Last of the Great Romantics (14 page)

'Ehh, something a bit like that, yes,' came the puzzled reply from behind a mound of haystacks.

'Oh now, where are my manners,' said Lucasta as though she were hosting a society dinner party. 'Is there anything I can do for you to make you more comfortable?' she cooed at the leaking roof. 'Perhaps you'd like me to do an energy clearing or burn some incense or maybe do a little chanting to make you feel at home while you're passing through our world?'

'I'd hate to put you to all the bother of chanting,' came the voice unenthusiastically, 'but now that you mention it, I'm absolutely starving. A few sandwiches would be brilliant, thanks. The smell of food from the Hall is driving me insane.'

Lucasta could hardly contain her excitement. 'Unbe-fucking-lievable,' she said, awestruck. 'An ectoplasmic manifestation with an appetite!' Raising her voice again, she added, 'I'll be right back. Stay here and be at peace whilst I'm gone. Be a dear and keep an eye on Martini for me, will you?'

'I'd be delighted,' came the reply. 'Oh, and by the way, I'm strict vegetarian; I don't eat anything that ever had a face. I hope that's not a problem, is it?'

The grandfather clock in the gate lodge had just chimed ten as a scene of a very different sort unfolded. Portia had just finished breaking the big news to a hysterical Daisy, already on the verge of a breakdown over Eleanor Armstrong's impending wedding to Mark Lloyd. They were sitting in Portia's sunny little kitchen, surrounded by bulging suitcases while Andrew stomped around on the wooden floors upstairs, swearing aloud when he couldn't find clothes he specifically wanted to bring.

It had been the worst, bitterest, most God-awful row the sisters had had in years. Daisy had always been headstrong and obstinate about getting her own way when it came to arguments, and nine times out of ten Portia would cave in to her, usually wanting nothing more than a quiet life. But the row over Shelley-Marie was different. Daisy was a great one to scream and shout and hurl things around in arguments and now was all the more effective for being furious in an ice-cold way. Far, far scarier.

'You're telling me that Andrew went and
hired
Shelley-pisshead-Marie? And that not only am I left in charge of the Hall for what will be the biggest wedding of the year, but on top of that, I still have to deal with that two-faced, manipulative, conniving bitch? Tell me you're joking. Please, Jesus, tell me this is April Fool's Day'

'Darling, I'm no happier about this than you, but just think, it could be quite useful to have a beauty salon on hand for this wedding—'

'An A. and E. department to stitch heads would be a damn sight more useful. You're insane even to think about letting her near guests, unless you want it to look like a Dollywood wedding in all the photos.'

The sound of another holdall being dumped on the hall outside broke the awful silence.

'Daisy, will you just hear me out?' Portia pleaded, aware that time was ticking by and that she and Andrew would have to leave any minute. 'You know how important it is for us that this wedding goes as seamlessly as possible. We couldn't buy the publicity it's going to generate; it'll put Davenport Hall on the map for the rest of our lives. And,' she added, 'it's not as if we're completely leaving you high and dry. Julia Belshaw will be running the show with you and just look at the marvellous job she did organizing the opening of the Hall.'

'Bugger Julia anyway. Don't you realize the longer Shelley-scumbag-Marie stays, the harder it'll be to get rid of her? At this stage, she'll probably claim squatter's rights. Not for one second would I put it past her.'

Portia sighed. Just this once, she was going to pull out all the emotional stops. No matter how shifty she felt about it, this time she had no choice. 'Darling, I know how hard it is for you having her loitering around the place, but let me make a deal with you. If I faithfully promise you that the morning after the wedding you can personally show her the door, then will you just put up with her until then? I need you onside, Daisy, I can't go away unless I know you're OK with this. Andrew and I have practically bankrupted ourselves just to get this far with the Hall and if this wedding goes well, then we're home and dry. Please, darling?' Then came the ace she'd kept up her sleeve. 'Will you do it for me?'

She looked across the table at her sister, trying to gauge her reaction. With Daisy, you never could tell how she'd react when faced with a situation as unpalatable as this one. There was a good chance that she'd tell the lot of them to get lost and continue hurling Shelley-Marie's belongings out of windows and generally making life a living hell for those around her.

'Well?' Portia asked gently. 'Do we have white smoke?'

Daisy had been staring into space, lost in her own little world, and Portia deliberately didn't break the silence. A revolting crystal carriage clock, a gift from Andrew's mother, chimed eleven, but she still said nothing, even though she knew their taxi would arrive any minute.

'You know I hate the bitch's guts,' Daisy eventually said, looking Portia in the face.

'I had noticed that, yes.'

'And you know I think she's using you for free bed and board now that she's discovered Daddy had sweet bugger all of any value in Ireland.'

'I know, darling. I agree with you.'

'And you know I don't buy into her bloody daytime TV tale of woe.'

'Neither do I, not for a moment.'

'But against all that . . .' Daisy rolled her big baby blue eyes the way she used to when she was a small child and was caught doing something naughty. 'I know how much you've ploughed into the Hall and what big news this wedding is. And of course I know how important it is to you that it goes off OK, to you and Andrew, I mean,' she added hastily. 'And I know you should be all excited about going to New York with him now, not sitting here at the last minute, worrying about whether or not the place will become famous for being the first hotel in Kildare to have a homicide on the premises within a few weeks of opening.'

Portia smiled, sensing the conversation was going her way.

'So, all right then, we have a deal. I'll promise to swallow my pride and behave myself until Eleanor Armstrong is safely married, on the condition that I get to fling bitchface out of here personally the next morning.'

'You're an angel.' Portia beamed. 'I knew you'd come through for me.'

They both looked up to see Andrew bounding through the kitchen door with his overcoat on, finally ready to go. 'So, do we have a Pax Romanus?' he asked, looking at Daisy a bit nervously.

'Everything's OK,' said Portia, rising to go.

'Ahh, Daisy, you're just the best,' said Andrew, sounding more than a little relieved. 'You're going to make a brilliant acting manager. And you know Shelley-Marie has some wonderful ideas for the Hall. I think she'll prove to be a real asset.'

Daisy had to bite her tongue from replying that the only asset that conniving wagon seemed interested in was free bed and board for as long as no one saw through her. In the Mauve Suite too, only the best and most expensive in the Hall . . . She let it pass, not wanting to sour this goodbye.

There was a maniacal thumping at the front door.

'That'll be Tom,' said Portia, zipping up one of her bulging bags. 'Be hell to pay if we're not in that car in exactly thirty seconds.'

Tom was Ballyroan's local taxi driver who was famous for always being ridiculously early to collect customers. He would then thump on their front doors and windows while people broke their necks to get ready and not keep him waiting; then he'd spend the entire journey berating them for delaying him, as though they weren't paying through the nose for the privilege; then he'd inflict 'the lecture' on them, about how unpunctuality was a form of disrespect bordering on bullying. There was probably no one in the entire village who hadn't been subjected to 'the lecture' at some point, with the result that most people simply booked him for about a half-hour after they actually needed to be driven anywhere.

'I'll phone you every day,' said Portia as they stepped out into the chilly, misty morning. Andrew and Tom were frantically lugging bags into the boot of the car and the sisters hugged each other tightly. Although wild horses wouldn't have kept Portia from flying to New York that morning, she was such a natural worrier that of course she felt huge pangs of guilt at leaving her sister with so much responsibility, particularly after the events of the last twenty-four hours. Daisy knew this too and with that unspoken bond that exists between sisters, that gift of knowing what the other is thinking without anything actually being said, she knew full well her job was to send Portia off with as many reassurances as she could give her. Whether she believed them herself or not was entirely another matter.

'And I'll email you every night,' she replied, trying her best to sound confident and managerial.

'That's it then,' said Andrew eventually, when the last suitcase had been hauled into the car. 'Jump in, or we'll be late.'

'You take good care of her,' Daisy said, pecking him warmly on the cheek. 'And don't worry about a thing here. Everything is going to be just fine.'

Portia rolled down the window and waved after her, silently blessing her for being such a trooper. She waved like minor royalty until the taxi had turned out through the gates and on to the main road. Everything
is
going to be fine, she thought, banishing aside any lingering last-minute worries she felt about leaving Daisy in charge. Of course she was doing the right thing in going away with Andrew. After all, she reasoned, the Hall and all its attendant problems would still be waiting there for her when they came home. And at the end of the day, it was only for a few weeks, really . . .

'You OK?' said Andrew, slipping his hand around hers.

She beamed back at him, knowing she'd made the right decision. 'I'm fine.' After all, she figured, didn't her marriage come first?

Two hours later, she and Andrew were ambling through the wide, busy duty-free area of Dublin airport, hand in hand and looking for all the world like a pair of newly-weds.

'Do we have time for a coffee?' Portia asked, always a bit antsy about being late.

'Plenty of time,' Andrew replied, steering her towards a Butler's café on the concourse. 'My tummy's rumbling so loudly, you could mistake it for Concorde's final flight.'

The café was packed with passengers, bags, buggies and baggage, but they queued up, ordered steaming hot lattes and two sinful, sticky chocolate-covered Florentines and eventually managed to find seats at a bockity table beside a youngish couple, who grimaced up at them, reluctantly hauling their plastic bags from seats which were clearly free.

'Thanks,' Portia said politely, starving and dying to tuck in. She had just begun to munch on her Florentine when she felt Andrew urgently squeeze her knee under the table. 'What?' she mouthed.

He winked at her and nodded his head in the direction of the girlfriends newspaper, spread out on the table in front of them. There was a huge, full-colour photo of Mark Lloyd, clearly taken on a soccer pitch as he was wearing his full Oldcastle kit, arms raised exultantly in triumph, as if he'd just scored a winning goal in a World Cup final,
'MARK TO
WED!'
screamed the banner headline, 'AND ELEANOR ARMSTRONG IS THE
LUCKY GIRL!!'

'I never could stand that stuck-up feckin' bitch Eleanor Armstrong,' said the girlfriend, scanning the paper in disgust. 'Mark Lloyd is off his bleedin' head to have anything to do with her. Sure, what kind of life will he have with her? Stuck in bleedin' Phoenix Park bleedin' House, listening to boring speeches by . . . whatshisname . . . the father . . .'

'Robert Armstrong,' grunted the boyfriend, engrossed in another paper, which this time had a picture of a tearful Eleanor looking about ten years younger. Probably taken at her mother's funeral, Portia reckoned.
'ELEANOR'S TEARS OF JOY'
ran the headline,
'AS MARK PRESENTS HER WITH A £100,000 DIAMOND ENGAGEMENT RING'
.

'Yeah, well, I voted for the woman in the election,' the girlfriend went on, unaware that both Portia and Andrew were hanging on her every word. 'And Mark deserves better than that snotty cow. He shoulda stayed with that lingerie model, she's miles better for him any bleedin' day. Better-looking than Eleanor up-her-own-arse Armstrong as well. I mean, what in the name of Jaysus does he see in her anyway?'

Now it was the boyfriend's turn to get annoyed. Slowly folding his newspaper with studied venom, he was all the more threatening for not making direct eye contact with her, and just staying focused on ironing out imaginary creases in the
Daily Sport.
He was wearing a chunky gold sovereign ring on just about every finger, and each one reflected the light, bouncing it right back into Portia's eyes. 'Imelda, I am too hung over to be listening to your shite. Eleanor Armstrong is a very classy bird and that overpaid prick, who hasn't played one decent game this season, isn't even in her league. Now shut up and let me finish me breakfast in peace.' Sovereign-ring man sat back with his arms folded, as much as to say: If you're looking for a row, I'm your man.

'I did not leave our four kids at home with me mother so I could be spoken to like this.'