| Body |
"Francesca! Francesca, what are you … I mean … Francesca, how … how did you know?" Mark stuttered.
"You are the lowest of the low, Mark Kirwan." She spoke in a cold, clear voice.
It took her husband by surprise and he lowered his gaze, unable to meet her contemptuous stare.
"How dare you treat me like dirt? How dare you come from that bimbo's bed to mine?"
"Francesca, stop that," Mark snapped.
"You. Don’t you tell me what to do. You liar. You sly prick. I never want to see you again."
————————
‘I’ll ring tonight.’ Mark leaned over, pecked 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.
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.
Mark glanced at his watch as he hurried towards the automatic doors to Departures.
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.
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.
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 pecked her ardently.
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.
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.
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?
Francesca's phone rang, 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.
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.
Francesca smiled at the receptionist. ‘Hello. I’m just dropping my boss’s luggage up to him in room 311. He’s expecting me. He’s checked in. Mark Kirwan?’ She looked expectantly at the smartly groomed redhead.
‘Yes, indeed. Mr and Mrs Kirwan checked in earlier. John can help you there.’ She nodded towards the young porter who was hefting the cases onto a luggage trolley. ‘John, suite 311, please,’ she instructed.
The nerve of Mark! How dare he call his trollop Mrs Kirwan, how dare he dismiss Francesca’s right to the title so easily? she raged as she followed the porter into the lift. It glided silently to the third floor.
‘Just open the door, please, and put the cases inside,’ she said briskly, handing the young man a fiver.
‘Certainly, madam.’ The porter was delighted with his tip and inserted the key into the lock without further ado. With youthful vigour he deposited the cases in the hall, then departed swiftly, whistling to himself.
Francesca eased the door shut and surveyed the scene.
She could hear a woman’s laughter behind the door on the left-hand side. She took a deep breath, swallowed and opened the door. Mark and the woman looked over from where they were sitting, surprised.
Surprise gave way to shock as Mark recognized Francesca. He paled and jumped to his feet as she walked over to the table. The woman’s eyes opened wide and her hand went to her mouth.
‘Francesca! Francesca, what are you … I mean … Francesca, how … how did you know?’ Mark stuttered as he pulled his robe tighter around him and tied the belt.
Francesca stared at him. He looked so handsome and relaxed in the white towelling robe, his hair, still damp from his shower, curling against the collar. Up until now she hadn’t really believed what was happening. Had hoped against hope that it was all a big mistake. But there was no mistaking their intimacy. She was the outsider here.
The shock was very physical. She felt quite dazed. It was an effort to pull herself together. But she had to. For her own pride. Pride was all that would get her through this.
‘You are the lowest of the low, Mark Kirwan.’ She spoke in a cold, clear voice. Surprisingly strong. It took her husband by surprise and he lowered his gaze, unable to meet her contemptuous stare. ‘I hope our sons haven’t inherited any of your sly, lying, cheating ways. How dare you treat me like dirt? How dare you come from that bimbo's bed to mine?’
She turned to Nikki and said icily, her eyes full of scorn, ‘Did he tell you that our marriage was over? That we weren’t making love any more? He lied. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe you just don’t mind sharing a man. Well, I do. I have some self-respect. So you can have him … with pleasure. He’s obviously found his level in life and it’s pretty low.’
‘Now just a minute.’ Nikki stood up, eyes glittering. She turned angrily to Mark. ‘I won’t have her say things like that about me.’
‘Francesca, stop that,’ Mark snapped.
She turned on him furiously. ‘You. Don’t you tell me what to do. You liar. You sly prick. I never want to see you again.’
|