‘You need to water your plants,’ Francesca informed him as she walked into his office. He was like an older version of Owen, she decided, not at all intimidating.
‘Oh God, yes.’ He rubbed his jaw ruefully. ‘Sandra always looked after that kind of thing. Er … sorry about the mess, I’m up to my eyes and I haven’t had time to file.’ Why was he apologizing to her and where did she get off telling him to water his plants? He scowled. She was elegant, but much younger than he’d expected, he observed, surprised. She had nice twinkly eyes.
Francesca stared around the untidy office that had two desks piled high with folders and paper cuttings, brochures and press releases.
Yes indeed, Owen to a T
, she thought happily. This was so different to Allen & Co. This felt good. ‘How about if you make me a cup of coffee, and I start trying to clear this lot away and familiarize myself with your … ah … filing system so that when I come in on Monday we’ll have tidy desks,’ she suggested briskly.
‘You mean you’re going to take the job and you don’t even know the salary or what you have to do?’ Ken was incredulous. This wasn’t the way he’d planned it at all.
‘Well, you can interview me as we tidy up and tell me what’s involved. You obviously need a bit of sorting out at the moment. Monica said you needed someone to start immediately,’ Francesca said matter-of-factly.
‘Oh, I do,’ Ken said, flustered, as he ran his hands through his unruly mop of black hair. ‘I’ve had a few temps since Sandra left but it’s very unsatisfactory. That’s why the place is in such a mess,’ he found himself explaining. ‘I’ve got the publicity contract for the City of Light opera festival so I’m up to my eyes next week and I need someone to man the office and collect a science-fiction author from the airport, bring her to her hotel for a couple of interviews and then bring her to the SF convention out in Dun Laoghaire. After that to bring her for a meal, back to her hotel and out to the airport the following day. That’s the kind of work I need someone for. It’s probably not what you’re looking for though,’ he backtracked.
Francesca studied the gangly young man in front of her with the nice hazel eyes and the faintly harassed air and knew immediately that Monica had coerced him into seeing her. She felt sorry for him. She couldn’t help it.
‘Look, Ken, did Monica pressurize you into seeing me?’ she asked.
Ken blushed. ‘Er … something like that,’ he admitted sheepishly.
‘And I’m not really what you’re looking for?’ she said kindly.
‘Well, it’s just … ummm—’
‘It’s OK, Ken, really.’ Francesca laughed. ‘We’ll just tell Monica we didn’t think it would work out.’
‘Mmm … well, if you’d like to give it a try for a couple of weeks I suppose there’d be no harm in that,’ Ken heard himself say. ‘I could do with a bit of back-up.’
Francesca looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Are you sure now?’
‘Why not?’ he said impetuously. This woman seemed like a bit of a sport. At least she’d copped that Monica had foisted her on him and hadn’t taken umbrage. He’d liked the way she’d dealt with it.
‘What’s this science-fiction author’s name? I should read one of her books so I can talk to her about it,’ Francesca suggested.
‘Good thinking,’ Ken exclaimed, rummaging through a mess of papers on his desk. ‘Here you go, I have one right here.’ He handed her a slim paperback and a sheaf of notes. ‘Her press releases and publicity material. Umm, Francesca, the salary would be in the region of fifteen K. That’s around two hundred and eighty-five a week, and of course all expenses will be covered.’
‘Fine. Will I have to travel much outside of Dublin? If it works out, of course.’
‘It depends on the client’s requirements. Generally publicity tours usually take in Cork, Belfast, and perhaps Galway. Arts and music festivals crop up every so often. I also have the CMD music chain store as a client and I do all their publicity nationwide. But I’ll
look
after that. I need you to do the one-off type of thing plus mail out press releases, keep on top of press cuttings, mail out invites to launches and so on. All the addresses are on computer.’
‘You’ll have to show me how to use it, I’m not very computer literate,’ Francesca confessed. ‘In fact I haven’t a clue.’
‘It’s a doddle really. You’ll pick it up in no time,’ Ken assured her confidently.
‘Did Monica tell you I’m booked to go abroad for a week?’
‘Yeah. Thank God it’s not next week, I’ll be OK the week you’re gone, there isn’t much pencilled in, but the week you come back is a bit hectic. I have a launch in CMD Grafton Street and an art exhibition in Chief O’Neill’s, a celebrity chef doing a sushi night to promote a new hotel in Temple Bar and an MBS author for TV3 and Gerry Ryan.’
‘What’s an MBS author?’ Francesca was unfamiliar with the term.
‘Oh, it’s Mind Body Spirit. It’s a genre that’s really taken off in the last few years. This one, Katherine Kronskey, is a spiritual healer and works on a cellular level with great success, seemingly. She sees past lives and all that stuff. It sounds a bit far out to me but her books always make the bestsellers and that’s all I care about,’ Ken admitted with a broad grin.
Francesca laughed. ‘How very pragmatic of you.’
‘Well, Francesca, in this business it’s all bestseller lists and column inches, unfortunately, and if past lives and all that stuff does it, it’s OK by me. Think you can cope?’
‘I think I’d cope better if I had a tidy desk,’
she
chivvied. ‘And I’m still waiting for my coffee.’
‘It’s on the way,’ Ken declared, disappearing into a small hallway. Francesca followed. ‘Loo’s to the right. Kitchenette to the left. Er … I’ll tidy it up,’ he promised, having the grace to look ashamed as she observed the overflowing waste bin, the milk cartons and the remains of burnt toast on a plate. ‘There’s a microwave and two-ring cooker and fridge, as you can see, if you want to stay in for lunch when you’re in the office. But there’s lots of nice little places around to go to for lunch if you prefer.’
‘Great. You tidy up the kitchen and I’ll start on the office,’ she said briskly. Better to start as she meant to go on, and that was definitely not being a kitchen skivvy, she decided, remembering Edward Allen and his morning coffee.
‘OK, boss,’ Ken said wryly, sweeping the empty cartons into a refuse sack.
‘I’ll water your plants for you and I’ll wash up when I use the kitchen and that’s the extent of my domestic duties. I have enough of them at home.’
‘Fair enough. Honestly, I’m not usually such a slob, it’s just this week was manic,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Please don’t say anything to Monica—’
‘Ken, if I’m working for you what goes on between these four walls is between you and me. We’ll give it a month and see how it goes. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’ He held out his hand and she took and shook it. ‘Welcome to Ken Kennedy Publicity.’
‘It’s a spoon of coffee, milk and no sugar,’ Francesca informed her new boss as she walked back into the office and took off her jacket.
Ken could hear her moving about the office as he
boiled
the kettle. He was a bit bemused, to say the least. It had been the strangest interview that he’d ever conducted, that was for sure. In fact he felt in a funny sort of way that Francesca had interviewed
him
and found him satisfactory. So much for being the boss! The next month was certainly going to be interesting. If she started bossing him around she’d be out on her ear pronto, he decided as he stirred in a spoon of coffee and rooted in the press for a few biscuits to serve his new employee.
NIKKI SLIPPED OUT
of the apartment and took the lift to the foyer. Mark was still asleep, and she didn’t want to disturb him. He’d flown in from Geneva the previous evening and had had to go straight out to attend a colleague’s retirement function that had gone on until the early hours. He was whacked. He didn’t normally sleep on and she’d twisted and turned beside him before deciding to get up and go out.
Normally they went out for brunch on a Saturday, but given that he’d been tired and cranky Nikki thought it might be better to have something at home on the balcony. Some torte or quiche perhaps, with pissaladière and a crisp salad, washed down with a nice Sancerre. Maybe that might put him in a good humour, she thought glumly. Although he had no business being in a mood. It was
she
that was entitled to feel miffed. The trip to Paris had been a disaster because he’d read her the riot act again for calling on his precious Francesca and he’d been as moody as hell all weekend.
Then he’d informed her that he had to go to Geneva unexpectedly and he wouldn’t be able to make that Marshall woman’s gala. That had been the icing on the cake. She’d flown home from Paris alone. Privately Nikki felt the Geneva trip had suited Mark down to the ground. It had given him a handy excuse for staying away from Karen Marshall’s bash. She was still fuming over it. She’d bought a beautiful but very expensive Amanda Wakeley black halter neck the last time she was in London, especially for the occasion, and it galled her that it was still lying in her wardrobe, unworn. She’d so badly wanted to walk into that function on Mark’s arm and eyeball that slobby wife of his. It would have been a perfect opportunity to show Francesca that the marriage was over once and for all. After their encounter, she was beginning to feel that Francesca’s claws were in Mark for good and he’d never get his freedom.
Nikki sighed as she started the ignition and drove towards the imposing black wrought-iron gates that opened smoothly to allow her to drive onto Mount Merrion Avenue. Her apartment had been an excellent buy, she reflected. Bought just before the boom in property prices, it had trebled in value in the past three years. She’d been thinking about investing in another apartment, one she could rent out, but the last Bacon report had made her have second thoughts. The punitive stamp duty and other taxes plus the exorbitant property prices did not make for ideal investment. And the way things were going it looked as though being a landlord wasn’t worth the hassle.
Perhaps she’d buy in Spain. She’d seen beautiful
beach-front
apartments in Marbella advertised by Hamilton Osborne King for half the price of property here and the same estate agents had recently advertised attractive town houses in Nerja that included their own swimming pool. It would be nice to have a place abroad that would be relatively self-financing through rental income in the high seasons. Then she could take off to the sun for a week or so every spring and autumn to recharge her batteries.
Her dream of buying a home with Mark didn’t look as though it was going to materialize, so it was best to get on with things, she decided. Her bonuses were bound to be pretty good next year, she could well afford to consider investing abroad. Besides, it would do Mark all the good in the world to know that she was a completely independent woman. He was beginning to take her too much for granted and she didn’t like it. He wasn’t dancing attendance on her like he had at the beginning of their relationship. That delightful first bloom, when it was all new and exciting, had worn off and she missed it, she thought sadly. He’d always been so glad to see her, been so hungry for her. Now sometimes she felt that he wanted to get sex over and done with. It was a chore for him. Maybe she should be realistic and face the fact that they seemed to be going nowhere fast. Maybe she should end it. Hastily she brushed the thought aside. She wouldn’t think about ending it yet. She’d give it another little while and see how things panned out.
Disheartened beyond measure she got into lane and drove into Blackrock.
Mark yawned and stretched and reached over to cuddle Nikki. His eyes opened as he felt cold sheets. She wasn’t there. He called her name. No answer. He lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. A little breeze blew through the open window and he could see from the bed that it was a fine sunny day. His stomach growled. He was hungry. He thought longingly of Francesca’s sizzling fry-ups on a Saturday morning that the whole family had enjoyed. Nobody could cook fried bread like Francesca. Nikki rarely cooked a fry. It stank out the apartment and she hated the lingering smell of bacon. He thought of Owen and Jonathan in America, no doubt gorging on waffles and maple syrup on Saturday mornings. Owen had gone off without as much as a goodbye. That had hurt. Owen was obviously never going to forgive him.
Mark sighed. He knew there was a lot of disapproval among his older colleagues too. Francesca had been very popular. But fuck it, he wasn’t going to live his life just to suit a few dry old codgers who behind all their disapproval were probably suffused with envy. If they had a chance to get involved with a woman like Nikki they’d jump at it.
Mark rubbed his eyes. It was hard on Nikki too. He was inclined to forget that. He hadn’t been very nice to her in Paris, he conceded. If he wasn’t careful she’d kick him out. She’d been highly annoyed at missing Karen Marshall’s party. Personally he’d been relieved. He didn’t want to be at a function that both Francesca and Nikki were attending. He far preferred to keep a low profile. Besides, he didn’t want
to
rub Francesca’s nose in it, he thought ruefully. Nikki was a woman in her prime, his wife had started on the slippery slope to middle age and from what he’d seen the last time he’d been with her, she was making no effort to halt it. There was no need to let herself go. It just took discipline and self-pride. He felt far better since he’d gone back to the gym and got fit again. And he should thank Nikki for not cooking frys for him and for keeping him on the culinary straight and narrow.
He admired her for the way she took care of herself. Her body was in tip-top shape because she worked out and ate well. Her eyes were bright, her skin clear, not like Francesca’s dark circles and lacklustre skin tone. Nikki was a very disciplined woman and it showed. Francesca could learn lessons from her, he thought crossly.
He wondered if she’d gone to the gala. She hadn’t been out and about much since their split. If she had gone, she’d probably taken Millie as her guest, he conjectured as he reached over to the phone and dialled Nikki’s mobile. ‘Where are you, honey? I miss you,’ he said huskily.