Francesca's Party Page 2

  Nikki slid her hand up his thigh and pressed lightly with the tips of her fingers.

  ‘Stop it, Nikki.’ But Mark couldn’t suppress the pleasure that shot through him.

  ‘You are a wuss,’ Nikki taunted as her hand moved higher.

  ‘Nikki!’ Mark’s hand shot down and caught hers. She giggled.

  ‘Party pooper!’

  ‘You’re incorrigible. People will see.’

  ‘They’ll just be green with envy that I’m sitting with a gorgeous, sexy man dying to have my wicked way with him. Did you ever do it on an aeroplane?’ She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him.

  ‘You’re plain wicked.’ Mark grinned at her.

  ‘You’ve just led a sheltered life, darling. Just as well I’m here to change that,’ Nikki drawled.

  A Tannoy announcement called their flight for boarding and Nikki uncoiled her long legs from the bar stool. ‘At last. If we don’t do it soon, I’ll explode. The sooner we get to Cork the better,’ she purred.

  ‘Me too,’ Mark said huskily as he followed her to the gate. He still couldn’t believe that a beautiful, bright, sexy, sensual woman like Nikki Langan would even give him a second glance, let alone be consumed with desire for him. Happiness filled his heart. He felt young and carefree and eager and horny. He hadn’t felt like that in a long, long time.

  They ran across the rain-splattered tarmac, laughing as he sheltered her within the confines of his coat. As he looked down at her he felt that he was the luckiest man alive.

  ‘Don’t forget to turn off your mobile,’ she reminded him as she switched off her own phone once they had settled into their seats.

  Mark reached into his inside pocket and a frown crossed his face. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘I forgot the bloody thing.’

  ‘You can use mine if you need to,’ Nikki said airily as she buckled her seatbelt.

  ‘I hate being without my mobile. I’ll need to call Francesca and tell her to take the phone out of the car before she takes it into the garage. I don’t want any of those rip-off merchants ringing Australia.’

  ‘Well, you’d better call her now before we take off. Here.’ Nikki handed him her phone.

  Mark grimaced. He didn’t want to call Francesca with Nikki sitting beside him. He was as guilty as hell about having an affair, so he tried not to think about it. It was the easiest thing to do. He supposed that he loved his wife, they’d been together a long time. But this was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he was going to make the most of it.

  He dialled her mobile but it rang unanswered until it went into divert. She obviously hadn’t got it with her. Irritation swamped him. Typical Francesca. She was always leaving her phone behind or forgetting to turn it on. What was the point of having the damn thing if she didn’t bother to carry it with her? He left a curt message on her line, clicked off and handed the phone back to Nikki. He scowled. For some reason the incident had punctured his good humour. It was stupid of him to forget his mobile. What could he have been thinking of? If Francesca needed to contact him she could start ringing Brussels and that could lead to complications. Why didn’t she have her bloody phone with her so that he could reach her and nip any problems in the bud? There were times that Francesca drove him mad. Right now was one of them.

  Chapter Three

  DRIVING FOCUSED HER mind. The traffic was heavy and the pelting rain had started to turn to flurries of snow and sleet. Francesca turned up the heating. She felt desperately cold despite the warmth of the car. Her hands and feet worked the gears and brakes automatically: her life had just been destroyed, yet she could still do something as normal as driving. In the distance she could hear a jet roar up into the sky. Was it their plane? Were her husband and his mistress sitting together up there, hand in hand, giggling and laughing like teenagers?

  Francesca shook her head. It was incredible. Mark having an affair. He couldn’t be. They weren’t the kind of people this type of appalling thing happened to. They had a good marriage.

  Of course there were couples in their wide set of acquaintances where the husband or wife was playing away. Francesca had seen it happen, often. But they were ‘other people’. Never in a million years had she thought it would happen in her marriage.

  An Audi cut in in front of her and she had to brake sharply. She jammed her thumb on the horn and kept it there. ‘Bastard!’ she swore savagely, cursing not only the anonymous driver but all men and especially her husband. ‘Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!’

  She knew she had to keep focused. Collins Avenue junction at rush hour was no place for a driver who hadn’t her wits about her. ‘Concentrate!’ She gripped the wheel tighter in an effort to pay attention to her driving.

  Twenty-five minutes later she drove into the circular drive of their big detached red-brick Victorian home, which nestled into a secluded hillside overlooking Howth. She fumbled in her bag looking for her keys. Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks again. When she entered the hall Trixie, her beloved cocker spaniel, bounded up to greet her.

  Francesca knelt and buried her face in Trixie’s soft white pelt. ‘Oh Trixie, Trixie, why? How could he do it to me? I’ll never get over this,’ she cried, the pain in her heart so intense she could hardly breathe. Her little dog whimpered, gazing at her with perplexed melting brown eyes.

  ‘Oh God! Oh God! What will I do?’ She had never known fear until this moment but now she was in its grip. Her stomach clenched and unclenched, knotted, painful. Waves of panic washed over her as her heartbeat raced and weird fluttery sensations made her feel as though everything inside her had turned to water.

  From a great distance, or so it seemed, she heard the tinkling of ‘Für Elise’ and knew that her mobile phone was ringing. She didn’t want to answer it. She didn’t want to do anything except stay curled up on the floor with her arms around Trixie.

  The ringing persisted but she ignored it and let it ring out. She couldn’t talk to anyone right now. She stayed where she was as her grief poured out of her while Trixie licked her frantically and snuggled in close in an effort to comfort her distraught mistress.

  The main phone rang and she cursed it. ‘Leave me alone,’ she shouted. ‘Just leave me alone.’

  She heard the answering machine cut in and the voice of Owen, her youngest son, echoed cheerfully around the hall. ‘Mam, I won’t be home tonight. We’re playing an away match and going for a few pints afterwards so I’m going to stay with Sean in town. See ya, Mam, and could you take my jeans out of the washing machine and stick them in the tumble dryer. Thanks, Mam.’

  Owen was such a carefree soul. He breezed through life full of optimism, enjoying it to the limit, unlike his older brother Jonathan, who was more serious and intense. Jonathan was working as a systems analyst in a big American corporation in New York and had already been promoted in his first year. Like his father, he was hard-working and ambitious. Owen was more like her.

  Francesca and Mark had flown to New York to visit Jonathan just two months ago and had had a wonderful trip. Bitterness swamped her as a memory came flooding back. Mark had been on his mobile phone one day when she had walked in on him in the bedroom. He’d been speaking softly, smiling as he listened to the caller at the other end of the phone. When he’d seen her he’d become brisk and businesslike and quickly ended the call. Francesca hadn’t taken much notice except to think that he’d terminated the call very quickly. But then he was always on the phone: always taking and making calls even when he was supposed to be on his holidays.

  He’d been talking to that woman, Francesca was sure of it now. And he’d been so eager to get back home. When they got home from the airport he’d had a shower and gone out immediately after. Said he was going to the office for an hour or so. He must have gone straight to her.

  Now she knew that Mark was unfaithful, there were so many indications, so many little pointers that she hadn’t picked up on – until now. The phone calls telling her that he wouldn’t be home until later and not to
keep dinner for him. Going back to the gym and losing half a stone. His renewed interest in his clothes and appearance. His concerns about his greying hair. And, of course, she thought contemptuously, remembering his off-hand kiss earlier, his new aftershave.

  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.

  Chapter Four

  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.