Trixie barked in anticipation of a tasty breakfast.
‘Shush! Be quiet, Trixie,’ Francesca chided. She had a dull throbbing headache from sleeping too heavily. The phone rang as she reached the bottom of the stairs. It was Millie.
‘I’m just up,’ Francesca confessed. ‘How did the party go?’
‘Very well … I think, if my head is anything to go by,’ her sister groaned. ‘How are you? Are you sure you won’t come and spend the day with us? What are you doing over there all by yourself?’
‘I’m fine, honestly, Millie,’ Francesca lied. ‘I’m going to take Trixie for a long walk and wash the cobwebs away. I feel like some fresh air.’
‘But it’s pissing rain out,’ Millie retorted.
‘I don’t mind. I’ll wrap up well.’ A walk in the rain would suit her mood perfectly. She could weep in peace and no-one would know she was crying. It had been difficult trying to keep going over Christmas when all she wanted to do was bawl her eyes out.
‘Well, if you change your mind do drop down, won’t you?’ Millie urged.
‘I will, honest. Now I’d better go and feed Trixie. Thanks for everything, Millie. We’ll talk soon,’ Francesca promised.
Millie was a great sister, she reflected as she prepared Trixie’s food. She was lucky. She had two great sons and a stalwart sister. Why then did she feel so utterly and completely alone? Tears trickled down her cheeks into Trixie’s food as she placed the dish on the floor. She sat down at the table and buried her head in her hands and cried, great shuddering sobs of grief, until her eyes hurt and her head ached even more.
The doorbell chimed and she froze. She couldn’t let anyone see her like this. It rang again and Trixie barked.
‘Shush!’ she snapped. Trixie gave her an indignant glare, unused to such a sharp tone from her mistress. After a minute or two Francesca peered out of the kitchen door and could see no outline at the front door. She hurried upstairs to Owen’s bedroom just in time to see Viv disappear out of the drive.
‘Nosy wagon,’ she raged, knowing that Viv was not calling out of genuine concern. The house was eerily quiet. It was getting on her nerves. She had to get out of here. She shivered again as she went into the bath-room, and remembered that she hadn’t checked the heating.
Her heart sank to her boots when she saw the oil gauge and realized that she had run out. She had been so distracted over the past weeks she’d completely forgotten to get her oil refill.
She cursed long and loudly knowing it was pointless even to consider ringing her oil company on New Year’s Day. What a way to start the new year. Dopey-eyed from sleeping tablets, grief-stricken, and bloody cold. What an omen for the next twelve months.
She decided against a shower and washed her face and teeth before pulling on a snug black body hugger, a pair of warm socks and a fleece. She grabbed a pair of chinos from the wardrobe and scowled as she struggled with the zip. To add to her woes, she was piling on the pounds. Soon nothing would fit her. Defiantly, she marched into the kitchen and buttered a slice of Vienna roll and smeared it with blackberry jam. She ate it standing up, waiting for the kettle to boil. By the time she’d made herself a cup of coffee she’d demolished three more slices and a muffin.
Trixie was ecstatic to be going on a walk with her beloved mistress. The dog scooted out of the door ahead of Francesca and in spite of herself she had to smile. Trixie was such a lovable little thing. If it weren’t for her Francesca would have gone straight back to bed and stayed there.
It was a wet, cold, blustery day as Francesca drove to Howth Summit. She pulled on her wellies, buttoned her jacket up to the neck and pulled up her hood. No easy, civilized walk on the pier today. She was going to tramp along the mucky pathways that weaved around the summit; maybe if she was lucky a gust of wind would blow her onto the cliffs below and that would be the end of her misery, she thought forlornly as she set off in the teeth of a howling gale. It would be so easy to end it all. To not have to face the sorrow and uncertainties that were Mark’s legacy to her. If she didn’t want to throw herself into the sea she could take tablets and alcohol, she mused. Much easier.
But then she’d be leaving Jonathan and Owen, and Millie and her family, a legacy of grief and guilt and sorrow that would ravage their lives. Could she do that to them? She started to cry again as the sleety rain whipped into her face. She felt very frightened. What was she doing thinking of suicide? Surely she was strong enough to cope with this crisis?
But was she? She didn’t feel at all strong. She felt scared and trembly and full of panic. She was such a disaster she’d even forgotten to order central heating oil, she thought wildly.
Should she beg Mark to come back to her and try and forget the nightmare of knowing that he didn’t love her any more, that he loved someone else. A young, smart, independent woman that she couldn’t compete with?
Humiliation swamped her. Could she sink so low? Was she that pathetic? How Mark and that woman would despise her and hold her in complete contempt.
‘Don’t even think of it,’ she muttered as she tramped through murky puddles, head down to her chest, hands jammed into her pockets. A man on a horse appeared around a bend on the upper path and she called Trixie to heel until he passed by. She wasn’t the only mad person in the world, she thought wryly. A couple ahead of her were walking briskly hand in hand, their laughter floating back on the wind. Even though she and Mark had followed this route many times, it was a long, long time since they’d walked hand in hand. They’d got so used to each other, those important little touches had somehow been lost in the familiarity of everyday life.
She wondered if the same thing would happen to him and his new woman when the first flush of romance had died away. They were probably having mad passionate sex right this minute, she thought bitterly as she paused for breath and stood gazing out at the turbulent pewter sea, which seemed to merge with the leaden sky until all around her was grey and grim.
Maybe he’d have a heart attack from over-exertion, she thought viciously. That would be good enough for the pair of them. And she was damned if she’d go to his fucking funeral.
Agitated and unhappy, she walked the round of the summit and came back to the car along the road, watching the twinkling Christmas trees in house windows and wishing that it was 6 January, when the festive season would end and life could get back to whatever was normal from now on.
She drove home, switched on the electric blanket and was just about to get undressed and retreat to bed when the phone rang.
‘Halloo, Francesca, it’s Vera.’ Francesca’s heart sank as she heard her sister-in-law’s tones. ‘Sooo sorry to trouble you. I’m trying to get Mark. His mobile is turned off. Do you happen to know where he is?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Francesca said grimly.
‘Oooh, dear. I got a call from the Kennedys, Father’s neighbours, to say that he’s locked himself out of the house and is trying to break in through the back door. I mean, it’s outrageous. Why are they ringing me?’ Vera bleated. ‘They tried you but there was no answer.’
‘I was out,’ Francesca said crossly. ‘What did they want me for?’
‘Well, they thought that you might have a spare set of keys that you could pop over with.’
‘Are you serious, Vera? Why the hell should I have to drive across the city to give your father a set of spare keys? What exactly do you think I am? A door-mat? Why can’t you do it?’ Francesca exploded resentfully.
‘But, Francesca, I don’t have spare keys. And besides I’m entertaining. I simply can’t leave my guests. Couldn’t one of the boys take them over?’
‘The boys aren’t here. They’re in the States.’
‘How inconvenient. Couldn’t you just oblige me this once? You know I can’t stand that old bastard,’ Vera cajoled.
‘Vera, get lost. If you want the keys, come and collect them. If not, fine. Now you listen to me. I don’t ever want another phone call from you about your father. He is not my
problem any more—’
‘Well really, Francesca, your rudeness is beyond belief. There’s no need for your tone. I’ll send Noel over for the keys and I assure you, you won’t be hearing from me again. Under any circumstances.’
‘Fine,’ Francesca snapped. ‘The keys will be in an envelope tucked into the trellis behind the climbing rose. I’m going out.’
‘I don’t think much of you at all,’ Vera retorted huffily and hung up.
Francesca stared at the phone, raging that she hadn’t had the chance to hang up first. Snooty wagon, she wouldn’t miss her, for sure, she thought angrily as she trudged upstairs and began to undress. She was damned if she was inviting Noel, Vera’s plump, pampered son, into her freezing cold house.
She wrapped her towelling bathrobe over her nightdress and snuggled into the bed, warmed by the blanket, but lay as tense as taut wire until she heard her nephew’s car drive up to the front door half an hour later. Only when he was gone moments later did she begin to relax before falling into a troubled sleep.
Gerald Kirwan was fit to be tied. He had locked himself out of the house and had had to take refuge in his next-door neighbours’ house while he tried to get the matter sorted. He couldn’t remember Mark’s new phone number or his mobile one.
There was no answer from Francesca’s and in desperation he’d asked his neighbour to phone his ungracious upstart of a daughter to relay his predicament. Vera had been most unhelpful and eventually, unwilling to impose on his neighbours any longer than was necessary, he had gone around the back of his house and broken a pane of glass in the back door and let himself in that way. Now he was trying to hammer a piece of board over the broken glass and had whacked his thumb badly. It was too much. What sort of ungrateful, uncaring children had he reared that wouldn’t even be with him on a New Year’s Day? And that Francesca hadn’t even had the decency to phone him to see if he was all right for Christmas. Not even a card. As for his grandsons … He was changing his will, he decided furiously as he bathed his throbbing thumb under the cold tap.
Owen had phoned to say that he was off to America. Jonathan hadn’t bothered to send a card either. Ingrates, the pair of them. Well, they were out of the will and that was final, Gerald decided as he poured himself a stiff whiskey to get over his trauma.
Two hours later, a fat, red-haired youth knocked on his door, thrust a grubby envelope at him, muttered something about spare keys and waddled back to a swanky-looking car. He had his mother’s sharp nose and his father’s elephant ears, Gerald thought spitefully. A sorry excuse for a man.
‘It’s a bit bloody late,’ he said ungraciously and shut the door with a bang.
‘Up yours, Gramps,’ muttered Noel as he helped himself to a chocolate out of the box he’d taken with him to keep him going on the trek across town. He was starving. They’d been about to sit down to lunch when he’d had to go haring off to his aunt’s house to get keys for old Grumpy. First and last favour he’d do for him. Noel scowled as he put the boot down and headed home for his ruined meal.
Gerald marched into the sitting room and flung the keys on the coffee table. A fat lot of use they were to him now. He felt old and tired. It was obvious he was only a nuisance to his family. Nobody wanted to be with him. He couldn’t depend on any of them. What would happen to him if his health failed? He’d probably be turfed into one of those depressing, soul-destroying nursing homes for old people. The thought chilled him to the bone. Imagine having to depend on strangers to take care of him and feed and clothe him.
A picture of the Sacred Heart hung over the fireplace. His dear departed wife had always lit a little lamp in front of it. He’d got out of the habit. Suddenly it felt important that he follow her lead. He rooted in the drawers of the sideboard and found a packet of night lights. He placed one in the little red holder and lit it. It flickered to life, casting weaving shadows on the kind countenance of the Saviour. It brought a little comfort. Gerald found himself on his knees.
‘Don’t leave me on my own, Lord. Let me be able to look after myself until the end. I place all my trust in Thee,’ he murmured brusquely in the deepening dusk, before blessing himself and struggling to his feet to pull the curtains against the gloomy wet night.
‘Look, Vera, I can’t and won’t do everything. It’s not fair. You’re his child too whether you like it or not. You have to accept some responsibility for him,’ Mark raged down the line at his sister. He was back in Dublin and had had a furious and whining phone call from his father informing him of the whole sorry saga of New Year’s Day.
‘Mark, he can rot in hell for all I care. I’m telling you here and now I am having nothing to do with him. He made my life hell when I was growing up. Shouting and roaring if I was even five minutes late and creating a drama if I wore the tiniest bit of lipstick.’
‘I know that, but he’s old now. He’s not as bad,’ Mark retorted.
‘Tough!’ Vera was not to be swayed.
‘You’re very unforgiving, Vera. You’ll regret it some day,’ Mark warned.
His sister gave a dry, brittle laugh. ‘Indeed I won’t, Mark. Quite the contrary. He’s all yours. And don’t worry, I won’t want anything when he’s gone. You can have it all. That should make up for whatever hassle you have to put up with. Bye.’ Vera hung up abruptly.
Mark scowled and ran his fingers through his hair. This was one problem he certainly hadn’t envisaged when he’d started his relationship with Nikki. And it was going to get worse.
He logged on to his computer and began to key in an e-mail.
I wish to make it known that my wife and I have separated and I am now in a relationship with my colleague Nikki Langan. We would ask that you respect our privacy in the matter. Thank you.
Blunt and to the point, he thought grimly. He’d already spoken to Larry Grimes, the MD. Larry was shocked. He’d always had a soft spot for Francesca. Mark had wanted to tell him personally. He was sending the e-mail to key staff that he worked with. Everybody else could find out for themselves, not that it was really any of their business. But it had to be dealt with. His finger hovered over the keyboard. Might as well get it over and done with, he reflected. He took a deep breath and clicked send.
He picked up the phone and dialled Nikki’s private line. ‘Yes?’ she said crisply.
‘I’ve sent the e-mail.’
‘Good, now let’s get on with our lives, Mark. It’s a great way to start the new year. Have to go, I’ve a meeting scheduled. Well done.’
Mark hung up and walked over to the office window. A flurry of snow swirled against the glass. Was it a good start to the new year? Right now he just didn’t know.
‘Did you hear about the e-mail?’ Elaine, Nikki’s secretary, bubbled excitedly to her best friend Imelda. They were standing at the photocopier pretending to work.
‘I certainly did,’ Imelda admitted. ‘At first I thought it was someone playing a joke. But it’s legit.’
‘Can you credit it?’ Elaine’s eyes sparkled. ‘Mark and Hot Shot Langan. How long has it been going on?’
‘You should know. You’re her secretary,’ Imelda retorted.
‘I swear, they never gave any indication. You never see them together. I’m just gobsmacked.’ Elaine shook her head. ‘I never thought he’d be her type. He’s too old, forty if he’s a day. And he’s very stand-offish.’ Elaine removed Imelda’s photocopy from the copier and inserted a recipe for salmon mousse that she was longing to try out.
‘He might be past his prime but he has a certain something. I’d say he was a great ride in his day,’ Imelda said wistfully. She’d always rather fancied the reserved Mr Kirwan. He was sort of Mr Darcyish, she decided.
‘He obviously keeps Super Nicks happy so he must still have some tea left in his teapot,’ Elaine giggled.
Imelda snorted as she gathered her photocopying together and hastened down the corridor to discuss the most gloriously delicious piece of gossip to have hit the office in a long time with her frien
d Brona in Foreign Exchange.
Nikki strode into the canteen and took her place in the queue. She knew all eyes were upon her as a little ripple spread around the typists’ table.
Silly cows, she thought dismissively as she ordered a portion of chicken and a side salad. She had debated whether to eat in the canteen today, knowing that Mark had sent the e-mail, but she had no lunch meetings scheduled so instead of skulking off downtown she decided to grab the bull by the horns and get it over with. It had to be done sometime.
She paid for her meal and saw John McNally sitting at a table by the window. He was one of the dealers and she liked him. He wasn’t a bullshitter like so many of them.
‘Mind if I sit with you, John?’ She plonked her tray on the table.
‘Sure,’ John said easily. ‘I’ll bathe in your reflected notoriety.’
‘You heard about the e-mail then?’ she said drily.
‘Sure did. Caused quite a stir.’
‘See WestAir went belly up.’ Nikki deliberately changed the subject. ‘Glad I didn’t buy shares in them.’
‘Me too,’ John sipped his coffee. ‘I knew a few people who’ve taken a hit. Lorcan Donnelley for one.’
Nikki whistled. ‘Know-All Donnelley. Well, well!’ She laughed, much to the chagrin of the typists who had hoped she’d have the decency to look just the tiniest bit mortified. They should have known better. Nikki Langan was made of sterner stuff.
Chapter Seventeen
FRANCESCA READ THE kind and diplomatically worded letter from Alison Curtis and sighed. During the second week of January she had sat down and written to a few dear friends and told them of her separation. She’d been putting it off but Mark had phoned her to let her know that he had sent an e-mail to key people at work and that the news was out. It had made the break-up seem very final and she’d been so hurt, she’d just snapped, ‘Thanks for telling me,’ and hung up.
Larry Grimes, Mark’s MD, had phoned the following day to say how sorry he was and to ask after her welfare. She knew she had to get down to the task of telling people. Writing was her preferred method. She’d kept the notes short but every time she wrote that she and Mark had separated and that he was with someone else she wanted to stab him. Her anger was unspeakable.
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