On tenterhooks, she called reception the next morning and asked to be put through to Magda’s room. The phone rang unanswered for ages. Francesca started to panic. She was about to ask the girl on the switchboard to get someone to check that Magda had survived the night when she heard a distinctly grouchy, ‘Bugger off.’
She was alive anyway, Francesca thought with relief as she hurried into the shower. All she had to do was get her through Check-in and that would be her responsibility for Magda Waldon, SF doyenne, completed.
The phone rang as she gulped down hot coffee. It was Millie. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Don’t ask. I can’t stop to talk but I’ll tell you all about it this evening.’
‘Are you enjoying it?’
‘Enjoying it might be a bit of an exaggeration,’ Francesca grinned. ‘It’s certainly not boring. Talk to you later.’
Magda was not in good humour. She opened the door to Francesca’s firm knock looking dishevelled and very much the worse for wear.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she grunted.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ Francesca said cheerfully as she flung back the curtains.
Magda winced. ‘What did you do that for? Get me a brandy immediately.’
‘Right. You have your shower and I’ll ring room service for a brandy.’ The minibar was open, some of the bottles had been drunk, others stuck out of Magda’s bag, so there was no point in rooting for a brandy there. ‘Do you want breakfast?’ she asked politely.
‘Bugger breakfast,’ Magda growled.
An hour later, Magda teetered out to Francesca’s car. The brandy had revived her somewhat and she gazed blearily around. ‘Never get to do much sightseeing on these sorts of jaunts. Far too busy, you know. Pity. Looks quite interesting,’ she muttered as they drove past the yacht clubs and then past a ferry docking. ‘Sea looks nice,’ Magda declared before subsiding into silence.
It was with enormous relief that Francesca watched her charge disappear through the departure gate later that morning.
‘You’re not the worst I’ve been with. Here. It’s a signed copy,’ she announced, thrusting a hardback of her latest novel into Francesca’s hands. Then she was gone with a toss of her hair and a wave of her bejewelled wrist, wreathed in a mist of alcohol fumes. Francesca pitied the passenger sitting beside her on the plane.
‘An experience not to be missed for any good publicist,’ Ken laughed as Francesca regaled him with the events of the past twenty-four hours, back at the office. ‘You did well, Frannie. I think I’ll call you Frannie from now on,’ he declared, po-faced.
‘You do and I’m out of here big time,’ Francesca warned.
The rest of the week was a doddle in comparison to Magda’s shenanigans. A journalist cancelled an interview at very short notice and asked to reschedule, much to the annoyance of a young fashion designer who was making news with her far-out designs. She’d been highly snooty with Francesca, but had been as sweet as pie when Ken got back to her to calm her down.
The computer in the office terrified her. Ken had given her a brief tutorial on how to use it, but he was so proficient he took it for granted that she understood completely what he was showing her. As soon as she got back from Portugal she was enrolling in a computer class, she decided.
As she travelled home through the Friday rush hour after her first week at work she felt exhausted but exhilarated. The train sped past the Merrion Gates. Lines of traffic waited for the barriers to rise. At least she hadn’t had to drive in today. Driving around the city and trying to get parking was the stuff of nightmares. Driving home through horrendous traffic on a hot Friday evening was not for the faint-hearted. Only a couple of stations to go; she’d be home in twenty-five minutes. If she were driving she’d be at least an hour and a half in the traffic.
She’d done well, Francesca comforted herself as the train pulled into Connolly and droves of weary commuters swarmed into the carriage. She’d put manners on the filing system and tidied up the office. She’d taken charge of her first author and ferried her around with a façade of confidence she’d been far from feeling. Magda had been a blessing in disguise. If she could cope with Magda she could cope with anyone. She hadn’t wiped anything off the damned computer, although that was due more to luck than knowledge, she thought wryly as she shoved her way towards the door as the train eventually clattered into Clontarf Station.
A welcome breeze blew around her as she climbed the green iron steps to cross the tracks. The heat in the sun, warm on her face, lifted her spirits. She’d have her tea outside on the deck, relax for a little while and then pack her case. The week in Portugal couldn’t have come at a better time: this time on Sunday she’d be sipping cocktails beside a pool. This holiday was just what she needed.
Chapter Twenty-nine
FRANCESCA YAWNED. SHE was dead tired and longing to get to their holiday apartment.
‘I wish those doddery idiots would sort out their problem and get on the bus,’ Millie said irritably.
‘Me too,’ murmured Francesca as she looked down at the elderly couple outside the bus who were angrily remonstrating with the courier.
‘What’s wrong with them anyway?’
Francesca yawned again and nearly gave herself lockjaw. ‘Something about damaged luggage.’
A baby at the rear of the bus squalled lustily. ‘That’s all we need,’ groaned Millie. ‘The next time I have a brainwave about going away for a week, deal with me severely. I’d forgotten the horror of the “charter flight holiday”.’
‘Me too,’ admitted Francesca. ‘How long does it take to get to the apartments?’
‘About an hour. If we ever get going,’ growled Millie, resisting the urge to rap smartly on the window. ‘If they don’t get a move on I’ll go down there myself and manhandle them onto the bus.’
‘Mammaay, Mammaay!’ Another toddler launched into wails.
‘Jeepers, Al Jolson would be proud of him,’ Millie groaned in exasperation.
Francesca tittered. ‘Stop it, Millie, you’re awful. They’re tired, God love them. It’s after midnight.’
‘It will be just our luck that all those kids end up in our apartments, then you won’t be so magnanimous.’ Millie sniffed.
‘It was a brand-new Louis Vuitton and I’ll be wanting it replaced,’ the elderly woman in the pink catsuit reiterated loudly as she climbed the steps into the bus, followed by her red-faced husband. ‘It’s an absolute disgrace the way we’re treated,’ she declared to all and sundry as she plonked herself into a seat.
‘What’s that raddled old bag doing on a charter holiday if she can afford a brand-new Louis Vuitton?’ Millie snorted.
‘Millie, shush, they’ll hear you!’ Francesca chided.
‘Good! I want them to.’ Millie had had enough. The flight had been very delayed. It had been a tiring day and her patience had long since evaporated. The engine throbbed into life and the bus slowly pulled out of its parking bay. ‘At last,’ murmured Millie as the child’s screeching and the baby’s bawling subsided and they got under way.
An hour and a half later, Francesca and Millie lugged their cases into the reception area of Oura Praia apartments. They were the last passengers to be set down after a long winding journey that left them queasy. Thankfully, Pink Catsuit and the screeching children had got off at the first set-down. A nice young man behind the desk slid their registration forms across to them and took their passports. Two minutes later they had the key to their studio.
‘I’m not happy about this,’ Millie fretted as they took the lift to their designated floor. ‘This lift is going down. I asked for a top-floor apartment.’ The lift doors opened and the whiff of chlorine wafted past.
‘Shit, we’re on the ground floor. Francesca, this is not on. I specifically asked for top floor.’ Millie was fit to be tied.
‘Let’s have a look and see what it’s like,’ Francesca suggested. She was longing for bed. ‘I like the way they have carpet on the corridor. I’ve n
ever seen that before in apartments,’ she added approvingly as they pulled their cases behind them.
Millie slid the key in the lock, pushed open the door and switched on the lights.
‘Let’s see. It looks nice.’ Francesca peered eagerly over Millie’s shoulder. She’d only ever been abroad twice, with friends, before she got married; suddenly a vivid memory came floating back, of her excitement as she and two tipsy giggling friends had click-clacked their way down a marble-tiled corridor in Ibiza for their first glimpse of their tiny one-bedroom egg box of an apartment.
Millie wrinkled her nose as she marched over to the patio doors and pulled back the curtains. ‘Definitely not, Francesca. There’s a smell of smoke in this one and it’s right opposite the pool. Can you imagine the noise!’
Francesca’s heart sank as she backed out of the studio. Millie was very good at making scenes and standing her ground. Much better than she was. If Millie had discovered Aidan entertaining another woman in a hotel room he would now be minus a limb at least, she thought glumly as she followed her sister back the way they’d come.
She hid a grin as she watched Millie stride across the foyer. The poor unfortunate at the desk had no idea what he was in for. Millie was not to be trifled with, especially in the early hours of the morning. Francesca puffed her way after her sister with her case. She was so unfit it was pathetic. Lugging her case around was making her breathless. Granted, there were at least seven large paperbacks packed in there, but nevertheless she was going to have to do something about her lack of fitness. It was ridiculous. She was forty, not ninety.
‘But I specifically requested a top-floor studio,’ Millie was emphasizing vehemently.
‘I’m sorry, madam, all the studios are allocated,’ the receptionist told her politely.
‘This is outrageous—’
‘Excuse me,’ interjected Francesca, ‘but do you have any top-floor one-bedroom apartments vacant?’
‘Actually, madam, we do but they would be much more expensive. Let me see.’ He tapped away at his computer and smiled at her. ‘It would be forty-eight thousand, three hundred escudos more.’
Millie’s jaw dropped.
‘It doesn’t sound too bad when you say it quickly.’ Francesca grinned as she took out her credit card. ‘Visa?’ she enquired hopefully.
‘Fine, madam.’ The young man beamed, relieved beyond measure that he didn’t have to deal with the Amazon who looked as if she could flatten him with one punch.
‘Francesca, how much extra is it?’ Millie demanded.
‘Who cares? I got my first pay cheque. And I can dump you out in the sitting room if you start getting on my nerves.’
Millie laughed. ‘Mind your cheek.’
For the second time that night they stood in the lift, only this time it glided upwards to the sixth floor. ‘Francesca, how much extra did it cost?’ Millie asked. ‘I can’t figure out all those noughts.’
‘It’s about one hundred and sixty pounds extra, I reckon. It will be worth it to have a nice quiet apartment.’
‘It better be, or I’m going to cause ructions,’ Millie said.
Eagerly they hurried down the corridor and Francesca thrust the key into the lock, pushed open the door, switched on the light and smiled broadly. ‘Yes! This is more like it,’ she said with satisfaction.
‘It’s really nice,’ enthused Millie as she stepped into the small entrance hall and looked around at the large, beautifully furnished lounge.
‘The bedroom’s huge and the balcony goes right along to the lounge. And the bath’s like a swimming pool,’ Francesca said happily.
‘Oh Francesca, look at the view,’ Millie urged.
She went to stand beside her sister on the balcony and gazed around in pleasure. Below her the huge floodlit turquoise pool sparkled invitingly. The lights of the resort twinkled beneath them and out to sea a full moon shone on a glassy sea in a sky full of stars.
‘Let’s have a cup of tea. I’m gasping for one,’ suggested Millie. ‘We’ll sit on the balcony for a while and get our equilibrium back.’
‘Good thinking, Wonder Woman. And there’s a packet of Club Milks packed away in the supplies bag.’ Francesca rooted in the pretty holdall she’d packed essentials in and triumphantly waved the packet of Club Milk snacks.
Twenty minutes later they were sitting gazing out at their kingdom for a week, munching chocolate snacks, with their unpacking done and six more days of lazy bliss beckoning. It was a nice feeling and Francesca felt almost young again as she sat laughing at her sister’s witty asides.
Men! Who needed them when you had a sister like Millie? was her last conscious thought as she finally fell asleep beneath crisp white sheets a little while later.
Mark threw his eyes up to heaven as Viv Cassidy wittered on. ‘It’s just we’d love to have Francesca in the mixed doubles but I can’t get my hands on her. I’ve phoned the house constantly but haven’t got an answer. She usually has her answering machine on and I leave a message but not these past few days. Unfortunately I don’t have her mobile number. Is she away? I haven’t seen her around and I haven’t heard Trixie barking, and of course our book club is finished until September so I don’t see her at that,’ Viv said breathlessly.
‘Look, Viv, leave it with me, and I’ll get her to give you a call. I’ve got a meeting now so I must go. Nice talking to you,’ Mark said smoothly and hung up.
‘Bloody inquisitive cow,’ he muttered, stretching and yawning. Imagine going to the trouble of calling him at the bank. And how are you? You must bring your new lady friend over for drinks, she’d invited in that saccharine tone of hers that got on his nerves. He could imagine Nikki indulging in small talk with Viv. Or rather he couldn’t. He chuckled at the notion. Viv would definitely not be Nikki’s cup of tea. She didn’t suffer fools gladly.
He frowned. He was damned if he was going to give the silly bitch Francesca’s mobile number. Viv would pester her morning, noon and night if she had it. That was the type she was.
He dialled his old home number. It rang unanswered. It was unusual for Francesca not to have her answering machine on. Maybe she was away. But hardly. She’d surely have had the courtesy to tell him; after all, he’d told her about going to Kinsale, he thought self-righteously, forgetting the numerous other jaunts he’d taken with Nikki that he hadn’t mentioned.
His secretary buzzed him. ‘Charles de Fressange on line from Paris.’
‘Fine. Put him through,’ Mark instructed. He’d try home later in the morning and if there was no answer he’d buzz Francesca on the mobile. After all, he had a legitimate excuse. If you could call Viv Cassidy an excuse. It was awful to think that he needed an excuse to talk to the woman he’d shared his life with for twenty years, he thought sadly. Francesca really needed to grow up and let bygones be bygones. She’d held the grudge long enough.
‘Bonjour, Mark.’ The deep fruity tones of his French colleague came down the line clear as a bell and Mark turned his attention to matters that were far more pressing than Viv Cassidy trying to contact his estranged wife.
‘This is the life.’ Francesca turned over on her tummy and felt the sun’s rays warm on her back.
‘I was born for this.’ Millie stretched luxuriously on her lounger. They’d just finished a tasty lunch at the poolside restaurant and were preparing to have a nice snooze under their gaily coloured yellow umbrellas.
‘I’m going to sleep my brains out this week,’ Millie declared.
‘Do you miss the kids?’ Francesca asked sympathetically.
‘Nope. I’m delighted Aidan is having quality time with them,’ Millie said firmly and Francesca laughed.
‘It was good of him to take the week off and let you go away.’
‘For crying out loud, Francesca, what are you on about?’ Millie said irritably. ‘He gets away for his rugby weekends and his fishing weekends. I’m entitled. If you’d have heard them in school. “Isn’t he wonderful?” “Isn’t he supportive?” �
��You’re very lucky, my fella wouldn’t do that for me.” It’s ridiculous. No-one ever tells me I’m wonderful or I’m supportive when I have them day in day out and when Aidan’s away.’
‘I suppose,’ Francesca murmured.
‘Well, it’s true. Women are expected to do everything. Work, look after the kids and run the home and if the man mucks in now and again she’s considered lucky.’
‘Aidan is much more hands on than Mark was,’ Francesca remarked.
‘That’s because I’m working outside the home. He has to be. If I’d stayed at home like you did I can guarantee you his contribution would be much less – and I don’t mean that in a nasty way. It’s just the way it goes. Deep in their hearts men still see women in the role of mother and nurturer and that’s never going to change.’ Millie settled herself more comfortably having vented her indignation.
‘I wonder, does Nikki Langan want children?’ Francesca rested her chin on her hands. ‘She certainly doesn’t seem the mother/nurturer type.’
‘Mark would get some shock if she got pregnant. Wouldn’t he?’ Millie chuckled. ‘The last thing he’d want is a baby.’
‘They seem very happy though. It might happen in the future,’ Francesca said glumly. ‘They went to Kinsale for a couple of days.’
‘That’s nice for them,’ Millie said drily. ‘They might seem very happy but he isn’t in any apparent rush to divorce you and marry her. I’m telling you, Francesca, he has the best of both worlds. Would you take him back if he came back to you?’ she asked curiously.
‘I don’t know,’ Francesca admitted. ‘Sometimes I think I would. Other times I vow I wouldn’t. It depends on the humour I’m in. I’m terribly lonely. I miss waking up on a Saturday morning and having a snuggle and making plans for the day. I miss having someone to talk to – you know, the “wait until I tell you” bit. The house is like a morgue. It’s so quiet, it’s eerie.’
Francesca's Party Page 22