Francesca's Party (27 page)

A tear trickled down Nikki’s cheek and she brushed it hastily aside. How Francesca would relish this, the cold bitch, she thought angrily. Knowing that the ‘other woman’ was so unhappy would be such a triumph.

Nikki took a deep breath. This was so unlike her and she was sick of it. She wouldn’t give in yet. She’d stick it out until Christmas and if things hadn’t improved, she’d start the New Year unattached. Although he didn’t know it, Mark was on notice. A woman could only put up with so much, Nikki decided firmly as she raised her face to the sun and felt herself relax knowing that she had taken some control back over her future.

‘JUST EXPLAIN WHO
you are if they ask you,’ Ken instructed as he drove past the security barrier in RTE with a wave to the guard, who clearly recognized him. It was Monday morning, the first day of her new job, and Ken was dropping material into RTE and giving her a guided tour at the same time.

‘That’s the TV Centre. The Radio Centre is further up. I’ll show you around each of them but generally once you introduce yourself at the desk and give your contact name, someone will come and collect you and your guest and take care of you from then on. They’re very good out here and in TV3 so all you have to worry about is soothing fraught guests’ nerves,’ Ken assured her as he pointed out parking areas which seemed to Francesca to be pretty full wherever she looked.

‘There’s a guest car park up there by the Radio Centre but just park on the double yellows if you’re not going to be too long.’

Francesca stared around the huge complex as Ken parked the car. The grounds were beautifully kept.
She
hadn’t realized it covered such a large area. She’d never been in RTE before and she was curious as well as a little intimidated. Ken seemed so assured as he greeted people by name and knew exactly where he was going. It was exciting, she had to admit as she walked up the steps to the Radio Centre and saw Gareth O’Callaghan, the popular 2FM presenter, hurry past.

Ken took her around the huge open-plan office in the Radio Centre and then brought her to the small coffee dock where she tried not to stare as she saw newsreaders, presenters and celebrities sitting having coffee breaks, deep in conversation with producers, researchers and production assistants.

‘This is where you can bring guests before or after a radio interview for a reviving cup of coffee. There’s a small canteen in the TV Centre and of course there’s the main staff canteen. I’ll show you that too,’ Ken said kindly. ‘Don’t be fazed, Francesca. You’ll know it all like the back of your hand in no time. The first time I came here, I was petrified. I thought I’d never get to know the place. But you’ll be fine after a couple of visits.’

‘You see and hear all these TV and radio personalities on screen or behind a mike, it’s strange to see them sitting having coffee just being normal,’ Francesca remarked as Ken guided her to a vacant table.

‘They’re very normal, as you’ll find out for yourself.’ Ken laughed. ‘Tea, coffee?’

‘Coffee please,’ Francesca said. ‘And could I have a scone?’ She’d been too wound up to have any breakfast and she was a little peckish.

Ken grinned. ‘Thank God you’re not one of these awful women who doesn’t eat. They drive me mad. Scones coming up.’

Oh God, I wonder is he telling me that I’m too fat?
Francesca thought guiltily, making a mental note not to eat goodies in front of him. Her mobile phone rang. She saw Mark’s number on the screen. What on earth was he ringing her for? His timing was the pits, she thought irritably. Trust him to pick her first morning in her new job. Well, she wasn’t telling him about it yet. Just in case it didn’t work out.

‘Hello,’ she murmured. Behind her, the clatter of cups against saucers and the hum of chat made it difficult to hear.

‘Hello, it’s me. Where are you? I tried you at home first,’ Mark asked curiously.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Francesca said hastily. ‘Why are you ringing me?’

‘Oh! I, ah … I just wanted to say how well you looked in your photo in the papers on Saturday. I hope you enjoyed Karen’s do. I couldn’t make it myself. Had to go to Geneva suddenly,’ Mark said chummily.

‘Really,’ Francesca said coolly. ‘You missed a good night. Look, I’m kind of busy right now, was there anything else?’

‘Not really, I suppose.’ Mark sounded deflated. ‘We’re going to Kinsale for a few days, if you’re looking for me. I’ll be contactable on the mobile.’

‘Fine. Bye.’ Francesca clicked off. She was furious. Patronizing bastard! How dare he ring her up and tell her that she looked well. As if he cared, she thought bitterly. So they were off to Kinsale, were
they?
How nice for them. He hadn’t even had the decency to ask her if she was going to take a holiday this year. He had the life of Riley, swanning around the country with his fancy woman. Living the life of a bachelor. She felt betrayed yet again. It should have been her going to Kinsale for a few days. No doubt Mark would be taking Nikki to Ballybrit, to the Galway races in August. She and Mark had always spent a week of their holidays there. If she wanted to go to the races this year she’d be going on her own, she thought unhappily.

Fuck him. Why did he have to phone her this morning with his talk of Kinsale? She’d been doing really well, on a high about her new job, and now she was back on a downer again. How long would it take to get over it? Would she ever be able to look at Mark and Nikki’s relationship with detachment? Or would it always be a red-hot needle in her heart? Why couldn’t she be like her husband and get on with things? The break-up didn’t seem to have knocked a feather out of him. But then he had a lover to cushion whatever emotions he felt. She was alone, dealing with it by herself. He had such a nerve, though, with his patronizing guff about how well she’d looked. If he’d been anyway near her she knew she would have clobbered him, she felt so angry.

She saw Ken weaving between the tables carrying a tray and composed her features. She certainly didn’t intend for her private life to interfere with her work, especially on her first day. She pushed Mark and Nikki to the back of her mind and smiled at her employer. ‘This doesn’t seem like work in the slightest.’

‘Believe me, Francesca, there’ll be days when you’ll go home and say to yourself: “Am I mad?”’ Ken said cheerfully, munching on a thickly buttered scone. ‘Enjoy it while you can.’

By the end of the day she was whacked. There was so much to assimilate, and even the commuting was an eye-opener. She stood swaying with the motion of the Dart, packed like a sardine in a crowded, stuffy carriage, envying the lucky ones who had a seat. This was something that would take some getting used to, she mused when a portly man trod on her toe as he shoved his way towards the door. Nevertheless, the day had flown by and she was reasonably pleased with the way she had handled herself. And Ken was nice and, despite his scatty air and laid-back style, extremely professional and good at his job.

She was so tired by the time she got home that she buttered some brown bread, cut a chunk of red cheddar, grabbed a can of Diet Coke and sank onto her sun lounger to catch the dying rays in her bra and pants. It was only as she drifted off to sleep later that night having pressed her clothes for the morning that Mark’s phone call came briefly to mind but she hadn’t the energy to sustain the anger and resentment she’d felt earlier in the day. For the first time in a long while she slept soundly and woke surprised that the night had passed so quickly.

The following morning found her standing at Arrivals in Dublin Airport holding a cardboard sign with her author’s name printed in large letters, hoping that the woman would see it without difficulty. Magda Waldon was one of the most prolific science-fiction
authors
in the world and at fifty-four was still producing a book a year. She was the guest of honour at a science-fiction convention in Dun Laoghaire.

Francesca scanned the crowds pouring out onto the concourse. She’d studied the photograph in the publicity pack and knew that she was looking for a red-haired woman with deep-set eyes and a haughty stare.

‘You there.’ A stout little woman with a halo of flame-dyed hair cascading extravagantly down her shoulders poked Francesca in the ribs. ‘I’m Magda Waldon and I need a drink badly. That bucket we flew in hit every air pocket going.’

Francesca’s heart sank. From the fumes of brandy emanating from her it was obvious the woman had already been drinking. Francesca stared at her charge and tried to match the reality with the publicity photo. What a difference airbrushing makes, she thought drily. Magda looked every minute of her fifty-four years. Red-rimmed eyes stared out through silver bifocals. Bright red cheeks, veined and puffy, were a far cry from the peaches and cream complexion on her obviously retouched photos. The diminutive author wore black patent high heels and clinging black trousers; a low-cut top revealed a wrinkled, tanned cleavage and a scarlet-waisted jacket emphasized Magda’s voluminous curves. Chunky gold jewellery dripped from ears, neck and wrists. She jangled as she walked.
Probably hides the clink of bottles
, Francesca thought uncharitably as she held out her hand.

‘I’m Francesca Kirwan. I’m from Ken Kennedy PR and I’ll be looking after you—’

‘Yes. Yes. Take me to the bar.’ Magda waved away the niceties, clearly not interested in the pleb who’d be looking after her.

‘If you come this way,’ Francesca said politely, leading her towards the bar area. Magda didn’t waste time. She downed two double brandies in quick succession before Francesca said firmly that it was time to leave as she had two interviews lined up at her hotel before lunch.

‘Bugger them,’ Magda snorted derisively.

‘I’m sorry, but they’ve been arranged and we don’t want to let people down,’ Francesca said smoothly. Inside she was quaking. This was her first test. What a disaster it would be if her author arrived pissed and cancelled the interviews. Trust her to get a lush for her first assignment.

‘I need the loo and I’ll be with you then,’ Magda barked, annoyed at being thwarted.

When she disappeared into the Ladies, Francesca made a quick phone call to Ken. ‘Hi, it’s me. She’s pissed,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t worry. Her publishers told me about her. She always rises to the occasion. Just get her to the hotel as quick as you can,’ Ken advised.

‘Why didn’t you warn me?’ Francesca demanded.

‘I didn’t want you to be worrying. I’m sorry she’s not the easiest first task but if you cope with her you’ll cope with anything. Just think of it as a baptism of fire. Be firm with her, her editor said.’

‘I’m resigning as of now,’ Francesca announced.

‘God, Francesca. Don’t do that to me. We agreed a month’s trial. I’ve grown dependent on you already. There’ll be a bonus at the end of the year.’ Ken’s
cheerful
tones had disappeared. He sounded horrified.

‘Just teasing.’ Francesca grinned. ‘So there’s going to be a bonus, is there? It’d better be good,’ she added. Magda tottered out of the Ladies on her impossibly high heels. ‘Have to go,’ she murmured, ‘here she comes.’

‘Are you sure we don’t have time for one more?’ the author demanded.

‘Unfortunately not,’ Francesca said firmly as she hoisted Magda’s bulky overnight bag onto her shoulder and led the way to the exit.

‘So much for Irish hospitality,’ muttered Magda truculently in her wake.

By the end of the day, Francesca knew what Ken was talking about when he’d warned she’d end up asking herself if she was mad to be doing the job. Magda had insisted on changing her hotel room because she didn’t like the view. She drank her way through several double brandies during her interviews. After a lunch of lobster she drew herself to her full height and said morosely, ‘Better get this buggering ordeal over with. Lead the way, Frannie.’ She’d taken to calling Francesca Frannie.

Francesca had watched in amazement as she held her adoring audience spellbound during her reading and question-and-answer session. Afterwards, to Francesca’s immense relief, she had gone to her room for a nap in preparation for the dinner which the convention organizers were hosting in her honour. Francesca slipped off to her own room, had a shower, lay on her bed and tried to relax.

What a day, she thought drowsily. This time last
week
she’d been sitting around at home feeling sorry for herself. She smiled, amused at the difference a week could make in someone’s life. It might be a trying day but so far she hadn’t had time to be bored or sorry for herself. This job was just what she needed right now, she thought gratefully.

At eight-fifteen, Magda appeared in the foyer, ready for action and a hard night’s drinking. She was dressed in a clinging purple jersey dress that revealed every generous bulge and clashed alarmingly with her hair. Not even the cloying scent of Poison could disguise the smell of alcohol which oozed from every pore. As they sat in the taxi on the journey to the restaurant she took a silver flask out of her bag and took a long slug. Francesca discreetly pretended not to notice. Not that Magda gave a hoot anyway. Keeping up appearances was obviously not a priority. She immediately found fault with the restaurant because it had wooden floors and moaned that the noise was giving her a headache.
Not as much of a headache as I’ll give you if you don’t put a sock in it
, Francesca thought balefully as she smiled sympathetically at her and offered her an aspirin which was brusquely waved away.

Halfway through the Irish coffees, Magda’s head slumped onto her chest and she started to snore. On top of her earlier intake, she had downed three aperitifs and a bottle of red wine during dinner, plus another brandy. Francesca and the organizer of the convention, an earnest young man called Des, hauled her out to a taxi and as Francesca got in beside her, Magda opened her eyes for a second. ‘Take me to the bar,’ she slurred, before conking out on her shoulder.

With the help of the night porter, who whooshed Magda onto a luggage cart, Francesca got her charge to her room. Between them they managed to unload the comatose woman onto the bed and turned her on her side. Francesca pulled her shoes off but decided against trying to undress Magda. She covered her with the quilt and slipped out of the room praying fervently that the author wouldn’t puke and choke.