She’d go home en route to Wicklow and put the cases back in the storage press and tear up the note. She might let him cool his heels for a day or two before she phoned. She’d see. Nikki slipped the note back into the envelope and put it in her bag. She was always extremely careful about what she left lying around the office. She certainly wouldn’t put it past Elaine to go snooping in the bin. Well, little madam wouldn’t find much there, she thought in satisfaction as she buried her nose among the freesias. Mark had written that he loved her but it would take more than a bouquet or two of flowers to convince her that he was serious.
‘Simon, I need to talk to you sooner rather than later. Francesca wants a divorce. I don’t. She wants to sell the house and split the proceeds, I don’t—’
‘Is it in joint names?’ Simon Carter’s calm voice crackled across the airwaves. It was a very bad line to Dublin. Mark was in his hotel room preparing to leave.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Hmmm. Who’s acting for her?’
‘Someone called O’Farrell, Monica I think is the name.’
‘Jessica O’Farrell, she’s excellent. She specializes in family law. Hmmm. Look, we’ll talk when you get back from Paris. How about tomorrow morning, nine a.m? I’ll reschedule that appointment.’
‘Appreciate it, Simon,’ Mark said. ‘See you then.’ He put the phone down and went and stood at the window. It was a hot muggy day and a low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance.
There had been no reassuring words from Simon. Even though he had to be realistic he’d been hoping against hope that Simon would say something comforting like: Don’t worry, we’ll sort it out. His ‘hmmms’ hadn’t sounded at all reassuring.
He glanced at his watch. Two-fifteen. Nikki should surely have got her flowers by now. He’d had his phone turned off for his meeting with Vevasse but there were no messages, not even a text message to say thanks. She must still be pretty mad with him. He sighed. He didn’t feel like going to work straight from the airport, he felt like going to bed and sleeping his brains out. Maybe he’d do just that. To hell with the whizz kids hot on his heels. He was tired, still hungover, and his life was about to be turned upside down. What was the point in killing himself before he’d endured all the hassle? he thought wryly. What he’d really like to do was sit out in his back garden in Howth with a chilled beer from the fridge and the Irish Times crossword but it looked like he might never do that again. A wave of grief and sadness enveloped him and Mark sat on the side of the bed and buried his face in his hands as hot tears spurted between his fingers and sobs racked his body.
Chapter Forty
‘FRANCESCA, I’M TERRIBLY sorry. My bank manager wouldn’t sanction the loan because the mortgage we have is still too big, and he wouldn’t let me remortgage because he didn’t have cast-iron guarantees that you’d be able to come up with the money. I did my best,’ Aidan assured her as they sat in her kitchen having a quick cup of coffee before going to work.
‘Don’t worry about it, Aidan. Thinking about it afterwards, I realized I wouldn’t have been happy about it anyway. Not until I see what way the divorce goes. I basically shouldn’t have gone looking at houses until I had cash.’ Francesca gave her brother-in-law a hug and received a warm one back in return.
‘Would you like me to speak to Mark?’ he offered.
‘Aidan, I wouldn’t let you waste your breath, but thanks a million for offering. It’s nice to get the support and I can never thank you and Millie enough for the way you’ve stood by me,’ Francesca said gratefully. ‘I’m going back to my solicitor next week and we’ll take it from there. If Mark wants to get nasty, it’s up to him, but he’ll find I’m no pushover.’
‘Well, any time you need us, you know we’re there, and I hope it won’t turn nasty and that Mark sees sense. I think he’s probably being stubborn because you’ve asked for a divorce. I would imagine he wasn’t expecting that,’ her brother-in-law said easily. ‘He might see it differently when he’s had time to think.’
‘It will be too late for me then, unfortunately, that mews will be snapped up,’ Francesca said regretfully.
‘There’ll be other places. The property market is so buoyant at the moment and perhaps Mark will be singing a different tune in time.’ Aidan placed his coffee mug on the kitchen table and stood up to go.
‘I won’t be holding my breath,’ Francesca said, following him into the hall. ‘Thanks for coming over. I hope it won’t make you late for work.’
‘Naw, I’m fine. The traffic’s not too bad now with the kids off school for the summer.’
‘Tell Millie thanks and I’ll be in touch. I’m off to Cork with Ken tomorrow, we’re doing publicity for an arts festival.’
‘Have fun,’ Aidan said.
‘I enjoy it very much. I’m delighted I got that job.’ Francesca’s eyes sparkled. ‘It’s a whole change of lifestyle for me.’
‘Good. Liking your work is the important thing. It’s a pain in the butt otherwise.’ Aidan raised a hand in salute and as she closed the door behind him, Francesca reflected that her sister had married a very stalwart man. A quality she had once thought Mark possessed.
Maybe he still did possess it but it wasn’t there for her any more. Nikki was the recipient of all her husband’s redeeming attributes now, she thought sadly, and felt an urge to cry.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she muttered in exasperation as her heart stung and tears ran down her cheeks yet again. When did the pain and grief of it go? When did the jealousy and bitterness lessen? Why had God picked on her? She sat at the bottom of the stairs and cried her eyes out.
‘It’s like this, Mark, and I speak as a friend as well as your solicitor, my advice to you would be to have your divorce and settlement as amicable as you can both make it. In the long run you’ll spend far less money and the wounds won’t take as long to heal. You can dig your heels in and I can fight tooth and nail over every penny, but I warn you, Mark, when things get dirty you could end up losing a lot more than you would if things were amicable. Hell hath no fury and all of that. I’ve seen some bitterly fought divorce cases and the husband has ended up ruined. Finances can be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. In some cases this has resulted in … er … embarrassing discoveries, shall we say,’ Simon said smoothly.
‘It’s all right, Simon, I know what you’re getting at,’ Mark said wearily. ‘In other words, you think I should agree to the divorce and sell up.’
‘Unfortunately, under the circumstances, it’s the option that is most suited to your situation. You can fight, as I say, but at the end of the day, Francesca will be seen as the injured party because of your infidelity and perceived intransigence. The house is in joint names and you did say that she said she would settle for half the proceeds and not come after savings and investments. She could look for a lot more if you make things difficult for her.’ Simon sat back in his chair and lit his pipe. ‘I’m sorry, old man, but there it is. Better to lay the cards on the table straight away and not lead you up the garden path with false hope.’
‘Thanks, Simon, I appreciate your honesty. I suppose I knew all this myself. I just had to hear it said,’ Mark said heavily.
‘You’ll still make a tidy profit on the sale,’ Simon said heartily. ‘It’s not the financial disaster it could be.’
‘It’s my safety net gone,’ Mark murmured, almost to himself.
‘Oh, come now, old chap, you haven’t let the grass grow under your feet. You’re a wealthy man and you’re working in the best possible place to take advantage of sound investment advice and opportunities. This is just a temporary little setback, you’ll bounce back,’ Simon encouraged.
‘I don’t have any other choice, I suppose.’ Mark sighed. ‘You’ll look after the sale for me?’
‘Of course,’ Simon said suavely, ‘and I’ll get on to Francesca’s solicitor and see what we can come up with that will be most beneficial to you. Oh! Just a thought, perhaps you could speak to Francesca about t
he estate agent and select one that is mutually acceptable. Better all round not to have her feeling excluded from the decision. It makes things easier in the long run.’
‘Fair enough, Simon. Good point.’ Mark stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep in touch.’
‘Don’t worry, Mark. We’ll keep your losses to a minimum, but as I say, consensus is the best strategy all round.’
You mean surrender, Mark thought to himself as he walked out of his solicitor’s office. He switched on his mobile phone and checked his messages. Two from the office, one from Paris, none from Nikki. She hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge his flowers. He’d checked with Interflora and they’d been delivered. Heavy-hearted, he strode along Wicklow Street. The sun was shining and tourists abounded. The sound of foreign accents lent an exotic air of liveliness to the coffee shops and cafés. On impulse Mark headed for Café Rio and ordered a cappuccino. He’d just done the first clue of his crossword when the phone rang. Thank God, he thought in relief as he saw Nikki’s number come up.
‘Hi,’ he said gingerly, unsure of his reception.
‘Hi, Mark. Thanks for the flowers.’
‘I was worried that they hadn’t arrived.’ He couldn’t resist a little dig at her tardiness in responding.
‘They arrived yesterday. They’re beautiful.’
‘Where are you?’ Mark asked.
‘I’m walking on a deserted, secluded little beach right this minute. I’m staying in Jacquie’s place for a few days.’ Nikki sounded remarkably cheerful.
‘It sounds lovely,’ he said wistfully, half hoping she might invite him to join her.
‘It is. It’s just what I needed. Where are you?’
‘I’m sitting in Café Rio on Wicklow Street having a cappuccino.’
‘At this hour of the morning!’ Nikki exclaimed. Mark smiled, now her interest was up.
‘I was at my solicitor’s,’ he said.
‘Oh! Is everything all right?’
‘I’m putting the house on the market. I hate doing it.’
‘And you wouldn’t consider buying Francesca out?’ Nikki queried.
‘No! It’s not an option.’
‘Well, you know what’s best for you, darling. The line is very crackly so I’ll let you go. Talk to you tomorrow.’ Nikki’s voice came faintly down the line and then he heard the click and she was gone. Mark frowned. She hadn’t shown much reaction at the news that he was selling up. Maybe he’d misjudged their situation but he’d expected more of a response from her, particularly as she had jumped so vehemently to Francesca’s defence when he’d told her that she wanted to divorce him and sell the house. Today she’d seemed almost offhand about the whole thing. Mark felt a little chill of unease. Maybe Nikki, after reviewing her options, was deciding that life with him wasn’t one that she cared to pursue. He didn’t want to be alone right now. But on the other hand he certainly didn’t want to venture into marriage again. Once was enough to lose his shirt. If Nikki couldn’t deal with that, there was no hope for them.
Nikki stood at the water’s edge and let the frothy sea wash over her bare feet. She inhaled, drawing the tangy sea air deep into her lungs. She didn’t know what to think. What on earth had changed Mark’s mind about selling the house? He’d been utterly against the idea. The solicitor must have talked sense into him, Nikki surmised. Maybe once it was sold and the financial ties were cut with Francesca things would change between him and herself. He obviously didn’t want to end their relationship. Their rows had given him any number of opportunities to walk out but so far he hadn’t.
Nikki walked along the beach towards the house. He’d wanted her to invite him down to be with her. She knew he’d been angling. It would have been nice to spend a quiet day with him because right now she was agitated and tense. She was finding it extremely difficult to wind down even in the peace and quiet of her rural backwater retreat. She’d forgotten how isolated the house was, stuck at the end of a winding country lane. The nearest shop was two miles away. She sat on the rocking chair on the veranda and picked up her book, a thriller that required more concentration than she was prepared to give it. So she just rocked, staring out at the sparkling flat-calm sea. After a while the book dropped from her hand and her head drooped. She curled up on the soft cushions as the rhythmic sounds of the sea began to work their magic. Her breathing deepened; her body relaxed. Nikki slept.
‘Haven’t seen you around before! Ralph Casson, arts journo with the Daily Press and Contemporary Arts.’ A tall, black-haired man, with impossibly long black lashes and heavy-lidded brown eyes held out a hand and gripped Francesca’s firmly.
‘Hello. I’m Francesca Kirwan. I work with Ken Kennedy PR. Nice to meet you, I think we spoke on the phone once.’
‘Lucky old Ken Kennedy.’ Ralph eyed her up and down so blatantly that Francesca blushed. ‘A woman who blushes, what a find,’ he teased. ‘What’s a very attractive woman like you working for a scoundrel like Kennedy for?’
‘That’s a long story,’ Francesca said crisply, raging with herself for blushing. She hadn’t done that since she was a teenager.
‘It’s one I’d like to hear. How about we go for a drink and you can tell me your long story?’
Francesca smiled sweetly. ‘Thanks but I’m working.’
‘So am I, but that never stopped me having a drink.’ Ralph laughed. ‘How about if I do a feature on “Women in PR”? I can interview you and discover all your trade secrets, while hearing the long story.’
‘I thought you covered the Arts,’ Francesca said caustically.
‘Oh, I do,’ he assured her. ‘But I write under a variety of names. You might have read articles under the byline Brenda Carroll?’
He raised an eyebrow in enquiry.
‘Hmm. She’s always writing about what women want in a man and how career women are losing their libido – that sort of thing. Cosmo stuff that hasn’t changed in the past twenty years.’ Francesca was unimpressed. ‘Are you saying that you’re Brenda Carroll?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ Ralph bowed. ‘I’ve even got the frocks to prove it.’
‘Brenda’s a bit old hat, she needs a bit of updating if you ask me.’
Ralph grimaced. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you?’
‘You wouldn’t like me to tell you fibs just to flatter your ego, now would you?’ Francesca said lightly as she handed him a press release. ‘You being a journalist and seeker of the truth and all that?’
‘Maybe you could give me pointers on updating Brenda’s image,’ he said slyly, his eyes twinkling.
He’s got dead sexy eyes, Francesca noted with a little shock. She hadn’t noticed that in a man in years.
‘Well?’ Ralph encouraged.
‘Well what?’ Francesca asked.
‘Are you coming for a drink with me?’
‘Thanks for asking, Ralph, but really I do have to work and so do you. And if your schedule is the same as mine you’re due to interview Kris Synott in five minutes.’
‘That boring old fart,’ Ralph snorted. ‘Who wants to listen to him pontificating? He adores the sound of his own voice. I’d far prefer to go for a drink with you. You’re a gorgeous, sexy woman, you know.’
Francesca’s jaw dropped.
He studied her in amusement. ‘You must have been told that a thousand times. Why do you look so surprised? Doesn’t your lucky sod of a husband tell you?’ He indicated her wedding ring. ‘If you were my wife I’d tell you every day.’
‘I’m separated,’ she said faintly.
‘Oh! Me too. How long?’
‘Since before last Christmas.’
‘A mere novice,’ Ralph scoffed. ‘I’m single and available these past two years. Maybe we were fated to meet. I believe in fate. Do you? I think you could be my soulmate, the one I’ve been searching for. I feel I know you already. We could have had a past life or two, who knows. I think you’re the woman I’ve been seeking endlessly for. And now I�
�ve found you.’ He was teasing her, smiling into her eyes, his lean face creased in a most attractive smile.
Francesca gathered her wits about her. ‘You’ll be seeking another job if you don’t interview Kris Synott. It was nice meeting you but I really have to go, I’ve to liaise with Ken. Please don’t keep Kris waiting, he gives us a very hard time as it is. I’ll look forward to reading the interview. See you.’ She turned and walked across the foyer of the hotel, conscious of his stare.
‘I don’t give up easily,’ Ralph called and she smiled.
‘I don’t give in easily,’ she murmured as she hastened to her rendezvous with Ken.
Chapter Forty-one
FRANCESCA OPENED HER eyes, yawned, blinked and remembered where she was. ‘Sorry, Ken,’ she apologized. ‘I fell asleep, hope I didn’t snore.’
Ken glanced over at her. ‘Snore! I thought I was driving through a thunderstorm.’
‘Oh, stop! Was I bad?’ She was mortified.
‘I’m joking, Francesca. You were like the Sleeping Beauty, not a peep out of you.’
‘Where are we?’ She stretched as much as the constraints of the seatbelt would allow.
‘Just coming off the Naas roundabout onto the M50. I’m going to cut across through Tallaght.’
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