Francesca's Party: A Novel by Patricia Scanlan | eBook

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Francesca's Party

By Patricia Scanlan

Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.

Copyright © 2003 Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
All right reserved.
ISBN: 1-55166-746-0

Chapter One

'Idiot!' Mark Kirwan swore and pressed his fist on the horn as he accelerated the BMW and overtook an ancient Volkswagen that was crawling along at a snail's pace.

'Stupid doddery old fool,' he snapped as he glanced in the mirror and saw an elderly man behind the wheel.

'Don't be so aggressive, Mark. He looks as if he's lost,' Francesca remonstrated with her husband. She hated driving with him. He was terribly impatient.

'If he doesn't know where he's going, he shouldn't be driving in rush-hour traffic, holding everybody up. I've a flight to catch! It was bad enough with the damn taxi not turning up. I've had it with that lot. They've screwed up once too often. I've giving the account to someone else.' He drummed his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. 'For God's sake, would you look at the traffic up ahead? I'm going to miss the damn flight, I'm telling you.'

'You'll catch it,' Francesca soothed. 'Have you ever missed a flight yet?'

'There's always a first time!'

'Well, today's not that day.'

'How do you know?'

Francesca scowled. 'There's no need to be so tetchy, Mark!'

'Sorry. Sorry. I feel a bit under pressure.' Her husband flashed her a quick smile but she could see as he turned away from her that it was merely automatic. His eyes were focused on the airport roundabout. He was miles away.

Francesca sighed. What was it about men that made them feel that life revolved about them and them alone? Her two sons, Jonathan and Owen, displayed the same traits - to a far lesser degree, but it was there, despite her best efforts. It was an inbred trait in males and in Mark's case it was more pronounced than most.

He got it from his father. Gerald Kirwan was the most selfish, cranky, self-centred old buzzard that ever existed and Francesca loathed him. He had been part of her life for the past twenty-two years and he was the bane of her existence. She shopped for him, often cooked for him, endured his company for a lengthy sojourn Christmas after Christmas, and for two weeks every year when he came on holiday with them. His own daughter, Vera, would have nothing to do with him, which was very convenient for her, Francesca thought wryly as Mark turned left into Dublin Airport and inched along in the heavy traffic.

'Don't forget to collect my suits from the cleaners, and when you leave the car in the garage tell Ed that I'd like him to check out the air conditioning. There's a slight knocking in it that shouldn't be there. And don't forget to ring Lulu Kavanagh and tell her that we'll come to their dinner party.' Mark rattled off a list of instructions as he pulled up outside Departures. 'I'll ring tonight.' He leaned over, kissed 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, his black Burberry flapping in the wind.

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.

This hadn't been the plan at all today. She'd miss her book-club morning at this rate. By the time she drove home through the rush-hour traffic and took the car into the garage for its service and got a lift home from there, she could wave goodbye to at least two hours. And Mark hadn't been a bit gracious about her giving him a lift. He could at least have said thank you, she thought crossly. She indicated and slid out into the lane of traffic. It had started out as a bummer of a day; she hoped it would improve.

Mark glanced at his watch as he hurried towards the automatic doors to Departures. His lips tightened. He was late. Of all the mornings to be late. He'd nearly done his nut in the traffic. That bloody taxi firm had cocked up again. They were history. He loosened the knot of his tie a fraction as he held up his luggage for scanning. Stress like this wasn't good for him. Dick Morris at work had had a heart attack the previous week and he was only fortyone, four years younger than Mark.

The airport was manic. It didn't matter what time of the day you went there now, it was always bedlam. 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 semi-circle. Maybe, if the security man was sympathetic, she could park on the double yellows outside Departures and catch Mark before he went airside.

'Come on, come on,' she urged a green Fiesta dawdling up the ramp ahead of her and taking the only available parking spot. A silver Volvo pulled out ahead and Francesca shot into the vacant space, grabbed Mark's phone and jumped out of the car. She gazed frantically around looking for someone to explain her predicament to. The last thing she wanted was to be clamped. 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. Frances gave a wry smile and ran.

She gazed around frantically at the passengers hurrying to and fro. She didn't know his flight number. But he was going to Brussels. 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 kissed her ardently.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Francesca's Party by Patricia Scanlan Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Francesca's Party: A Novel

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