Family Affairs Page 2

  “Fáilte ar ais, grá ár gcroí.” Professor Patrick Fitzgerald toasted Frankie in his native Irish tongue. “Welcome back, love of our hearts.” And almost the entire family raised their glasses, clinking happily and loudly with each other. “Sláinte mhait!” Good health!

  Up to her elbows in hot soapy water, Caro, the eldest Fitzgerald daughter, tackled the pots and pans while Molly, the youngest at twenty-two, stacked and restacked the dishwasher, trying to get the most amount of crockery into it as possible. Flynn and Frankie used tea towels to dry what Caro was washing, while Alice, the middle sister, was no help at all, except as entertainment value as she leapt about to some very loud rock music Toby had insisted on putting on. Toby himself was sitting on the counter lapping up the attention the youngest member of this family always got.

  The chat was general, the main subject on everyone’s mind completely avoided. Once the dishwasher was running and the glasses refilled, the high spirits continued. Alice regaled the group with hilarious stories of customers from her trendy restaurant in Dublin’s fashionable Temple Bar district. She had such a sharp sense of sarcasm mixed with humour that she had everyone laughing hysterically before long. The addition of theatrical gestures and accents to her tales made some perhaps once normal dining experiences seem comical.

  “The noise level is astronomical in here.” Patrick stuck his head around the door. “And if you don’t all come into the drawing room, I’ll have single-handedly emptied the bottle of brandy. Come on, you lot. Kitchen duty is over and it’s time for a night cap.” Not taking no for an answer, he began hustling all of them out into the hall. Snagging an arm over Toby’s shoulder he hugged him close, drawing him along with the others. “Come on, Grandson, you can help pour and hand them around – it’ll be good practice for when your aunt lets you wait tables in the restaurant.”

  “There’s no way that street urchin of Caro’s is going to darken the door of my esteemed eating establishment.” Alice’s words were only slightly slurred as she pointed her finger in Toby’s direction. “You’ve got to be kidding, Dad; he’d frighten off actual paying customers.” She plonked herself onto the sofa, legs swung over the arm in a relaxed pose.

  Toby, obviously well used to the ribbing, handed his loving relatives their snifters, playfully sticking his tongue out at them.

  “I wouldn’t work in that dive of a place for love nor money,” he declared and promptly blushed as they all laughed at him, knowing full well his dream was to be a chef there at the earliest possible moment.

  Toby, Frankie was informed, had been cooking since he was about nine and regularly produced dinners you could “give to people”, as they joked in the family. If he weren’t in charge of the meals at home, Caro would live on cereal and chocolate and a hastily grabbed bottle of water.

  As Toby shyly handed Frankie her brandy she could almost hear what he was thinking, see what he was seeing, and she was honest enough to know that his version of her wasn’t the truth. Toby wouldn’t see the exhaustion or strain. He’d see the same face that regularly featured in every fashion or gossip magazine, every art review or theatre preview in The Sunday Times.

  He’d notice deep grey, thickly lashed eyes that appeared to tilt upwards at the side, the straight nose and full mouth with the lower lip giving the hint of a pout. Toby wouldn’t realise her cheekbones were more prominent than usual, just that they gave her face a slightly exotic look. Surrounded by a cloud of mink brown hair falling in thick waves about her shoulders, she knew Toby would see her beauty. She wasn’t being vain – this was just her face. Frankie, well used to admiration from all ages, was nevertheless humbled by the obvious devotion.

  “Thanks, Toby, I really don’t need this drink, but seeing how you’ve presented it so professionally, I shall have to indulge myself.” She raised her glass in a toast, just to him, and sipped the fiery amber liquid. “Perfect,” she declared. “Whatever those awful relatives of yours say, you’ll be an asset to any fine restaurant!”

  There was laughter and a snort from Ali as the rest of the assembled group sipped their drinks and grinned at the bedazzled teenager.

  Caro perched on the arm of Frankie’s chair. “Well, you’ve done it now! You’ll be the sole object of his affection till school starts again in September, where hopefully Vivienne Maguire will sit across from him in maths.”

  “He’s a wonderful boy, Caro. You’ve done such a good job raising him – you must be very proud.”

  “I am proud – but not of myself. Of Toby. Sometimes I wonder which of us does the better parenting job! But seriously, though, he’s healthy and happy and no mum could ask for more. The fact that he’s divinely handsome, smart as a whip, funny and charming,” she continued with an almost straight face, “is entirely accidental.”

  Caro looked lovingly across at her son as he listened to some comment of Grandma Jo’s, his smile as wide and bright as any parent could hope, and Frankie could see her friend’s heart practically swell. God, Caro was lucky to have him. Noting his colouring, the trademark chestnut–auburn hair of the Fitzgeralds, she wondered, as they all had at one time or another, where the deep chocolate-coloured eyes and lightly tanned skin came from.

  Realising that she’d spent most of the evening watching and listening to the others gabbing away and that therefore she’d spent little or no time dwelling on herself, Frankie decided she’d head for bed in the hopes of a dreamless night. Gracefully unfolding herself from the armchair, she moved directly to where Jo was seated on the couch next to Alice and, bending down, hugged her briefly. She stood up straight and turned to the room in general.

  “Thank you for a wonderful ‘fatted calf’ evening.” She ignored Molly’s choking sounds and continued, “Thank you all for turning up – it was really sweet of you.”

  As each of the Fitzgeralds hurled “insults” in her direction about her being a lazy sod, a party-pooper and a “fader”, Frankie was passed from one to the other for hugs and kisses then gently propelled out of the door and towards the staircase.

  “I don’t want to see you before midday at the earliest,” Jo called. “Sleep is your first priority, followed by food and fun. Despite what this shower of reprobates have said, they’ll all want a piece of you over the next while, so we’ll work out a plan tomorrow or the next day. Goodnight, darling. We’re so very happy you’re here.”

  ***

  Devlin Fitzgerald slammed his jeep door and slung a heavy bag over his shoulder. The house was lit from within and the driveway had a snazzy BMW parked to the side. The parents must have visitors, he figured, and noticed Ali’s bike leaning against the hedge. Hmm, was everyone home? There’d been a boring grey car parked on the street, which could be one of Flynn’s unmarked vehicles he was obliged to switch regularly. He’d just slip inside quietly and grab a bite from the kitchen – the last thing he needed was a whole bloody gang of people bugging him about his exhibition, his work, his life.

  He turned his key in the front door and nudged it open with his hip. The same hip edged it closed with as little noise as possible. Shifting his gear down to the ground, he kicked its bulk to the side, under the hall table. Just for a moment, he promised himself, while I eat and then I’ll move it.

  Something caught his attention, some noise or movement, and he swivelled his head to the end of the hall, which lay in relative darkness. A woman stood there. Tall, slender and, at present, with one of her hands covering her mouth while the other splayed over her chest. She was obviously as shocked to see him coming in the door as he was to see her.

  A heartbeat, and Devlin knew.

  Oh fuck, no. I can’t do this. Not now.

  Francesca Jones, bloody film icon and award-winning actress, sauntered towards him. Her fists were now resting on her hips as she smiled a greeting.

  “As I live and breathe. Photographer to the stars in person, if I’m not mistaken.” She leaned in to give him a peck on the cheek before he could angle away.

  Please don’t
. Please don’t . . . aw, fuck. Her perfume, her touch, just enveloped him and she hadn’t even hugged him. Just a light kiss between pals.

  Yeah. Pals.

  Who was he kidding?

  “Jones. What the heck are you doing here?” he asked as unwelcomingly as possible.

  “Just visiting the family for a bit.”

  Her voice. Shit. Arrow straight to the groin. Husky. Hot. A myriad of accents rolled into just hers. He had to get out of here. Dev reached down for his bag and hauled it up in front of him like a barrier.

  “Well. That’s nice. Have fun. I gotta go.”

  And like the coward he was, the coward he’d turned into with just one look from her, he turned and fled.

  Chapter 2

  Her head spinning, Frankie sank gratefully into one of the welcoming plush armchairs of The Westbury Hotel, just off Grafton Street, on Dublin’s main shopping trail. She was meeting Caro, Alice and Molly for afternoon tea and a “girly” gossip, and she was wiped out from some serious retail therapy with no stop for lunch, having preferred to tackle the boutiques while the mood struck. Quickly ordering tea and trimmings for four from the discreet waitress, she let her head fall back on the velvety softness and closed her eyes.

  She loved The Westbury. It had the best-trained staff and management never made a fuss when celebrities like herself arrived. MacMillan, the general manager, had greeted her with both warmth and politeness as she’d been shown to a quieter section where she’d been assured no one would bother her or her guests.

  Ignoring the admiring glances that had been thrown her way as she moved across the lobby, Frankie took a few moments of undisturbed time for herself. The last ten days had been an absolute escape from all the trauma and baggage she’d been carrying for weeks and, although she was exhausted and worn out, it was of quite a different kind. Her troubling dreams were coming less often. Her anxiety levels were definitely easing and her bottle of antacids opened less frequently.

  For three days after her arrival at the Fitzgerald house she’d forced herself to do as little as possible. She slept late in the mornings and went to bed early in the evenings. Then, once her jet lag was over, she began going for walks – up Killiney Hill and down along the rocky shore, up to Dalkey Castle and back again, along the coast road to Sandycove, then on to Dun Laoghaire Pier before taking the DART, the local train service, to Monkstown and Seapoint. All the old haunts from her teenage years were revisited and rediscovered.

  Almost everywhere she went, a Fitzgerald of some description went, too. The company was most welcome, as there was much catching up to do, and the constant support kept her from looking over her shoulder, or flinching at the sound of a car backfiring or a sudden horn disturbing a silence.

  Alice reintroduced her to the delights of Temple Bar with its coffee shops, galleries, pubs, restaurants and theatres. Several evenings she’d ended up eating in the restaurant with at least one other member of the family and always joined, albeit briefly, by Alice herself.

  Day by day she began to relax and while she refused to discuss her “issues” with the family, these concerns were never far away. Hurt and pain were lurking beneath the surface, and Frankie was well aware that it was only a matter of time before she’d have to face it, grieve for her losses and deal with the constant fear that followed her. Memories would flood in at odd times and guilt made its presence known like a simmering pot in the background. But, for now, peace and quiet was the order of the day and if she could just take a few more minutes . . .

  “Oh. My. God!” the youngest Fitzgerald gasped.

  Frankie’s eyes flew open. Standing before her, Molly and Alice were gaping at the selection of dozens of shopping bags all emblazoned with designer names and logos. They were also gaping at the seated woman before them, dressed from head to toe in cream linen trousers and blouse, with a mocha-coloured cardigan swung naturally over her shoulders and exquisite cream Italian leather loafers on her feet. Her dark mane of hair lay spread out behind her, held back by Ray-Ban sunglasses atop her head. She was pale but beautiful, with only a touch of coral lip gloss adorning her face.

  “Feck, woman, do they not have enough swanky shops in New York that you have to come and buy up our city, as well?” Alice was ogling the purchases and threw herself down on the couch next to where Frankie was sitting.

  “Bloody hell, Frankie, did you not bring any clothes with you?” Molly demanded.

  “Do I detect a note of jealousy, my friends?” Frankie smiled at the two as she stirred from her reverie. “And where’s Caro?”

  “Here! I’m here.” Caro came hurrying up looking flushed and apologetic. “Sorry I’m late; I got held up at a meeting. Christ, Frankie, you’ve done some damage!” She practically tripped over the pile of bags littering the floor before easing into a plush oversized armchair.

  The afternoon tea arrived and the four women busied themselves pouring and handing around the dainty sandwiches and buns. Once they were all settled and the first pangs of hunger and thirst were quenched, Frankie began rummaging among her spoils.

  “Now,” she said. “I have something for each of you!” Pulling over one of the Paul Costelloe bags, she delved in and then handed Caro a package beautifully wrapped in tissue paper. Inside lay a signature sleeveless linen blouse in a pale butter colour.

  “Oh! you sweetheart. It’s stunning! Thank you sooo much!” Caro held the blouse up to her, smoothing it against her rather scruffy T-shirt.

  “Gorgeous!” Alice agreed.

  “Perfect for you!” Molly added.

  “The colour’s fab against your skin.” Frankie had to agree – it was a good choice.

  “Me next, me next,” Molly begged, bouncing eagerly on the soft sofa while Caro enveloped Frankie in a big hug.

  Frankie disentangled herself from her grateful friend and dug out a small square box with the Design Centre logo embossed on the lid. Molly opened it and gasped in delight. A silver bangle with intricate cut-out work gleamed back at her.

  “Wow! Frankie, it’s just deadly!” She quickly slipped it on and displayed her wrist for view.

  It looked so delicate on her arm and her genuine delight warmed Frankie’s heart.

  “Ali, I puzzled over you for some time as your taste in clothes leaves a lot to be desired! And you wear the oddest jewellery – I’ve seen you in simple gold chains and totally funky stones with leather bits and feathers, and I decided not to go there! So, I’m giving you something I had, but promise I never wore. Here, I think we’re the same size.” Frankie handed Alice a brown cardboard box she’d had in her caramel-coloured Italian leather backpack.

  “Girls!” she shrieked. “Look at these!” Holding up a pair of red-and-white polka-dot Jimmy Choos, she danced a little jig of delight. Kicking off her trainers and socks and yanking up her combat trousers, she fitted the slingbacks in place. Her long, slim feet looked like they were made for the expensive footwear.

  Frankie poured more tea as the girls thanked her again. Sipping her Darjeeling with lemon, she felt the stirrings of joy bubble inside. If felt so good to bring fun and presents to her favourite people. Frankie had never been one to throw her considerable wealth around or to show off in front of her friends, but she was a very generous person and the three Fitzgerald women knew her well enough to know she got a kick out of giving and wanted nothing in return. They all knew none of them could begin to match those kinds of presents, but they also knew that Frankie relied on them in other ways, so it all evened out.

  “So what’s in all the other bags?” the Fitzgerald crew wanted to know.

  “Presents for the rest of your family and some bits and pieces for myself. I just love your designers, so it’s a treat for me to pick up some Lainey Keogh, Paul Costelloe basics, two divine Peter O’Brien gowns, a few Mariad Whisker and some lovely Louise Kennedy, but I have to say I wish you had a Gap here. I could do with some plain white T-shirts and jeans.”

  “There’s a Gap on Henry Street – I think it
’s part of a bigger shop but I know it’s there. I’ll be over that way later and can grab you a few pieces,” Molly offered. “You should probably hit the Dundrum shopping centre, as well. I imagine you could do some serious damage there!”

  “Would you really get some jeans for me? That’s brilliant! I’m exhausted now and the thought of trekking across town is just too much. Though I remember the Dundrum place, so I’ll definitely save it for another day.”

  After the exchange of cash was handled and styles and sizes were discussed, the women ordered another pot of tea and sank into the comfortable chairs and couches once more.

  “I’m going to head west tomorrow,” Frankie said. “So this’ll probably be the last visit we’ll have for a while. Your parents have offered me the lodge for as long as I need and I’ve looked into hanging on to the rental car for a longer lease and driving over.”

  “Is Mum sure the lodge is free?” Caro asked. “I mean, have they lent it out or anything? You know how forgetful she is.”

  While Frankie was sipping her tea, Alice and Molly exchanged glances simultaneously, shrugging their shoulders in ignorance.

  “I really do feel I need this time to myself,” Frankie continued. “Things have been so crazy and I need to get my head around all that’s happened.”

  There was an expectant silence as Alice, Caro and Molly waited with bated breath to hear what Frankie was finally about to reveal.

  “Umm, I guess you all knew I was engaged before, well, um, until recently?”