‘My God! You must have driven like Mika Hakkinen. We’re in Dublin already!’ Francesca rubbed her eyes and stared out at the rolling fields and the Dublin Mountains ahead of them as they headed south on the motorway.
‘Francesca, you were asleep before we left Mallow and that was at half six. It’s now ten a.m.’
‘You must be knackered.’
‘I am a bit,’ he admitted. ‘I wouldn’t have minded a lie-in. I didn’t get to bed until after two.’
‘Look, when we get to the office, why don’t you nip home for a couple of hours’ kip? I’ll sort out the invites to the Carey Awards and get them mailed out and when you come back in the afternoon we can confirm the schedule for that author tour and have it faxed to London by five,’ Francesca suggested.
‘There’s an awful lot of invites to be sent out. Over three hundred. The Carey Awards is a big event. They need to be in the post today.’ Ken yawned.
‘They will be, trust me,’ Francesca assured him.
Ken changed down to take the exit off the motor-way. ‘You’re really good at this, you know. When Monica first suggested you, I thought it wasn’t going to work out but I was desperate—’
‘So was I,’ interjected Francesca.
Ken laughed. ‘No, I mean I didn’t have great expectations, to be honest. I certainly didn’t think you’d be taking over and organizing events on your own and making big impressions on journalists,’ he added wickedly.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she demanded.
‘Oh, a certain Ralph Casson cornered me in the bar and wanted to know all about you. He thought you were intriguing!’ Ken informed her.
‘And what did you tell him?’ Francesca asked curiously.
‘I told him that you were brilliant at your job, that you’d saved my bacon, that we got on like a house on fire and that you weren’t interested in men right now. I told him your career was your priority.’
Francesca eyed him in disbelief. ‘You didn’t say that.’
‘I did. He’s a bit of a charmer, Francesca, believe me. But you probably sussed that already.’ Ken overtook a Volvo and put the boot down.
‘He had the gift of the gab, all right. Where does he live?’
‘He has an apartment on the canal somewhere, I think. His wife and two daughters live in Ranelagh.’
‘Oh!’ Francesca digested this piece of information.
‘Traffic’s not bad, sure it’s not?’ Ken remarked as they cruised through several sets of green lights. ‘We missed the worst of the rush hour and we’re going contra flow which helps.’
‘Hmm,’ murmured Francesca. She wasn’t at all interested in discussing traffic. She wanted to get back to the subject of Ralph.
‘Is he a good journalist?’ she asked a while later.
‘Who? Oh, Ralph.’ Ken was obviously miles away. ‘He knows his stuff, but he’s a nightmare to pin down and often turns up half an hour late and more for interviews. It’s a pity because he’s a good writer.’
‘I must keep an eye out for his articles. He told me that one of his pseudonyms is Brenda Carroll.’
‘I know. It’s a hoot. Lots of journalists write features under different names. I was often tempted to try and write myself.’
‘Now that would be something I’d like to see,’ jeered Francesca.
‘You may mock. One day I’ll surprise you,’ Ken retorted as he pulled up outside the office.
‘Go home and have a couple of hours’ sleep. I’ll phone you at half one,’ Francesca ordered.
‘Are you sure, Frannie?’
‘Perfectly, Kenneth.’
‘Right so. I don’t need to be told twice. You’re a little pet,’ Ken said.
‘Little!’ drawled Francesca as she got out of the car. ‘You certainly have the imagination for a writer. I’ll see you.’ She waved him off and let herself into the office. While she was waiting for the kettle to boil she played the answering machine and took down names and numbers to call people back. She checked the e-mails. Ken had given her a guided tour of e-mail and she was quite confident about it now. She then turned her attention to the post. She was throwing junk mail in the waste-paper basket when her mobile rang. She didn’t recognize the number that flashed up.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, this is Stephen Boyle—’
‘Oh, the estate agent,’ she cut in, her heart sinking. ‘I’ve been meaning to call. I was in Cork on business,’ she apologized.
‘Ah, Mrs Kirwan. I need to know if you’re still interested in the mews? I have a firm offer. But I did say I’d let you know what was happening.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Boyle. I was going to call you this afternoon. I’m afraid there’s been some complications with my own house and I have to withdraw. I’m very sorry,’ she said regretfully.
‘Don’t worry,’ the estate agent said kindly. ‘These things happen. I have your number and if anything comes up that I think might be of interest to you, I’ll give you a shout.’
‘Would you? That would be great. I possibly won’t be in a position to buy for a while,’ Francesca explained.
‘Whenever. We’ll keep in touch,’ the estate agent promised.
‘Great. Thanks a lot.’ Francesca sighed as she hung up the phone. One lost opportunity, thanks to Mark. She wouldn’t give him the chance to put her in that position again.
She’d just made herself a cup of strong coffee when the phone rang. ‘Good morning, Ken Kennedy PR,’ she answered crisply.
‘Is that the wildly sexy gorgeous Francesca by any chance?’ a husky male voice said in her ear.
Francesca couldn’t help smiling. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘You deserted me. I’m here in Cork trying to make Kris Synott seem interesting because you told me you were going to read the interview and now I’ve got writer’s block. Beautiful Francesca, how could you do this to me?’ Ralph Casson asked plaintively.
‘You must still be pissed after last night,’ Francesca said, stirring her coffee.
‘Francesca! You wound me. If I was pissed would I have remembered where you worked? Would I have been together enough to track down your number—’
‘Directory Enquiries would get it for you very quickly,’ Francesca pointed out swiftly.
‘Sexy, voluptuous, intelligent, but very very suspicious. Dear oh dear. But I’ll persevere.’ She could tell he was smiling too.
‘What can I do for you, Ralph?’ she asked in a businesslike tone.
‘Oh Francesca.’ Ralph gave a deep sigh. ‘Don’t ask leading questions like that. I’d like to see you. Talk to you. Do soulmatey things with you.’
Francesca couldn’t help herself, she burst out laughing. ‘Ralph, I’m up to my eyes, I really have to go.’
‘Don’t give me the bum’s rush. I’ll be back up in Dublin tonight, tell me that you’ll at least come for a drink with me.’
‘Ralph. Thanks for the invite, another time maybe. I’ve a million and one things to do. Now I absolutely must go. Thanks for phoning,’ Francesca said briskly. ‘Good luck with the writing,’ she added before hanging up. She smiled, amused. Wait until she told Millie that she had an admirer. Didn’t someone say that life began at forty! Just as well for her that she didn’t take him too seriously. Ralph Casson was a complication she could do without.
Ralph hung up the phone with a deep sigh. His head throbbed. He wouldn’t mind a couple of shots of whiskey. He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes and tried to remember her. The lovely wide grey eyes. The cheekbones he’d like to run his finger along. The lips that were made for kissing. The full firm ripe breasts. The waist that curved in so voluptuously, inviting hands to encircle it. And those womanly rounded hips that would fit so perfectly against him. Francesca was the kind of woman he liked. Ripe as a peach, soft in the right places and sweet, sweet, sweet. Far more sensual than some of the young scarecrows teetering around in their skimpy little dresses.
He wasn’t used t
o women resisting his charm at the beginning. And she wasn’t playing hard to get, either. He’d been around women long enough to know the difference. That guy Ken that she worked for had said she wasn’t interested in men. Nonsense. A woman like Francesca was made to be with a man. The right man. He wondered if she’d been with anyone since her split. He hoped not. He’d like to be the one to pop her cork again. He would be the one to pop her cork again, Ralph decided. He flicked through his dog-eared diary and found the entry for Ken Kennedy PR. Monkstown, he noted. Fine. He’d pop into the Cork office, file his piece, drive home, have a shower and be waiting for this magnificent new woman who’d entered his world, and this time he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Chapter Forty-two
MARK FINISHED READING the report on his desk, made a few notes, signed some letters that his secretary had left for his attention, then stood and stretched. It was just gone six. The trouble was, he wasn’t in the humour for going home to an empty apartment.
He could call in and see his father, he supposed, he’d been neglecting him of late, but an hour in Gerald’s company was the last thing he needed. He could drive over to Clontarf and play a few holes on the golf course. It would be nice to get some fresh air. Maybe while he was in the area he could call in on Francesca and tell her that he’d decided to agree to put the house up for sale. There was no point in procrastinating and making it harder on himself. If the deed had to be done, do it, he thought despondently. Agreeing to sell might put some manners on his estranged wife and make her feel bad for her rudeness. She might start treating him with a bit of respect for a change.
Nikki had phoned him earlier. She’d informed him that she’d slept like a log and hadn’t woken up until after eleven. He was glad that she was relaxing. She’d been extremely irritable lately and he, better than anyone, knew the pressure she was under at work. Their personal circumstances hadn’t helped. She’d been wise to nip her stress in the bud by taking time out. She’d made no reference at all to Francesca or the divorce or their own situation. That was a relief at least, if a tad unsettling. Maybe she was going to blow him out. He’d call her later and be nice to her and tell her how much he was missing her. She always liked it when he said things like that to her. Underneath that tough façade of hers she could be vulnerable sometimes. It had taken him a long time to see it. She was no different to any other woman in that respect … unfortunately.
He went into the small bathroom adjoining his office – one of his perks – undressed and stepped into the shower cubicle. He had a set of golfing clothes in his closet; the weather had picked up, it was a glorious summer’s evening. He was going to enjoy it. It was time he relaxed and did what he wanted for a change. He soaped himself vigorously and felt the muscles around his neck and shoulders loosen a little under the hot spray. That was more like it, he thought with satisfaction, and felt his mood lighten. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.
Nikki sat in the rocking chair munching on crackers and cheese between mouthfuls of coffee. There was still heat in the evening sun and she rocked gently backwards and forwards enjoying the balmy warmth. She’d had a delightful day, much to her own surprise. The sea air was better than any tranquillizer. She’d conked out in bed and shocked herself by sleeping until eleven, then she’d had a long leisurely brunch before walking across the dunes to the beach where she spent a totally relaxing afternoon flicking through magazines and listening to the hypnotic lullaby of the sea. She’d even fallen asleep again.
She was a far more relaxed woman than the jangle of nerves, stress and tension that had arrived the day before yesterday. Distance was what she’d needed, she decided. Mark had been quite solicitous when she’d phoned him earlier and she was missing him. Jacquie’s big double brass bed was extremely comfortable and the view along the coast was stunning. A perfect place to make wild, passionate love and then snuggle up and listen to the song of the sea and watch the stars sparkle in an ebony sky. The thought of lying in Mark’s arms, cherished and relaxed, was so appealing she was tempted to phone him there and then and invite him down.
She glanced at her watch. He’d probably be stuck in traffic now. She’d give him a couple of hours to go home, shower and eat and then phone to see what he had to say. It would only take him an hour or so to drive down. Her heart lifted. All the turbulence of the past weeks seemed to have faded and she felt she’d regained a good measure of equilibrium. In spite of her angry words and her ultimatums she missed Mark and she wanted to be with him. Maybe tonight she’d sleep in his arms and all her fears and uncertainties would miraculously be laid to rest.
Nikki gazed out at the sapphire sea. Little white-crested waves fringed the shore. The peace was such a contrast to her frenetic lifestyle. She knew that her friends thought she had it all. A high-powered career that was on the ascent, a plush apartment in a very up-market complex. A cool car, and a relationship with a very successful and attractive man. Eighteen months ago she’d have agreed with them. She’d have been utterly horrified to think that she would end up feeling so powerless and needy in her relationship with Mark. She’d been totally in control then. She’d held the power. Now the position was completely reversed. She’d become the kind of woman she’d previously despised. Nikki gave a wry smile. She’d never had any patience with girlfriends moaning and whingeing about unhappy love affairs. She’d never understood how they could hand over their power to a mere man. Men had their uses, sure, but put them back in their box, she’d counselled unfeelingly. Now they could have the last laugh. She was as bad as any of them, she’d just taken a lot longer to get there, she admitted. The knowledge disappointed her immeasurably. For the first time in her entire life she felt a complete and absolute failure.
Francesca rubbed the back of her neck. She was whacked. All she wanted to do was to go home and flop into bed. Five a.m. starts were for young ones with plenty of stamina. Still, the invites for the awards were in the post. London had been faxed with a confirmed author tour schedule, the filing was up to date, press cuttings sent out and the coffee mugs washed and put away. A very satisfying day’s work, she thought as she switched on the answering machine.
Ken was working on the computer, clicking and scrolling, fingers flying on the keyboard. She watched him, fascinated. She hadn’t got around to her computer course yet. But she wanted to do it. She wanted to be able to sit at that computer with confidence and not feel apprehension in case she wiped the whole damn thing clean.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t stay too long at that,’ she warned.
‘As if I’d get the chance. Carla’s picking me up to lavish some TLC on me … I hope. Thanks for letting me have a kip earlier. It was badly needed,’ he said gratefully.
‘You’re welcome.’ Francesca smiled as she touched up her lipstick and sprayed some perfume on her wrists. Just because she felt a wreck was no reason to look like one. She ran a brush through her hair for good measure. She was dying to have a shower and get out of her suit and high heels. The thought of getting the Dart made her heart sink and she was half tempted to take a taxi from Monkstown, but that would mean she’d be stuck in rush-hour traffic for at least an hour and a half. She’d be home in forty-five minutes if she took the train to Clontarf and took a taxi for the fifteen-minute journey home from the station.
She closed the door of the office behind her and inhaled the tangy sea breeze. It was a beautiful evening. She’d have her tea on the deck and then a nice snooze, she promised herself, looking forward to that delightful moment of pure relaxation, lying on her lounger, her body sinking into delicious lethargy and then sleep, with the sun warming her tanned limbs. It was her favourite part of the day and she’d missed it when the weather had been unseasonably wet and cold.
She was miles away, thinking she really ought to call in on her parents to see how they were, when a vaguely familiar voice said above the region of her left ear: ‘Fancy meeting you here. It must be fate.’ Francesca came to with a start as she recogni
zed Ralph Casson.
‘Good Lord! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Cork,’ she exclaimed, relieved beyond measure that she’d retouched her lipstick and made herself look presentable.
‘I was. But now I’m home and very much hoping that if you’ve nothing better planned, you might come and have dinner with me.’ Ralph studied her with his deep-set brown eyes.
Francesca laughed. ‘Ralph, I was up at the crack of dawn. I’ve put in a very busy day. The only thing I’ve got planned is bed.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ he murmured silkily.
‘Alone,’ she added drily.
‘A drink, then,’ he pressed.
‘Ralph, honestly, I’m beat,’ she said tiredly, marvelling at his persistence. Typical man, she thought in amusement. It obviously hadn’t dawned on him that she’d be tired after her early start and full day’s work, or that she might like to shower and change before having dinner.
‘How are you getting home?’ he asked, falling into step beside her. ‘Here, let me carry that.’ He held out his hand for her overnight bag. Nice manners, she thought, impressed.
‘I’m taking the Dart to Clontarf. I usually park my car there but today I’m taking a taxi because Ken picked me up yesterday.’
‘It’s far too nice an evening to be squashed like a sardine on the Dart. I’ll drive you home. Will I need my passport to cross the Liffey?’ he teased.
‘Ralph, there’s no need. Really. I’ll be home in forty-five minutes taking the train.’
‘I came up specially to be outside the office when you left work,’ he said quietly.
‘Ralph, I’m in the middle of a marriage break-up, I’m not ready to get involved with someone new,’ she said slowly.
‘Dinner’s not getting involved. It’s just having a meal and a chat. And if that’s all you want, that’s fine,’ he said.
‘Well, look, maybe another night. I truly am tired,’ she said.
‘All the more reason that I give you a lift home. Please, Francesca.’
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