She had just completed the final, long and complex letter when she hit the wrong key accidentally and a line of x’s appeared on her lovely neat type-script.
‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she muttered. Now she’d have to do that last page again and it was ten to five.
Miss Carter’s heavy tread sent Francesca’s heart plummeting. ‘It’s almost five p.m. Mr Allen likes us to be prompt about leaving.’
‘I’ve nearly finished this,’ Francesca said tightly. Just go away and leave me alone.
‘Well, don’t be long.’ She closed the door behind her and Francesca groaned. She finished the letter and picked up the rest of them for her boss’s signature.
He perused them slowly before signing them, then franked the envelopes and handed them back to her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Kirwan. I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said gruffly.
‘Goodnight, Mr Allen,’ Francesca said tiredly. She had a pounding headache and she was knackered. She couldn’t wait to get home.
She was dozing by the fire when Owen got home. ‘How did it go?’ he asked eagerly. Francesca made a face and regaled him with her day’s events as he made her a cup of cocoa.
‘Don’t stay there if you don’t like it,’ he advised.
‘I’ll see how it goes. It was only the first day. It would be good to get a bit of speed up in my typing. I should do a course, I suppose.’ She yawned.
‘You should do a computer course, Ma, you won’t really get anywhere without computer skills now,’ Owen said sagely.
‘I suppose you’re right. I’ll do something in the spring. I have to go to bed, Owen, I’m whacked. See you in the morning.’ She dragged herself upstairs, fell into bed and fell fast asleep. It was the first time she’d fallen straight asleep in months.
The following day was almost a replica of the previous one except that she got a chance to do some photocopying and filing. The day passed quickly enough but she found Miss Carter’s unfriendliness wearing and she saw little of Edward who remained ensconced in his office.
Her third day was a Friday and she was so looking forward to the weekend. It was a busy day, client wise. Miss Carter had two and Mr Allen three. The final client arrived at four and Edward asked her to bring coffee for both of them. She carefully made the coffee, poured milk into a china jug for the client and carried it into the office. She smiled at the elderly gentleman and then to her utter dismay caught her high heel in the cable of the computer and watched horrified as two cups of coffee, a milk jug and a bowl of sugar cubes described a graceful arc and landed all over Mr Allen’s desk, splattering him and a file of papers with liquid.
‘I’m terribly sorry!’ she exclaimed in horror as Edward moved with more speed than she would have thought him capable of, gasping as the hot coffee hit him.
‘How clumsy! Mop this mess up while I go upstairs and change,’ he rasped.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Allen, Mr Walker,’ she stuttered. She dabbed ineffectually at the sodden mess on the desk.
‘Get a towel from the kitchen,’ Edward barked as he hurried out of the office.
‘Don’t fret, love,’ Mr Walker said reassuringly as he helped her put the coffee cups and sugar cubes back on the tray. ‘Get a towel and we’ll clear up this place in a jiffy.’ Francesca felt like bursting into tears. She was mortified. More to the point she was terribly afraid that she’d seriously scalded Edward. She got a towel and a cloth and mopped up as best she could but she could see that Mr Walker’s income tax form was sopping wet.
‘There’ll be plenty more where they came from,’ the old gentleman chuckled as she tried her best to dry it out. ‘Don’t worry your head about it.’
Edward reappeared. ‘You may go. We’ll forgo the coffee.’
Francesca departed the office thoroughly chastened. She felt like a ten-year-old. What a completely gauche and uncool thing to do. She sank into her chair and cursed Mark. It was all his fault that she was stuck here, she thought irrationally as she tried to concentrate on a stack of bills that had to be typed up.
Half an hour later she heard Edward show Mr Walker to the door. She tensed as she heard her boss knock on her door and walk into her office.
‘I suggest flat shoes in future. High heels are not suitable office attire,’ he said curtly and disappeared back into his office. Francesca felt thoroughly deflated.
The traffic was bumper to bumper going home and Trixie needed to be walked. Wearily she changed into jeans and running shoes and pulled on her sheepskin jacket. A walk around the houses was the most Trixie was getting tonight. She’d take her for a walk on the pier on Sunday.
The following morning she luxuriated in her lie-in. It was bliss. She made herself tea and toast and went back to bed with Vanity Fair. Millie called an hour later and Francesca couldn’t contain herself: she had to tell her of her experiences of the past three days.
‘God Almighty,’ giggled Millie. ‘I wish I’d been there. The pair of them sound like two right oddballs.’
‘They are, believe me. Miss Carter has the hots for Edward. She blushes if he looks at her. He can only think of his precious calculator. He never comes out of the office. And you should see the antique office equipment. The copier sounds as if it’s going to expire every time I copy something and the typewriter is out of the ark.’
‘Why don’t you give it up and get something better if you want to work?’
‘I’m not trained for anything, Millie. I’m too old.’
‘Rubbish,’ scoffed her sister. ‘You’re an intelligent woman, you shouldn’t be content vegetating in that place.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Francesca retorted.
‘True,’ Millie conceded mildly. ‘Just don’t limit your opportunities.’
Francesca thought of her sister’s words as the following week dragged slowly by. On the Wednesday morning, Miss Carter presented her with a cassette. ‘Please have these letters completed by lunchtime. They’re quite detailed so take extra care,’ she instructed.
Francesca took the cassette and inserted it into her Dictaphone. She listened to the letters once before typing them, to get their gist. She pressed the replay button and heard a strange whirring sound. She nearly had a heart attack as she pressed rewind and heard an even worse noise. Frantically she opened the Dictaphone. She couldn’t believe her eyes as she saw the gobbled-up tape in ribbons.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she muttered. ‘Oh shit!’ Miss Carter would have a canary. Francesca sat looking out the window. Her panic receded. She had enough crap in her life. She didn’t need this. She was forty years old, a mother. What was she doing waiting to be chastised by Prudy Carter? She slipped her coat on and picked up her bag. She placed the tape in an envelope and wrote on the outside: I suggest you update your equipment. I resign.
She closed the office door behind her and let herself out as quietly as she could and felt the salt sea breeze on her face. Her first foray into the workforce had been a disaster. She wasn’t going to repeat that experience in a hurry. Just as well she hadn’t said anything to Mark. If he knew of her failure, her humiliation would be truly complete.
Joan Carter dropped Francesca’s resignation note in the bin and smiled triumphantly to herself. She hadn’t lasted long. Just as well. Francesca was a very glamorous woman. Joan had envied her from the bottom of her heart. How she longed to be tall and striking and confident and sophisticated, then perhaps dear Edward would take some notice of her. But she was small and plump and plain and it was only in times of crisis, such as now, that her beloved realized just how much he depended on her. She would make him a nice strong cup of coffee just the way he liked it and break the news of Francesca’s departure. And, until the next interloper arrived, dear Edward would be all hers. Today was a happy day indeed.
Chapter Eighteen
June
‘I SAW MARK and his new lady friend at the theatre last night,’ Eva Collins prattled artlessly as the book-club group took a break from their discussion of Sheila O’Fl
anagan’s delightfully bitchy novel, Far From Over.
‘For goodness’ sake, Eva!’ Janet Dalton snapped, seeing the expression on Francesca’s face.
‘Oh, oh … sorry!’ Eva realized that she had made a faux pas.
‘It’s OK, Eva. Don’t apologize,’ Francesca said coolly. ‘You don’t have to tiptoe around the subject. It’s six months now, I am adjusting.’
‘Of course you are, dear.’ Eva flashed a triumphant look at Janet. ‘You’re doing very well indeed. You look much better than you did. That ghastly pallor is gone. What you need now is a nice holiday in the sun to bring a bit of colour to your cheeks. And who knows, you might even have a little holiday romance for yourself to perk your spirits up and give you back your confidence. Mark and his lady friend had wonderful tans. They must have been away.’
‘Eva, would you pass me the sugar, please,’ Janet growled and Francesca gave her a grateful smile. Janet was a dear and if Eva didn’t shut up soon, Janet was going to let her have it. She could see Janet’s annoyance on her behalf and it warmed her. Eva Collins was a gossipy old bitch and a plonkie as well, Francesca thought resentfully as she tried to keep her composure. She felt like crying. Hatred against her husband surged and swamped her like a tidal wave.
It was almost a physical blow to hear that Mark had been seen out and about with that woman. She felt wounded. And to think they had been on holiday together. Having fun. Making love. Did Mark ever think about her at all? Did he feel nothing for the pain he had caused her? Was she of so little consequence to him?
Her heart contracted with hurt and despair. She was lying when she said that she was adjusting. It was getting harder and harder, she thought in bewilderment. After her disastrous experience at Allen & Co. she’d become more reclusive than ever. Her self-confidence was nil. Every time she thought of the cowardly way she’d run from that office, she cringed. It was so unlike her. She’d changed so much since Mark had left her. She couldn’t hack her marriage break-up even after six months.
Millie was always giving her pep talks, telling her to get out and about, but Francesca just didn’t have the heart for it. She preferred to stay at home reading or watching TV rather than going out to meet people.
She’d kept on the book-club morning because she enjoyed it, but she’d given up her art class, mainly because Viv was in it and she was always pumping her for news and bringing up the subject of the separation. She hadn’t been to the gym in months and she felt flabby and unfit. So much for losing weight, she thought wryly. She’d put it on.
In her fantasies of course she became slender and toned and looked a million dollars and swanned around on rich men’s arms much to Mark’s chagrin. If it weren’t for her fantasies she would have gone round the twist altogether.
One day she would get it together, she kept promising herself. But not today. It was too much of an effort. It was far easier to wallow in self-pity and hug her suppurating wound to herself. No-one had ever suffered like she had, Francesca assured herself. Her pain and her grief were deeper than anyone else’s. Her betrayal was the betrayal of all betrayals. The sharp, intense dart of anger and jealousy reminded her of just how betrayed she felt and how much of a shit Mark was. Would her emotions always be this intense? she wondered wearily.
‘I’ll tell you, Francesca, you’re lucky that your boys are grown up.’ Eva intruded on her thoughts as she nibbled at a cracker. Eva eyed Francesca slyly. She was watching her figure. She didn’t want to end up looking stodgy and fat like the younger woman, although it gave her great satisfaction to notice the pounds creeping up on the woman she had always envied.
‘Why is that, Eva?’ Francesca responded politely, waiting for the next clanger with some anticipation.
‘Well, at least they can deal with the break-up in some sort of mature way. Colin Doyle walked out on his wife for a twenty-year-old air hostess and he has two young daughters that he never sees. Do you know how he communicates with them?’
There was silence around the table as the six other women waited for Eva’s next titbit.
‘He e-mails them. Can you believe it? E-mail. Rita is going up the walls over it because they’re becoming quite a handful. It’s all emotional, of course. Feelings of abandonment and rejection, a child therapist told her. And imagine, that bastard wouldn’t even go with her to discuss it. How selfish can you get?’ she added self-righteously. ‘I just don’t understand it.’
‘Eva, men come from a different planet,’ interjected Frances Kelly caustically. ‘They are a different species entirely. The trouble with men is that they’re not women.’
Everyone laughed, even Francesca.
‘Wait until I tell you about my fella,’ Margo Williams declared … Francesca sighed as the conversation eddied and flowed around her. Mark e-mailed Jonathan regularly, she knew that. They were civil to each other but Owen would have nothing to do with his father and that grieved her, although she was deeply touched by his loyalty. A father and son shouldn’t be estranged. She was worried about Owen. He was doing his finals and he was as moody as hell. Apart from the stress of the exams, Francesca knew that he was worried about her. He still wanted to go to the States for the summer but he felt guilty about leaving her, no matter how much she assured him that she would be fine.
She knew in her heart and soul that it wasn’t right for her to be depending on him. He had his own life to lead. But she’d be terribly lonely without him. He was good at cheering her up. He teased her and made her forget her troubles for a while and he often bought her little treats out of the blue like a book by a favourite author or a CD he knew that she’d like. He’d drag her out for a walk with Trixie and tease her about how unfit she was. But as the exams had drawn closer, he’d had to buckle down and study, and as the pressure’d mounted he’d become tetchy and stressed. Francesca knew that he had to have his own space and she’d tried not to be needy.
Being alone was a nightmare though. Nothing had prepared her for it. She’d read articles about women whose husbands had left them and how they’d made new lives for themselves and discovered resources within that they didn’t realize they had. They made her feel bloody inadequate, she thought resentfully. She didn’t have any resources worth mentioning. She seemed to be living in a fog. Getting through one day after another, each one more or less the same as the last, with no objectives or goals to strive for. Nothing to give her life focus. She was simply existing. Mark had set up a separate bank account for her and closed their joint account. He paid a standing order into it once a month. He was still keeping her, supporting her financially, and part of her hated it. She felt like a beggar with her hand out. But why should she feel like that? she argued with herself fiercely. She’d supported him emotionally, nurtured him, kept house for him, reared his children and looked after his father for the duration of their marriage. She had made her contribution to their life together, to their future, and he had gone and snatched that future from under her. She’d had no time to prepare for her swift and drastic change of circumstances. He could damn well support her, she raged.
She hadn’t seen Mark for three months. In the new year, he’d come back a couple of times to collect further belongings and clear out his small study of personal papers. Each time he’d called she’d left him to it and taken Trixie for a walk on Howth Pier, telling him to put on the alarm when he was leaving. Otherwise all their business was conducted in terse, unfriendly phone calls.
The last time she’d seen him had been at a mutual friend’s mother’s funeral. They’d sat stiffly side by side in the church and she’d sneaked occasional little looks at him and was furious because he looked so well. His hair was cut short, tighter than he’d worn it when he was with her. It made him look younger, and somehow less of a banker type than before. He looked fit and lean and healthy, and she was extremely conscious of her extra pounds. She’d hoped that he might appear stressed and tired like she was so that she could comfort herself that he wasn’t lying on a bed of roses eith
er. It was absolutely galling to see him looking so well cared for. Francesca couldn’t suppress her bitterness and had given short, clipped answers to all his polite queries about her wellbeing. He’d invited her to Roly’s for lunch afterwards but she’d refused. Said she had appointments to keep and felt furious at him that he had the nerve to think that she would sit through a lunch with him making polite chit-chat as though nothing of consequence had happened to them.
She wanted to scream at him that he had ruined her life, and destroyed her trust. She’d wanted to call him every vile and vicious name that she could think of. She’d walked away from him in the graveyard struggling to keep her composure, determined that he would not see the tears in her eyes. She’d gone home, cried her eyes out and then eaten a packet of Jaffa Cakes to comfort herself. She hadn’t tasted even one of them and had been disgusted with herself for her gluttony. It had been one of the worst days and nights she’d endured since their separation. And, incomprehensibly, as she’d lain in their big double bed and remembered how well he’d looked, desire had suffused her and she longed to feel his arms around her and his hard body on top of hers comforting her with the intimacy of loving, companionable sex.
The aching want enraged and terrified her at the same time. Would she ever have sex again? Would she ever feel safe and trusting within the shelter of a man’s arms? Was aloneness her way of life from now on? Mark didn’t have those fears or unfulfilled desires, she thought angrily, picturing him lying in bed with his chic, sexy, career woman who probably knew the Kama Sutra off by heart. His needs and desires were being taken care of. That was all that mattered to him. He probably never even gave her a thought these days.
He seemed totally unruffled by their separation. He’d gone seamlessly from his marriage to her, to his relationship with that bitch. It infuriated Francesca. How come that he wasn’t suffering like she was? She knew that he wasn’t having sleepless nights, his stomach knotted up in fear and tension, floundering about with no prospects of peace of mind ever coming his way again. That was the legacy he had dumped on her. Her despair was all his fault. She’d groaned as she pummelled the pillows into a comfortable shape and tried desperately to sleep. The harder she tried the more it eluded her until in desperation she’d swallowed two sleeping tablets. Anything for oblivion, she thought grimly, ignoring the niggling feeling of guilt that she was taking far too many sleeping tablets lately and that it really wasn’t a solution.
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