybe you and Mam should go and have counselling.’ How American, Mark had thought, but he’d given some non-committal answer and had told Jonathan that he would keep in touch. He hadn’t been half as judgemental as Owen. But then he was living in a culture where marriage break-up was a way of life. He was obviously more of a realist about it all. Owen had gone to America without even saying goodbye. That had cut Mark to the quick. His own son had disowned him.
He straightened his shoulders and walked into t
he shop. He’d seen the watch that he would buy for Nikki. That was one task to cross off his ‘to do’ list. It was a Swiss timepiece, a Corum Padlock watch, inlaid with tiny diamonds. Very Nikki. He was sure she’d like it.
Later, as he sat sipping a latte that he didn’t really want, he knew that he was going to have to go and visit his father. He’d told Gerald that Francesca was very under the weather – woman’s trouble, he’d lied – and said that she was unable to have Christmas as usual this year. He’d told Gerald to contact him on his mobile if he needed him and not to phone the house under any circumstances as Francesca’s nerves weren’t the best and the phone was driving her mad.
His father had been most put out and had promptly set about foisting himself on a first cousin that he played bridge with for Christmas lunch. He’d have to tell Gerald the truth in the new year, Mark decided glumly.
He hoped Nikki liked the watch. He hadn’t seen much of her in the past few days, he thought ruefully. She had a hectic social life and she was partying like mad. She’d asked him to accompany her but he’d balked at the idea.
‘Let’s wait until next year,’ he’d suggested. ‘As soon as I tell people at work about the separation.’ She wasn’t happy at his dithering. She wanted them to appear at functions as a couple, but he was reluctant to go public yet. He didn’t want people knowing about his private business.
He’d told his colleagues at work that Francesca had a very bad flu and he wouldn’t be going to the big Christmas party that was held every year. He’d said the same to friends who’d issued invites to this do and that. It was a strain lying to people and then trying to remember what lies he’d told. Nikki was losing patience with him. He felt pressurized.
Didn’t she realize how difficult it was for him right now? He had so many new sets of circumstances to adjust to, not least living in the apartment with her.
He missed his house, he thought sadly. He missed the gracious elegance and spaciousness of it. He missed the gardens. Not that he ever did anything to them, except mow the lawn occasionally. He had a gardener to tend to it once a fortnight or so. But he liked walking or sitting in the large, private, shrub-filled back garden, reading the paper or doing the crossword.
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