Francesca's Party (3 page)

Classic signs. She remembered a discussion during one of her book-club sessions when there had been much shock and speculation regarding one of their members whose husband had walked out and gone to live with a younger woman. Collette Davies, an outspoken, gregarious blonde who’d been around the block a couple of times, declared that a man who went out and bought new underpants was a prime suspect. Francesca and the others had laughed heartily. The idea of
any
of their husbands going to buy their own underpants was ridiculous.

Francesca’s lips tightened. Last Easter Mark had
come
home from Brussels with a dozen Calvin Klein briefs saying that he’d got them at a very good price in the duty free. She’d teased him, and called him a pretty boy and insisted he model one. They’d made love spontaneously, which was rare, and it had been good. She remembered wishing that it would be like that more often, rather than the usual Saturday night half-hour, after which Mark would fall instantly asleep, snoring rhythmically, while she lay drowsing beside him feeling vaguely dissatisfied and unfulfilled.

He had been seeing that woman since Easter or before, she deduced. Leading his double life with apparent ease. Coming from her bed to Francesca’s with no visible qualms of guilt. It was incredible. This was a Mark she truly did not know and after all their years together she’d felt that she knew her husband inside out.

She shook her head wearily, gave Trixie a hug and stood up. She was damned if she was going to take his car in for a service. Fuck him! She wasn’t his personal assistant, his wee slavie. She was his wife and that had obviously meant nothing to him when Miss Career Sex Pot had come on the scene.

A nagging, throbbing ache at her temple sent her to the kitchen in search of some codeine. She filled the kettle and switched it on. She could do with a good strong cup of coffee. Her mobile was lying on the kitchen counter and she saw the envelope icon signalling that she had a message. She wondered if Mark had missed his phone yet. Probably not. He was most likely gazing into that bitch’s eyes … or down her cleavage. Phones would be the last thing on his mind.

It could be Owen who’d tried to reach her, or perhaps her only sister and best friend, Millie. Francesca gave a wry smile. Millie would be gob-smacked when she heard about Mark’s carry-on. Millie was mad about Mark. They were always teasing each other. She thought he was the bee’s knees.

Millie was a games teacher in a girls’ secondary school in Clontarf. She had two young daughters and Francesca was crazy about them. She had always longed for a little girl and had tried desperately to get pregnant again after the birth of her two sons but it had never happened and tests had shown that her tubes were blocked with endometriosis. She’d been very lucky to have the two children she had, she’d been told. Endometriosis was a major cause of infertility.

Mark hadn’t been half as upset as she’d been. He was happy with his sons. Two children made a manageable family, he consoled her. They could give them much more attention than if they’d had three or four. But Francesca had nursed her grief for years and would still feel, at times, a moment of longing and disappointment when her period arrived.

Now, though, she was very glad she didn’t have a daughter. Hard as it would be to tell her sons that their father was with another woman, it would be a nightmare to have to tell a young girl that her father was a shit.

Suddenly she longed for Millie’s strength and steadfast presence. She dialled the number on her messaging service but instead of Millie’s effervescent tones Mark’s voice came tetchily down the line.

‘
Francesca, it’s me. I wish you’d bring your phone
with
you and keep it switched on. I’ve left mine in the car, make sure to take it with you before you leave it in for a service. I won’t be able to take calls and I’ll be late getting back to the apartment so I’ll call you later. Bye
.’

Francesca stared at the phone in disbelief. How dare he leave a message like that for her? How dare he rebuke her for not having her phone, he who had left his own phone in the car, and then how
double
dare he lie to her?
Late back to the apartment
. The apartment was in Brussels and he was phoning her on his way to Cork!

‘That’s it, Mark Kirwan. You’ve played me for a fool once too often. By God, that’s the end of it.’

She raced upstairs in a fury and pulled two large suitcases from the top shelf of the walk-in closet. Suits, jumpers, tracksuits, underwear, including the giveaway Calvin Kleins, went higgledy-piggledy into the cases. Shoes, trainers, anything that she could find, were dumped in until the cases were bulging at the seams. She struggled to close the zips, but her anger gave her strength and finally the cases were fastened. She inhaled deeply like a runner who has just finished a gruelling race. Her jaw jutted with a determined set. Her eyes were uncharacteristically hard. Her anger was mounting by the minute.

It was time her husband found out that their marriage was well and truly over. And he was going to find out personally, from her, before this day was out.

THE TRAFFIC HAD
eased as she made her second journey to the airport in less than an hour. A quick phone call to the Oaklands Hotel had elicited the information that yes, Mr Mark Kirwan was booked in but had not yet checked in. The receptionist very obligingly gave her the room number when Francesca said that she’d call later. Another call to Aer Lingus strengthened her resolve when she learned that there was availability on the lunchtime flight to Cork and on the early-evening return flight. She could pay for her tickets by credit card and collect them at the airport. Francesca conducted the transaction in double-quick time. She was anxious to get under way. Now that she had decided on her course of action she was determined to carry it through.

She parked the BMW in the short-stay car park, took note of the bay number and made her way to Departures. It was still sleeting; she shivered as a sharp breeze whipped her coat around her as she
crossed
the ramp from the car park. Her hair blew across her eyes and she brushed it away impatiently. She’d look a right sight by the time she got to Cork, she thought glumly. She hadn’t given any thought as to how she was dressed and what she looked like now. Maybe she should have changed into something more glamorous than the black trousers and lilac chenille jumper that she was wearing under her grey trench coat. Her face darkened. She wouldn’t give Mark the satisfaction of thinking that she had dressed up for their confrontation. She looked very smart anyway, she always did. He’d always expected her to look good and had never queried what she spent on clothes.

It was just that her hair was between cuts and she could have done with an eyebrow and eyelash tint as her last one had faded and she’d meant to book an appointment. She’d nip into the loo if she had time, redo her make-up and use an eyebrow pencil and mascara. Anyway, what did she care what Miss Glamour Puss thought of her? Francesca would never see her again. She was looking forward to seeing the bitch’s face though when she appeared at their hotel room. At least Francesca would have the satisfaction, hollow though it was, of catching them completely off guard.

Mark would be completely thrown. He hated scenes. He always liked to be in control of situations. Well, this was one situation he wouldn’t be in control of, Francesca thought grimly as she queued to pick up her tickets.

A thought struck her. Maybe she was making things easy for him? Maybe she was giving him the
chance
to leave her? He might have wanted to leave and live with that woman but felt duty bound to stay. If she threw him out, it could be playing right into their hands. But what was the alternative? Go back home and pretend that she knew nothing and live full of anger and resentment? Or confront him at home and tell him to give his tart up? She’d still have to live with the knowledge that he’d betrayed her. Things could never be the same between them. There was no way she’d ever have sex with him again. Her anger surged once more. Mark had ruined their marriage. She hated him and she’d scratch his eyes out when she saw him.

She blinked away the tears that came to her eyes. She was next in the queue. She couldn’t go up to the girl at Check-in blubbing. She managed to compose herself and even made polite chit-chat as she hauled the two suitcases onto the conveyor belt and was allocated her seat. She still had twenty-five minutes before boarding. As soon as she got to the gate, she went to the loo to do a repair job on her make-up. Mercifully she was alone. Her hand shook as she took out her mascara wand and attempted to brush it along her lashes. She smeared it and cursed aloud as a black streak appeared at the top of her cheek. She ran some water over a tissue and wiped it off and began again. This time she was more successful and she worked on her eyes and eyebrows until she was satisfied with the result. A defiant extra sweep of blusher to highlight her cheekbones completed her task and, after running a brush through her bobbed chestnut hair, she stood and surveyed her reflection in the mirror.

Two big, grey, troubled eyes stared back at her. A full mouth usually curved upwards in a smile was uncharacteristically down-turned. High cheekbones, her best asset in her opinion, were even more pronounced thanks to the blusher. She looked elegant, sophisticated, younger than her forty years. But not young enough, she thought bitterly. Motherhood had filled out her body. She used to be terribly thin and scrawny. Now she was a good stone overweight although she carried it well because of her height.

The woman he’d been with was petite and toned and youthful. Toned or not, Francesca would never be youthful again and at five feet seven petite was not an adjective that had ever been used to describe her, she thought bitterly.

She took a deep breath, sprayed some L’Air du Temps on her wrists and temple and went to wait for her flight to be called.

It was a bumpy ride as gusts of wind buffeted the small commuter plane and the ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ sign remained on for the duration of the flight. Her fingers curled in her palms as they hit a particularly nasty bit of turbulence and she didn’t know whether to be grateful or not that her mind was occupied with something other than the forthcoming confrontation with her husband and his mistress.

The landing was rollercoaster scary and she thought how ironic it would be if she were to die in an air crash and make her cheating skunk of a husband a widower. Wouldn’t that be convenient? she reflected as the plane lurched from side to side making her feel faintly queasy. The relief of feeling the thud of the wheels hitting the runway lasted until
the
plane taxied to a halt, but then her stomach tightened again at the thought of what lay ahead.

Nikki looked stunning in an emerald-green bikini. Her tanned, toned body made a perfect arc as she dived into the warm sparkling waters of the hotel’s pool. She was so fit, so vibrant. Mark loved being with her. Her energies rubbed off on him. He never felt middle-aged with her. He glanced surreptitiously at the tell-tale grey hairs threading the brown tangle of chest hair that Nikki liked to run her fingers through. He wondered, was it possible to dye them? Still, at least he was fit and muscular thanks to his renewed membership of the gym.

He dived in after her, enjoying the feel of the water against his body and sliced along the middle of the pool until he caught up with her. She splashed him playfully and he caught her to him and kissed her passionately. They had the pool to themselves and they lingered in the embrace, the decadent feeling engendered by taking two days off work, mid-week, adding to their enjoyment. They swam and kissed and kissed again until Mark thought he was going to take her there and then.

‘Come on, let’s go back to the room. This is driving me crazy,’ he said huskily.

‘I love driving you crazy.’ Nikki nuzzled his neck and slid her hands down over his hips.

‘Come
on
, Nikki.’ Mark grabbed her by the wrist and waded to the side of the pool.

‘Big boy!’ Nikki giggled, eyeing his crotch.

Mark gave a sheepish grin as he climbed out of the pool and grabbed his robe. He wrapped hers around
her
and propelled her towards the door. ‘Please behave until we get to the room, then you can be as bad as you like,’ he exhorted as he led her along the corridor.

It seemed to take for ever to get to the lift and then to their room, but once the door shut behind them they kissed hungrily, their passions heightened by their lovemaking in the pool. Mark couldn’t get enough of the woman in his arms. She was magnificent. He had never felt so alive.

Nikki lay nestled in the curve of Mark’s arm listening to his steady breathing as he slept. She was drowsy and sated. Mark was a virile and demanding lover and she revelled in it.

She smiled. She loved the power she had over him. She loved turning him on and driving him crazy. He had been a great challenge from the start. She had noticed him early on when she had joined the Acquisitions and Mergers department of Eurobank Irl. He was serious, intense, completely wrapped up in his work. He spent a lot of his time in their Brussels office and she always looked forward to the times he was back in Dublin.

He had never seemed to notice her. This was a new experience for Nikki. She was used to being noticed by men. She was working her way up the corporate ladder and she was getting there because she was highly intelligent, ambitious, and very, very good at her job. Nikki had no time for the flirty, giggly nonsense of some of her female colleagues. She despised that type of behaviour. Certainly she would share jokes and tease her male colleagues when it
was
appropriate, but she demanded respect and would settle for nothing less. She wasn’t universally popular, she knew that, especially since she had jumped several rungs on the ladder and been promoted over several guys who had come in at the same time as she had. They called her a ball-breaker behind her back. Nikki didn’t care. That was their problem. Let them deal with it. They were looking up at her and she was looking down at them.