Francesca's Party Read online

  Francesca scowled. She wouldn’t give Mark the satisfaction of losing weight to try and get him back. What a sop to his ego that would be. He’d love it! She wasn’t that needy or pathetic, she thought defiantly. And besides, she didn’t want him back. The damage was done. He could go and fuck off with himself.

  There was a chipper across the road. A nice hot portion of fattening chips and a batter burger would do very well indeed, Francesca decided purposefully and felt a little frisson of pride. You’re not at all pathetic, she assured herself as she pushed open the door of the chipper and joined the lunchtime queue. She ordered a portion of garlic mushrooms for good measure. Vanessa Feltz, eat your heart out, she thought derisively. Slimming to get a man back indeed! What nonsense. Slimming to feel better in yourself, yes, she could cope with that, she thought as she watched the assistant behind the counter select a big batter burger and drop it into the hot fat. Why would she want to slim to get Mark back after what he’d done? It was like saying that he’d started an affair because she was heavier than she should be. Even she couldn’t accuse Mark of being that shallow and she wasn’t even going to take that notion on board, because if she did she’d go crazy altogether. If she had to take some of the blame because of the failure of her marriage, she was damned if she was going to blame it on being a stone overweight.

  To her surprise, she actually enjoyed the rare take-away treat. Mark wasn’t into junk food, he far preferred posh restaurant fare, or fresh salads and fish when she made lunch at home. And since he’d started taking care of his figure again he’d gone all finicky about what he ate. Somehow she couldn’t see the svelte Nikki eating chips from a chipper, Francesca thought ruefully.

  She sat in the car, eating her chips and licking her fingers, as she looked out towards Dublin port. A thought struck her. She could do this any time she wanted to now. She could do exactly as she liked, she no longer had to work her life around Mark’s. It was a scary yet exhilarating thought.

  From now on she was going to have to live a life that did not include her husband. What sort of a life would it turn out to be? Did she have the resources within to stand on her own two feet?

  Well, you’re not really going to be standing on your own two feet. You have the house. He’ll be paying you maintenance. You’ll just be making a new existence for yourself, supported by him, that horrible niggling little voice taunted.

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ she said exasperated as she bunched the white chip paper into a ball and started the ignition. She’d be a bloody basket case if she kept arguing with herself, she told herself as she slid out into the traffic and headed for home. She wanted to be there when Owen got in from college. Her heart sank at the prospect of her son finding out that she and Mark were in crisis. How was she going to deal with it? How would she tell him that his father was seeing someone else?

  Hell! Why should she have to tell Owen? Let Mark do that. After all, he was the one who had destroyed their marriage. Let him look Owen in the eye and tell him just that. Francesca’s jaw jutted stubbornly as she decided she was not going to let Mark off facing up to his obligations and taking responsibility for his actions. Owen would need a new set of keys too. Poor Owen. He’d get the shock of his life. He idolized his father. They had a great relationship. How was this split going to change that? Had she been too hasty in kicking Mark out? But what other alternative did she have? she thought angrily. She wasn’t a goddamned doormat – as her cheating husband had just found to his cost.

  Mark sat in his BMW and looked over from Howth Summit clear across to Wicklow. It was a blustery day of dark tranches of clouds interspersed with sunlight. It felt very strange to be sitting aimlessly in his car in the middle of a working day. He felt agitated. Unfocused. What was he to do? Where was he to go? Should he go straight home and tell Francesca that he had no intention of moving out? She had an awful nerve changing the locks on the doors. That had really rattled him. It was his house too; after all, he’d paid the damn mortgage on it for long enough. He scowled. He wasn’t used to being outmanoeuvred. Francesca had certainly not let the grass grow under her feet. She’d said something about seeing him and Nikki kissing at the airport. Kissing in public had been a big mistake. She must have come back to the airport to give him the damned phone, seen them and followed them to Check-in. Imagine following them to Cork! He’d never imagined that Francesca could be so impetuous. She’d dumbfounded him. It was surprising the lengths people were prepared to go to when pushed. But he hadn’t expected it from her, she was normally quite passive.

  Maybe he should go and stay at a hotel for a few days until she had calmed down. If she calmed down. Perhaps he should find a place to rent for the time being. His heart sank at the prospect. He could go and stay with Nikki, he mused. From the safety net of his marriage he’d often fantasized about living with Nikki and visualized the wonderful life that they’d lead. Now that it could become a reality, he wasn’t at all sure. It was all happening so fast … and not on his terms. He felt events were very much out of control. This whole episode had taken on a dynamic of its own and he was being rushed along, helter-skelter. He didn’t like it.

  Mark sighed, leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept well last night and he was knackered. The memory of Francesca’s pale, ravaged face surfaced and he promptly opened his eyes again.

  He’d really hurt her. That had been the worst thing. She couldn’t make head nor tail of where he was coming from. The bewilderment in her eyes had been hard to take. A lump rose to his throat and a tear slid down his cheek. He didn’t know if he was crying for Francesca or himself. For both of them really, he supposed. He was so utterly and completely pissed off. He’d made such a mess of things. All of a sudden his life had turned into a horrific nightmare.

  Maybe he would go and stay with Nikki. She seemed to love him, for some weird and wonderful reason. It would be much nicer to be with her – for a while at least – until he sorted something out. He glanced over at the seat beside him piled high with paperwork and files and felt deeply unsettled. He was effectively homeless, he thought sorrowfully. Forty-five years old and his life in chaos. And he had no idea what the future held. The tinny ringing of the phone startled him. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Hello,’ he said warily.

  ‘Hello, Mark. I’ve been leaving bloody messages for you all over the place. Are you going to get me my prescription or not? I can’t get in touch with Francesca. Bloody woman’s always gadding about,’ Gerald brayed down the line.

  Mark groaned. This was the last thing he needed. He threw his eyes up to heaven as Gerald gave a theatrically chesty cough and launched into a tirade of moans and whinges.

  ‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes,’ he snapped, mid-moan, and hung up, much to his father’s astonished annoyance. Then he punched in Nikki’s mobile number.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ she answered cheerily and his heart lifted slightly.

  ‘Can I do B&B with you for a while?’ he asked heavily.

  ‘I’m a strict landlady, and I don’t spend my time slaving at the kitchen sink, and I’m very demanding in bed! Can you cope with that?’

  ‘I think so.’ Mark managed a smile. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Work,’ Nikki answered casually.

  ‘What time will you be home?’

  ‘Around four.’

  ‘OK, I’ll see you then.’

  ‘OK, Mark. Take care.’ She clicked off.

  Mark stared at the phone. Nikki was something else. She’d gone straight to work after the episode they’d been through. It hadn’t seemed to affect her at all. Her career was all important. It wasn’t her marriage that was on the rocks, he thought a tad resentfully. Nor was she rushing home to give him sustenance. It was only lunchtime. He’d have to hang around for another few hours until she was home. He sighed again, a deep, depressed sigh that came from his toes. He’d better go and see his father and get him sorted. What was he going to tell Gerald about Francesca and h
is marriage problems? Gerald was old-fashioned and rigid in his beliefs. In his eyes marriage was for ever. Come hell or high water. Divorce and separation were wrong in the eyes of the Church and adultery was the greatest sin invented, according to him. Many were the lectures he’d given over the dinner table about the rapid decay of revered institutions such as marriage and the Church.

  Today was not the day to tell Gerald that Francesca had kicked him out because he was having a relationship with another woman, Mark decided tiredly as he switched on the ignition and reversed out of his parking spot.

  Would he and Francesca ever get back together? Did he want to go back or was this the start of a whole new life? Wasn’t this what he’d wanted for so long? Freedom. Well, he had it now. And, somehow, having wasn’t the same as wanting.

  Nikki sat on the edge of her desk, one leg swinging nonchalantly as she ignored the flashing red light of her voice-mail. She was so exhilarated she wanted to run down the corridor shouting Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!

  Mark was coming to stay with her. They were going to be a proper couple. What joy. What bliss. No more rushed furtive hours together. Time to relax and enjoy each other’s company. Time to be themselves. This was truly the best thing that had ever happened to her, she assured herself. To be with a man who stimulated her mentally, who turned her on physically, who didn’t feel threatened by her career, indeed who actively encouraged her in the pursuit of it, was a dream come true. None of her previous relationships had been even half as satisfying, Nikki thought happily.

  She was rather pleased with herself that she hadn’t gone rushing home just to be there for him. She wanted to, of course, but now was not the time to be too eager. It was better to play it cool and keep Mark on his toes. Besides, the worst thing in the world for him just now would be to feel smothered by her. The encounter with Francesca had really shaken him. Ending a marriage of over twenty years must be very difficult psychologically, she reflected, no matter how ready you felt you were to do so. There’d be rocky days ahead, but she and Mark would weather them. Of that, Nikki had no doubts whatsoever.

  Francesca felt a flicker of apprehension as she indicated to turn into the drive. Just say Mark had decided to refuse to move out and was still at home. What would she do then? Short of physically throwing him out, which she wouldn’t be able to do anyway, she couldn’t force him to go. It could end up that she might have to move herself. Her stomach lurched as she swung into the shrub-lined drive. His car was gone. She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. She was being so irrational, she chastised herself. One minute she was as mad as hell with him, the next she wanted him to at least want to make amends and stay with her. He hadn’t put up much of a fight to save their marriage, she thought glumly. In fact he hadn’t put up any fight at all. Bastard! He’d gone galloping off into the arms of his mistress. Just what he’d wanted to do all along probably.

  Anger returned.

  She stomped upstairs to see what he’d taken. His files. His golf clothes. Her heart sank. That seemed pretty final. Obviously he wasn’t going to let a little thing like the break-up of his marriage interfere with his game. She burst into tears and flung herself onto the bed and howled like a banshee into her pillow.

  Her chest felt so tight with grief she could hardly breathe. She felt so belittled and used and worthless. How would she ever get through this? Was this the way she’d feel for the rest of her life? For the first time ever she could understand suicide. The future seemed so empty and dark, full of despair and struggle. She hadn’t the heart for it. She remembered a song from Jesus Christ Superstar that she’d sung many times, years ago when she’d been a member of her local parish folk group.

  ‘Take this cup from me,’ she whispered. ‘Oh Jesus, please take this cross from me. I cannot endure it.’

  But you have to. It’s your time, her inner voice said and Francesca knew that no matter how much she prayed and begged and pleaded she would have to get through this one way or another. Eventually she fell into an exhausted sleep. It was dusk when she woke, chilled, from lying uncovered. She shot up on the bed and ran her fingers through her dishevelled hair.

  Owen would be home from college soon. He’d be hungry. She’d better get her skates on and prepare dinner for him. Although he’d probably lose his appetite when he heard that she and his father had split up. How could she protect him from the pain of it? At least Jonathan was in America and had cut the ties to a degree. He had his own life to live; they were only on the periphery of his now. Owen was still her baby, still living at home. His life would be much more disrupted.

  Francesca got up from the bed, switched on the lamp, pulled the curtains and brushed her hair. If what had happened during the last thirty-six hours had been bad, it could only be equalled by telling her beloved son that his family life as he knew it was going to change for ever. She’d have to keep an eye out for him coming up the drive. She didn’t want him putting his key in the lock and not being able to get in. It had given her immense satisfaction when Mark had fiddled with the lock. That had been power, she thought with fierce satisfaction. That had given the arrogant bastard something to think about. She remembered the expression on his face when he’d barged his way into the hall. Angry, stupefied. But for an instant there’d been a flash of something akin to admiration … respect even. He never thought she had it in her. Had she been such a wimp in her marriage? she questioned, dismayed. Was that how he saw her? A soft touch, a no-accounter. Was it because he had so little respect for her that it obviously hadn’t cost him a thought to betray her? Would these questions ever cease rattling around in her brain and give her some peace? she thought dementedly. The idea that Mark didn’t respect her was profoundly disturbing and it wouldn’t go away.

  ‘You will respect me, Mark Kirwan. By God, you will respect me by the time I’m finished with you and you will never humiliate me again,’ she vowed aloud as she left the bedroom and went downstairs to make a shepherd’s pie for her son. It was his favourite dish. A thought struck her as she prepared the ingredients. She must be very careful not to burden Owen with her problems or in some way use him as a substitute for her husband. She’d seen marriage splits where children were used as buffers, or, even worse, as pawns in the break-up game. Was making Owen a shepherd’s pie a subtle way of beginning the nice parent/nasty parent scenario? If she were scrupulously honest with herself, wouldn’t she admit that she wanted Owen to be on her side, and be disgusted with his father? She wanted Mark to cringe before his son’s accusing blue-eyed gaze.

  Was Mark right? Was she being very petty and vindictive? But what the hell did he want her to be, a bloody saint, for God’s sake? she argued with herself as she chopped onions and sliced carrots.

  For crying out loud, Francesca, it’s only a blooming shepherd’s pie, there’s no need to go into shagging psychotherapy yet, she told herself crossly as she peeled the potatoes. It was dark outside and she pulled down the kitchen blind, acutely aware that Mark would not be coming home tonight or any other night. He was probably relaxing in Nikki’s pad with not a care in the world. Her heart twisted in pain. How come she was the one suffering? Mark and Nikki were happy together and she was here crucified with anguish. Where was the justice in that?

  She was a decent person. She’d never deliberately hurt anybody. Why had this punishment been inflicted on her while Mark seemed to be reaping most undeserved rewards?

  Was there a God? she asked herself bitterly. If there was, she certainly didn’t think much of his sense of fair play or compassion. Why had he picked on her when the world was full of truly evil and greedy people who seemed to get away with all their wickedness?

  ‘I don’t believe in you!’ she shouted, distraught, looking up to heaven. ‘You have deserted me.’

  Chapter Eleven

  FRANCESCA HEARD OWEN’S banger chug up the drive. She’d been listening out for it for the past half-hour and her nerves were in shreds. She swallowed hard as she hurried to open the door before he got
to it.

  ‘Hiya, Mam,’ he greeted her cheerfully as he barrelled into the hall in his usual effervescent way. ‘We won yesterday! It was a great night.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Dinner smells nice. What is it?’ He turned his bright blue gaze on her, his healthy handsome face still retaining an endearing smattering of freckles across his nose, his wiry chestnut hair still ungovernable.

  ‘Shepherd’s pie,’ she managed. The sight of him and his youthful exuberance was almost her undoing. She bit her lip as he threw his bag and duffel coat under the stairs.

  ‘My favourite. I’m starving,’ he announced. ‘I hope you made loads.’

  ‘It’s all for you. I had lunch out today so I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Oh, great.’ He loped into the kitchen and sat down. ‘Feed me, Mother of mine.’ He grinned.

  In spite of her anguish she grinned back. Owen was such a breath of fresh air. Let him have his dinner and enjoy it before she said anything about Mark.

  She dished out a generous helping of pie and heaped his plate with veg.

  ‘Thanks, Ma.’ He tucked in with gusto. She busied herself around the kitchen as he ate, responding to his chat about his day as normally as she could.

  ‘Aw, Mam, that was delicious,’ he declared twenty minutes later, as he scraped the remains out of the pie dish, having cleared his plate. ‘I really feel sorry for some of the lads in digs. They get poxy food.’

  ‘Just as well you live at home then,’ she said brightly. Too brightly. He looked at her.

  ‘Ma, are you OK? You look terrible. Like you were on the piss or something.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’ She made a face at him. ‘I can’t look ravishing all the time.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, Ma. You just look a bit grey or something. Is it the unmentionables? Should I barricade myself in my room?’ he teased, referring to her occasional episodes of PMT when she was like a briar and best avoided.