Francesca's Party (40 page)

‘It’s my safety net gone,’ Mark murmured, almost to himself.

‘Oh, come now, old chap, you haven’t let the grass grow under your feet. You’re a wealthy man and you’re working in the best possible place to take advantage of sound investment advice and opportunities. This is just a temporary little setback, you’ll bounce back,’ Simon encouraged.

‘I don’t have any other choice, I suppose.’ Mark sighed. ‘You’ll look after the sale for me?’

‘Of course,’ Simon said suavely, ‘and I’ll get on to Francesca’s solicitor and see what we can come up with that will be most beneficial to you. Oh! Just a thought, perhaps you could speak to Francesca about the estate agent and select one that is mutually acceptable. Better all round not to have her feeling excluded from the decision. It makes things easier in the long run.’

‘Fair enough, Simon. Good point.’ Mark stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep in touch.’

‘Don’t worry, Mark. We’ll keep your losses to a minimum, but as I say, consensus is the best strategy all round.’

You mean surrender
, Mark thought to himself as he walked out of his solicitor’s office. He switched on his mobile phone and checked his messages. Two from the office, one from Paris, none from Nikki. She hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge his flowers. He’d checked with Interflora and they’d been delivered. Heavy-hearted, he strode along Wicklow Street. The sun was shining and tourists abounded. The sound of foreign accents lent an exotic air of liveliness to the coffee shops and cafés. On impulse Mark headed for Café Rio and ordered a cappuccino. He’d just done the first clue of his crossword when the phone rang. Thank God, he thought in relief as he saw Nikki’s number come up.

‘Hi,’ he said gingerly, unsure of his reception.

‘Hi, Mark. Thanks for the flowers.’

‘I was worried that they hadn’t arrived.’ He couldn’t resist a little dig at her tardiness in responding.

‘They arrived yesterday. They’re beautiful.’

‘Where are you?’ Mark asked.

‘I’m walking on a deserted, secluded little beach right this minute. I’m staying in Jacquie’s place for a few days.’ Nikki sounded remarkably cheerful.

‘It sounds lovely,’ he said wistfully, half hoping she might invite him to join her.

‘It is. It’s just what I needed. Where are you?’

‘I’m sitting in Café Rio on Wicklow Street having a cappuccino.’

‘At this hour of the morning!’ Nikki exclaimed. Mark smiled, now her interest was up.

‘I was at my solicitor’s,’ he said.

‘Oh! Is everything all right?’

‘I’m putting the house on the market. I hate doing it.’

‘And you wouldn’t consider buying Francesca out?’ Nikki queried.

‘No! It’s not an option.’

‘Well, you know what’s best for you, darling. The line is very crackly so I’ll let you go. Talk to you tomorrow.’ Nikki’s voice came faintly down the line and then he heard the click and she was gone. Mark frowned. She hadn’t shown much reaction at the news that he was selling up. Maybe he’d misjudged their situation but he’d expected more of a response from her, particularly as she had jumped so vehemently to Francesca’s defence when he’d told her that she wanted to divorce him and sell the house. Today she’d seemed almost offhand about the whole thing. Mark felt a little chill of unease. Maybe Nikki, after reviewing her options, was deciding that life with him wasn’t one that she cared to pursue. He didn’t want to be alone right now. But on the other hand he certainly didn’t want to venture into marriage again. Once was enough to lose his shirt. If Nikki couldn’t deal with that, there was no hope for them.

Nikki stood at the water’s edge and let the frothy sea wash over her bare feet. She inhaled, drawing the tangy sea air deep into her lungs. She didn’t know what to think. What on earth had changed Mark’s mind about selling the house? He’d been utterly against the idea. The solicitor must have talked sense
into
him, Nikki surmised. Maybe once it was sold and the financial ties were cut with Francesca things would change between him and herself. He obviously didn’t want to end their relationship. Their rows had given him any number of opportunities to walk out but so far he hadn’t.

Nikki walked along the beach towards the house. He’d wanted her to invite him down to be with her. She knew he’d been angling. It would have been nice to spend a quiet day with him because right now she was agitated and tense. She was finding it extremely difficult to wind down even in the peace and quiet of her rural backwater retreat. She’d forgotten how isolated the house was, stuck at the end of a winding country lane. The nearest shop was two miles away. She sat on the rocking chair on the veranda and picked up her book, a thriller that required more concentration than she was prepared to give it. So she just rocked, staring out at the sparkling flat-calm sea. After a while the book dropped from her hand and her head drooped. She curled up on the soft cushions as the rhythmic sounds of the sea began to work their magic. Her breathing deepened; her body relaxed. Nikki slept.

‘Haven’t seen you around before! Ralph Casson, arts journo with the
Daily Press
and
Contemporary Arts
.’ A tall, black-haired man, with impossibly long black lashes and heavy-lidded brown eyes held out a hand and gripped Francesca’s firmly.

‘Hello. I’m Francesca Kirwan. I work with Ken Kennedy PR. Nice to meet you, I think we spoke on the phone once.’

‘Lucky old Ken Kennedy.’ Ralph eyed her up and down so blatantly that Francesca blushed. ‘A woman who blushes, what a find,’ he teased. ‘What’s a very attractive woman like you working for a scoundrel like Kennedy for?’

‘That’s a long story,’ Francesca said crisply, raging with herself for blushing. She hadn’t done that since she was a teenager.

‘It’s one I’d like to hear. How about we go for a drink and you can tell me your long story?’

Francesca smiled sweetly. ‘Thanks but I’m working.’

‘So am I, but that never stopped me having a drink.’ Ralph laughed. ‘How about if I do a feature on “Women in PR”? I can interview you and discover all your trade secrets, while hearing the long story.’

‘I thought you covered the Arts,’ Francesca said caustically.

‘Oh, I do,’ he assured her. ‘But I write under a variety of names. You might have read articles under the byline Brenda Carroll?’

He raised an eyebrow in enquiry.

‘Hmm. She’s always writing about what women want in a man and how career women are losing their libido – that sort of thing.
Cosmo
stuff that hasn’t changed in the past twenty years.’ Francesca was unimpressed. ‘Are you saying that you’re Brenda Carroll?’

‘Guilty as charged,’ Ralph bowed. ‘I’ve even got the frocks to prove it.’

‘Brenda’s a bit old hat, she needs a bit of updating if you ask me.’

Ralph grimaced. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you?’

‘You wouldn’t like me to tell you fibs just to flatter your ego, now would you?’ Francesca said lightly as she handed him a press release. ‘You being a journalist and seeker of the truth and all that?’

‘Maybe you could give me pointers on updating Brenda’s image,’ he said slyly, his eyes twinkling.

He’s got dead sexy eyes
, Francesca noted with a little shock. She hadn’t noticed that in a man in years.

‘Well?’ Ralph encouraged.

‘Well what?’ Francesca asked.

‘Are you coming for a drink with me?’

‘Thanks for asking, Ralph, but really I
do
have to work and so do you. And if your schedule is the same as mine you’re due to interview Kris Synott in five minutes.’

‘That boring old fart,’ Ralph snorted. ‘Who wants to listen to him pontificating? He adores the sound of his own voice. I’d far prefer to go for a drink with you. You’re a gorgeous, sexy woman, you know.’

Francesca’s jaw dropped.

He studied her in amusement. ‘You must have been told that a thousand times. Why do you look so surprised? Doesn’t your lucky sod of a husband tell you?’ He indicated her wedding ring. ‘If you were my wife I’d tell you every day.’

‘I’m separated,’ she said faintly.

‘Oh! Me too. How long?’

‘Since before last Christmas.’

‘A mere novice,’ Ralph scoffed. ‘I’m single and available these past two years. Maybe we were fated to meet. I believe in fate. Do you? I think you could
be
my soulmate, the one I’ve been searching for. I feel I know you already. We could have had a past life or two, who knows. I think you’re the woman I’ve been seeking endlessly for. And now I’ve found you.’ He was teasing her, smiling into her eyes, his lean face creased in a most attractive smile.

Francesca gathered her wits about her. ‘You’ll be seeking another job if you don’t interview Kris Synott. It was nice meeting you but I really have to go, I’ve to liaise with Ken. Please don’t keep Kris waiting, he gives us a very hard time as it is. I’ll look forward to reading the interview. See you.’ She turned and walked across the foyer of the hotel, conscious of his stare.

‘I don’t give up easily,’ Ralph called and she smiled.

‘I don’t give in easily,’ she murmured as she hastened to her rendezvous with Ken.

FRANCESCA OPENED HER
eyes, yawned, blinked and remembered where she was. ‘Sorry, Ken,’ she apologized. ‘I fell asleep, hope I didn’t snore.’

Ken glanced over at her. ‘Snore! I thought I was driving through a thunderstorm.’

‘Oh, stop! Was I bad?’ She was mortified.

‘I’m joking, Francesca. You were like the Sleeping Beauty, not a peep out of you.’

‘Where are we?’ She stretched as much as the constraints of the seatbelt would allow.

‘Just coming off the Naas roundabout onto the M50. I’m going to cut across through Tallaght.’

‘My God! You must have driven like Mika Hakkinen. We’re in Dublin already!’ Francesca rubbed her eyes and stared out at the rolling fields and the Dublin Mountains ahead of them as they headed south on the motorway.

‘Francesca, you were asleep before we left Mallow and that was at half six. It’s now ten a.m.’

‘You must be knackered.’

‘I am a bit,’ he admitted. ‘I wouldn’t have minded a lie-in. I didn’t get to bed until after two.’

‘Look, when we get to the office, why don’t you nip home for a couple of hours’ kip? I’ll sort out the invites to the Carey Awards and get them mailed out and when you come back in the afternoon we can confirm the schedule for that author tour and have it faxed to London by five,’ Francesca suggested.

‘There’s an awful lot of invites to be sent out. Over three hundred. The Carey Awards is a big event. They need to be in the post today.’ Ken yawned.

‘They will be, trust me,’ Francesca assured him.

Ken changed down to take the exit off the motor-way. ‘You’re really good at this, you know. When Monica first suggested you, I thought it wasn’t going to work out but I was desperate—’

‘So was I,’ interjected Francesca.

Ken laughed. ‘No, I mean I didn’t have great expectations, to be honest. I certainly didn’t think you’d be taking over and organizing events on your own and making big impressions on journalists,’ he added wickedly.

‘What do you mean by that?’ she demanded.

‘Oh, a certain Ralph Casson cornered me in the bar and wanted to know all about you. He thought you were intriguing!’ Ken informed her.

‘And what did you tell him?’ Francesca asked curiously.

‘I told him that you were brilliant at your job, that you’d saved my bacon, that we got on like a house on fire and that you weren’t interested in men right now. I told him your career was your priority.’

Francesca eyed him in disbelief. ‘You didn’t say that.’

‘I did. He’s a bit of a charmer, Francesca, believe me. But you probably sussed that already.’ Ken overtook a Volvo and put the boot down.

‘He had the gift of the gab, all right. Where does he live?’

‘He has an apartment on the canal somewhere, I think. His wife and two daughters live in Ranelagh.’

‘Oh!’ Francesca digested this piece of information.

‘Traffic’s not bad, sure it’s not?’ Ken remarked as they cruised through several sets of green lights. ‘We missed the worst of the rush hour and we’re going contra flow which helps.’

‘Hmm,’ murmured Francesca. She wasn’t at all interested in discussing traffic. She wanted to get back to the subject of Ralph.

‘Is he a good journalist?’ she asked a while later.

‘Who? Oh, Ralph.’ Ken was obviously miles away. ‘He knows his stuff, but he’s a nightmare to pin down and often turns up half an hour late and more for interviews. It’s a pity because he’s a good writer.’

‘I must keep an eye out for his articles. He told me that one of his pseudonyms is Brenda Carroll.’

‘I know. It’s a hoot. Lots of journalists write features under different names. I was often tempted to try and write myself.’

‘Now that
would
be something I’d like to see,’ jeered Francesca.

‘You may mock. One day I’ll surprise you,’ Ken retorted as he pulled up outside the office.

‘Go home and have a couple of hours’ sleep. I’ll phone you at half one,’ Francesca ordered.

‘Are you sure, Frannie?’

‘Perfectly, Kenneth.’

‘Right so. I don’t need to be told twice. You’re a little pet,’ Ken said.

‘Little!’ drawled Francesca as she got out of the car. ‘You certainly have the imagination for a writer. I’ll see you.’ She waved him off and let herself into the office. While she was waiting for the kettle to boil she played the answering machine and took down names and numbers to call people back. She checked the e-mails. Ken had given her a guided tour of e-mail and she was quite confident about it now. She then turned her attention to the post. She was throwing junk mail in the waste-paper basket when her mobile rang. She didn’t recognize the number that flashed up.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, this is Stephen Boyle—’

‘Oh, the estate agent,’ she cut in, her heart sinking. ‘I’ve been meaning to call. I was in Cork on business,’ she apologized.

‘Ah, Mrs Kirwan. I need to know if you’re still interested in the mews? I have a firm offer. But I did say I’d let you know what was happening.’