Francesca's Party

by Patricia Scanlan

  ‘Oh, Monica!’ Ken hissed in exasperation.

  ‘Look, I’ll phone you on Friday and see how you’re fixed. Talk to you then.’ She hung up without giving him a chance to reply. Ken really didn’t know what was good for him sometimes, but she loved him to bits. He was her favourite godchild as well as nephew and Francesca was just what he needed – whether he liked it or not.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ‘IT’S NICE SINCE they’ve refurbished, isn’t it?’ Monica remarked as they studied the menu in L’Écrivain.

  ‘Very nice,’ approved Francesca as she gazed around at the bright, airy, extended restaurant. She and Mark had often entertained his guests here in the past. She felt a pang at the memories. She wondered, did he bring Nikki here? Forget it, you’re moving on, she told herself firmly as she took the menu from the waiter and began to study it.

  ‘Let’s be naughty and go the whole hog, will we? We’ve something to celebrate, I hope.’ Monica was on top form, and her gaiety was infectious.

  ‘Have we? I’m dying to know what you’re up to.’ Francesca laid aside the menu and stared at her friend, trying to work out what was going on. Monica smiled broadly and settled herself more comfortably in her chair.

  ‘You remember my nephew Ken?’ She arched an eyebrow enquiringly. Francesca nodded.

  ‘Well, he was working for a PR company that was run by a pair of crooks, as far as I’m concerned.’ Monica’s nostrils flared in disgust and Francesca prepared herself for a tirade. She’d often heard her friend giving out about Little and Large as she’d nicknamed the two partners in the firm of McDonnell & Lynn. Monica loathed them and never lost an opportunity to express her displeasure with them.

  ‘They made him redundant, didn’t they?’

  ‘Indeed they did, the creeps, after he’d worked his butt off for them. You know he had to work Saturdays, Sundays, late nights, and he never got a penny overtime. Pure exploitation, Francesca. I remember him telling me one time that he’d taken a musician they were doing a publicity tour for out to RTE to appear on a late-night show. Afterwards he’d taken him to the coffee dock in Jury’s and by the time he got home it was practically dawn. Well, five a.m.,’ she amended. Monica was prone to exaggeration. ‘Anyway, he went into work half an hour late the next morning and that little jug-eared consequence, the older one with the loud jackets, said as smart as you like, “I think someone needs an alarm clock.” Really, Francesca, it was abuse and bullying the whole time he was there. No less.’ She frowned. ‘There’s so much bullying in the workplace that goes unheard of. Bart was telling me about this young lad—’

  ‘Tell me about him later. What’s all this got to do with me?’ Francesca instructed firmly. Monica was also notorious for getting sidetracked in conversation.

  ‘Oh! Right!’ she said apologetically. ‘Ken worked his butt off for those two bastards for a pittance and got no thanks for anything he did. It was the best thing in the world for him when they let him go although it didn’t seem like it at the time. Seemingly they had a cash-flow problem because they were buying property – under the company’s name of course … talk about chicanery, you’ve no idea. Anyway, to make a long story short – Oh, here’s the waiter. We should order. What do you fancy?’ Monica asked.

  ‘Oh, the Caesar salad and go lightly with the dressing, and the rack of lamb, well done, for me, please.’ Francesca smiled at the waiter, trying to curb her impatience. What did Ken’s work problems have to do with her? They’d been in conversation for over twenty minutes and she still had no idea what Monica had planned for her.

  ‘And I’ll have the tiger prawns and my steak rare,’ Monica was instructing the waiter, completely unaware that Francesca was in a tizzy of curiosity. She took a sip of her Chardonnay. Francesca did likewise. ‘Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Well, for the first six months he was out of work. Nothing! Nada!’ Monica declared dramatically. ‘His marketing degree, work experience, all for nothing, no-one was biting. It was soul-destroying. He was thinking of emigrating. But in the end one of the new independent TV companies asked him to do a bit of freelance work and then a record company asked him to organize a tour for one of their up-and-comings, then a couple of publishers asked him to arrange author tours and publicity and it all snowballed and he was doing so well he had to get someone in to work with him. And that was grand.’ Monica took another sip of wine.

  ‘And?’ prompted Francesca.

  ‘Well, he employed this assistant, a ditzy piece if ever you saw one, all fluff and no substance, and she went and fell in love with some musician and has gone haring off to America after him,’ Monica explained.

  ‘And where do I come in?’

  ‘Francesca, you’d be perfect for her job. You bring people to interviews and out to RTE and TV3 and you wine them and dine them and pop them back to their hotels or out to the airport. You’d have no problem doing it. You’ve been doing that kind of thing all your married life for Mark. You’re great with people. You know all the restaurants that count, you know all the hotels. You can drive. Your time is your own now. The salary is good and there’s a generous expense account and if you’re interested, Ken’s willing to see you. He needs someone badly, he’s snowed under. He said if you were interested would you pop in and see him this afternoon. It’s just what you need. A whole new career.’ Monica sat back, extremely pleased with herself, and waited for Francesca’s reaction.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s a bit sudden,’ Francesca demurred, flustered.

  ‘Well, you can always have a chat with him and see how it works out,’ Monica urged.

  ‘I’m going on holiday for a week with Millie,’ Francesca declared. Now that she had the chance of a job interview, she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

  ‘Stop making excuses, Francesca,’ Monica said briskly as her tiger prawns and Francesca’s Caesar salad were placed in front of them.

  Francesca made a face. ‘Is that what I’m doing?’

  ‘’Fraid so. Look, give it a try. At least you know of Ken, so he’s not a complete stranger. Come on,’ she encouraged Francesca. ‘Just imagine Mark’s reaction when he hears that you’re working. Who knows who you might meet? It’s better than sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself.’ Monica dipped a prawn into her sauce and demolished it with relish.

  ‘I’m scared, Monica. I’ve lost my confidence completely,’ Francesca said quietly. She was tempted to tell her friend about her stint in Allen & Co., but just couldn’t bring herself to.

  ‘I know, lovie, and that is truly terrible. A fabulous woman like you. But believe me, all it’ll take for you to get it back is to get out there, give it a bash and make a go of it. I honestly think it’s perfect for you and you’re exactly what Ken needs. Otherwise I would never have suggested it. Recommending people to relatives can be a bit tricky and it’s not something that I usually do. But in this case I had no qualms whatsoever. He’s really stuck. You’d be doing him a great favour, honestly. And besides, you wouldn’t have too long to think about it. Sometimes it’s best being thrown in at the deep end.’

  ‘Oh, Monica!’ Francesca groaned.

  ‘Go on. Say yes. You can do it. It’s you!’ Monica said earnestly.

  Francesca burst out laughing, touched and amused at her friend’s confidence in her. ‘All right then, I’ll give it a go,’ she declared.

  ‘Yes!’ Monica punched the air with her fist, forgetting where she was. Other diners looked around in amusement.

  ‘Oops. Listen, I’m just going to pop outside for a second to give Ken a tinkle on the mobile to tell him the great news. I’ll tell him to expect you between two and three. He works in an office in Monkstown so it would be very handy if you wanted to Dart it on the days you weren’t bringing clients around.’ Monica jumped up and hurried out of the dining room leaving Francesca gobsmacked, apprehensive and faintly exhilarated.

  Ken Kennedy put the phone down and gave a deep, deep sigh. What was Monica getting him into? He had no desire
to meet this Francesca woman but his aunt was insistent and once she got a bee in her bonnet there was no stopping her. For the sake of peace he’d see her but if he didn’t think she was suitable he’d make no bones about saying so, he decided crossly. She had the nerve to want a week’s holiday almost as soon as she had started. Was the woman for real? Wake up and smell the coffee if you want to get a job, he thought irritably as he sorted out a pile of press releases he should have sent out at the beginning of the week at least. He could do with someone to sort out the office. It was a disaster. It really was an employee’s market these days. They could pick and choose. Unfortunately they weren’t choosing him. Well, he wasn’t desperate yet. Francesca Kirwan was going to have to impress the hell out of him and he had strong doubts about her ability to do that.

  * * *

  Monica sat down excitedly. ‘Right. It’s all sorted. Ken’s expecting you and he’s delighted,’ she exaggerated. ‘Here’s the address.’ She handed Francesca a slip of paper. ‘Now, let’s make the most of your last day as a “Lady Who Lunches”. Next time we dine it will be Francesca Kirwan, “Career Woman”. To tell you the truth, I feel a tad envious. My life feels dull and predictable by comparison to the one you’re going to have. Maybe I should have gone for the job myself.’

  ‘Would you like to? Why don’t you?’ Francesca demanded.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Francesca. First of all, I’m his aunt and it’s fatal to mix family and business. Secondly, I’m on the wrong side of forty-five. Thirdly, I’m far too scatty. Fourthly, I don’t have your style. Fifthly, Bart would have an absolute fit if he had to go home and get his own dinner. And I’d eat my way through the expense account and turn into a sumo wrestler. I could go on but you get the picture,’ she said good-naturedly as she tucked into her fillet of steak with relish.

  Francesca laughed. ‘Don’t say things like that about yourself.’

  ‘All true, unfortunately. Oh look! No, don’t turn around yet in case they see you. It’s Marise Conway and her new toy boy. She’s hitting the sauce really badly, I believe. Made a show of herself at Cora Lloyd’s barbecue and, my dear …’ Monica launched into a saga of delicious tittle-tattle as she brought Francesca up to speed on the goings on of their numerous acquaintances.

  An hour and a half later, more than a little nervous, Francesca parked her car on the seafront at Monkstown and followed the directions Monica had given her. Along a side street that led to the main road she found Ken’s office building and with some trepidation buzzed the intercom.

  ‘Hello, Francesca. It’s the first floor,’ a disembodied male voice crackled through the speaker as the door clicked open. She climbed up the green-carpeted stairs and noticed a plant holder with a drooping display of sad-looking plants on the landing beside Ken’s office. The glass door opened and her new boss stood waiting for her, a mug of coffee in his hand, his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up.

  ‘You need to water your plants,’ Francesca informed him as she walked into his office. He was like an older version of Owen, she decided, not at all intimidating.

  ‘Oh God, yes.’ He rubbed his jaw ruefully. ‘Sandra always looked after that kind of thing. Er … sorry about the mess, I’m up to my eyes and I haven’t had time to file.’ Why was he apologizing to her and where did she get off telling him to water his plants? He scowled. She was elegant, but much younger than he’d expected, he observed, surprised. She had nice twinkly eyes.

  Francesca stared around the untidy office that had two desks piled high with folders and paper cuttings, brochures and press releases. Yes indeed, Owen to a T, she thought happily. This was so different to Allen & Co. This felt good. ‘How about if you make me a cup of coffee, and I start trying to clear this lot away and familiarize myself with your … ah … filing system so that when I come in on Monday we’ll have tidy desks,’ she suggested briskly.

  ‘You mean you’re going to take the job and you don’t even know the salary or what you have to do?’ Ken was incredulous. This wasn’t the way he’d planned it at all.

  ‘Well, you can interview me as we tidy up and tell me what’s involved. You obviously need a bit of sorting out at the moment. Monica said you needed someone to start immediately,’ Francesca said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Oh, I do,’ Ken said, flustered, as he ran his hands through his unruly mop of black hair. ‘I’ve had a few temps since Sandra left but it’s very unsatisfactory. That’s why the place is in such a mess,’ he found himself explaining. ‘I’ve got the publicity contract for the City of Light opera festival so I’m up to my eyes next week and I need someone to man the office and collect a science-fiction author from the airport, bring her to her hotel for a couple of interviews and then bring her to the SF convention out in Dun Laoghaire. After that to bring her for a meal, back to her hotel and out to the airport the following day. That’s the kind of work I need someone for. It’s probably not what you’re looking for though,’ he backtracked.

  Francesca studied the gangly young man in front of her with the nice hazel eyes and the faintly harassed air and knew immediately that Monica had coerced him into seeing her. She felt sorry for him. She couldn’t help it.

  ‘Look, Ken, did Monica pressurize you into seeing me?’ she asked.

  Ken blushed. ‘Er … something like that,’ he admitted sheepishly.

  ‘And I’m not really what you’re looking for?’ she said kindly.

  ‘Well, it’s just … ummm—’

  ‘It’s OK, Ken, really.’ Francesca laughed. ‘We’ll just tell Monica we didn’t think it would work out.’

  ‘Mmm … well, if you’d like to give it a try for a couple of weeks I suppose there’d be no harm in that,’ Ken heard himself say. ‘I could do with a bit of back-up.’

  Francesca looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Are you sure now?’

  ‘Why not?’ he said impetuously. This woman seemed like a bit of a sport. At least she’d copped that Monica had foisted her on him and hadn’t taken umbrage. He’d liked the way she’d dealt with it.

  ‘What’s this science-fiction author’s name? I should read one of her books so I can talk to her about it,’ Francesca suggested.

  ‘Good thinking,’ Ken exclaimed, rummaging through a mess of papers on his desk. ‘Here you go, I have one right here.’ He handed her a slim paperback and a sheaf of notes. ‘Her press releases and publicity material. Umm, Francesca, the salary would be in the region of fifteen K. That’s around two hundred and eighty-five a week, and of course all expenses will be covered.’

  ‘Fine. Will I have to travel much outside of Dublin? If it works out, of course.’

  ‘It depends on the client’s requirements. Generally publicity tours usually take in Cork, Belfast, and perhaps Galway. Arts and music festivals crop up every so often. I also have the CMD music chain store as a client and I do all their publicity nationwide. But I’ll look after that. I need you to do the one-off type of thing plus mail out press releases, keep on top of press cuttings, mail out invites to launches and so on. All the addresses are on computer.’

  ‘You’ll have to show me how to use it, I’m not very computer literate,’ Francesca confessed. ‘In fact I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘It’s a doddle really. You’ll pick it up in no time,’ Ken assured her confidently.

  ‘Did Monica tell you I’m booked to go abroad for a week?’

  ‘Yeah. Thank God it’s not next week, I’ll be OK the week you’re gone, there isn’t much pencilled in, but the week you come back is a bit hectic. I have a launch in CMD Grafton Street and an art exhibition in Chief O’Neill’s, a celebrity chef doing a sushi night to promote a new hotel in Temple Bar and an MBS author for TV3 and Gerry Ryan.’

  ‘What’s an MBS author?’ Francesca was unfamiliar with the term.

  ‘Oh, it’s Mind Body Spirit. It’s a genre that’s really taken off in the last few years. This one, Katherine Kronskey, is a spiritual healer and works on a cellular level with great success, seemingl
y. She sees past lives and all that stuff. It sounds a bit far out to me but her books always make the bestsellers and that’s all I care about,’ Ken admitted with a broad grin.

  Francesca laughed. ‘How very pragmatic of you.’

  ‘Well, Francesca, in this business it’s all bestseller lists and column inches, unfortunately, and if past lives and all that stuff does it, it’s OK by me. Think you can cope?’

  ‘I think I’d cope better if I had a tidy desk,’ she chivvied. ‘And I’m still waiting for my coffee.’

  ‘It’s on the way,’ Ken declared, disappearing into a small hallway. Francesca followed. ‘Loo’s to the right. Kitchenette to the left. Er … I’ll tidy it up,’ he promised, having the grace to look ashamed as she observed the overflowing waste bin, the milk cartons and the remains of burnt toast on a plate. ‘There’s a microwave and two-ring cooker and fridge, as you can see, if you want to stay in for lunch when you’re in the office. But there’s lots of nice little places around to go to for lunch if you prefer.’

  ‘Great. You tidy up the kitchen and I’ll start on the office,’ she said briskly. Better to start as she meant to go on, and that was definitely not being a kitchen skivvy, she decided, remembering Edward Allen and his morning coffee.

  ‘OK, boss,’ Ken said wryly, sweeping the empty cartons into a refuse sack.

  ‘I’ll water your plants for you and I’ll wash up when I use the kitchen and that’s the extent of my domestic duties. I have enough of them at home.’

  ‘Fair enough. Honestly, I’m not usually such a slob, it’s just this week was manic,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Please don’t say anything to Monica—’