‘Well … we’re back together again, aren’t we?’ He looked perplexed.
‘No, Mark, we’re not!’ Francesca said emphatically, sitting up.
‘But, Francesca, we just made love. It was so good. We should be together.’ Mark felt a niggle of unease.
‘Mark, we just had sex.’ Francesca slid out of bed and wrapped a robe around her.
‘What!’ Mark shot up in bed, aghast. ‘You can’t mean that.’
‘Mean what? That we had sex? Grow up now, Mark. A passionate tumble in bed does not mean that all the past can be swept behind us and we go on to live happily ever after.’
‘Why not? It’s what I want!’ he said truculently.
‘It’s always about what you want, Mark. Well, I’m sorry, but it’s not what I want.’ Francesca ran a comb through her hair and turned to face her husband. ‘I was tempted,’ she continued. ‘But only for a second or two. You see, I like my life now, Mark. I’m still very fond of you—’
‘
Fond!
’ Mark spat the word. ‘Fond? What the hell does that mean? That’s the most wishy-washy word I ever heard.
Fond
. I don’t want
fond
, I want you to love me the way you used to,’ he said indignantly.
She looked at him sitting up in bed, his hair boyishly tousled, pouting with indignation, and had to suppress the urge to laugh. Her husband could be such a child sometimes. Did he really think it was all that easy? Did he think a bottle of expensive wine, handmade chocolates and a ten-minute roll in the hay was all it took? Was he truly that naïve? She remembered Millie’s words about him wanting her back. They didn’t seem so cynical now, she thought wryly. Millie had seen it all.
‘Listen to yourself, Mark. It’s all about what you
want.
“
I
want to come back.
I
want you to love me the way you used to—”’
‘I can’t believe you’re like this after what we just did, Francesca. Didn’t it mean anything?’ he demanded.
‘Sure, Mark. It was good and I enjoyed it for what it was,’ she explained patiently. ‘But it doesn’t change our situation—’
‘Well, I think you’re wrong. If you wanted to we could work it out,’ he said sullenly.
‘I care about you, Mark. You’re the father of my sons and we had some very happy times but it’s all different now. Everything’s changed.
I’ve
changed.’
‘You can say that again.’ Her husband scowled. ‘Is it because of that Ralph guy?’
‘No, Mark, it isn’t, it’s got nothing to do with him. It’s about me. Now, do you want to have a shower before you go? It might be an idea,’ she said briskly. ‘Call a taxi. You can’t drive after the amount we drank. You can pick the car up tomorrow.’
‘So you’re throwing me out?’ he said sulkily.
‘Yes, love, I’ve a long day ahead of me tomorrow,’ Francesca said cheerfully. ‘You use the bathroom and I’ll use the en suite.’ Mark’s face was a study as she walked into the en suite. He couldn’t believe his ears.
Tough, she thought viciously. He’d never take her for granted again. His attitude was almost insulting. She stood under the hot spray and washed herself from head to toe. She felt invigorated. She’d been honest when she’d told him she was tempted to take him back but it had only lasted a minute or two and it was partly as a result of the wine she’d drunk. She did care for him, but in the eight months they’d been
apart,
she’d looked on their relationship with a fresh perspective and found it sadly wanting. It would always be about him. That was the way he was and he wasn’t going to change at this stage of his life. That was his problem. She’d changed and that was his problem too. She grinned under the spray. She’d have to have breakfast, dinner and tea with Millie with all the news she had to tell her: Ralph’s uncouth behaviour that had ended the relationship before it had started; and Mark’s mistake in taking her for a doormat that he could wipe his size tens on.
She slathered body lotion onto her limbs, glad that the scent of it had removed all trace of Mark’s musky smell. The sex had been good, but not anything spectacular. It had all happened too quickly, she could do as well herself, she mused as she massaged the lotion into her thighs. And it had proved to her that his fidelity to Nikki was nothing to be counted on. That had given her an enormous sense of satisfaction. She wished the superior bitch who’d stood in her house and lectured her had been here to see her precious Mark cast their relationship to the winds. If this, and the disaster with Ralph, had taught her anything, it was that she didn’t need a man in her life. She was perfectly capable of existing happily enough without one. Francesca paused. ‘How liberating,’ she murmured. ‘How very very liberating.’
She heard Mark showering as she walked downstairs. She put the kettle on; she was dying for a cup of tea. He joined her five minutes later. She was ironing a blouse for work.
‘The taxi should be here soon,’ he said awkwardly. He wouldn’t look at her.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she said easily. ‘I made a pot.’
‘No thanks.’
‘I’ll let you know what’s going on about the sale. I suppose there’s no need for you to take your stuff until there’s a sale agreed. No point in cluttering up Gerald’s spare room until you have to.’ She ironed the sleeves expertly, ignoring the waves of resentment that were emanating from him. ‘We’ve decided on everything except the two paintings. Which one would you like?’ She felt she could afford to be magnanimous.
‘I’ll take the
Herbaceous Border
,’ he said ungraciously.
‘Fine,’ Francesca said airily. The doorbell chimed. She felt relief flood her. ‘I won’t see you to the door as I’m in my dressing gown. I’ll be in touch and thanks for a lovely evening, Mark.’ Her heart softened at the sight of his woe.
‘Are you sure that you don’t want to change your mind?’ he asked forcefully.
‘No, Mark, I don’t,’ she said firmly.
‘On your head be it then,’ he reproached her and walked out of the house.
‘No, Mark, not on mine, on yours,’ she said determinedly, hanging her blouse on a hanger. ‘Release, relax, GONE!’
Mark sat in the taxi as it sped along the Dublin Road. He was in absolute shock. He’d thought it was all going so well. When she’d returned his kisses and made no objection to making love –
sorry
, ‘having sex’, he corrected himself bitterly – he’d felt the most
enormous
sense of relief. He’d felt that the nightmare was over. But it was just beginning, he thought with dread. Francesca had blown him out. His house was going down the tubes. Deep down he’d always thought that Francesca would forgive him and take him back. And be glad to take him back. He’d really underestimated her. She’d been laughing at him back there in the bedroom. How dare she say she was ‘fond’ of him. He’d never felt so insulted in his life.
A dull throbbing at his temples reminded him of how much he’d drunk. How was he going to explain about the car to Nikki? Then he remembered she was off to London at the crack of dawn. He wouldn’t have to. She’d hardly notice that it wasn’t in the parking bay at that hour of the morning. Nikki loved him, he thought dolefully, but that didn’t matter any more. He’d spend the rest of his life regretting the loss of his home and the loss of Francesca. His male colleagues envied him, he knew that. He saw the way they looked at Nikki lasciviously. He’d gloried in that once. Him and his stupid ego. If only they knew.
The taxi accelerated into the deepening night, on the road he had driven for so many years of his life. The road that led to his home. Now he was going in the opposite direction, unwillingly, fearfully. The lights of the city glimmered ahead of them. Mark sat looking out at familiar landmarks, his heart like lead.
Nikki lay in the bath reviewing her options. Was he going to come home to her tonight? And if he did what would she say to him? Would she straight out accuse him of being a lying bastard? If she did that he’d want to know what she was talking about.
Would
she confess to spying on him? It was so pathetic she knew he’d lose all respect for her.
And hadn’t she lost all respect for him? she argued. He’d come crashing down off his pedestal.
She couldn’t tell him she’d been spying. She could tell him that she was unhappy and wanted to end the relationship. That would be the proper thing to do. The option that would give
her
back her self-respect. The alternative was to say nothing and suffer in silence until she absolutely couldn’t take any more. To her consternation, she heard his key in the lock. She wasn’t expecting him home
this
early. It was only nine-thirty. What on earth
was
going on over in Howth?
She lay still in the bath, her hands clenched by her side.
‘Nikki? Nikki?’ he called.
‘I’m in the bath,’ she called back. He poked his head around the door.
‘Hi.’
‘You’re home early?’ Her voice sounded admirably normal.
‘The meeting was cancelled,’ he told her. He looked ghastly. Grey and tired-looking.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, concerned in spite of her anger.
‘I’ve a migraine, Nikki. I’m going to sleep in the spare bed if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Give us a kiss then.’
He bent his head to kiss her and she inhaled the smell of his freshly washed hair. He’d very recently showered: she could smell the soap he’d used. A dead giveaway, she thought, sick to her stomach. ‘See
you
when I get back from London,’ she said as she raised her face for his Judas kiss.
He kissed her cheek. ‘Have a good trip, Nikki,’ he said.
No I won’t
, she wanted to shout.
It will be the worst trip of my life, thanks to you!
But she stayed silent. She heard him moving around the spare bedroom, heard the bed creak and she shivered in the lukewarm water. She stood up and stepped out of the bath and wrapped a large fluffy bath sheet around her but she couldn’t get warm no matter how hard she tried. Her throat felt sore. She needed a sore throat like a hole in the head, she thought dispiritedly as she dried herself before slipping into bed. It seemed huge and empty. She missed the comfort of Mark’s body. She missed his arms around her. She hated him for what he was doing to her and she hated herself for putting up with it. Tears rolled down her cheeks and a sob rose to her throat. She buried her face in the pillow to muffle the sound and cried her eyes out.
‘We could pop around and have a look at it now if you like. It’s vacant. The old lady who owned it died in a nursing home. The executors have put it up for sale,’ the assistant in the estate agent’s suggested helpfully. ‘It’s not far.’
‘OK,’ Francesca agreed.
‘It needs work. New windows. New heating, re-decorating, but that’s reflected in the price,’ he explained as he picked up the house keys and opened the door for her. She sat beside him in his car and tried to keep her excitement under control.
Please
let me like it
, she prayed. After last night, she was more certain than ever that she was taking the right step. She wanted to get on with it.
The young man hadn’t been exaggerating when he said that the untidy little cottage needed work. It had a stale, musty, uncared-for air and the wallpaper, curtains and carpets were tatty and dirty. The kitchen was dark and old-fashioned, far removed from her own airy modern fitted kitchen. The parlour with ancient sofas and antimacassars was of another era, as was the flock-papered dining room with its antique sideboard. The bathroom left much to be desired but the bedrooms were good sized. Bigger than the ones in the mews. She was daunted until she went out and stood in the back garden. A wilderness now, it had once been beautiful, she imagined, looking at roses growing wild along the creeper-lined walls and sweet pea and lavender wafting waves of perfume under her nose.
She could put in a dormer bedroom with en suite and break down the interior walls between the dining room and lounge to give more space. She could put down wooden floors, gut the kitchen and have a fitted one installed. She could put in french windows to lead out to a patio at the back, she thought excitedly. It could be beautiful.
She turned to the estate agent who was hovering hopefully in the background. ‘It needs a lot of work but I like it. It has great possibilities. I want to buy it.’ It could take £30,000 on top of the asking price, at least, to set the cottage to rights but a quick tot on her calculator assured her that she’d still have a very respectable lump sum
behind
her once she got her share of the house proceeds.
‘That’s great, Mrs Kirwan. You’re sure?’ he said.
‘I’m certain. I’ve never been so certain of anything,’ Francesca said happily. She had taken the first step on a great new adventure and she felt great.
‘I CAN’T BELIEVE
it.’ Millie wandered through the cottage. It was the end of August, she was back from her holidays and she’d called around to Francesca’s to catch up on all the news. The minute she’d heard about the cottage she’d wanted to go and see it. ‘Cripes, Francesca, I go away for a measly four weeks and when I come back you’ve packed in enough dramas to last any normal person a lifetime – and now this. Look at the state of it!’
‘I know.’ Francesca grimaced. ‘But I’ve had a builder look at the place and as soon as the sale is finalized he’s going to make a start. I’ll rent somewhere until I’m ready to move in.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Millie protested. ‘You’ll move in with us.’
‘No, Millie. I’ll have so much baggage, I’m better off renting,’ Francesca argued.
‘Look, we have a big garage, we won’t park the car in it, you can pile your stuff in there and you can have the spare room and that’s the end of it.’
‘Millie, you haven’t even spoken to Aidan about it.’
‘As if I’d have to,’ scoffed Millie. ‘My little darling would be the first to suggest it, and you know it.’
‘I know he’s a pet. But I think it’s an awful imposition,’ Francesca said doubtfully.
‘Oh, it is,’ agreed Millie, straight-faced. ‘Just think, you’ll be in my debt for ever. You’ll know not the day nor the hour when I decide to call in my marker.’