Francesca's Party Read online

  About the Book

  After years of being the perfect wife and mother, Francesca Kirwan’s life is changed irrevocably one dismal autumn morning when her husband Mark forgets his mobile phone. In the space of ten minutes her comfortable, safe, uneventful existence is completely shattered. With her life turned upside down and an extremely uncertain future ahead of her, she has two choices…sink or swim!

  Francesca decides to get a life, but first she must deal with razor-sharp international banker Nikki Langan. Super-babe is ten years younger and two stone lighter than Francesca. Sculpted, toned and dressed to kill, Nikki wants it all and she doesn’t intend to let anyone, least of all Francesca, stand in her way. But youth and beauty aren’t everything, and Francesca proves to be a far tougher adversary than the glamorous career girl had anticipated.

  After a shaky start, Francesca’s life takes a decidedly upward turn. New job, new friends, new lifestyle – and when dishy journalist Ralph Casson shows more than a professional interest in her, Mark is not at all pleased.

  Francesca decides to throw a party, and that’s when the fun really starts. Revenge is a dish best served cold…especially if you’ve been on a diet.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The Party

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Après Party

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  About the Author

  Also by Patricia Scanlan

  Copyright

  FRANCESCA’S PARTY

  Patricia Scanlan

  I dedicate this book to Francesca Liversidge, whose constant encouragement, support, kindness, professionalism and integrity make her not only an exceptional editor but also a very dear friend. Dearest Francesca, thanks for everything.

  Acknowledgements

  ‘Why are ye so fearful, O ye of little faith? All things are possible to him that believeth.’

  For sustaining my belief and making all things wonderfully possible, especially this novel and the ones to come, I thank you, Lord.

  A reader wrote to me and said how much she enjoyed reading my acknowledgements and telling me how lucky I was to have so many friends. Dear reader, my family, friends and loved ones are the greatest blessings in my life and it is my honour to thank them. So, huge thanks to: my mother, father, Donald Hugh, Paul, Dermot and Mary; to Yvonne, Lucy, Rose, Catherine and Henry; and to my darling nieces and nephew, Fiona, Caitriona, Patrick, Laura, Rebecca, Tara and Rachel. Thanks for all the love and laughs and cherishing. And to my godmother, Maureen, whose talents cannot be counted.

  Thanks to the dearest of friends who have been with me through thick and thin, especially to Joe, who has turned my gardens in Dublin and Wicklow into the most perfect, peaceful and beautiful havens … there aren’t enough thanks.

  To the Wicklow Gang who feed and water me and celebrate with me under starry skies overlooking a corn field when a book is finished: Breda, Kieran, Gillian and Alison, Caitriona, Mark, Emma and Lorna, Helen, Liam and their gang … here’s to summer!

  To Deirdre Purcell, Anne Schulman, Sheila O’Flanagan (and Drenda), Gareth O’Callaghan and all my writing friends who are only a phone call, and lunch, away.

  To Annette Tallon, Debbie Sheehy, Anne Jensen, Margaret Neylon, Julie Dwane and John Carthy for all the love and light and encouragement they send my way.

  To Catherine MacLiam and all my art class for our lovely Wednesday mornings.

  To Aoibhinn Hogan, Anne Wiley and Margaret Daly whom I don’t see enough of … my fault.

  To Sarah Lutyens, Felicity Rubinstein and Susannah Godman, more precious than rubies.

  To Alil O’Shaughnessy and Tony Kavanagh, the best mates you could wish for. And to Terry Carroll who told me all I needed to know and more … about international bankers.

  To two new readers, Sinead O’Flaherty and Linda Maher … keep reading!

  To Ciara Considine, Edwin Higel and all in New Island Publishers, who do it so well and so professionally. It’s a joy to work with you.

  To Sinead Burke of Marsh Financial Services and Eamon Leahy and Mary Burke of Leahy & Co, for all the sound business and financial advice.

  To all in Transworld who have been exceptionally supportive and encouraging. The new adventure is just beginning. I look forward to it!

  To everyone in the book trade who has helped my writing career all the way, a big thanks.

  To all in Nikki’s Hair Studio, Mack’s Gym and Powerscourt Springs who spoil and pamper me.

  To all the wonderful readers who wrote me such inspiring letters, especially Ronald Brown in Essex and Amella Sullivan in Hampshire, thank you so much: they make all the hours at the computer well worth while. Keep writing, they make such a difference. And to all who bought my books, I hope you enjoy this one.

  When one door closes, another opens …

  Chapter One

  ‘IDIOT!’ MARK KIRWAN swore and pressed his fist on the horn as he accelerated the BMW and overtook an ancient Volkswagen that was crawling along at a snail’s pace. ‘Stupid doddery old fool,’ he snapped as he glanced in the mirror and saw an elderly man behind the wheel.

  ‘Don’t be so aggressive, Mark. He looks as if he’s lost,’ Francesca remonstrated with her husband. She hated driving with him. He was terribly impatient.

  ‘If he doesn’t know where he’s going, he shouldn’t be driving in rush-hour traffic, holding everybody up. I’ve a flight to catch! It was bad enough with the damn taxi not turning up. I’ve had it with that lot. They’ve screwed up once too often. I’m giving the account to someone else.’ He drummed his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. ‘For God’s sake, would you look at the traffic up ahead? I’m going to miss the damn flight, I’m telling you.’

  ‘You’ll catch it,’ Francesca soothed. ‘Have you ever missed
a flight yet?’

  ‘There’s always a first time!’

  ‘Well, today’s not that day.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Francesca scowled. ‘There’s no need to be so tetchy, Mark!’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry. I feel a bit under pressure.’ Her husband flashed her a quick smile but she could see as he turned away from her that it was merely automatic. His eyes were focused on the airport roundabout. He was miles away.

  Francesca sighed. What was it about men that made them feel that life revolved about them and them alone? Her two sons, Jonathan and Owen, displayed the same traits – to a far lesser degree, but it was there, despite her best efforts. It was an inbred trait in males and in Mark’s case it was more pronounced than most.

  He got it from his father. Gerald Kirwan was the most selfish, cranky, self-centred old buzzard that ever existed and Francesca loathed him. He had been part of her life for the past twenty-two years and he was the bane of her existence. She shopped for him, often cooked for him, endured his company for a lengthy sojourn Christmas after Christmas, and for two weeks every year when he came on holiday with them. His own daughter, Vera, would have nothing to do with him, which was very convenient for her, Francesca thought wryly as Mark turned left into Dublin Airport and inched along in the heavy traffic.

  ‘Don’t forget to collect my suits from the cleaners, and when you leave the car into the garage tell Ed that I’d like him to check out the air conditioning. There’s a slight knocking in it that shouldn’t be there. And don’t forget to ring Lulu Kavanagh and tell her that we’ll come to their dinner party.’ Mark rattled off a list of instructions as he pulled up outside Departures. ‘I’ll ring tonight.’ He leaned over, kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek, got out and took his luggage from the back of the car. He didn’t look back or wave as he strode towards Departures, his black Burberry flapping in the wind.

  He’d overdone the aftershave a bit, Francesca thought as she eased herself over to the driver’s side and adjusted the seat to accommodate her shorter length. Mark spent more time on planes than he did at home. She shook her head. The joys of being an international banker.

  This hadn’t been the plan at all today. She’d miss her book-club morning at this rate. By the time she drove home through the rush-hour traffic and took the car into the garage for its service and got a lift home from there, she could wave goodbye to at least two hours. And Mark hadn’t been a bit gracious about her giving him a lift. He could at least have said thank you, she thought crossly. She indicated and slid out into the lane of traffic. It had started out as a bummer of a day; she hoped it would improve.

  Mark glanced at his watch as he hurried towards the automatic doors to Departures. His lips tightened. He was late. Of all the mornings to be late. He’d nearly done his nut in the traffic. That bloody taxi firm had cocked up again. They were history. He loosened the knot of his tie a fraction as he held up his luggage for scanning. Stress like this wasn’t good for him. Dick Morris at work had had a heart attack the previous week and he was only forty-one, four years younger than Mark.

  The airport was manic. It didn’t matter what time of the day you went there now, it was always bedlam. His eyes raked the monitors looking for his flight number. Delayed. Mark heaved a sigh of relief … there was a God. For the first time that morning he felt his tension ease. He was here now. He hadn’t missed the flight. He hurried over to the information desk to collect his ticket, anxious to get to Check-in.

  ‘Would Mr Mark Kirwan pick up a courtesy telephone, please. Mr Mark Kirwan please pick up a courtesy telephone.’ The Tannoy message echoed through Departures.

  Mark grinned. He knew exactly who was at the other end of the phone.

  Francesca leaned across the dashboard to switch the CD player on and cursed as she saw Mark’s mobile phone plugged into the recharger. He’d go ballistic without his phone. He’d been in such a tizzy this morning. It was most unusual for him, he was usually so organized about things.

  She sped back in a semicircle. Maybe, if the security man was sympathetic, she could park on the double yellows outside Departures and catch Mark before he went airside.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ she urged a green Fiesta dawdling up the ramp ahead of her and taking the only available parking spot. A silver Volvo pulled out ahead and Francesca shot into the vacant space, grabbed Mark’s phone and jumped out of the car. She gazed frantically around looking for someone to explain her predicament to. The last thing she wanted was to be clamped. She saw an airport policeman and breathlessly explained the problem to him, waving Mark’s phone to emphasize the urgency of the situation.

  ‘That’s OK, go on. Try not to be too long,’ the policeman said kindly as a Tannoy announcement declared that Departures was a set-down area only. Francesca gave a wry smile and ran.

  She gazed around frantically at the passengers hurrying to and fro. She didn’t know his flight number. But he was going to Brussels. What was the Check-in-desk number for Brussels? She was about to stand back to look up at the big monitors when by chance she glanced over at the escalators and saw her husband’s tawny head disappear from view. Relief flooded her. Great! She called his name but he didn’t hear her. What on earth was he going downstairs to Arrivals for? she thought, perplexed, as she made her way over to the escalators. She could see Mark at the very end and was about to step on the escalator herself and call his name when her eyes widened in shock and her voice caught in her throat.

  A young woman had stepped forward to greet him and, to Francesca’s absolute horror, Mark wrapped his arms around her and kissed her ardently.

  Chapter Two

  FRANCESCA FELT THE blood drain from her face. Her heart lurched sickeningly. It was as though someone had just punched her hard in the solar plexus. She couldn’t breathe. She stepped back involuntarily and bumped into a man who was waiting to go down the escalator. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she apologized, her voice seeming to come from a long distance as she moved out of the way.

  You’re dreaming, she told herself, incredulously. She looked down again. No! It was no dream. Mark and the young woman were moving away, talking and laughing animatedly.

  Fear gripped Francesca. What was going on? She vaguely remembered the glamorous brunette. She worked in the Acquisitions and Mergers department of Mark’s bank. She’d seen her at a few functions but hadn’t taken much notice of her. She couldn’t remember her name.

  Hesitantly, she moved towards the stairs that paralleled the escalators. She took a few steps down and saw Mark and the woman striding purposefully along. They weren’t checking in for a flight to Brussels. They seemed to be heading for Area 9, the Check-in area for domestic flights.

  She shadowed them, loitering in O’Brien’s Sandwich Bar until they had checked in and sauntered towards their boarding area, obviously now in no rush.

  Francesca walked past the small queue at the desk and looked at the flight destination.

  Cork.

  Mark and the woman were on their way to Cork and she knew exactly where they were going.

  How could he? How could he have an affair and bring his tart to the hotel that he’d taken Francesca to, just a few weeks ago, to celebrate her fortieth birthday?

  But he couldn’t be having an affair. It wasn’t possible, she thought frantically, not knowing what to do. Should she follow them and confront them? She felt sick. She started to shake as shock set in. Taking a deep breath Francesca turned and retraced her steps. She needed to get to the car, needed to be alone to try and make sense of this nightmare that her life had suddenly become.

  ‘Did you find him?’ the airport policeman asked as she emerged shaken and stunned through the exit doors. He noted the mobile still clutched in her hand. ‘Oh, you didn’t.’

  ‘No. No, he’d gone through. Thanks anyway,’ Francesca replied. She was surprised at how normal her voice sounded, but her fingers shook as she went to put the key into the ignition.

  Tears welled in her e
yes as she drove off the ramp and she blinked frantically to try and clear them. Her throat was so constricted she could hardly swallow and in desperation she drove into the hotel car park, stopped and put her head in her hands. Then she cried her eyes out.

  Why was this happening to her? To them? How could one’s life be flowing along smoothly one minute and the next be an absolute catastrophe? How long had Mark been seeing this woman? Did he come from her bed to Francesca’s? The thought made her feel nauseous.

  How had he been able to keep it from her? What did this mean for their marriage? How could she tell the boys that their father was a philanderer? What was she going to do?

  The questions whirled around her head, thick and fast like a blizzard swamping her, smothering her. She couldn’t think straight, not sitting here in an anonymous car park with rain pelting against the windows and the roar of planes taking off filling the air.

  Francesca took a tissue from her bag and wiped her eyes. Mark’s phone lay on the seat beside her. No doubt he’d called her on it many times and made plans to meet, while lying through his teeth to Francesca.

  She felt a hatred and rage bubble up inside her, so strong that she could almost taste it. She’d make him pay for what he’d done to her. She’d given him twenty-two years of her life and what had it meant to him? Nothing! He was a deceiving, lying, despicable bastard. She had always looked up to him, respected him, admired him. She’d thought that her husband was a man of honour. How wrong she’d been.

  ‘I was beginning to get worried. Thought you weren’t going to show. Thought you were going to be a wuss.’ Nikki Langan slanted a glance up at Mark as they sat sipping cappuccinos in the coffee dock of the boarding area.

  ‘Don’t be daft! Of course I was going to show. Of all the days for the taxi not to turn up. That’s really pissed me off. Are they mad or what? That’s a lucrative account and they’ve lost it through sheer carelessness,’ Mark retorted. He eyeballed her. ‘So you think I’m a wuss, do you? Let’s see if that’s what you think when I get you into that big double bed down in Oaklands.’