Francesca's Party

by Patricia Scanlan

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Francesca protested. ‘I was a bit tiddly.’

  ‘Not that tiddly, Francesca dearest. If he was swearing undying love to Nikki Langan you’d be spitting fire. But you don’t care now because you know there’s not only cracks but crevices in that relationship. Admit it.’

  Francesca eyed her sister quizzically. ‘What are you, some kind of a psychiatrist or something?’

  ‘Nope. I’m a woman and that’s exactly how I’d be feeling. I bet you enjoyed turfing him out having had your wicked way with him. No wonder he was in shock. Women don’t do that kind of thing, especially sweet-natured wives who’ve been dumped and have the chance to get their husband back!’ Millie laughed.

  ‘Well, he had an awful nerve,’ Francesca burst out. ‘Just what did he think? He still doesn’t get it. He thought right to the last minute that I was playing hard to get and that I would back down. As if.’ She snorted. ‘And I wonder if I hadn’t put the house up for sale would he have been so quick to come back … if ever. That was one of the main reasons I didn’t take him back,’ she confessed. ‘I didn’t know the answer to that question.’

  ‘Well, between him and Ralphie baby, you’ve had a tough time. He was a major disappointment,’ Millie remarked.

  ‘Tell me about it, Millie. I couldn’t believe my ears. I’m well shot of him.’

  ‘And he only phoned the once?’

  ‘No, I got a text message a while back that said, Sorry, please get in touch, but I ignored it. I don’t want to renew our acquaintance, thanks very much. I want a simple life from now on,’ Francesca declared.

  ‘Is that right?’ Her sister grinned, gazing around her. ‘You certainly have a funny way of going about achieving it.’

  ‘Just use your imagination, Millie,’ Francesca urged. ‘I’m telling you this place is going to be beautiful by the time I’m finished. Jim Donnelly is going to do the decorating so I’m in good hands.’

  ‘He’s excellent,’ Millie agreed. ‘He did a great job on my kitchen and bathroom.’

  ‘There, you see, life’s turning into a bed of roses,’ Francesca declared optimistically, deadheading several roses that she already considered to be hers.

  Nikki lay in bed, feeling absolutely ghastly. She was on her second dose of antibiotics but she couldn’t shake the chest infection she’d caught earlier in the month. Mark was being kind in a distracted sort of a way. He’d brought her Lemsips and hot ports and insisted that she stay off work. She’d never been off work sick before and she was fretting about missed meetings and worrying about sneaky hot shots with their eye to the main chance muscling in on her territory.

  Since that horrendous night when she’d caught Mark lying to her, he had immersed himself in work and travelled to three European cities plus New York. He had been too absorbed in his own little world to notice that she was edgy and distant from him. Or perhaps he noticed but didn’t care. They’d been like ships that passed in the night for the past month. She felt as though her life was totally out of control.

  Nikki frowned, remembering how she’d lain at home torturing herself when he’d gone on the New York trip in case ‘the wife’ had gone with him to see her precious sons. On one particularly soul-destroying night, when she’d drunk herself sick, she’d lifted the phone and dialled Francesca’s number. She’d felt a faint sense of relief when the other woman answered and had hung up immediately. At least she wasn’t in New York with Mark. But how often did she see him and what exactly was their relationship now? Nikki wondered anxiously.

  The only time she felt she had Mark back was when they made love. At least he still turned to her in the dark some nights and for those few precious moments immediately after intercourse, when he lay in her arms, resting his head against her cheek, she felt he was hers again and all her fears receded for a little while, until he drew away from her and the barriers came back down.

  He’d told her that the house was in the process of being sold. That was all. A bald statement of fact. She hadn’t enquired further. She didn’t care to. It was that damned house that had caused all the problems in the first place.

  * * *

  Mark picked up the phone and put it down again. He wanted to arrange with Francesca to pick up his belongings. He couldn’t believe the house was almost sold. It made him ill to think about it. The thought of going there one last time was too daunting for words. There was no-one he felt he could ask to come and help him. He had dozens and dozens of acquaintances but very few real friends, he realized with a pang. Nikki was sick and besides he couldn’t bring her out to Howth, it would be highly inappropriate to do so. In desperation he rang his father. ‘Dad, I’m arranging for a bloke to bring a van around to the house to collect my stuff. I wonder, would you come with me?’ he asked uncertainly.

  ‘When?’ his father said brusquely.

  ‘I’ve to sort it out with Francesca.’

  ‘Right. Just don’t do it on Wednesday evening. It’s my bridge night,’ Gerald said gruffly.

  ‘OK, Dad, thanks.’ He put the phone down and felt a little less alone. He picked up some paperwork and tried to concentrate but the words danced up and down in front of his eyes. He picked up the phone again and dialled his wife’s work number. The answering machine came on. It was obvious neither she nor her boss were in the office. He dialled her mobile.

  She answered almost immediately. ‘Hi, Mark. I’m sorry I can’t talk for long, I’m heading into a meeting with a client,’ she informed him. The irony of it struck him forcefully. How many times had he said precisely the same words to her?

  ‘Look, I have a bloke lined up with a van to come and collect my stuff. When suits you?’ he said abruptly, annoyed at being given short shrift and inexplicably further annoyed at her confident, I’m-a-Busy-Woman air. She was getting just like Nikki, he thought with a faint sense of shock.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she said unhelpfully.

  ‘How about Tuesday evening around six?’

  ‘Perfect. Byeee.’ She hung up. He stared at the phone. It wasn’t knocking a damn feather out of the woman and here he was churned up about it all. He felt he didn’t know her any more. She certainly wasn’t the woman he’d married.

  He was on the phone just after lunch on the Tuesday afternoon when his secretary came into his office with a brown envelope. ‘These were left at reception for you, by Mrs Kirwan,’ she said politely.

  Mark didn’t even wait until she’d left the room, he ripped open the envelope and stared at a set of keys that fell out onto the desk.

  Sorry, Mark, I forgot I won’t be at home this evening, I’m meeting Janet Dalton for a drink. I borrowed the spare set from the estate agent, just leave them on the hall table. Good luck. Enjoy the Herbaceous Border!!

  All the best, Francesca

  That was rich. That was really rich, leaving him to move his stuff on his own, he fumed. He’d hoped that the sight of him removing his belongings might finally make her see sense. She was such a softie he’d wanted to have her in tears. Then he’d have had one last go at persuading her to change her mind. He considered postponing his planned removal operation. But was there any point? he thought wearily. She’d put a deposit on a ramshackle cottage, she wasn’t going to back out now. ‘OK, Francesca, if that’s the way you want it, fine,’ he muttered crankily and flung the keys in the drawer.

  Four hours later a white Hiace van crunched up the drive where he and his father were waiting. They’d made a start at bringing his stuff out to the hall. They worked in silence, his father puffing a little as he carried books and golfing trophies downstairs. Mark felt uncharacteristically grateful to him. They’d loaded everything into the van, except the painting that hung in the bedroom. Mark ran upstairs to lift it off the wall. There was a mark left behind it on the wallpaper when he took it down. The sight of it cut him to the quick. He sat on the bed, remembering the last night he’d spent in it with Francesca. And all the other good nights that had slipped by so swiftly he ha
dn’t even noticed. Grief swamped him. A strangled sob rose to his throat. He tried to stop crying but he couldn’t as a gut-wrenching, unbearable sadness enveloped him.

  A self-conscious cough at the door startled him. His father stood looking at him in embarrassment. ‘Are you all right, son?’ he asked gruffly.

  Mark shook his head. He couldn’t speak. ‘I’ll tell the van driver to go on, we’ll follow with the painting in the car,’ Gerald said authoritatively and hurried down the stairs.

  Mark sat alone crying. He heard his father coming upstairs again and made a huge effort to compose himself. ‘Sorry about that, Dad,’ he managed.

  ‘That’s all right, son. I’m sure this is very difficult for you, especially as it’s all of your own making. We’d better get going. We don’t want that van driver hanging around outside my house too long. He might take off with your things,’ Gerald said anxiously.

  ‘OK, Dad.’ Mark knew his father was doing his best even if he wasn’t being very tactful. He followed him downstairs carrying the painting. It was the last time he’d walk down the stairs. It was the last time he’d close the front door behind him. He laid the spare keys on the table. Grief overwhelmed him again.

  ‘Come on, son, get it over and done with.’ Gerald almost shoved him out of the door and he was the one who closed it behind him. ‘I’ll drive.’ He held out his hands for the car keys.

  Silently, Mark handed them over. He got in beside his father. ‘Don’t look back,’ advised Gerald as he crashed the gears and lurched down the drive and shot out onto the road.

  For a wild moment Mark hoped they’d crash into oblivion but as Gerald struggled with the car, he said unsteadily, ‘Pull over, Dad. I’m OK now. I’ll drive.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Gerald couldn’t hide his relief.

  ‘I am. And, Dad’ – he turned to his father – ‘thanks for being there.’

  ‘Hrumph.’ Gerald went puce. He didn’t like emotion, but some response was called for. ‘I’m glad I was of some help, son, and I’m sorry it all came to this,’ he managed, patting Mark awkwardly on the arm.

  * * *

  ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ Janet asked when they got home to Francesca’s.

  ‘Would you mind?’ Francesca said shakily.

  ‘Not at all. Give me the key,’ Janet said kindly. She opened the door. Francesca saw the spare keys on the hall table and promptly burst into tears.

  ‘Why don’t you come and spend the night with me?’ Janet suggested.

  ‘No, no, I’ll be OK. It’s just I know how much Mark loved this house, and now I feel like a real heel,’ she wept.

  ‘Now stop that nonsense at once,’ Janet declared. ‘It was his doing in the first place that all this has come about. So don’t you dare take that guilt on board.’

  ‘I know, I know, I just wish it was all over and done with now. This part is going to be the pits.’

  ‘Yes, it is, and that’s why you’re coming to spend the night with me and tomorrow evening we’re going to start packing your stuff so you can be ready to go the minute the contract is signed, sealed and delivered,’ Janet ordered. ‘Get your clothes for tomorrow and let’s go.’

  Francesca was too upset to argue. Secretly she was relieved not to have to spend the night alone in the house. When she saw the bare wall in her bedroom where the Herbaceous Border had hung she broke down in tears again and sat sobbing her heart out in Janet’s arms. If her friend hadn’t been with her she was half sure she would have phoned Mark and told him that she’d changed her mind.

  She cried many times over the following days as, with Janet and Millie’s help, she packed away her and the boys’ belongings.

  ‘Am I making a big mistake?’ she asked Janet one evening as they sipped coffee after a gruelling marathon pack.

  ‘No, dear. You’re not. And it’s perfectly normal to go through what you’re going through. You’ve lived here a long time and reared your family here. Of course you’re going to be upset but it’s much better to cry it out of your system than to hold on to it and make yourself ill. Cry all you want, dearie, but keep on packing,’ Janet said wisely.

  A week later, her solicitor rang to say a closing date had been agreed on. ‘You don’t have to be there if you don’t want to,’ she said. ‘I can take care of it for you.’ For a moment Francesca was tempted to agree but she had instigated the sale, it was only fair she was there to see it through, she decided reluctantly. The following day the removal men came to transfer her furniture and belongings to Millie’s garage. It was the loneliest moment of her life. She’d asked Jonathan to defer his visit until she was moving into the cottage and he’d agreed but, as she stood surrounded by the clutter of moving, she was almost sorry he wasn’t there with her. She walked around the half-empty house alone. Mark had had his beloved leather sofas and mahogany dining table put into storage. He’d decided to keep them at the last minute. Francesca wanted nothing. She planned to buy new furniture for the cottage.

  In the event both she and Mark attended the closing. It went smoothly. They signed the necessary papers and cheques and handed over the keys and then she was given the keys to the cottage and it was all over.

  ‘So,’ said Mark as they walked away from the solicitor’s office. ‘Do I say congratulations?’

  ‘No, Mark, I don’t think so,’ she said quietly. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he muttered. ‘It’s a sad day for us.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said forlornly. ‘It is.’

  ‘I’m sorry about everything,’ he said slowly as they came to Baggot Street bridge.

  ‘Me too.’ Her lip trembled.

  ‘Oh, don’t cry,’ he said hastily.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. He held her tight and she wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘It’s for the best, you’ll see.’

  No, he wanted to say, it’s not, but he kept silent. It was too late for that now.

  Francesca drew away from him. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Mark.’

  ‘Goodbye, Francesca,’ he said sadly and turned and walked away.

  She didn’t look back.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  December

  ‘WELL, FRANNIE, IT was a long month’s trial, and you’re still with me.’ Ken smiled at her as they sipped champagne at a Christmas bash in La Stampa.

  Francesca laughed. ‘I was so not what you were looking for. You oozed resentment. Poor Monica.’

  ‘I owe her big time.’

  ‘You do,’ Francesca agreed straight-faced. ‘We’ve had fun though, haven’t we?’

  ‘We’ve done well too,’ Ken said. ‘You know, I was thinking maybe sometime in the future we could employ someone else to look after the office and you could take on some accounts of your own. We could go into partnership. What do you think?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Francesca was astonished.

  ‘Very. Kennedy & Kirwan PR. Sounds good to me. We can expand much more, you know that!’ Ken said earnestly.

  ‘Kenneth, you’re on,’ Francesca declared.

  ‘Right. We’ll discuss the nitty-gritties in the new year. Right now I’m going over to brown-nose Danny Logan. He could put a lot of business our way if he were so inclined. I hear he’s going into magazines. Taking on Hello!, VIP and the like.’

  ‘Go for it! I’m going to have a chat with Linda Williams. She knows everything there is to know about PR. I really like her style.’

  ‘Me too,’ Ken grinned. ‘Pity she’s happily married.’

  Francesca laughed as they parted and she was weaving her way through the glittering throng when a familiar voice said in her ear, ‘Hello, Francesca.’ Her stomach lurched.

  ‘Ralph!’ she spluttered. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I was invited,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Please can I talk to you for a moment?’

  It was a shock to see him so unexpectedly. And a nuisance. She’d actually forgotten he existed. He look
ed tired. There was more grey at his temples than she remembered.

  ‘OK, Ralph,’ she said quietly, ‘but I really have to go soon, there’s someone I need to speak to.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ he assured her, steering her to a quiet corner. He cleared his throat and thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Francesca, did I show up that night I was to meet you or did I stand you up? I’m afraid I have no memory of it,’ he confessed.

  ‘You showed up,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘I was drunk then. I’m sorry you saw me like that. Did I say anything to upset you?’ he asked delicately.

  ‘It wasn’t very pleasant, Ralph, to be honest,’ Francesca said uncomfortably. She certainly wasn’t going to repeat all he’d said to her. ‘But look, it’s all water under the bridge now, let’s wish each other well and forget it,’ she suggested.

  ‘I don’t suppose I could prevail on you to put this behind us and to have dinner with me again?’ He looked at her hopefully.

  ‘No, Ralph, I think it’s best all round if we leave things as they are,’ Francesca said firmly. ‘And now I really must go. Please don’t think I’m rude but I have to speak to a few people. You know yourself. These things are work at the end of the day.’

  ‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘You look very, very well, you know. Did you sell the house?’

  ‘I did. I bought a cottage in Monkstown near the seafront. So I’m really close to the office, just a couple of streets away.’

  ‘Is that the road that has a few cottages on it?’ Ralph enquired. ‘That’s a smashing little place to live.’

  ‘It is, yeah,’ she agreed evenly, wishing he would move away. She had no desire to stay talking to him. She felt ill-at-ease, remembering his drunken suggestions. He seemed to be sober enough now, thankfully. He was drinking beer.

  Ralph smiled at her. ‘Well, I won’t delay you, Francesca. The very best of luck with your new home. And once again, my apologies.’