‘God Almighty!’ she muttered. ‘Thanks a million for that. Just what I needed.’ She felt sick. It was impossible to believe that the suave, charming, mannerly man who had taken her out to dinner and been so kind to her after her row with Mark was the same man as the drunken, lewd, foul-mouthed boor she’d left sprawled on the floor in the foyer of the Herbert Park Hotel. Wait until Millie heard about ‘Ravishing Ralph’. She’d phone her the minute she got home, she thought shakily. She was throwing her coins into the basket at the East Link when she suddenly remembered that Millie was on holiday in France. Inexplicably, Francesca burst into tears. Trust her to pick a dipso. She should have seen the warning signs. Mark would revel in it if he ever found out. Well, he never would find out from her, Francesca vowed as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose, trying to steer with one hand and coming perilously close to crashing into the roundabout at the East Wall Road.
She slept badly, unable to blot out the memory of his horrible remarks, and the following day at work she tensed whenever the phone rang in case it was Ralph. She didn’t want to hear from him or see him ever again. Ken could deal with him from now on when business required it. But he didn’t ring that day, nor the following, and by the weekend she decided that he’d be far too embarrassed ever to contact her again. That suited her fine. Maybe Mark wasn’t so bad after all, she thought ruefully. He’d never dream of treating her so disrespectfully.
No, he just went off with another woman, her hateful little inner voice reminded her.
She was sitting at the breakfast counter the following Sunday morning flicking through the papers, drinking coffee and eating toast, when a photo in the social columns caught her eye. Her heart gave a lurch and her stomach twisted into a knot when she recognized Mark and Nikki smiling out at her. They were at the Galway races and they looked as though they were having a ball.
‘Well, fuck you, Mark,’ she swore. ‘How could you bring her there? That was our place.’ Millie was crazy to think that Mark wanted to get back with her. Right in front of her nose was the living proof that she was wrong.
She jumped off the stool and strode into the lounge, grabbed the yellow roses and irises out of the two large vases on either side of the fireplace and hurried into the kitchen and dumped them into the bin, pricking herself on the thorns as she did so.
‘You can stick these up your arse, Mark Kirwan! Or better still, up your tart’s!’ she yelled. The phone rang. She flounced over to answer it.
‘Hello,’ she said sharply.
‘Francesca, it’s me,’ a contrite voice said. ‘I’m really terribly, terribly sorr—’
‘Fuck off, Ralph!’ Francesca roared, slamming down the phone.
Chapter Fifty
RALPH HUNG UP the phone gingerly and rubbed his aching temples. There was no point in calling Francesca back right now. Experience had taught him never to try and explain anything to an angry woman, and she sounded rip-roaring angry, he conceded mournfully.
He couldn’t remember a damn thing except arranging to meet her someplace. Where, he couldn’t remember either, because shortly after he’d made the arrangement he’d bumped into an old mate and they’d gone on the tear. Either he’d stood her up or he’d met her sozzled. He dearly hoped it was the former. He wouldn’t like a woman he so admired to see him out of control. His wife had told him often enough that he was a nasty drunk with a mean and vicious tongue. He could have done or said anything. He groaned. It was so frustrating not being able to remember.
‘God! God! God!’ He put his head in his hands. ‘Why am I like this? I don’t want to be like this. Why don’t you help me?’ he demanded, raising his eyes to heaven. There was no answer. There never was. Ralph’s head sank to his chest and he cried like a baby.
‘Oh look, darling. Our photo’s in the paper,’ Nikki said gleefully as she folded the newspaper and passed it over to Mark. They’d arrived home from Galway an hour ago and were sitting relaxing, after the journey.
Oh shit! he thought. He hoped Francesca didn’t see that. He hadn’t said anything to her about going to the races. It was something they’d always done together and looking at the picture in front of him, of him and Nikki smiling happily at the camera, he knew if she saw it, she’d feel he was rubbing her nose in it.
‘Very nice,’ he murmured, handing back the paper. He should never have gone to the damn races. He might have been smiling in the photograph but that had been a façade. He’d only gone to please Nikki because he was feeling as guilty as hell about the way he was treating her.
If, by a miracle, Francesca took him back, he’d be dumping Nikki in the not-too-distant future and she had no idea what was going on in his head. He felt like a heel! He was a heel, he acknowledged uncomfortably. He’d never realized that he was capable of such duplicity. If he had any guts he’d finish with Nikki whether Francesca took him back or not. He was only using the girl. But he couldn’t take that step, he thought miserably. If Francesca turned him down, he didn’t want to be alone.
She’s far braver than you are! The unwelcome thought intruded. Francesca had been alone for the past eight months – well, until gigolo journo arrived on the scene, he amended. She’d gone and got herself a job and made a new life for herself, and here he was clinging like a limpet to a woman he no longer felt the same about. He was pathetic, he admitted as he flicked through the Sunday Business Post. He couldn’t concentrate. He stood up and went over to the french door and stared out of the window. The weather had turned bad again and rain battered against the windowpanes.
He’d want to make his move soon, he decided. The house was on the market. Offers would be coming in. Better to nip it all in the bud before things went too far. He’d call Francesca from work first thing in the morning and arrange a visit. What the outcome would be was anyone’s guess; all he could do was hope. He stared out at the rain hopping off the balcony wishing he didn’t have to hurt Nikki.
Nikki studied Mark surreptitiously as he stood with his back to her staring out of the balcony doors. The photo hadn’t gone down well, she thought moodily. He was probably afraid his precious Francesca would see it and be offended. She’d been delighted to have it taken. Everyone who saw it would see that they truly were a couple. Mark had met many of his friends and acquaintances at the races and introduced her to them as his partner. It had all happened the way she wanted it to but it didn’t make her feel any better.
He hadn’t enjoyed the races, not that anyone who didn’t know him very well would have guessed it. He’d put on a very good front. But he was on autopilot, being charming to her friends, greeting his own, chatting, laughing, just as if he were enjoying himself. He did it all the time at work. She’d seen him work a room full of strangers superbly well and very few people actually realized that they weren’t seeing the real Mark at all. Mark was an extremely deep, reserved man, she’d seen it straight away when she’d first met him. His reserve had challenged her. She’d been determined to get behind the façade. She wasn’t having much luck at the moment. He might have fooled everyone else in Galway but not her. She knew him better than anyone, she assured herself. They might as well have gone to the moon for all the good the day at the races had done them. She was still back at square one and where to go from here was anybody’s guess.
Christmas! she told herself for the umpteenth time. Christmas is all I’ll give it. But even to her own ears, the threat was beginning to sound extremely hollow. She picked up one of the Sunday supplements and flicked through it, but she couldn’t concentrate either.
‘Coffee?’ she asked with pretended cheerfulness. Mark was so deep in thought he never heard her. Disheartened beyond belief, Nikki wandered into the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee. She might as well be living on her own than living with him for all the company he was at the moment, she mused sadly. And for the thousandth time she asked herself where it had all gone wrong.
* * *
Francesca had taken Trixie to the Bull Island for a walk. Several
viewers were calling that afternoon and she didn’t want to be in the house. They’d be gone by three-thirty, the estate agent assured her. The rain lashed down on the big golf umbrella she was holding, but she didn’t mind. Sometimes she enjoyed walking in the rain. The sea surged and ebbed, roaring up against the shore. She could feel the taste of salt from the spray.
So Ralph had phoned to apologize. Big deal, she thought sourly. He could get lost. She had enough complications in her life without getting involved with a separated drunkard. She wasn’t that desperate for a man. In fact, after seeing Mark’s mug in the papers this morning with his arm proprietorially around that woman, Francesca decided that she was entirely better off without the species.
She walked briskly enjoying Trixie’s antics. She was such a lovable little dog, she thought fondly. Buying an apartment would be out of the question, or even one of those outrageously priced egg boxes they called town houses. She’d had a look at a few of them and not been impressed. The mews had been lovely but the courtyard had been very small. Poor old Trixie would have been like a prisoner in it. Maybe it was as well that it had fallen through on her. Next weekend she would start serious house-hunting, she promised herself. She wondered if any of today’s viewers would put in an offer, or if they were just coming to look out of curiosity. She knew there were people who spent weekends looking at houses for sale who had no intention whatsoever of buying.
She glanced at her watch. Three-twenty. She could start making tracks for home soon. The fire was lit in the lounge; she’d have a nice soak in the bath and then go downstairs and read the rest of the papers in front of the fire. She’d order an Indian or Chinese for dinner; she didn’t feel like cooking.
The house was silent and empty when she got home. The estate agent had been as good as his word. She bathed and groomed Trixie and then poured herself a beer and filled her bath. The hot scented water infused heat into her body. It had been cold on the Bull Island. She lay in the bath reading a magazine and sipping her beer and felt completely relaxed. One of the nice things about living on her own was the freedom to do exactly as she pleased. Her bath refreshed her and after she’d dried her hair, she pulled on a tracksuit, settled down in front of the fire and immersed herself in the papers. The doorbell rang around five. If it was a potential buyer they could make an appointment for a viewing with the estate agent, she thought firmly. She wasn’t inviting strangers into her house. She opened the door ready to politely tell the caller to go.
‘Good evening, Francesca. I hope I’m not intruding. I wish to speak to you on a private matter,’ her father-in-law said officiously as he stepped past her into the house.
‘Hello, Gerald, how are you?’ Francesca said half-heartedly as she closed the door behind him. He was the last thing she needed.
‘Oh, well now, Francesca, I’m sure you’re only asking out of politeness. You certainly made no effort to keep in touch once your marriage broke up,’ Gerald accused bluntly, his little beady eyes cold and unfriendly.
‘What can I do for you, Gerald?’ Francesca said coolly, determined not to let him rile her.
‘I’ve come here to tell you that you’re making a big mistake putting this house up for sale. One you’ll rue at the end of the day. That son of mine came to me asking if I could store his possessions in my spare bedroom and while I don’t mind doing it for him, I feel strongly that someone should talk sense to the pair of you. I know Mark doesn’t want to sell. It’s all your doing. You’re a fool if you sell this damn fine house,’ Gerald blustered.
‘Thank you for your input, Gerald, but basically it’s none of your business. Your son left me for another woman and I had to pick up the pieces of my life and get on with things. And that’s exactly what I did and will continue to do without any interference from you. Thank you for calling. Goodbye now.’ She opened the door pointedly.
‘Wait a minute, miss.’ Gerald was affronted. ‘You have a Wedgwood china set here belonging to my dear departed wife. If you’re intent on selling up I want to have it back. I don’t want Mark giving it to that other woman and I don’t want you giving it to anyone either.’
‘Mrs Kirwan gave us that china as a wedding gift, Gerald. You’d better see what Mark has to say about the matter. If he’s agreeable I’ll be perfectly happy to return it to you. Rest assured,’ she said coldly. What a horrible little man he was. Thank God she was well rid of him. She opened the door even wider for him to leave.
‘Well! Well, upon my word! The very least you could do is offer me a cup of tea,’ Gerald huffed.
‘Sorry! I’m busy. Good evening, Gerald. I’ll get Mark to call you about the china,’ Francesca said dismissively. Her father-in-law marched down the steps with bad grace but Francesca didn’t wait for any parting shot, she closed the door firmly behind him.
‘Bloody old rip,’ she muttered. The nerve of him, calling on her unannounced looking for his china back and a cup of tea into the bargain! In spite of herself she had to laugh at his cheek. She didn’t miss having him around constantly, that was for sure.
‘You did what?’ Mark asked incredulously.
‘I went around and gave your wife some damn good advice and told her she was a damn fool to put that house up for sale. She was bloody rude to me,’ Gerald snorted. ‘Never offered me a cup of tea, a sherry or nothing. Extremely inhospitable. And I was always very good to her—’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. You had no business doing such a thing. She’ll think I was behind it. For God’s sake, Dad, what did you want to go interfering for?’
‘I wasn’t interfering, Mark. I was giving the woman some fatherly advice. But she’s pig-headed and stubborn. And what’s more I told her I wanted the Wedgwood china your mother gave you back. That’s an heirloom. I’m not letting it out of this family,’ Gerald declared.
‘My God!’ muttered Mark. ‘What are you going to do with it? Bury it in the coffin with you? I’m going. I need to phone Francesca and explain that this had nothing to do with me. Goodbye.’ He slammed down the phone in a temper. His father had gone too far. Francesca was probably like a demon. Just when they’d got back on speaking terms, too. Trust his father to interfere.
He flicked through his diary and found her work number. She answered the phone almost immediately.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ he said warily.
‘Oh! Hello, Mark.’ Was she frosty or just being extremely polite? He couldn’t tell. He wondered if she had seen the picture of him and Nikki at the Galway races.
‘Ah … um … I believe my father called over to see you last night,’ he said delicately. ‘I’m really terribly sorry, Francesca. I had no idea that he was going to pull a stunt like that.’
To his immense relief he heard his wife laugh. ‘That’s Gerald for you. What do you want to do with the Wedgwood?’
‘I want you to have it,’ Mark said decisively.
‘No, Mark. Let your father have it. There’s no point in upsetting him at this stage of his life,’ Francesca replied.
‘Well, if you’re sure?’
‘I am. The less clutter I have the better, when I get my own place.’
‘Look, how about if I come over some evening and we sort out our bits and pieces,’ he suggested. She was still clearly intent on moving. He had to persuade her to stay. It was best to play along though, for the time being.
‘OK,’ she agreed.
‘What night suits you?’ Mark asked. ‘What time?’
‘Wednesday or Thursday. Around seven?’
‘Wednesday,’ he said. ‘I’m lucky this week, I’ve no business trips.’
‘Fine,’ Francesca said lightly. ‘See you then.’
She was so self-possessed it was disturbing. She seemed to have her mind very firmly made up, he thought almost in panic.
‘Ah … would you like to have dinner or anything?’ he invited.
‘No, Mark. I’ll have something at lunchtime.’
‘Oh, OK then,’ he said, disappointed. ‘
See you on Wednesday.’
Chapter Fifty-one
‘I’LL BE LATE home from work tonight, so we’ll take our own cars,’ Mark said offhandedly as he tied a knot in his tie and ran a brush through his hair.
‘Oh! Where are you off to?’ Nikki asked as she applied her eye shadow with practised ease.
‘Ah … just a golf-club meeting.’ Mark flicked through his briefcase to make sure he had everything he needed for his day’s work. ‘Bye, hon.’ He leaned down and gave her a peck on the cheek. And then he was gone.
Nikki put down her mascara and rested her chin on her hands. He’d been like a cat on a hot tin roof last night and this morning he’d spent at least ten minutes selecting the tie and shirt he was going to wear. He’d had his hair cut the previous day too, although it had been less than three weeks since he’d last visited the barber’s.
Something wasn’t right. That was the first time in all the months she’d known him that he’d ever gone to a golf-club meeting that she knew of. He was lying to her. Some instinct told her and she couldn’t ignore it.
It niggled at her all day. What was he doing tonight that he didn’t want her to know about? Who was he seeing? She began to get paranoid. Maybe he’d met someone else. Maybe he’d started an affair. That could be the reason for his moody behaviour these past few weeks. But who was it? Surely she’d know if it were someone at work. He was always pretty chatty to Sandra Daly in Treasury. And she was always pretty chatty to him. Nikki frowned.
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