Francesca's Party (18 page)

Today had been a crap day. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry. He’d had a plastic meal on the plane and that was it. A sudden longing for roast beef and
mushy
peas came into his head. Francesca cooked terrific roasts and her mushy peas were unlike anyone else’s. Done to perfection, steeped overnight in the bicarbonate of soda, just the way he liked them.

Nikki was not the world’s greatest cook, he acknowledged. She wouldn’t cook mushy peas for him because she claimed they made him fart. If he farted in front of Nikki her pert little nose would wrinkle in disgust and she’d look at him very disapprovingly. It was difficult containing his farts sometimes. With Francesca he could fart in bed in comfort knowing all that she’d say to him was a laughing, ‘Mark, you’re rotten. Light a match.’

He missed Francesca sometimes. He missed the easiness of living with her. They were so used to each other’s little foibles, likes and dislikes. He hadn’t had to make much effort after the first couple of years, he thought a little guiltily. She hadn’t demanded it of him like Nikki did. Mark yawned. He could do without making any efforts today. He was beat. He wondered idly what Francesca was cooking for dinner today. Maybe she’d barbecue because it was so hot. His mouth watered at the thought of spare ribs and chicken breasts, baked potatoes and a side salad.

Mark sighed. Francesca was still extremely bitter and antagonistic towards him. She had hardly been able to bear sitting beside him at Mona Cook’s funeral. Suppressed anger had oozed from every pore. He frowned at the memory. Her anger always made him feel guilty and he hated feeling guilty. OK, their marriage had broken up. It happened to millions of couples but he’d treated her very well.
One
guy he worked with in Brussels had been taken to court by his wife because he was so lax in paying maintenance.

Once when he’d bumped into Ann Mitchell, a friend of Francesca’s, soon after Christmas, she’d lit into him and told him that he was an awful bastard. He’d indignantly replied that he’d let Francesca live in the house and that he was paying her a damn good allowance. She’d rounded on him in fury and said, Big deal, he could afford it. That was no hardship.

He’d been as mad as hell with her, because deep down he knew the accusation was true. There was no mortgage on the house. He’d paid it off long ago. It was a little goldmine now that property prices had soared. He was happy enough for Francesca to live in the house. It was a family asset and at the back of his mind was the knowledge that if things didn’t work out with Nikki he could always go back to Howth and work out some sort of separate living arrangement, whether Francesca liked it or not. He pushed the memory of Ann’s contemptuous barbs aside. The friends had definitely divided into two camps. His and hers. Most of them, after the initial shock on hearing of the break-up, had readjusted and eventually he and Nikki had been invited to dinner parties as a couple. Mark knew that a lot of their acquaintances stayed friends with him because of what he could do for them, loan-wise and business-wise. He was no fool. The ones he had most respect for were the ones who were polite to him when they met but whose loyalties lay with Francesca. At least they weren’t users, he mused as the traffic inched past the Blackrock clinic.

He glanced at the clock in the dash. Six-ten. Nikki was probably somewhere in the traffic behind him in a taxi. She’d been to London for the day dealing with a new London-based acquisition. She’d been there for four days the previous week. Mark smiled. She thrived on it and she was damn good at her job.

The apartment was like an oven when he got in and he flung open all the windows and balcony doors to let a breeze whisper through. He poured himself a shot of whiskey and sat down on the uncomfortable sofa. He hated it with a vengeance. How he missed his soft leather one that you could sink into and relax. He must have dozed because the next thing he heard was Nikki’s key in the lock.

‘Hello, darling, you look wrecked.’ She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. She looked as fresh as a daisy in her favourite taupe Donna Karan business suit. She kicked off her beige high heels and sank elegantly onto the sofa beside him. ‘Tough day?’ she asked with a yawn.

‘
Very!
’ He groaned for added emphasis.

‘Me too.’ She cuddled in and gave him a proper kiss. He kissed her back, hoping she wasn’t going to want anything more. He was knackered. The kiss deepened, her tongue flicking lightly against his, her mouth open wider inviting him to reciprocate. He sucked her tongue the way she liked him to.

‘Sexy man,’ she whispered, running her hand lightly over his crotch. ‘I need a bath though, London was stinking hot. And Heathrow was
indescribable
. I hate that airport with a vengeance.’ She stood up and smiled down at him. ‘Darling, be a pet and pour me a glass of wine. There’s a nice
Chablis
in the fridge. And there’s strip loins, salmon steaks, trout, and pork in the freezer. Any of them would be nice with a Caesar salad. And you could do some of your gorgeous garlic potatoes. I thought you would have started cooking already. I’m starving!’ She sashayed out of the room and Mark’s heart sank. He’d forgotten that he was on cooks today.

He hauled himself up from the sofa and went reluctantly to the kitchen. At the beginning it had been a bit of a novelty. He’d liked cooking to impress her. Having the candles lit and flowers on the table. The novelty soon wore off when he realized that Nikki expected him to do his share of cooking. He hated coming home from a hard day at work and having to turn around and rustle up a meal. Francesca had always had a meal ready for him, but then she’d been at home all day with nothing else to do. Nikki was working hard at her job too, he had to admit, and it wouldn’t be fair to expect her to cook all the time. They could eat out, he supposed. They did regularly, but he wasn’t up to showering and changing and driving into town or to Monkstown. Invariably they met business acquaintances or friends; tonight he just wasn’t in the humour to talk to anyone.

The desire for roast beef and mushy peas assaulted him once more and his stomach rumbled loudly. With a sigh that came from his toes he threw two strip loins into the microwave and pressed the defrost button. In the background he could hear the sound of running water and Nikki humming to herself.

‘Don’t forget my wine, darling,’ she called.

‘Coming,’ Mark said wearily as he took the chilled
bottle
out of the fridge and got to work with the corkscrew.

Nikki lay in the scented bath and sipped the wine Mark had brought her. She held the cold glass to her cheek. It was refreshing after the humidity and airlessness of London. She was tired. It had been intense but she’d been on top of her brief and had held up her end very satisfactorily. She was looking forward to telling Mark all about it later on.

She wriggled her toes. Her feet ached from wearing high heels all day. She wouldn’t dream of wearing flat shoes though. They gave the wrong impression. You couldn’t eyeball someone wearing loafers the way you could wearing three-inch heels. There was one particular guy that she hated. Clive Morton, an investment banker with the new lot. He was so damn arrogant. He’d practically ignored her at the first meetings until she had started asking him direct and well-researched questions. He’d brushed her off several times until she had called him on it and asked him if he had a problem dealing with her. Her bluntness had taken him aback. Now he afforded her polite, informative answers to her questions, but he disliked her. There was often a lot of negativity from the underdog during a takeover or merger and she was used to that, but Clive Morton had pushed her too far. She was glad that she was taller than Clive in her heels, she thought smugly, taking a sip of her chilled wine. And by God she would wear the highest of heels in her dealings with him. He’d look up to her one way or the other, while she would make it very clear that she was looking down at him.

Nikki smiled with satisfaction, remembering the hostility in the banker’s lizard-like eyes. ‘Tough,’ she murmured and took another sip of wine.

The smell of sizzling steak wafted through the partly open bathroom door. Nikki inhaled deeply. This was the life, she thought happily. After a hard but satisfying day’s work, dinner cooked by Mark – he was an excellent cook, better than she was – good wine, conversation about all kinds of things including work, and then delightful lovemaking in her king-sized bed. What more could a woman want?

I’d like to be married to him
. The thought slithered into her head. It came every so often. They’d been living together for six months now and it was working out rather well, much better than she’d anticipated after the trauma of the initial break. They were accepted as a couple now, though there had been an enormous amount of shock at the office when they’d told colleagues that they were together. Some of the wives had taken it very badly and were quite snooty to her at functions. Nikki didn’t give a hoot. That was their problem. She wasn’t living her life to suit them. Mark had hated it all. It made him feel uncomfortable. His colleagues knew and liked Francesca and he detested being the subject of gossip. However, there had been nothing to do but grit their teeth and get on with it and, eventually, as time passed they were no longer a nine-day wonder. All in all it hadn’t been as rocky as she’d expected and she and Mark had settled into a very nice life together. It was time to take the relationship a step further. Marriage was the next logical step.

Nikki frowned. Mark was adamant that he
wouldn’t
divorce Francesca. He wouldn’t subject her to the trauma of it. It would kill her, he’d told Nikki when she’d light-heartedly broached the subject one night after a couple of drinks. That response had sobered her up pretty quickly. And Owen would never forgive him either, he’d added for good measure, much to her intense irritation. In her view, Owen needed a good kick up the ass for his childish behaviour.

‘But he’s not even speaking to you now,’ Nikki retorted. ‘So what difference would it make?’

‘He’ll come round,’ Mark declared confidently.

Selfish little shit
, Nikki thought privately. Mark was profoundly troubled by his son’s rejection. It was one of the big drawbacks in their relationship. The other big bugbear was Francesca. It really annoyed Nikki the hold that woman still had on Mark. He’d been very upset after that funeral they’d been to, where she’d hardly spoken to him. It had thoroughly pissed him off and given him a dose of the guilts for a week. When Mark was in guilt mode he got moody and quiet and was very difficult to live with. It drove Nikki nuts and she had to try hard not to betray her irritation.

Francesca was an adult, for God’s sake. Let her get on with her life and not be hanging on to Mark’s coat tails. Marriages ended. That was a fact of life. And their marriage couldn’t have been up to much, otherwise Mark wouldn’t have got involved with her. It was bad enough that he was shelling out a fortune to keep Francesca. That big house out in Howth that she was mouldering away in must be worth half a million at least. All paid for because of Mark’s hard
work.
She’d told him that he should sell and split the proceeds but Mark had said that it was Francesca’s home. Nikki had little sympathy for her. Any woman who was so dependent on a man the way Francesca was deserved a kick in the backside to make her stand on her own two feet.

A gleam came into her eye. If Mark wouldn’t bring up the subject with Francesca, she would. Woman to woman. She’d get her to see how unfair she was being. How needy and undignified she was being by not letting Mark move on and have a new life. Surely the woman had
some
pride.
Some
self-respect.

If Nikki wanted to be Mark’s wife she’d have to be pro-active and that was one thing she was very good at. Little titch Clive Morton was testament to that, she thought contemptuously. She wasn’t going to let a whingy, wishy-washy, clinging vine get in the way Nikki decided firmly. Francesca Kirwan would be getting a visit from her in the very near future and would be told in no uncertain terms to step aside and butt out of her and Mark’s life. Enough was more than enough, reasoned Nikki as she drained her glass.

‘OH HELL! IS
it that time of year again?’ Mark flicked the gold-embossed invitation onto his desk and grimaced.

‘Who is it from?’ Nikki enquired as she sipped coffee and pencilled in a clue on the Crossaire. She and Mark had travelled into the bank together and were having coffee before starting the day’s work.

‘It’s from Karen Marshall. It’s her annual gala for Cancer Research. A couple of years back I arranged for the bank to give an annual donation so we were always honoured guests.’

‘We?’ Nikki arched an eyebrow.

‘Francesca and I.’

‘And is she included in the invite this year?’ Nikki asked.

‘No. It says Mark Kirwan and guest,’ Mark admitted.

‘Good, then I’ll come with you,’ Nikki said crisply.

‘I was thinking of not going this year. Maybe I should find out if Francesca is going. It might be awkward,’ Mark hedged.

Nikki smiled sweetly. ‘I won’t feel at all awkward, Mark.’

‘Er … well, I was thinking of Francesca really.’ Mark frowned. ‘There’ll be a lot of people there that we know.’

‘So?’ Nikki’s tone held a hint of steel.

‘Oh, come on, Nikki, don’t be like that,’ Mark retorted defensively.

‘Don’t be like what, Mark? I’m sick of this crap. Either we’re a couple or we’re not. I won’t be shoved into the background when it suits you. We live together. I’m your partner and if you can’t deal with it maybe we should split,’ Nikki exploded.

‘For God’s sake, will you keep your voice down? Someone might hear,’ Mark hissed, indicating the door to his secretary’s office.

‘I don’t give a hoot whether anyone hears or not. I’m fed up with this, Mark. I’m fed up with being treated like a second-class citizen. Do you hear me?’ Nikki’s voice rose shrilly. ‘We’ve been living together six months now. I will
not
be hidden away and ignored just because your ex can’t let go of the past and get on with her life. That’s her problem, not mine. OK?’ She glared at him, her face thrust aggressively up towards his, her eyes dark with anger.