‘Is Sandra Daly in Treasury involved with anyone?’ she asked Elaine when her secretary handed her some internal post. Elaine knew everyone’s business. She was the world’s greatest gossip.
Elaine’s eyes widened at this uncharacteristic enquiry. Nikki pretended not to notice as she flicked through the mail.
‘I don’t know. I could find out,’ her secretary replied helpfully.
‘Oh, thanks,’ Nikki murmured. ‘A guy I know asked me to find out,’ she fibbed.
‘Really?’ Elaine was thrilled with this bit of info. ‘Who? Does he fancy her?’
‘You don’t know him,’ Nikki said curtly, mentally kicking herself. Now it would be all over the office that a friend of hers was interested in Sandra. And if it got to Sandra’s ears she could very well want to know who was asking about her. That would be extremely awkward. Nikki looked up coldly at Elaine. ‘That’s all, Elaine, thank you,’ she said politely.
Snooty bitch, find out for yourself, Elaine fumed as she walked into her own office. What a curious thing to ask though. As long as she’d worked with Nikki Langan, her boss had never asked her anything that didn’t involve the job in hand. She wasn’t into office gossip in the slightest. She’d caused enough of it though with her liaison with Mark Kirwan, Elaine thought smugly as she sat at her computer and began to type a memo for London.
Nikki sat staring into space. She was in turmoil. She had to go to London the following morning and she wasn’t at all prepared. It was so difficult to concentrate when all this was going on. She’d never had trouble focusing on her work before. This was disastrous. She picked up the file that had lain untouched on her desk. It was important she was up to speed on all the information it contained.
‘Concentrate!’ she muttered. ‘Concentrate!’
‘Ken, I need to be home before the rush hour. Would you mind if I left around four-thirty?’ Francesca asked her boss.
‘Four-thirty is the rush,’ Ken said sagely. ‘Leave at four, things are slackening off anyway. August is always quiet enough. Go at three if you want, even.’
‘Thanks, you’re a pet. Maybe half-three.’ Francesca smiled at him. She wanted to be showered and changed and totally in control and not rushing around like a blue-arsed fly when Mark came. He’d sounded a tad harassed on Monday. He’d clearly been mortified by his father’s visit. He wasn’t putting it on. She would have liked to have seen the look on his face when he found out about it. Gerald was such an interfering old busy-body. No wonder his daughter would have nothing to do with him. What her sister-in-law’s relationship with Mark was now, Francesca had no idea. Nor did she really care. Letting go of Gerald and his attendant baggage had been one of the pluses of her marriage break-up.
The day flew. She was glad she knew Mark was coming. It was so much better than having him arrive unannounced. It was strange to be in a dither because her husband was coming to visit, she reflected as she drove home along the Dublin Road. It would be good to sort out who was having what. Fortunately their reading and music tastes were completely different so there’d be no rows about books and CDs.
There were a couple of paintings that she was especially fond of, particularly the Herbaceous Border by Angie Grimes. Mark liked it too. She’d like to keep it if he was agreeable, and also the Catherine MacLiam silk painting, Omani Tribesmen. She’d like to keep some of the sparkling crystal pieces they’d collected over the years. Thinking in those terms made it all seem very final, but in the long run these things had to be sorted, she assured herself as doubts began to set in.
Thanks to the mega clean-out she’d had, knowing that her house was going to be open to the public, the house was ship-shape. Her cleaner had been in that morning and the furniture shone and mirrors gleamed. All Francesca had to do was shower and change and decide what to wear.
‘This is ridiculous,’ she murmured as she stood flicking through the clothes in her wardrobe. She didn’t want Mark to think that she was dressing up especially for him. Why on earth would she want to give him that impression? The sunny weather had returned after the wet, windy weather of the weekend; she’d slip into a sundress and sit out in the garden and give the impression of being oh so cool, she decided.
She showered, dried her hair and slipped the mint-green floral dress over her head. She’d bought it on holiday in Portugal. Its loose, easy lines flowed over her figure in a most flattering style. The spaghetti straps and low neckline showed off her tan. It was different to the more formal attire that she usually wore, but she was a different woman now, much more relaxed, and she was dressing to please herself. She’d just made herself a cup of tea when her mobile rang. She half expected it to be Mark cancelling. She was surprised at her feelings of disappointment. Fishing the phone out of her bag, she noted it was an unfamiliar number.
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Kirwan, Stephen Boyle, we spoke about a mews in Monkstown that you were interested in a while back. A three-bedroom cottage in the same area has come on the market. Now, it needs some renovation but I think you might like it. I could send you out the details if you like.’
‘Don’t bother posting them, I can call in tomorrow and collect them. And thanks very much for phoning me,’ Francesca said warmly.
‘You’re welcome, Mrs Kirwan. As I say I think it might suit your requirements and there’s a very pretty garden at the back which is completely private.’
‘Excellent,’ Francesca said. ‘See you tomorrow.’
How interesting to get Stephen Boyle’s phone call just then. Perhaps because she was letting go of her old house, the door was opening for the new one to come in. She had the strangest feeling about the cottage, even though she hadn’t seen it. Maybe this cottage was meant for her.
Mark put down the bottle of L’Air du Temps reluctantly. It was one of Francesca’s favourite perfumes but he wasn’t sure how she’d react if he bought it for her. Perfume was an intimate gift. They were no longer exactly what you’d call intimate. He wanted to bring her a present but he couldn’t quite decide what. He’d bought a spray of blue irises and a bottle of Puligny Montrachet but he wanted some other little gift. Inspiration struck. She loved Leonidas handmade chocolates. He headed for the Royal Hibernian Way and spent five minutes choosing a selection of the rich, creamy chocolates and pralines. It was so ironic, he mused. He was on his lunch break buying gifts to woo his wife with, when once he’d spent lunchtimes buying gifts for Nikki. Life was very strange. It was almost as if it had come full circle.
He was as nervous as a schoolboy as he turned left into the driveway of the house. The sight of the ‘For Sale’ sign was like a physical blow to the solar plexus. This couldn’t happen, he told himself as he looked at the big redbrick detached house with the ivy climbing up to the eaves and the sun glinting off the long Victorian windows. How could Francesca want to leave this place willingly? he asked himself as he studied the shrub-lined garden, hidden from the road with high evergreen hedges. She’d had them trimmed. They looked well. The whole place looked impressive, he reflected as he went to ring the doorbell. They’d have a buyer before long if she persisted with the idea of selling. He straightened his tie and cleared his throat. He could hear Trixie barking excitedly. He missed the little mutt, he thought fondly.
Francesca opened the door and his heart leaped. She looked lovely, he thought, shocked. She was wearing a filmy sundress and she was barefoot. He’d thought that she would have been all dressed up with the war paint on. She had a great colour. Her skin took the sun easily and she looked golden and healthy. A far cry from the dumpy, pale, pasty-faced woman of six months ago.
‘Hi, Francesca, how are you? Just a little something,’ he said awkwardly, handing her the floral gift carrier bag and the spray of irises.
‘Mark, what did you do that for? There was no need,’ Francesca chided as she stepped back to let him in.
‘I wanted to,’ he said, closing the door behind him. The scent of fragrant pot-pourri and polish wafted under his nose
. ‘The house smells nice,’ he said, for something to say. He felt remarkably ill at ease.
‘Oh, well, they do say you should have the smell of bread baking or home cooking when you’re showing a house,’ Francesca said cheerfully as she led the way into the kitchen. ‘But polish and pot-pourri will have to do because I don’t have time to bake bread any more.’
‘Are you busy these days?’ he asked politely, following her into the bright, airy kitchen.
‘Ah, it’s not so bad this week. Things quieten down in August. Oh Mark! Leonidas!’ she exclaimed with pleasure. ‘They’re my favourite.’
‘I know.’ He smiled at her. She smiled back.
‘Would you like to sit out on the deck for a little while? It’s a lovely evening,’ she suggested impulsively. ‘I’ve a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge. It’s not as posh as the Montrachet though.’
‘I’d love that, Francesca. I miss the garden.’
‘It’s a bit past its best, unfortunately. Everything always looks a bit worn out by the time August comes,’ Francesca said as she uncorked the Chardonnay and poured the chilled wine into two glasses. ‘Are you hungry? I could rustle up an omelette or something.’ Francesca for some reason found herself reverting back to housewife mode.
‘No, I’m fine, thanks. This is grand.’ They strolled out to the deck. Francesca sat down while Mark wandered around the garden looking at favourite shrubs and flowers. Birdsong filled the air. It was peaceful. He knew he wanted to come home.
‘Won’t you miss this?’ he asked hesitantly, rejoining Francesca on the deck.
‘I suppose I will. But it’s all too big for me to look after. And there’re too many memories. I need a fresh start. Why don’t you buy me out, Mark, if you have such strong feelings about the place?’ Her grey eyes were wide and questioning.
‘I wouldn’t pay that amount of money for it, Francesca. It would be financial stupidity and I don’t suppose you’d accept any less than what it’s going for, if I was to continue paying you an allowance?’ he suggested hopefully. Even if he could come back home and she moved out, he could woo her back, he thought excitedly.
Francesca shook her head. ‘I don’t want to be tied to your financial apron strings. I want to be free, Mark. I want to be my own boss.’
‘It’s not that bad, surely? I haven’t made you feel under an obligation, have I?’ he asked, hurt.
‘Not really, no, Mark. You’re a kind man. But it’s not the way I want it to be. Not any more. A house has come up, a little cottage, and I’m going to look at it and if I like it, I’m buying it. So come on, let’s go and sort out what’s to be sorted,’ she said briskly, standing up and holding out her hand to pull him up.
He took her hand. ‘If that’s what you want, Francesca,’ he said, disappointed, as he followed her back into the house. ‘So where do we start?’ he asked as they stood in the kitchen.
‘Here, I suppose,’ Francesca said uncertainly. ‘There’s all the kitchenware and crystal. The Le Creuset pots, the—’
‘For God’s sake, Francesca, what on earth would I be doing with the pots and pans or any of this stuff?’ Mark asked tetchily.
‘Well, when you get a place of your own you’ll need to equip it,’ Francesca pointed out.
‘No, you take what you want.’
‘Come into the lounge and let’s talk about the paintings and all the other bits and pieces we’ve managed to accumulate,’ Francesca said easily.
‘Let’s have another glass of wine,’ Mark suggested.
‘OK, and maybe a couple of chocolates to go with it,’ Francesca invited.
‘I will if you will.’ Mark laughed. He’d play along with dividing up their possessions but he was determined they were going to get back together again. This was his last chance and he wasn’t going to blow it!
Chapter Fifty-two
NIKKI DRUMMED HER fingers on the steering wheel. The traffic was chaotic, Ballsbridge was chock-a-block. She was on her way home from work and all she could think about was Mark and wonder if he was lying to her. She inched her way past the AIB headquarters and on impulse turned left and headed towards Sandymount. She was crazy, she knew, but she had to find out if Mark was lying to her. The only trouble was, Mark hadn’t said what time the meeting was at. She could phone him and ask him if he was eating in town and suggest joining him. Damn! She should have thought of it while they were both at work. The traffic in Sandymount was as bad and she concentrated on negotiating the right turn for the East Link, before tapping in his number.
‘The person you are calling may be out of range or have their phone switched off. Please try later,’ was the infuriating response. Nikki’s mouth drew down as anger ignited. Why had he switched his phone off? Why did he not want to be contactable? It was only six in the evening. His bloody meeting couldn’t have started yet. She was almost screaming in frustration as the traffic crawled along Sean Moore Road towards the toll bridge. If any of her friends or colleagues knew what she was up to they’d say she’d really lost it, she acknowledged grimly as she gave the finger to a Ray-banned yuppie who tried to cut her up on the outside lane at the roundabout. ‘Don’t mess with me, buster,’ she growled, not giving an inch.
She flung her coins into the basket and waited impatiently for the barriers to go up. A huge cruise liner was berthed up close to the bridge on the North Wall. The sun slanted onto the balconied staterooms. She could hear music coming from the decks. How she wished she was on it, instead of seedily following her lying lover. Tears smarted in her eyes. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. She had never before endured such misery. And all because of love. She drove past the ship and rounded the Point. A long line of traffic at a standstill ahead of her, right up to the Port entrance, made her heart sink. This was the craziest thing she had ever done but she wouldn’t rest until she found out one way or another if Mark had been lying to her.
‘I know you like them. I like them too,’ groaned Francesca as they studied the paintings they both wanted. It was some time later. The Chardonnay was demolished and they’d started on the Montrachet. She was feeling a bit giddy. There was an air of unreality about the evening that made her feel reckless. ‘I love the colouring and simplicity of Catherine MacLiam’s painting. Look at the faces, hardly defined, yet you get such an impression of men who are at one with their environment. And look at the texture of the door behind them. She’s a genius,’ she observed, studying the painting that hung at the top of the stairs.
‘I know. We should have bought more of hers,’ Mark said ruefully. ‘Let’s have a look at the Angie Grimes one again. Remember we bought it to cheer ourselves up when Jonathan went away?’
‘Yeah,’ she said sadly. ‘We were in bits.’
‘Well, at least he’s happy and I’m glad Owen’s out there with him. It’s good for them to be together.’ He walked into the bedroom again and she followed him and stood beside him to examine the exquisitely detailed painting.
‘I love the perspective and the texture and colour. Look at those daisies and the lupins. The work that went into them. I love that border,’ Mark said admiringly.
‘I know,’ agreed Francesca as she looked at the painting afresh. ‘It’s the Herbaceous Border in the Botanic Gardens. Let’s put the names in a hat and if you get that one I suppose I could always go to the Bots and take a photograph of it and frame it.’ She giggled.
‘Francesca, are you pissed?’ Mark turned to look at her with a twinkle in his eye.
‘I think I’m heading that way.’ She smiled at him. One strap had fallen off her shoulder and she eased it back up. His eyes followed the movement of her fingers. He reached out and covered her hand with his thumb resting in the soft hollow of her breasts.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he murmured. They stared at each other, the air crackling with tension.
He took her face between his hands and slowly inclined his head until his mouth was inches from hers. ‘I want to kiss you,’ he said.
>
Francesca felt a surge of triumph. Yes! she thought. I can have him if I want him. He’s going to betray her like he betrayed me.
She felt Mark’s mouth on hers. Lightly at first, tender, moist, loving. His tongue explored the silky sweetness of her mouth, gently, skilfully, until she returned his kiss, opening to him until he kissed her hungrily and with passion, his hands sliding the straps of her dress off her shoulders, cupping her full hard breasts, his thumbs caressing her hardened nipples until she groaned with pleasure.
She drew away breathlessly. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he muttered hoarsely, his eyes glittering into hers, his fingers gripping her arms.
‘What about Nikki?’ She had to say it. She had to hear him deny the bitch to her.
‘It’s you I want,’ Mark said, pulling her back to him, thrusting against her, his hands moulding her to his body. They fell onto the bed, kissing wildly, passionately, pulling the clothes off each other.
‘Oh Francesca, Francesca,’ he whispered her name, frantic for her. His hands parted her thighs and he eased himself into her and felt her quiver beneath him, her breath coming in a long whispery sigh. Thank God, he thought with relief. She wants me back. I’m home.
* * *
Nikki sat for an hour and a half parked outside the clubhouse, her heart leaping in her chest every time a car drove in. There was no sign of Mark’s BMW when she got there and she almost cried to think that the man she’d loved and respected had told her a downright lie. Finally, at her wits’ end, she got out of the car and approached a golfer heading for the entrance.
‘Excuse me, what time is the meeting at?’ she asked politely.
‘I don’t think there’s a meeting tonight. We had one last week, as a matter of fact. But I can double-check for you if you like,’ the ruddy-faced man offered good naturedly.
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