Last of the Great Romantics (27 page)

'Yes, Allonby. A.L.L.O.N.B.Y. Now if you're both quite finished giving me the third degree, I'd very much like to see Eleanor. That's presuming I'm allowed see my best friend without being fingerprinted first.'

After what felt like an eternity, Jasper eventually handed back the drivers licence and grudgingly admitted it to be genuine.

'Thank God for that,' replied Simon dryly. 'Well, much as I've enjoyed this wee chat, I'm afraid I really must be getting along.'

'
Car keys',
snarled Jasper. 'Your car's a security threat parked there. Give me the keys and I'll move it for you.'

Simon tossed them over and wearily made his way up the steps.

'SAY THANK YOU OR I'LL FLING THE KEYS INTO LOCH MOLUAG,' Jasper howled after him.

'Thank you soooo much,' muttered Simon, not even turning back.

'That's grand so,' said Jasper calmly, tramping off to shift the car. 'Bit of manners, bit of respect, that's all I'm asking for.'

Mortified, Daisy raced up the steps to catch up with Simon just inside the hall door. 'You'll have to excuse Jasper,' she said breathlessly. 'He's, emm, been away for a long time and emm . . .' She racked her brains to think of a tactful way to explain.

'I don't mean to be rude, but I think your brother might need to brush up on his social skills just a wee tad.'

'We're cousins.' Daisy blushed, although given how alike she and Jasper were, this was a relatively easy mistake to make.

Simon was standing at the reception desk by now, impatiently tapping his fingers on the visitors' book, waiting to be helped. Daisy jumped to, remembered what was expected of her as acting manager and hopped around to the other side of the desk, nervously leafing through the room allocations which Julia had practically sweated blood over. 'Allonby . . . Allonby . . .' she mumbled, scanning the list for his name. 'Yes, I've found you. You're a day early checking in, but it's OK, your room is ready for you. You're not actually staying in the Hall itself, you've been given a room in the old outhouse . . . I'm sorry, I mean in the newly refurbished part of the hotel which is only a short walk away.' She checked herself just in time, wondering why in God's name this guy was making her so jumpy. Yeah, sure, he was kind of cute, but not in the Mark Lloyd category, not by a long shot. 'So you're the team doctor for Oldcastle then? Wow, I'd say you could tell a few stories.'

'A few.'

'So how is Mark? He was here you know, to have a look at the Hall, and he was just so charming and lovely . . . and . . . well, Eleanor's
soooo
jammy, isn't she?'

'Speaking of Eleanor, do you think I could see her? If you could tell me where she is, I'll find my own way.' He wasn't even looking at Daisy, just staring intently at the staircase, impatient to be gone.

'I'll call her room for you and see if she's there,' she replied coolly, picking up the reception phone and checking for the room number. Was this guy rude or what?

'I'd hate to see you break a sweat or anything, but it is urgent.'

Daisy stopped dialling to glare at him. 'Excuse me?'

'Now, I know when you look up the word "urgent" in an Irish dictionary, it says: "Ah sure, what's your rush, there's time for another six pints of Guinness yet", but this really, really is a crisis, so if you just give me her room number, I won't detain you from terrorizing more guests on your driveway.'

'She's in the Edward the Seventh Suite, being interviewed,' replied Daisy, curtly replacing the receiver and deliberately keeping her cool. 'It's on the second floor on the left,' she added, not even bothering to show him the way.

'Being interviewed?'

'Yes. For the wedding. About how lucky she is to be marrying Mark Lloyd. Normal bridal stuff, you know.'

'Lucky is not a word I'd use.'

'Ignorant git,' she muttered under her breath as soon as he was safely out of sight. 'If he doesn't watch it, I'll introduce him to Shelley-Marie.'

It was late, well after eleven o'clock that night, before Lucasta and Mrs Flanagan arrived back at the Hall after a long-standing commitment which had occupied the pair of them for the past few days. They were attending a protest rally in Dublin to demonstrate against the smoking ban which the Irish Government proposed to introduce at the end of the month. They'd both sat on the organizing committee and their march was to take them from Parnell Square right to the main gates of Government Buildings. 'We'll bring our campaign right to their doorstep, see how the fascists like it,' Lucasta had snarled. She and Mrs Flanagan had spent many happy hours in the family room designing and making dozens of banners with slogans like: 'Honk if you hate the ban!', 'If you've a problem with smoke, stay home', 'Nicotine Nazis, Out!' and, the pièce de résistance: 'Puff Off!'

So just after breakfast had finished, the pair of them trundled off, clattering their signs loudly behind them and boasting that this could very well be the first bloodless coup in the history of the state. However, things had not entirely gone according to plan and by the time they wearily trudged back to the Hall, they were both in the depths of depression at the complete and utter failure of their mission. Apart from the fact that only a tiny handful of stragglers had joined in their protest march (some of whom were semi-professional protesters and arrived fully dressed in May-Day riot gear), the publicity generated was little short of dismal.

'One fecking paragraph on page twelve of the
Blanchardstown Bugle?'
Mrs Flanagan moaned. 'Tucked away under the weather report, so ya can hardly see it? And the bastards even cut me out of the photo; they just put in you looking like a mental patient with a banner that says "we all have to die of something". Is that what I walked me bleeding feet raw for? I could have done Lough Derg today, I'm that knackered.'

'Oh, shut your bloody whining, where's the Dunkirk spirit?' Lucasta snapped. 'It's just a minor setback, that's all. We need to regroup, rethink our strategy . . .'

'A
minor
setback? That copper at Government Buildings said that in the history of lunatic demonstrations, this one was up there with the "how do you know St Patrick wasn't gay" Lesbian Alliance march, and you're calling this a minor setback?'

'Your negativity is knocking my aura off kilter, now shut up and let's pour ourselves a nice, soothing couple of g. and t.s at the bar. Might as well drink ourselves senseless and be thankful that at least we have one small pleasure the bloody Government can't throw us in jail for.'

They were about to trounce upstairs to the Long Gallery when the phone at reception rang. Mrs Flanagan was over like a bullet, sore feet notwithstanding. 'I listen to the red-hot sound of Sun FM, Kildare's coolest radio station by miles.'

Ever since Portia had left, this was her standard way of answering the phone, whenever she could get to it before either Daisy or whatever duty manager happened to be on. It was an ongoing battle between them; Mrs Flanagan was hoping that she might win a cash prize or, better still, a holiday abroad ever since the station started running this stupid promotion and kept grabbing the phone whenever she could. It led to endless bickering between them as Daisy quite rightly maintained that if either Portia or Andrew were to find out, they'd have a fit. This time, however, they weren't around to hear.

A crisp, clipped woman's voice on the other end of the phone said, 'This is Phoenix Park House calling. Could you put me through to Lucasta, Lady Davenport, please? I have a call holding for her. Thank you.'

'Yer not looking for the cash call amount for this hour then, are ya, luv?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Ahh, no bother then, luv, just hang on to yer knickers for a minute. She's right here beside me,' Mrs Flanagan replied, waving like a lunatic for Lucasta to come and join her.

'Who is it?' said Lucasta, taking the phone from her.

'Dunno. Phoenix Park House was all yer one said.'

Lucasta gasped and covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand. 'Do you think they heard about our protest today and now they're phoning to complain? Or arrest us, even?' Her tone was hopeful, as though the column inches this would generate could only boost their campaign.

'Lucasta Davenport speaking,' she said grandly, 'Acting President of the Nicotine Nazis' Puff Off campaign. May I help you?'

'Please hold for a call, thank you.'

'Hello?' A man's voice, deep and resonant.

'Yes, who is this?'

'It's Robert Armstrong here. Please excuse me for ringing so late, but—'

'I know that name from somewhere.'

Robert laughed. 'We met only a few weeks ago, actually, at your opening night launch party, perhaps you remember? Anyway, the reason I'm calling is . . .'

'Oh bugger,' Lucasta whispered, this time not bothering to cover the mouthpiece. 'It's that head case from the opening night piss-up. The one who kept saying he was the President of Ireland or some load of shite like that. Hello?'

'Yes, I'm still here,' Robert replied patiently. 'The thing is, you see, my future son-in-law, Mark, is playing in a friendly soccer match against Ireland on Thursday, and I was wondering if I could organize some tickets for you, and your family, of course. Unfortunately, I won't have the pleasure of your company as I have to go to Beijing on a trade mission but Eleanor tells me this is the least we can do after all your kind help in organizing what I'm sure will be a wonderful wedding.'

'Oh dear, oh dear. Are you some sort of retard?' Lucasta cooed sympathetically. 'Does your psychiatrist know that you're making these phone calls? Yes, a football match sounds absolutely delightful and I'll tell you what. Why don't you send Apollo Thirteen around to collect us?'

Chapter Seventeen

A few days earlier, a continent away . . .

The day had started out all right, as Andrew hurriedly pecked Portia on the cheek on his way out of the door, overtired and late for work, as usual. 'It's all going to be fine darling,' he said. 'I've organized a car to collect her from the airport, she'll be in town by about fourish, so all I'm asking you to do is call her hotel and see if she's OK. That's all. Promise.'

Portia nodded. Like she had a choice.

'So, maybe we could have dinner with her later on?' He ran his fingers through his hair in that nervy way he had.

'Of course,' she said automatically. Like we're going to leave Baroness Thatcher on her own, her first night in New York?

'The three of us, I meant.'

'I know.'

'And maybe you'd spend a bit of time with her when she gets into town? I know she'd really love that.'

Portia couldn't bring herself to answer that one, knowing full well that Susan de Courcey would prefer a night in Fallujah to an afternoon in her daughter-in-law's company.

'Thanks, honey. Dunno what I'd do without you. I'll make it up to you, I promise.'

He bent down to kiss her, and she would have loved nothing more than to slide her arms around his neck and hug him tight, but just then, right on cue, Consuela, the cleaning lady, arrived.

'Holà, buenos días,'
she grunted, shoving past them. Consuela was used to having the run of the apartment and it bugged her to have irritating distractions such as the people who actually lived there cheekily getting under her feet.

'Later, hmm?' was all Andrew said as he absent-mindedly pecked her on the cheek and was gone.

Portia closed the door behind him, made for the bathroom and snapped into action. OK, OK, OK, she reasoned with herself, so this isn't exactly how she thought her romantic trip to New York would pan out, but what could she do? Nothing. Susan was, after all, Andrew's mother; she was probably only going to be in town for a short stay and that was all there was to it. And anyway, she figured, it wasn't as though she was staying with them; Andrew said she always stayed at the same hotel, so at least that was something. She stepped into the shower, shuddering at the thought of what lay ahead over the next few days. Bad enough that she'd barely had any time alone with him since she arrived, bad enough that Lynn bloody Fairweather seemed incapable of wiping her bum without first consulting Portia, but now this . . .

She sighed and let the power shower gush all over her, the carefully positioned jets hitting her muscles in places where she didn't even know she had places. Just a few more days, she thought, just a few days and then she'd finally have her husband to herself. . .

Andrew had given her a cell phone, which was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing to be able to keep in contact with him all day; a curse because Lynn the human stick insect had managed to inveigle the number out of him.

She had just wrapped a towel around her and was heading for the bedroom when it rang. 'Jesus Christ.' She jumped, still not used to the bloody thing. 'Hello?' she answered, dripping on the carpet. 'That you, honey, did you forget something?'

'No, it's me, Lynn. I'm very busy, this is just a quickie.' She was whispering, as though she were phoning from the toilets and didn't want anyone to overhear. 'So a new guy has just started here, his name is Ross Chamberlain, about thirty-five I'm guessing but I need you to find out all about him for me. I haven't clocked a wedding ring, but you know how some guys never advertize their status, so that doesn't mean a thing. OK, so a crowd of work colleagues are going to the Tribeca Grill tonight, in the village, which is the perfect opportunity for you to suss him out for me. I'll meet you at your building at seven sharp—'