Francesca's Party

by Patricia Scanlan

  ‘Right!’ she agreed. ‘Go on now and get out of my hair. You’re interfering with my pottering.’ She grinned at him. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ she added lightly, ‘when I was speaking to your father the other day he was asking about you. Maybe you should give him a call before you go.’

  ‘Leave it, Ma.’

  ‘He is your father, love.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Owen said gruffly. ‘I’m off. I’ll see you later. Do you want anything from town?’

  ‘Don’t forget to get a couple of six-packs of Tayto for Jonathan.’

  ‘He’s e-mailed his list. Lion bars, Crunchies, crisps and Dubliner cheese. I’ll be like a little corner shop,’ Owen grumbled as he ran a comb through his hair and picked up his wallet and mobile from the chest of drawers. ‘See ya, Ma.’ He grabbed her in a bear hug, lifted her off her feet and swung her around. ‘Love ya,’ he said, exuberantly kissing her on the cheek before planting her on terra firma.

  ‘I love you too, now get outta here.’

  Francesca struggled not to burst into tears. It was the day before Owen was due to leave for America and she was dreading it more than she had thought possible. She heard him run downstairs and only when the front door had closed behind him did she sink down on his bed and bury her hands in her face as the tears overflowed. What would she do without him? The house would be so lonely and empty. It had been bad enough when Jonathan had gone to America, she’d missed him for months and felt an emptiness every time she went into his room that had unsettled her. But at least she’d had Mark and Owen to buttress her. Now with Mark gone from their marriage and Owen leaving for the summer, she felt utterly bereft. Her life had changed completely in the past months. The rug had been pulled from under her feet and all she could see ahead of her was an empty, lonely existence.

  Francesca shivered. She was frightened. Her life had no focus any more. What was she going to do with herself?

  Wearily she stood up and continued folding and packing Owen’s case. She had just finished and was contemplating whether to have a cup of coffee or a shower first when the doorbell rang. She glanced at her watch: ten-thirty, it must be the postman. It could be a book-club selection parcel for her. She’d ordered several titles from a club they subscribed to. She ran her fingers through her hair and tightened the belt of her dressing gown and hurried downstairs to open the door.

  ‘Hi.’ She smiled, expecting to see the friendly face of her local postman. The smile froze on her face as she recognized the extremely glamorous, steely-eyed young woman who stood on the doorstep.

  ‘May I come in?’ asked Nikki Langan. ‘We need to talk.’

  Twenty-two

  FRANCESCA STARED AT Nikki, stunned. This was the last person she’d ever expected to see standing on her doorstep. Fear struck her. ‘Is Mark all right?’ she asked sharply, figuring that the only reason the bitch would come to her door would be to tell her that something had happened to her husband.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Nikki said coldly. ‘Well, not exactly fine. That’s why I want to talk to you. I think I should step inside, if you don’t mind. I don’t particularly relish a discussion on the doorstep.’

  Her self-possession so rattled Francesca that she found herself stepping back obediently to let the younger woman in. She caught sight of her reflection in the hall mirror and cursed silently, raging that she’d been caught looking like the wreck of the Hesperus. Her hair was unruly and unbrushed compared to the other woman’s immaculate chignon. Her cheeks were blotchy and tearstained from her crying bout, her eyes red-rimmed. She looked an absolute disaster. Normally at this hour of the morning she’d be dressed and have her make-up on. Trust Miss Bloody Perfect to arrive the very morning she was in a heap.

  She was wearing a superbly tailored tangerine business suit that suited her colouring to a T. Her make-up was faultless, and very professionally applied, Francesca had to admit. Her slim black briefcase was a very elegant accessory as well as being practical. She looked like one of those glam lawyers out of Ally McBeal, Francesca thought enviously, wondering what on earth such a superbabe had seen in her husband, when she surely could have had any man that she wanted.

  ‘What’s wrong with Mark?’ she demanded truculently.

  ‘He wants a divorce but he won’t ask you for one because he’s afraid that you’ll go to pieces, basically,’ Nikki informed her crisply.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Francesca was horrified. Mark had never mentioned divorce when they were discussing her financial arrangements.

  ‘Mark wants to divorce you, but on past experience having seen how dependent you are on him he’s reluctant to ask you for one.’ Nikki eyed her up and down, contemptuously.

  ‘But you’re not?’ Francesca gritted her teeth, seething at the other woman’s utter cheek.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Nikki declared. ‘After all, you must know how unfair you’re being to Mark, living in this enormous house on your own – now that both your sons have gone – and tying up a big asset. Expecting a generous living allowance every month and doing nothing to earn it. It’s parasitical. Have you no pride? Aren’t you able to stand on your own two feet? Look at you,’ she said disdainfully. ‘You’re not even dressed yet. Mark was up at five a.m. to go to Brussels to work like a dog so that you can be kept in the style to which you’re accustomed. You should be ashamed of yourself!’ Nikki’s voice began to get shrill. Francesca, incensed as she was, could see that her unwelcome visitor was not as calm as her apparently cool demeanour implied. ‘You can’t free-load for ev—’

  ‘Now just one moment,’ Francesca interrupted, determined not to hear another word of abuse.

  ‘No, you listen to me,’ Nikki insisted angrily. ‘Why should Mark have to carry you on his back? You’re not helpless. You’re not an invalid or disabled in any way. Isn’t it time that you made a life of your own and stopped sponging—’

  ‘Have you finished?’ Francesca demanded icily, restraining herself with the greatest difficulty from clocking Nikki one in the kisser.

  ‘No, I haven’t—’

  ‘Well, I’ve had enough of listening to you,’ Francesca snapped. ‘How dare you come to my home and lecture me on my behaviour. I’m not the one who muscled in on another woman’s marriage and broke it up.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Nikki gave her a withering look. ‘I didn’t break up your marriage. You did that all by yourself. If your marriage wasn’t in trouble, Mark would never have gone outside it looking for what he gets from me.’

  ‘Get out of my house, you cheeky little tart,’ Francesca thundered, drawing herself up to her full height as she flung open the front door. ‘Under no circumstances will I divorce Mark and I think even less of him – if that’s possible’ – her voice dripped scorn – ‘that he didn’t have the guts to come and ask me for a divorce himself. You know something? You’re welcome to each other. You’ve both found your own level.’

  ‘Now just wait a minute—’

  ‘Out. Now!’ Francesca’s tone brooked no further argument and Nikki quailed at the ferocity of the anger sparking from Francesca’s grey eyes. ‘Get out.’ Francesca grabbed Nikki by the arm and roughly manhandled her out onto the front step. ‘And don’t you ever come knocking on my door again.’

  Nikki blanched at being physically ejected, her mouth a round O of shock as the front door was slammed shut firmly in her face.

  Francesca felt a surge of adrenalin. For the first time since she’d found out about Mark’s affair she felt in control. So he wanted a divorce, did he? He could whistle for one. He and superbabe would get married over her dead body. She’d never give in. This was her home and she’d live out her days here, she vowed as she picked up the phone and dialled Mark’s mobile number. She half expected it to be turned off as it often was when he was attending meetings but to her immense satisfaction he answered it with a note of surprise in his voice as her number came up.

  ‘Listen, you,’ she snapped, cutting off his greeting. ‘You tell your little tar
t never to come knocking on my door again. If you want a divorce you ask me for one yourself, you cowardly, despicable asswipe. But I can tell you here and now that you won’t be getting one from me, so go fuck yourself.’ Francesca slammed the phone down and marched upstairs. When it rang moments later, she ignored it. She wasn’t at his beck and call any longer. And she had just made very clear to Miss Nikki Langan that she was someone to be reckoned with. That tart wouldn’t make the mistake of treating her like a nobody again.

  Invigorated, she dropped her night clothes on the floor, stepped into the shower and stood under the bracing spray scrubbing herself with the loofah.

  Once she was dressed she was going to go and get her hair cut. Karen Marshall’s bash was coming up the following week and her hair always looked its best about a week after it was cut. After that, she was going to go for a brisk walk along the Clontarf seafront. She badly needed to start walking again, she was puffed after five minutes these days. Then she was going to buy a load of vegetables and make a huge pot of vegetable soup and live on that for a couple of days now that she wouldn’t have to cook for Owen. Even if she lost half a stone it would make a difference, she decided firmly. She was going to look her very best at this do. That Langan wagon had put iron in her soul. Francesca was Mrs Mark Kirwan and that was a title that bitch would never have.

  Humming, Francesca ladled on passionfruit gel and lathered it up into a satisfying foam all over. She inhaled the scent with pleasure. Odd though it seemed after such an upsetting encounter, she felt more alive, invigorated and purposeful than she had since the whole sorry saga had begun. Maybe Nikki Langan’s unexpected and unwelcome visit had unwittingly done her a service. It was time to stop pottering and get on with her life, Francesca decided as she stood under the water and rinsed the frothy suds from her body.

  Nikki felt uncharacteristically flustered as she drove back towards town. The encounter with Francesca had not gone at all as planned. Nikki had expected a short, sharp, ladylike discussion; instead she’d been called names and physically shoved out the front door. Practically assaulted. She could sue, she thought angrily. It was clear Francesca had no intention of being shamed into a divorce. And why would she be? Nikki thought sourly as she did seventy along the Dublin Road (she was in no humour for speed limits today). Francesca Kirwan had the life of Riley. A lady of leisure, content to slob around her big house. Why should she go out to work when Mark, the fool, was making it all so easy for her? Could he not see that he was being taken for a ride? Why didn’t it infuriate him? Why was he carrying around such guilt? Francesca wasn’t his child, for God’s sake, she was his equal and being equal meant taking a share of responsibility, not abdicating it as she had done. It was so frustrating. Nikki bit her lip as she shot past St Anne’s Park, one of Mark’s favourite walking spots when he’d been with Francesca. Nikki’s lip curled. Middle-aged, frumpy cow, she’d made Mark old before his time. Did the woman not want closure, for crying out loud? Had she no desire to move on? Nikki couldn’t understand it. She’d never want to be financially dependent on a man. She could think of nothing worse.

  Her father had been an autocratic tyrant, her mother meek and subservient, totally dependent on her husband for every penny. It had galled Nikki to watch her mother put up with the shit her father dished out. She might as well have been his servant. From the time Nikki had got her first summer job in the local supermarket and started earning her own money, she’d been determined to be financially independent. She’d worked her way through college and studied industriously. Everything she’d achieved since then she’d worked hard for and she had an extremely well-developed sense of self-worth. A financially independent woman she would always be, whether she married or stayed single, that was one certainty in her life, she thought grimly as she swung left onto the Alfie Byrne Road. A kept woman, like Francesca Kirwan or her mother, she would never be. Nevertheless it didn’t mean that she didn’t want to be Mark’s wife. She’d just have to try another tack. But what that tack would be she wasn’t sure yet.

  Mark looked at the phone in complete astonishment. What on earth was Francesca’s tirade all about? What was all this about a divorce? He didn’t want a divorce. He was happy enough to be separated and nothing else. He dialled her number again but it just kept ringing. His mouth tightened in anger. He knew that she was there and not picking up. She’d been bloody rude calling him an asswipe, he thought angrily. There was no need for that. And what did she mean by saying to tell his tart not to come knocking on her door? Was she talking about Nikki? Surely Nikki hadn’t gone calling on Francesca? He groaned. Nikki wouldn’t be so stupid … or would she?

  He frowned and dialled Nikki’s mobile number. It went into divert. ‘Damn!’ he muttered. He dialled her direct line. No answer. What the bloody hell was going on? He dialled and asked to be put through to her office. Her secretary answered and informed him that Nikki had taken the morning off. She hadn’t said anything to him about taking the morning off. With a deep feeling of unease, Mark went into a meeting of his European counterparts, all his earlier youthful vigour dissipated as a niggling thread of worry pervaded his thoughts, making it hard to concentrate.

  Twenty-three

  ‘WHAT THE BLOODY hell did you do that for, Nikki? You had no business going anywhere near Francesca. For crying out loud, didn’t I tell you divorce would devastate her?’ Mark raged down the phone as Nikki sat impatiently in traffic on the East Wall Road as juggernaut after juggernaut poured out of Dublin Port. The meeting was delayed so he had managed to get a call through.

  ‘Look, I can’t talk now, I’m driving,’ Nikki said tightly, irritated beyond measure at his anger. He was always taking fucking Francesca’s side. What about her, for God’s sake? Didn’t she rate at all in the bloody triangle? ‘Phone me tonight and we’ll talk,’ she said curtly and clicked off. She turned her mobile off completely in case he phoned her back. She couldn’t understand it. She’d thought that he’d be pleased that she’d made an effort to sort things out. After all, she’d done it for him. Instead it seemed as though she’d made a major strategic error going out to Francesca’s house. It had got Mark’s back up, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. But why did he not want things to move on? What was his problem?

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ she swore as the lights turned red yet again, leaving her tapping her thumbs impatiently on her steering wheel. There were times when she felt like throwing in the towel. Didn’t Mark know just how bloody lucky he was to have her? What would he do if she kicked him out? He’d better bloody watch it or she just might, she thought sourly as the lights turned green and she managed to get through before coming to a halt as the barrier came down to let the toll bridge up. Nikki cursed long and loudly. Was nothing going to go right this day?

  ‘Can you believe it, Janet? She actually had the nerve to come to my door and lecture me about being a parasite. Then she demanded that I divorce Mark. I told her where to get off in no uncertain terms, I can assure you,’ Francesca told her friend Janet Dalton as they sipped coffee after having their hair done. She’d met Janet at the hairdresser’s and when the other woman had suggested having a cup of coffee, Francesca had been delighted to accept. She liked Janet, and always enjoyed the lively discussions she had with her in the book club.

  ‘God, I was so mad,’ she confessed. ‘I wanted to whack her one in the face. I nearly did.’

  ‘I know, it’s terrible, isn’t it?’ Janet gave a wry smile. Francesca looked at her in surprise. ‘I’ve been in that place where you are now. I know all about what you’re going through.’

  ‘Really, Janet? I never realized.’ Francesca was astonished. ‘What happened – or can’t you talk about it?’ she added, not wishing to cross any boundaries.

  ‘Oh, it happened a long time ago. Twenty years ago. I was twenty-five, the kids were young, in primary school. I caught my husband with my best friend.’

  ‘Your best friend!’ Francesca made a face. ‘That’s pretty low.
At least I don’t know the bitch. Did you stay with him?’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t. And besides, Keith didn’t want to stay. He wanted to be with her. So I more or less became a single parent. He provided for us, paid the bills and so on, but he wasn’t there for the sick tummies, the homework, the hormony years, the exam angst. And don’t even mention the teenage years. He wasn’t there for any of the day-to-day stuff. I had to do that by myself and I hated and resented him for it. He went back to a life of being a bachelor with Una and they had a ball. I remember one Saturday, it was a hot sweltering day, I dropped Peter at football and Orla at her running and raced into town to buy their schoolbooks when I saw Keith and Una strolling hand in hand into the Kylemore for breakfast. The pair of them hadn’t a care in the world. They’d just come back the previous week from a long weekend in Kerry.’ Janet shook her head at the memory. ‘I tell you, Francesca, I was so livid I waited until they were sitting down with their grub and then marched in and poured a jug of milk over the pair of them. It was a horrible time. I was eaten up with anger and bitterness. I was desperately unhappy.’

  ‘I’m sure you were. That was horrible to be left with young children. At least my boys are grown up,’ Francesca said sympathetically.

  ‘Yeah, well, in the long run Keith really was the loser. The kids got used to not having him around and they grew away from him. He has hardly any relationship with them now. And it wasn’t any of my doing. I tried to keep my feelings about Keith to myself and not let it colour how they felt about him, but at the end of the day, when they got older, they saw him for what he was, a shallow, selfish, rather pathetic man. He taught me great lessons though, and I’m very grateful to him.’ Janet smiled.

  Francesca eyed her quizzically. ‘You’re grateful to him?’

  Janet laughed at her tone. ‘Believe me, Francesca, one day you could very well be saying the same thing to me.’