‘OK, OK, calm down. We’ll go to the bloody thing together,’ Mark said agitatedly.
‘Good!’ Nikki retorted and swept out of the office as he looked at her retreating back in astonishment.
It was the first time he had ever seen Nikki exhibit temper. She was always very together. The last thing he needed was her on his back. Being stuck in the middle of two women’s sensibilities was a nightmare.
He’d
only been trying to do the right thing. Bloody Karen Marshall and her damn charity do, he scowled. He should have kept his mouth shut, sent his regrets and Nikki would never have known a thing about it.
Nikki marched down the carpeted corridor to take the lift to her own office two floors below. She was raging. Mark was still putting Francesca before her and it galled her. Her temper had erupted out of her, surprising her as much as Mark. But months of resentment at being second best had been too much to contain and the dam had burst. She couldn’t believe that she’d suggested splitting. What if he’d agreed? Nikki gave a little shudder as she stepped into the empty lift and pressed the button for her floor. It gave her some satisfaction that he had backed down so quickly, but it was an issue that shouldn’t have arisen at this stage in their relationship. She was going to have to do something about the huge thorn in her side that was Francesca Kirwan. Maybe this gala event would be just the place to have a quiet word, Nikki reflected as she marched into her office and dumped her elegant briefcase on her rosewood desk.
Enough was enough. It was time to sort Madame Francesca out for good!
‘Hello?’ Francesca sounded chirpy enough, Mark thought with relief as he heard her voice down the phone.
‘Hi, Francesca, it’s me,’ he said evenly.
‘Yes?’
Mark’s heart sank at the instant frostiness. Wasn’t she ever going to give him a break? He kept his tone deliberately up. ‘I was wondering if you’re going to Karen Marshall’s charity thing this year? I just wanted you to know that I’ll be going with Nikki.’
‘Mark, there really is no need for you to phone me to tell me of your and Nikki’s social diary. It’s of supreme indifference to me, I can assure you.’
Mark could hear the contempt in his wife’s voice. He felt his anger rise. He was trying to do his best, for heaven’s sake. ‘Look, I just wanted, out of politeness, to let you know that we were going, that’s all, Francesca. I didn’t want you to be embarrassed.’
‘Mark, rest assured I won’t be the slightest bit embarrassed meeting you and your new woman in public, if that’s what you think. Why should
I
be embarrassed?’ she added pointedly. ‘Believe me, what you do with your life and with whom are no concern of mine any more. Is there anything else?’
‘No, not really.’ Mark sighed. ‘How’s Owen? When’s he heading off?’
‘He’s fine. He’s going soon.’ Francesca kept the information to a bare minimum. He wondered why he bothered. He tried once more.
‘Are you going to go to Karen’s bash?’
‘That’s none of your business. Goodbye,’ she said curtly and hung up.
Mark stared at the phone and shook his head. Francesca had not shown a scintilla of forgiveness since they’d parted. If anything she was even more condemning. Well, fuck her, Nikki was right. They were a couple now and if Francesca didn’t like it she could lump it. Mark opened the Bergmann file on his
desk.
He needed to keep on top of things. One of his colleagues had been sidelined recently to make way for a new up-and-coming hot shot; Mark was determined that wasn’t going to happen to him. He buzzed the intercom for his secretary. Rhona was youthful and fresh, in her early twenties. She made him feel ancient.
Her eager, Dart-accented voice answered immediately. ‘Yaas, Mark?’ He disliked the unmistakable southside cadence that was all over the airwaves these days.
‘Get me a coffee, Rhona, please, and you didn’t have the
FT
on my desk this morning. That’s twice this week it hasn’t been here, please don’t let it happen again,’ he said crossly.
‘They were all gone,’ Rhona said plaintively.
‘Well, Rhona, just make sure that you get in in time to get my copy in future,’ he retorted and clicked off.
How he missed Jenny. She’d always had all the papers for him and fresh coffee percolating and she’d known his humours as well as Francesca had. She’d known his job inside out, and always had her finger on the pulse. Poor Rhona was still only finding her feet, although she was quick, he had to give her that. Maybe he’d been a bit crusty. It wasn’t fair to take his bad humour over Nikki and Francesca out on her.
‘Sorry I barked,’ he apologized when she arrived with his coffee five minutes later. ‘Bit of a headache,’ he lied.
‘That’s OK. I can get you some Panadol if you want.’ Her helpfulness made him feel like a heel.
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ he said hastily. ‘Just get me Anton
Chagall
in the Paris office, will you? And book my flight to Brussels for next Tuesday.’ He smiled at her and was relieved when she smiled back. He didn’t want his new secretary thinking he was difficult to work for.
‘Yaas, Mark, I’ll take care of that straight away,’ Rhona said smoothly.
Why couldn’t she say ‘yes’ instead of ‘yaas’. It drove him nuts, he thought irritably as he watched her leave. Women were the bane of his life, he decided as he reluctantly directed his gaze at the sheaf of figures in front of him.
His mobile phone rang and his heart sank as he saw his father’s number come up. Gerald was being such a pain lately. He’d had a bad dose of indigestion and been convinced he was having a heart attack or angina. Mark had had to go over to him in the middle of the night and take him into Casualty. After a wait of six hours he’d been told to lose weight and sent home with a note for his own doctor.
It was only since he’d split with Francesca that Mark had realized just how demanding his father was. His wife had shouldered a lot of that burden and he’d taken it for granted, he acknowledged with a moment of remorse. The phone went into divert. No doubt there’d be a testy message for him. He’d listen to it later. It had been a bad morning so far; Gerald would only make him feel worse.
Francesca swallowed hard and her stomach clenched into knots as she hung up the phone. She was red-faced with fury. She shook her head at her reflection in the mirror over the hall table. ‘What a cheek,’ she
raged.
‘Arrogant, smug bastard!’ Just where did Mark Kirwan get off, ringing her to tell her he was taking his fancy piece to Karen Marshall’s annual bash? Why did he still think that she’d care? Did he think that she was sitting at home pining after him? He’d always had a big ego and this was pure proof of it.
A thought struck her. She hadn’t received an invitation to the party. Karen had sent an invitation to Mark and Nikki and left her out. Tears sprang to her eyes as darts of hurt assaulted her. Karen Marshall had been one of the few to phone on hearing of the break-up, and offer kind words and solace. Obviously the donation from EuroBank Irl. was more important than friendship. Francesca felt betrayed. She’d known Karen for five years and had held coffee mornings for her various charities. She and Mark had moved in the same social scene as Karen and her husband Dennis, a client at EuroBank. They’d gone to the theatre and opera occasionally as couples. They weren’t bosom buddies, Francesca acknowledged bitterly, but she’d expected more from Karen.
She went into the kitchen, switched on the kettle and stood looking out of the window. The tree peony was in full bloom in the flower bed nearest the house. Mark had bought it for Valentine’s Day two years ago and she’d been thrilled. The rich reddish-pink blossoms were enormous, opening up to the sun. She felt like going out and pulling every single bloom off and mashing them into the ground. She hated him and every reminder of him.
Just when she’d be getting on some sort of an even keel after the break-up Mark would go and pull a
stunt
like this. He did it all the time. It grieved her to think of him and that woman swanning into Karen’s party, while she’d been deleted from the scene as though she’d never existed. How come he was having such a wonderful life and she was as miserable as hell? Where was the justice in that? She made herself a cup of coffee and buttered several thick slices of Vienna roll and ate them smothered in blackberry jam. An hour later she parked the car at Clontarf Dart station and hurried to get a ticket, afraid a train would thunder into the station before she got upstairs to the platform. She need not have worried, the monitor told her there wasn’t one due for another eight minutes, so she sat on the hard green metal bench and turned her face up to the sun. It was a warm, balmy day. She regretted wearing her black trouser suit. Francesca contemplated taking off the jacket, but the top she was wearing underneath was sleeveless and didn’t cover her ass and she was far too conscious of her weight gain to reveal her unwelcome pounds.
She was meeting Owen for lunch and she wanted to buy some gifts for him to take to Jonathan in America. She frowned, thinking of Mark’s enquiries about Owen. Her son had resisted all her urgings to ignore what was happening with herself and Mark and to make an effort to patch up their relationship.
‘Mam, I just don’t want to have anything to do with him, so just leave it, OK?’ Owen had retorted angrily the last time she’d brought up the subject and the underlying hostility in his voice had dismayed her. If she was furious with Mark, Owen was twice as wrathful.
‘It’s my treat, Mam, let’s go to Little Caesar’s in Temple Bar,’ Owen suggested as he met her off the Dart in Tara Street.
‘Whatever you say.’ Francesca smiled, her heart lifting at the sight of her beloved son. Remembering Karen’s betrayal, she felt at least with Owen she had one staunch ally at her side.
‘God, Mam, you’ll be baked alive in that,’ he remarked as they walked up along the quays. ‘Take your jacket off.’
‘I can’t,’ she murmured.
‘Why not?’ Owen glanced down at her, curbing his long, loping stride to suit hers.
‘I just can’t.’
He looked perplexed.
‘I’m too fat,’ she murmured.
‘Don’t be daft, Mam,’ he said stoutly. ‘Who cares if your ass wobbles a bit? That’s what happens when you get to your age,’ he teased.
‘You want to go headlong into the Liffey, boy?’ Francesca drawled.
‘You and whose army, Ma?’ Owen gave her a friendly poke in the arm.
She was breathless by the time they reached the restaurant. She’d got so unfit it was unbelievable. She was going to have to take herself in hand and do something about it. Maybe she’d join a gym, she thought unenthusiastically as she perused the menu and opted for nice, fattening garlic mushrooms for her starter.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right when I’m gone, Mam?’ Owen said after they’d ordered.
‘Don’t worry about me, Owen. I’m fine. Honest,’
she
assured him. ‘It took me a while to get over the shock of it, but I’m getting by. I’d really freak if I thought you wouldn’t go to America because of me.’
‘I know. I just feel a bit mean about it. I’m afraid you’ll be lonely in the house on your own.’ Owen fiddled with the pepper and salt.
‘I might get a part-time job or do something for a charity a couple of mornings a week,’ Francesca said vaguely. ‘To be honest I quite like pottering about doing my own thing.’
‘Yeah, pottering about is OK for an eighty-year-old, Ma, for God’s sake. You’re only forty,’ he burst out, concern written all over his face.
Francesca couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I’m just taking a bit of time out, Owen. It’s nice to get off the tread-mill for a while. Life with your father was a little frenetic at times. All the social stuff, all the travel, taking care of his clothes and packing for him every time he went abroad. Looking after your granddad – and you know what a chore that was – not to talk about washing your filthy football gear,’ she said in mock rebuke. ‘It’s nice having time to myself. I’ve never had time to get to know myself. That’s what I’m doing now.’
‘Oh! I suppose I hadn’t thought of it like that. I just want you to be happy again, Mam. I know you cry at night. I’ve heard you.’
‘Love, I won’t deny I have rough days. I’m lonely sometimes. I miss what your father and I had. That’s life, I’m afraid, and I just have to get on with it.’
‘You could take in a lodger,’ Owen suggested brightly. ‘There’s a huge shortage of accommodation.’
‘Thanks but no thanks, Owen. I’ve got Trixie for
company.
She’s more than enough.’ Francesca chuckled. ‘Of course, I could always do a Mrs Robinson on it and seduce a younger man.’
‘Who’s Mrs Robinson?’ Owen demanded. ‘Never heard you talking about her.’
‘You idiot. Did you never see the film
The Graduate
with Anne Bancroft and Dustin Hoffman, about an older woman who seduces a younger man?’
‘Gee, Mam, that was in the dark ages, long, long before my time. Anyway, you’re not old enough to be an older woman yet. Can I have one of those garlic mushrooms while you have one of my chicken wings?’ The food had arrived and Owen was eager to tuck in.
‘Help yourself.’ Francesca proffered her plate, wishing that she could tell her son that she was dreading his leaving and that it was his love and support that had got her through the worst days of her life.
She was hot, sweaty and tired when she got home with her shopping later that afternoon. There was a pile of post in the hall but she left it on the table and hurried up to the bedroom to get out of her clothes and have a shower. It was only later, lying on her sun lounger on the deck, catching the evening rays, that she flipped through the bills and opened the slim cream envelope with her name on it.
Mortification shot through her as she read Karen Marshall’s kind handwritten note and invitation to her gala evening. So Karen hadn’t deleted her from the guest list despite Francesca’s unkind thoughts earlier. And she’d written that as Mark had been invited to bring a guest she was more than welcome to bring one too.
Francesca sighed. How she longed to be able to waltz into Karen’s party, a stone lighter, on the arms of a handsome hunk. Now that she was invited to the party she was going to have to get something new to wear. None of her posh frocks fitted her any more.