Last of the Great Romantics (23 page)

'You don't owe us anything, Mad— sorry, I mean, Jasper,' said Daisy, stopping herself just in time. He smiled back down at her.

'Don't you worry; didn't I have ten years in prison of being known as nothing other than Mad Jasper? I'm well used to it.'

'OK, then, M— Jasper.' Try as she might, Daisy couldn't bring herself to call him by this awful moniker. 'It's just that . . . well, I'm very sorry about this, but . . . you see the thing is . . .' Come on, her inner voice lectured her sternly, you're in charge here. We've already been emotionally blackmailed into taking in one homeless waif and look where that got us. Enough's enough. An involuntary shudder went down her spine even at the thought of Shelley-bloody-Marie.

'Now, just hear me out. I've a proposal for you that I think might interest you,' said Mad Jasper, taking control of the situation. Daisy was too dumb-struck to do anything but raise her eyebrows inquisitively.

'Here's you with this big wedding in little over a week and with damn all security to talk of. Laurel and Hardy are only shite, you take it from me. Sure, for God's sake, I was living under their noses for days and neither of them even copped on, not even with the smell of food that must have been coming from under the door of the shed. I was out having a slash in the paddock yesterday and the baldy one asked me for a light for his cigarette. I could be a great help to you here. I'd mind the grounds for you and keep you all safe. Sure if someone like me can break in and stay here for weeks on end, think how easy it would be for a professional thief. I'm hardly a criminal mastermind, but I have learned a thing or two from my time inside and I could help you. Show you all the weak points in the Hall and how you can make them more secure. And you can trust me. I'm a nice guy. Just ask my parole officer.'

'I already took that precaution,' said Noreen.

'What did he say?' asked Jasper politely, like someone looking for a reference.

'Sent you all his love and says he'll see you at his daughter's twenty-first.'

Jasper nodded. 'You see, you have such a grand hotel going here, why would you ruin it by making it a target for thugs? And believe you me, there's a lot of gougers out there would only love to make off with the family silver, so to speak.' He instantly clocked the look of panic which flittered across Daisy's face. 'I meant your family, of course, not mine. I mean I am a Davenport and all that but I'd never in a million years want to stake my claim here.'

'You couldn't,' Daisy blurted out. 'The Hall belongs to my sister Portia.'

'I mean all that guff about titles and that shite. I'm not joking you, but I honestly swear that if anyone called me Lord Davenport, I'd punch their lights out. And I'm a pacifist. So you needn't be worrying about me having a go at any of your guests,' he added, nodding respectfully at her.

For a split second, she felt as if she were conducting the weirdest job interview in history. 'If you're a pacifist, then how come they put you away for ten years?' asked Daisy. 'What in God's name did you do?'

She was so innocent and direct, he completely failed to take any offence at his criminal past being dragged up. It was odd, Daisy felt, that she was the one who was embarrassed. He never batted an eyelid, just answered her with that disarming mix he had of honesty and humility.

'You're dead right to ask me that, Daisy. If I'm going to be giving you a hand about the place, you need to know my back history, so to speak. I'm an animal rights activist and, well, it's a long story and I don't want to bore you, but let's just say I was staging a peaceful protest outside a furrier's shop above in Dublin and it got a bit out of hand.'

'What happened?' Daisy was intrigued, especially as he seemed like the type who wouldn't harm a fly.

'Ah, I was unlucky. All I wanted to do was chain myself to the railings, nice and peacefully, and sit there for the day with my placard: "Wear your own pelt". But then a whole load of professional May-Day rioters joined in the protest and turned it into a full-scale demonstration. Total disaster. The police had to be brought in, there was even tear gas used to disperse the mob, windows were smashed, the crowd were baton-charged – God Almighty, it was the lead story on the six o'clock news that night. I was singled out as the ringleader and the judge said he had to make an example of me. Gave me five years in the Joy'

'So how come you ended up doing ten?'

'Well, you see, I started a protest inside about how there was no vegetarian option in the canteen, a peaceful demonstration, but there was an awful rough element in the Joy, you wouldn't believe it. And before I knew what was going on, a right crowd of messers had dragged us up on to the roof to demonstrate; Christ, there were helicopters circling around us and everything. So I sort of got labelled as a troublemaker and they extended my sentence. Wrong place, wrong time, you know? Then I got transferred to Portlaoise and the Governor there got me all interested in the drama end of things, so it never really bothered me when I never made parole. I was always in the middle of directing something and I never minded.'

Daisy just stared at him, open-mouthed. Finally, she began to see why his nickname was Mad Jasper.

Chapter Fifteen

Bright, late-morning sunshine was streaming through the window by the time Portia finally woke from a sleep deeper than the seabed around the
Titanic.
For a split second, she had that awful where-am-I feeling you get when you're still not fully used to the time difference and wake up in an unfamiliar bed, but then memories of last night came flooding back to her in one big, blissful deluge. She was here. In New York. In Andrew's fabulous apartment with him beside her. Except that he wasn't exactly beside her.

No matter, she thought, woozily remembering him muttering something about an early morning meeting. They had weeks and weeks ahead, just the two of them, in New York together.

Lazily, she dragged herself out of bed, pulled on one of the T-shirts that Andrew had dumped across the back of a chair, and sauntered over to the high sash window. It was a perfect Manhattan morning, bright and cloudless, and for a second she struggled with the heavy clasp on the window before throwing it open and impulsively sticking her head out. 'Oh Jesus!' she gasped, still not used to quite how high up the apartment actually was.

Way, way down below her were swarms of people, like tiny weenie free samples, all full of hustle and bustle as they went about the business that's demanded of a professional Manhattanite. Park Avenue was jammed with mid-morning traffic, yellow cabs noisily honked horns and everywhere she looked, people seemed to be in a mad, tearing hurry.

She almost hugged herself, high on life, feeling that this was probably the closest she'd ever come to being in an episode of
Sex and the City,
and also loving that guilty pleasure you only get when you're on holiday while everyone around you is working their ass off.

She sighed with pure pleasure, pulled the window shut behind her and sashayed around the apartment, which she was slowly coming to love as much as Andrew seemed to. He'd lived there for years before he'd met Portia and had simply plonked his bags down and gone back to his old office, as if he'd never been away. Old-fashioned in design, it had high, coved ceilings, a walkthrough closet, a wonderful cream-tiled en-suite bathroom with a Victorian pedestal bath, and a tiny galley kitchen, with only a microwave in it, she noted, smilingly. Andrew was a wonderful husband, a supremely talented whiz-kid lawyer and an Olympian lover to boot, but when it came to cooking skills, he was useless bordering on dangerous. Unless you counted tea and toast or ripping open the top of a cereal box, Gordon Ramsay could sleep easy. The one and only time he tried to make her dinner, she ended up with vicious food poisoning for a full week.

'And I wouldn't mind,' he'd moaned at her, 'but I defrosted that chicken at least three times before I microwaved it, just to be on the safe side.'

Macmillan Burke had obviously spent a fortune on the place; the breathtaking views of the Park from the living-room windows alone must have added a fair whack on to the rental cost. A luxurious perk such as greenery was utterly wasted on a country-bred girl like Portia though. She spent her life looking at fields, mountains and fabulous views; what was making her heart race were the city sights, sounds and smells; the nervous energy, the buzz; and the feeling that you might turn a corner and bump into Woody Allen at any moment. She couldn't contain herself, she just had to get out there once again, hit the shops, grab some food, buy some clothes, walk the streets and just be a part of all that life.

She showered and dressed and went to check her emails to see if there was a progress report from Daisy. Nothing. No matter, she thought, figuring that no news was good news. She threw on a warm jacket and bounced over to the hall table to fish out a spare set of keys Andrew had cut for her. She rooted around under a pile of junk mail to see if he'd left her a note, but he hadn't. Which was odd. He was a great Post-it writer, even if it was only to tell her silly stuff like
Don't forget to tape
The West Wing
tonight,
or
I don't care what you say, those outside drains really need to be looked at.
Or even,
I love you.

She thought for a second, hesitated, then picked up the phone and rang his direct line. Bugger it, she figured. Yes, he's up to his armpits in work, but he'll want to know I'm out and about and when we're going to meet up later. As the number rang, she drifted off into a mini-daydream where they were having a cosy, gorgeous, romantic dinner in some chi-chi Italian restaurant that he knew of old, where only real New Yorkers dined, just the two of them this time, holding hands across the table with Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick talking to Tony Soprano at the table next to them, Will and Grace cracking jokes beside them, as Yoko Ono serenaded her from a white grand piano, just like in the 'Imagine' video . . .

'Mr de Courcey's office, how may I help you?' A woman's voice, crisp and businesslike.

'Oh, hi,' she said, roused from her meandering little fantasy. 'Can I speak to Andrew please? This is his wife calling.'

'Oh, you must be the famous Portia we've all heard so much about.' The voice sounded warmer, friendlier. 'I'm Glenda, one of the legal secretaries here. Welcome to the city.'

'That's very nice of you, thanks. I was just wondering if I could speak—'

'Oh, I just love your cute little accent! Say something Irish.'

'Emm, the top of the morning to you?'

Hysterical laughter followed. 'I love it! I love the lilt, it's a scream! You know I'm one-quarter Irish on my grandmother's side?'

'Emm . . . really?'

'Sure, honey. She came over after the war, hoping for a better life, but got caught up in the Depression. Then she met my grandfather who made all his money from bootlegging but he got drafted into the Second World War and was killed in action in Normandy. I'm welling up just thinking about it. How they've never been on the biography channel, I'll never know.'

Jesus, Portia thought, will I ever get to talk to Andrew? 'I just wondered if Andrew was around . . .'

'So what are your first impressions of the Big Apple?'

'Oh, it's just everything I ever thought it would be. I can't tell you how much I love exploring. I just wanted to have a quick word with my—'

'Oh well, honey, I just have six words to say to you. All the B's. Bergdorf's, Bloomingdale's and Barneys for your brazilians, Birkins and Bellinis.' 1 m sorry?

'Shopping tips, sweetheart. If I had a rich husband like Andrew, they'd have to open up a branch of Barneys right in my front room. You take my advice, honey, and go max out his credit card. If he's anything like my guy, he'll pay it just to keep the peace. Say: Ah sure, to be sure, to be sure. Every time I try to get Andrew to do it for me, he leaves the room.'

'Speaking of Andrew, I was really hoping to talk to—'

'Wait up, honey, Lynn's right here beside me, wants a quick word.'

Portia rolled her eyes to heaven as the phone was passed over, clearly hearing Glenda whisper, 'You know what these Irish are like, they'd keep you chatting on the phone all day. You can't ever get a word in.'

'Hi there, Portia, I hope you're not feeling under the weather after last night?'

'No, I feel wonderful, thanks. Dying to get out and see the city. Maybe you can help me, Lynn, do you know where Andrew is?'

'Tied up in meetings all day, I've barely seen him myself.'

Not to worry, Portia thought, he'd be back at the apartment that evening; she'd see him then for a lovely, romantic evening, just the two of them this time.

'So how about you let me take you to lunch?'

'Oh, well, that's very sweet of you, Lynn, thank you.'

Given the choice, Portia would have preferred to be out and about exploring the sights and sounds of Manhattan by herself, but it was really good of Lynn to offer her lunch. Friendly. And, after all, she had the whole day ahead of her. She could always do touristy stuff afterwards.

'Great. How about the King's Carriage House at one p.m., that'll give you thirty minutes to get there, which is plenty. I'll book a table now. It's on East Eighty-second Street between Second and Third.'