Francesca's Party

by Patricia Scanlan

  She ran a comb through her hair. She’d worn it loose today, she couldn’t face the effort of putting it up. She sprayed some Oscar de la Renta on her wrists and freshened her lipstick. She had a meeting in five minutes. She needed to be on top of things. She couldn’t hit the sauce the way she used to, she thought ruefully, but Mark had been surprised when she’d told him about her night out. He’d phoned her at home but she wasn’t there. She’d stayed over at Ava’s and he hadn’t been able to contact her until she got to the office. She’d kept her mobile switched off on purpose. It was good to keep him on his toes. One thing was for certain: she’d make damn sure that he never took her for granted.

  Twenty minutes later, feeling rather queasy, Nikki sat listening to her colleague from Finance go through a list of figures in relation to their latest acquisition. It was a sad reflection on their relationship that she had to go to such extremes to keep Mark interested. She was beginning to think that he meant more to her than she did to him and it worried her.

  Tears welled in Francesca’s eyes as Owen leaned down and gave Trixie a belly rub before lugging his case out to the car. He shoved it into the boot then put his arms around her and hugged her close.

  ‘Come on now, Ma, don’t cry, you promised you wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re a great son,’ she sniffed. ‘You’ve no idea how much you helped me. I would have been lost without you.’

  ‘I don’t have to go. I can get a job with Art Breen, no problem,’ he said stoutly.

  ‘You get your ass on that plane, boy, or you’ll have me to deal with,’ Francesca chided, wiping her eyes. ‘Come on, if we’ve time after you’ve checked in we can have a coffee.’ She got into the car and started the ignition, determined that there would be no more tears. It wasn’t fair on Owen.

  The airport was jammers, and the queue for Owen’s flight to Heathrow was daunting.

  ‘We won’t have time for that coffee, Mam,’ Owen observed ruefully. ‘I’ll hardly have time to look around the shops at this rate. I want to get a couple of bottles of spirits for Jonathan.’

  ‘Go easy on the booze over there, won’t you, and don’t dabble in any illegal substances,’ Francesca warned.

  ‘Mam, you’re talking to a finely tuned athlete here. I’m not interested in that stuff,’ Owen said indignantly and Francesca hid a smile. ‘I would be interested in her though.’ He nodded in the direction of a pretty young blonde woman further up the queue. ‘I wonder if I could get a seat beside her.’ He gave a wolfish grin and, with a dart, Francesca saw how closely he resembled his father, now he was older.

  ‘I think I’ll just pop over to the bookshop,’ she said easily. ‘See you in a minute.’ But instead of heading for Hughes & Hughes, she hurried into the nearest loo, bolted into a cubicle, put the lid down on the seat, sat down and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘Get a grip!’ she told herself fiercely as tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘Get a grip.’ Mark ought to be here with her to see Owen off. It shouldn’t be like this, she thought bitterly. Her son should be able to join his brother in America with an easy mind and she shouldn’t have to go home to a big empty house alone.

  She eventually managed to compose herself and emerged from the cubicle red-eyed. She did a swift repair job on her make-up and hurried back to join Owen. He’d moved considerably closer to the top of the queue.

  ‘Why don’t you go home instead of hanging around here?’ Owen said kindly. ‘I’m nearly through now.’

  ‘Ah sure, I’ll wait until you’ve checked in,’ Francesca said lightly. ‘Just to make sure you’re really going.’

  ‘But don’t come over to Departures with me.’

  ‘Will I not? Are you afraid I might burst into tears again?’

  ‘It just might be easier,’ he said gently.

  ‘You just don’t want me to make a scene in front of the blonde bombshell,’ Francesca teased.

  ‘Yeah, it would do my street cred no good at all,’ Owen agreed as he hauled his luggage onto the conveyor belt. When he’d completed the formalities he took Francesca by the arm. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you to the car.’

  ‘No, no,’ she protested.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he argued. ‘Then I won’t have to worry about you trying to find the car and bawling your eyes out at the same time.’

  ‘It’s not my fault I’m a softie.’ Francesca tucked her arm into his as they walked briskly across the concourse. He was right, of course, she would have wept buckets watching him disappear airside. This way was easier.

  He opened the car door for her when they reached the parking bay and dropped a light kiss on the top of her head. ‘Drive carefully now and I’ll ring to let you know I’ve arrived,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  ‘OK. Have a ball, Owen, and give my love to Jonathan,’ Francesca said, easing herself into the seat.

  Her last sight of him was of him waving vigorously as she drove out of the parking space. Fortunately for her, she couldn’t see the sudden biting of his lips as his eyes darkened with loneliness and worry and a lump the size of a golf ball threatened to choke him.

  You’re on your own now, she thought dolefully as she slid her ticket into the machine and watched the barrier rise. Owen, her dear and precious son, had been her buffer against aloneness. Now she was truly going to have to face up to it and deal with it once and for all.

  She had just got in the door when the phone rang. ‘Hello,’ she said, dropping her car keys, house keys and bag onto the hall table.

  ‘Hi, Mam, just phoning to see how you are. Thought you might be feeling a bit lonely after leaving Owen at the airport.’ Jonathan’s tones came clear as a bell down the line.

  ‘Jonathan, you pet.’ Her eldest son’s thoughtfulness touched her deeply. He’d been very good about phoning and e-mailing her since the break-up and she sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward for the gift of her two lovely sons.

  ‘I suppose you were bawling,’ Jonathan said fondly.

  ‘I wasn’t too bad, smartie.’ Francesca smiled. It was so good to hear his voice.

  ‘I was just thinking, why don’t you come over for a week or two while Owen’s here. I’ll send you the money for the fare,’ he offered kindly.

  ‘Thanks, Jonathan, we’ll see. And I can pay for my fare, love. I’m not a pauper.’

  ‘I know … I just wanted to treat you, Mam,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Thanks, love, you’re very kind and I really appreciate it. I’m off to Portugal with Millie shortly, maybe I’ll come over after that. We’ll play it by ear.’

  They chatted for a while and Francesca didn’t feel quite so alone when she put down the phone. They were only a phone call away and they were good at keeping in touch. She was glad Owen had Jonathan to go to. It would do him good to get away from her. He was young. The break-up of his parents’ marriage wasn’t his burden to carry. It was time he enjoyed his youth.

  Poor old Jonathan, offering to pay her fare. He was a great old stick really, Francesca acknowledged as she rooted in her bag for a tissue. He was so responsible, so steady, but she didn’t like the feeling of knowing that he saw her as financially dependent on Mark.

  That was twice in the past two days that she’d been made to feel in some way helpless and inferior. Jonathan hadn’t meant to make her feel like that, but Nikki Langan very definitely had.

  She really should do something about getting another job. It was the only way forward for her, she admitted to herself. But employers wanted young, experienced employees. It was awful to think you were a has-been at forty, she thought, glumly studying her reflection in the mirror. The lines around her eyes had deepened perceptibly, and were there little lines along her top lip? Francesca puckered. And unpuckered just as quickly when she saw the result. Yikes! she thought in dismay, noting a few fine lines around her neck. Right! That was it, factor fifty on holiday, definitely, or she’d have a dried-up neck like an old wan, Francesca decided as she went into the kitchen to heat up a bowl of her vegetab
le soup. She was determined to have a half-stone lost by Karen Marshall’s do. Mark and Nikki would see her looking nothing but her best, she vowed as she drank a glass of water, one of the eight she was drinking religiously every day. She’d slid as far down the ladder as she was prepared to go. The only way now was up. Snooty little superbabe would never look down her pert little proboscis at Francesca again.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  FRANCESCA CHECKED HER appearance in the mirror once more as she waited for the taxi to collect her. She studied the reflection of the immaculately made-up woman in the black palazzo pants and lightly sequinned three-quarter-length jacket worn over a deep pink camisole top that highlighted to perfection the tan she’d got lying out on the deck. Black high-heeled sandals showed off her coral-painted toenails and gave her added height. She looked well, she thought without vanity.

  She’d had her make-up professionally done and a manicure and pedicure to boot. Her hair was perfectly coiffed and highlighted, she’d lost the half-stone in weight and her cheekbones had made an appearance once more. She was getting there, she thought with satisfaction. She might not be able to compete with the toned and sculpted youthful Ms Langan, but she looked sophisticated and classy – the way Mark had always liked her to look, she thought wryly as she heard the taxi crunch up the drive.

  As she sat back in the seat and tried to relax on the trip to the Burlington, Francesca felt butterflies in the pit of her stomach. She’d been to a thousand galas and the like, sometimes twice and three times a week in the hectic years when Mark had been climbing up the career ladder, but tonight she definitely felt nervous. It was the first time she’d gone to a function since the break-up of their marriage and it was certainly the first time she had ever walked into a party on her own. She was dismayed at how daunted she felt. Had she got so dependent on Mark during their marriage that her confidence disappeared at the thought of going it alone? That was pathetic, she thought in disgust. You just get in there and strut your stuff with your head held high, you could do it blindfolded, she told herself sternly, annoyed at her wimpish attitude. Nevertheless, her mouth was dry and she unwrapped a mint and sucked it in an effort to quell her nerves.

  What would she do if she bumped into Mark and Nikki? Ignore them, knowing that everyone who knew them would be looking to see her reaction? It was difficult. She didn’t want to talk to them, but she didn’t want the gossips to have a field day either. The only comfort she had was knowing that Mark wouldn’t be particularly comfortable either, it would have suited him much better if she’d stayed away.

  By the time the taxi pulled up outside the Burlington, her heart rate had doubled and she felt sick. Her palms were sweaty and she was heartily tempted to tell the taxi driver to turn around and take her home.

  This is ridiculous, she reproached herself irritably as she paid the taxi driver and hurried into the hotel to find the nearest loo. She took several calming deep breaths, studied her reflection yet again in a sparkling mirror and was reassured to see that outwardly there was no hint of her inward turmoil. Squaring her shoulders, she turned and marched out to the foyer. She read the noticeboard to find out in which function room the gala was being held. Might as well get in there and see what was happening on the social scene she’d been away from for so long.

  ‘Francesca, Francesca, hi,’ she heard a familiar voice call and smiled with relief when she saw Monica Gill and her husband Bart crossing the foyer. Monica and Bart were old tennis partners of hers and Mark’s and Monica had taken her to lunch and offered support when she’d heard about the split.

  ‘I’m really glad you’ve come and you look stunning!’ the older woman praised as she gave Francesca a warm hug. ‘Doesn’t she, Bart?’

  ‘Million dollars,’ Bart concurred, enveloping her in a bear-hug.

  ‘You look pretty dishy yourself, Bart,’ Francesca declared admiringly. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  ‘You think so?’ Bart beamed. ‘Started hill-walking. It’s exhausting but I love it. You should come with us sometime. You’d like it.’

  ‘You should, Francesca,’ Monica agreed enthusiastically. ‘You meet loads of people, it would do you all the good in the world.’

  ‘Sounds fun.’ Francesca smiled. ‘Maybe I just might.’ They strolled into the function room, chatting and laughing, and Francesca began to relax. To hell with Mark and Nikki, she had as much right to be here as they had and it was nice to see old friends again. Nevertheless, while she chatted and mingled, her antennae were up and a small knot of tension remained as she surreptitiously scanned the throng every so often to see if she could get a glimpse of her ex and superbabe.

  She was talking to an elderly couple whom she’d often met on the circuit when Karen Marshall saluted her apologetically, ‘Francesca, dear, I’m so sorry I wasn’t at the entrance to greet you, there was a tiny crisis about the seating arrangements that I had to sort out. Well, actually’ – she lowered her voice and threw her eyes up to heaven – ‘the Dennings and the Kerrs had a falling out over some shares Dominic Kerr advised Leo Denning to buy. Seemingly he lost more than a couple of grand, and they’re not talking. I didn’t know this and I had them seated at the same table. Dreadful faux pas. It’s so hard to keep track of who’s talking and who isn’t. My nerves are shattered.’ She laughed good-humouredly. ‘You look really well, dear, I’m so glad you came. You heard Mark cancelled?’

  ‘Did he?’ Francesca was surprised at the news and paradoxically half dismayed. Now that she was here and back on form she’d wanted him to see that she was perfectly capable of attending a function without him. All the effort she’d put into getting ready and he hadn’t turned up. How irritating. ‘Why, Karen? He rang me a while back to say he was coming.’

  ‘He had to go away on business, he said, when he phoned me to let me know. Maybe he chickened out,’ Karen suggested with a twinkle in her eye. ‘What matter? You’re here and I want you to enjoy yourself. I’ve seated you with Monica and Bart. They’re always good fun and the Lloyds are at your table too so it should be quite lively. Oh, damn,’ she muttered, ‘here’re the Clarks. Would you look at the get-up of her, she’ll do anything for notice. Tacky, tacky, tacky.’ Karen planted a smile on her lips as two of the city’s most well-known publicity addicts swooped, air-kissing all round them as a photographer clicked busily.

  ‘One more, darlings, just one more and you too, lovie.’ He smiled cheesily at Francesca. She endured the photos and then edged away discreetly, grinning as Lisa Clark twittered in Karen’s ear, lauding her gala and telling her how wonderful she was. Far better than Michelle Jenkin’s pathetic effort for Alzheimer’s. Lisa didn’t lower her voice. She’d had a falling out with Michelle and the social knives were well and truly out. While she’d been in hibernation, Francesca had forgotten just how cut-throat the social scene was. Just as well she’d never taken it seriously. She knew couples who’d be on the edge of a nervous breakdown if their photos weren’t in the social and personal columns following a function or if such and such a celebrity didn’t attend a gala night, first night, opening or launch.

  So Mark and Nikki hadn’t come. Surprise, surprise, she thought a little triumphantly. He couldn’t face her after his girlfriend’s totally uncalled-for behaviour. And rightly so, she thought with satisfaction, hoping that her picture would be in the social pages of the weekend papers, so that he would see it. That would be satisfying, she mused. You’re as bad as the Clarks, she chided herself, aware that she was being childish, but knowing she’d be at the newsagents first thing Saturday and Sunday morning buying all the papers to read over breakfast.

  The fact that her husband wasn’t there to bump into helped her relax and to her surprise Francesca thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the evening. It was so long since she’d dressed up and gone out, it was actually a bit of a treat. A lot of people hadn’t seen her since her split with Mark and she knew she was under scrutiny. She made sure that she kept smiling.

  She was sipping coffee af
ter the meal, chatting to Monica, when the subject of her future plans came up. ‘I want to get a job,’ she confided, ‘but I’m not really trained for anything. I can type with two fingers, file and answer the phone. But I need to do a computer course or something, I suppose.’

  ‘They’re dreadful things, aren’t they? I wouldn’t know one end of them from another.’ Monica chuckled. ‘But once you can type you can’t go wrong.’

  Can’t I? Francesca thought, remembering her first fiasco.

  Monica’s eyes gleamed. ‘You know, Francesca, I’m glad you told me that you’re job-hunting. I think I just might have the very thing for you. Yes indeed. This is marvellous!’

  ‘What is?’ Francesca was agog.

  ‘Look, just let me talk to someone tomorrow and meet me for lunch on Friday. I have a phone call to make but I think I know someone who has a job that would suit you down to the ground.’

  * * *

  ‘Lovie, she’d be perfect for you,’ Monica assured her nephew, Ken Kennedy, who ran his own PR company and was in dire need of an assistant.

  ‘No, Monica. But thanks for thinking of me,’ Ken said firmly.

  ‘Now, Ken,’ protested Monica. ‘At least give her an interview.’

  ‘There’s no point. I need someone who knows what she’s about. Who can use a computer and who won’t be going through the change of life or something,’ her nephew said uncompromisingly down the phone line. ‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but a middle-aged, separated woman coming back to work after twenty years or so is very definitely not what I need.’

  ‘Ken Kennedy! That’s a dreadful thing to say. I’m ashamed of you,’ Monica scolded. ‘She’s a very well-bred, sophisticated woman who knows how to behave in company. She’s been on the circuit for years and has great contacts and she’s just the kind of person you need to give your scutty little company a touch of class. You should be down on your knees begging her to work for you. Those silly little fluffy puffettes you tend to employ haven’t a clue. If she can type she can learn to use a computer. I’m telling you you won’t do better. She comes highly recommended. You know me, I wouldn’t put someone your way unless I thought they were suitable. Go on, give her a try,’ Monica wheedled. ‘I’ve told her you would,’ she fibbed.