It was an unspoken tradition at the Hall that the family and any unfortunate guests that happened to be staying would all assemble for aperitifs in the freezing Long Gallery before dinner. It was a house rule rigidly upheld by Lucasta, even if dinner consisted of pizza from the local takeaway in Ballyroan, followed by tinned peaches for pudding, as it frequently did. ‘Happy hour, I think,’ Lucasta would say from as early as three in the afternoon. ‘Bar’s open!’ she’d call out loudly as she headed for the Long Gallery surrounded by whatever mangy stray cats she happened to be feeding that day.
‘No can do, I’m afraid,’ replied Portia as she whipped out a crisp white shirt from the back of the wardrobe. ‘I’m meeting Andrew, remember?’
‘Oh Jesus, Portia, I’m so sorry, I totally forgot. What in hell will you wear?’
‘This,’ replied Portia, turning from the mirror to face Daisy.
‘Wow! You look sensational!’ said Daisy, momentarily forgetting about Guy van der Post as she took in Portia’s new image. She looked incredible, with her newly highlighted hair and fabulous make-up, dressed simply in denim jeans which showed off her long legs to perfection, black boots and the white shirt she’d successfully rooted from the back of the wardrobe.
‘You’re like a teenager!’ Daisy gasped. ‘He’ll take one look at you and propose on the spot!’
Portia laughed as they went downstairs and headed towards the Long Gallery together. The huge oak double doors were open and Portia could hear her mother accompanying herself on the piano as she belted her lungs out. ‘My Heart Will Go On’ from the film Titanic was tonight’s opening number. Through the door, Portia could see Montana and Caroline on the couch deep in conversation while Jimmy D. puffed on a cigar and made small talk with Steve. Over by the fireplace, smoking a cigar and gazing at his own reflection in the mirror, was an outrageously good-looking young man, wearing a tweed jacket and a cravat with his jeans, as though trying to look the part of the country squire, but not quite pulling it off. He can only be Guy van der Post, Portia thought to herself, delighted to have an excuse not to join them all.
‘Have a ball tonight,’ whispered Daisy. ‘Are you sure you won’t come in for five minutes? Please? Just to help me break the ice with him?’
Portia hugged her. ‘You just walk right up to him and be yourself, darling. Look at you. How could he resist you, even though you do still smell a bit dungy?’ She laughed as she headed for the entrance hall, leaving Daisy to enter the lion’s den alone.
Although Portia didn’t realize it, she wasn’t the only one nervously heading out to meet someone that night. At just about the same time, a middle-aged, balding man dressed in a beautifully cut bespoke suit was strolling into the famous Octagon bar in Kildare’s fashionable K Club Hotel. The bar was jam-packed but he soon picked out the person he was due to meet. It was easy enough to spot him, he was always wearing that ridiculous tartan peaked cap.
‘There ya are now, Paul, yer’re looking great so ya are, great aul’ tan, the weather must have been good down in Marbella?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ Paul O’Driscoll replied curtly. The sooner they got this over with the better. He checked discreetly over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, before sitting down beside his companion. ‘Look, Shamie, I have no objection to meeting you, but for God’s sake does it have to be here? Half the County Council drinks in the K Club! Couldn’t you just call into my office on Monday morning and we could talk privately then?’
‘Ah, will ya relax, Paul, don’t be aggravating yer ulcers on my account. No, I just wanted a bit of a chat with ya about a favour I might need in the not-too-distant future.’
Paul began to sweat into the expensive silk shirt he wore under his Savile Row suit. He could still remember the Huguenot graveyard episode all too clearly, which Shamie had successfully bribed his way into having rezoned a few years back. (He then built a Leisureplex over it with an adjoining nightclub, which he named R.I.P.s.) ‘Sure them aul’ Huguenot bones are well disintegrated by now,’ had been his reasoning at the time, ‘and anyway, the dead can’t vote.’ The sleepless nights that Paul had suffered and the blood he’d sweated over that! Christ, if the papers had found out about his involvement, he’d have been ruined. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. There was nothing for it but to nip this in the bud now.
‘Look, Shamie, I really don’t feel that I can be of any more use to you . . .’
Shamie put down his pint and regarded him the way a dog looks at a rabbit before it devours it whole.
‘Wouldn’t it be a desperate thing altogether,’ he began, his voice suddenly low and threatening, ‘if your lovely young wife was to find out where the money that paid for your villa in Marbella came from? Or the money that pays for your kid’s private school fees, or your expensive clothes . . .’
‘All right, all right, you’ve made your point,’ Paul answered, thinking the sooner they got this over with, the sooner he could get out of there. ‘Where this time?’
‘Ah, nowhere for you to be getting uptight about. Only an aul’ rundown manor house in Ballyroan that no one gives a feck about, by the name of Davenport Hall.’
Chapter Ten
ALMOST AS SOON as she walked through the door of O’Dwyer’s pub, Portia regretted suggesting it as a possible meeting place. She was so unused to socializing (unless you counted the rare occasions when they entertained at the Hall), she’d entirely forgotten that it being Saturday night, the place would be packed. She could barely squeeze herself through the door as she glanced around the room for any sign of Andrew, trying her very best to look cool and unconcerned, but terrified she might come across like an escapee from an asylum.
‘Ah Portia, how are you?’ said Mick the landlord from behind the bar as he frantically rushed around trying to serve six customers at once. ‘We don’t often see you out and about at the weekend. What can I get you?’
She was about to order a glass of white wine when a voice from behind said, ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, have you been waiting for long?’ She turned around to see Andrew, dressed smartly in a black suit, with an exquisite turquoise silk shirt underneath, which looked like it had cost a bomb. He looked just as tanned and gorgeous and sexy as he’d done the previous night, with his blue eyes twinkling as he eyed her up and down.
‘Wow, you look good,’ he said approvingly as he took in her glamorous, sexy new look.
‘Well thanks, and thanks again for the flowers, they’re magnificent by the way,’ she replied, blushing deeply as she felt his eyes running all over her body.
Just try really hard not to blow it, her inner voice kept quietly nagging at her. Meet his gaze and don’t gush too much, you’re starting to sound deranged.
‘It’s my pleasure,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I thought you might be able to use a little cheering up after the party. Actually, I envied you leaving when you did; the whole night was such a bloody bore, I’d gratefully have slipped into a coma. My mother tried to keep me in conversation with the esteemed Senator, in the vain hope that this would be a useful legal contact for me, but, I kid you not, he spent twenty minutes describing in minute detail how he’d sponsor me for membership to his elite golf club. The man was practically measuring me up for a Pringle jumper. I nearly ran screaming out of there.’
Portia found herself laughing, liking him even more for being so unsnobby and not wanting to join posh golf clubs.
‘Your mum and your sister were the biggest laugh I had all night,’ he went on, still twinkling at her. ‘I love meeting people who know how to let their hair down and have a good time.’
‘If having a good time were an Olympic event, my family would be gold medallists,’ replied Portia, suddenly wanting to change the subject. Too little couldn’t be said about Lucasta and Daisy’s behaviour the previous night. ‘I don’t think your mother was overly amused by them,’ she trailed off weakly.
‘Look, it’s so crowded and noisy in here, do you fancy going straight to the restaurant
instead? We could have a drink in the bar there, if you like,’ he said, as though reading her thoughts and sensing she’d like to talk about something else. About anything else.
Portia readily agreed as he led her by her elbow out into the cold drizzly night.
Before she knew where she was, she found herself sitting on the soft, cream leather passenger seat of Andrew’s brand new Mercedes sports car, being whisked through the Kildare countryside to God knows where. He playfully refused to tell her where they were going, but just kept glancing sideways at her as he sped along the dark country roads.
‘Trust me,’ he grinned, ‘I’m a gentleman. Do you think I’d haul you down to the back of some deserted field and have my wicked way with you?’
Wish you would, she thought, smiling back at him in what she hoped was a seductive Mona Lisa way, but was afraid made her look more like a leering crone.
A few minutes later, they hit the motorway and it wasn’t long before she started to pick out signs saying, ‘Dublin 60km’.
‘So we’re going to town then?’ she asked.
‘Wait and see. You aristocrats are all so impatient!’ was the jokey reply she got as he rolled his eyes up to heaven in mock irritation.
About half an hour later, they approached the outskirts of the city, a road Portia knew well, although it had been months since her last trip to town. In fact, she remembered it clearly; she’d been driving Lucasta to one of her past life regression therapy sessions in the city centre. The day had firmly lodged itself in her mind, because Lucasta had been fully expecting to be told that she had been Marie Antoinette or, at the very least, Cleopatra in a past life. She was utterly devastated to be told that her most recent incarnation was as a root vegetable. This did have one advantage however; it shut her up on past lives for some time, much to Portia’s relief.
Very soon, they veered off the motorway to splash through the rain-soaked, winding streets of the capital city. Portia noticed that they seemed to be heading for the centre of town, and was proved right when she saw that they were approaching St Stephen’s Green. Andrew luckily found a parking space right on the Green itself, and immediately pulled over, springing out of the car to hold the passenger door open for her.
Manners as well as looks, was all Portia could think as she slipped out, trying to look as graceful as she could. The rain was down to a light drizzle but it was bitterly cold, and she was relieved when he said the restaurant was only across the road. As they dodged the oncoming traffic, she looked up to see where they were heading for, and dimly made out a sign, which read: ‘L’Hôtel de Paris’.
‘I’ve read about this place,’ she said. ‘It’s only recently open to the public. You know, apparently you practically have to give a blood sample to get a table in the restaurant. I’m impressed you got a reservation.’
‘Well now, you hardly expected me to take the lady of the manor to the local chipper, did you?’ he asked jokingly as they tripped up the stone steps to the entrance door.
L’Hôtel de Paris was an imposing Georgian house, which had been semi-derelict for decades, until it was sold at auction about two years previously. A wealthy Dublin investor had eventually seen the potential of the house and bought it lock, stock and barrel at a bargain basement price. He subsequently poured several million euros of his own personal fortune into gutting the original building and completely renovating it from top to bottom. No expense had been spared in transforming the house into one of the most luxurious, opulent, state-of-the-art hotels in the country. The moment Portia and Andrew walked through the main door, they were warmly greeted by the concierge, who treated them like old friends he hadn’t seen in years. Portia’s jacket was whisked off her and before she knew where she was, they were being ushered into the hotel bar, with menus placed discreetly in front of them.
‘Wow, take a look at this place!’ Portia exclaimed, unable to help herself as she took in the magnificent varnished wooden floors, the crystal chandeliers and then the bar itself, which was entirely made of mahogany and shaped like a horseshoe. Andrew ordered them both a champagne cocktail as Portia sat back, luxuriating in a dark green leather sofa. She found herself chatting freely to him, without any of the uncomfortable gaps in conversation that sometimes befell her when she was feeling nervous or a little shy, as she often did.
As she sipped her cocktail, she found herself telling him all about Davenport Hall, about her father running off, and about the film, which had entirely taken over the house in the last few weeks. He seemed genuinely interested, asking her all sorts of pertinent questions, but without being intrusive. Portia honestly couldn’t remember the last time someone had paid her any attention; it always seemed to be her role to wait in the wings whilst her mother and sister took centre stage. It just felt so warm and wonderful to open up to someone who asked about how she felt, for a change. Far too soon for her liking, they were being escorted by the maître d’ into the restaurant.
* * *
‘SOAP UP YOUR ARSE . . . AND SLIDE BACKWARDS UP A RAINBOW . . .’ screeched Lucasta from the grand piano in the corner of the Long Gallery, blissfully unaware that she was drowning out any conversation within a ten-foot radius. Daisy slipped past her and went to join Montana and Caroline on the moth-eaten sofa, dislodging one of her mother’s cats from a cushion as she sat down. Steve was standing beside the stained-glass windows that dominated the room, deep in conversation with Jimmy D., who was talking at the top of his voice, saying, ‘You know, I think we may shoot a scene in here. I’m seeing a ballroom, I’m seeing dancers, I’m seeing hoop skirts, but, hell, this lighting is all wrong. These windows just have to go,’ he said, waving at the six-foot-high windows.
‘The stained glass?’ replied Steve, shocked. ‘I think you may run into a few problems there. They were brought over from a monastery in France by the second Lord Davenport. They date back to the eleventh century, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Hey, I once took over the entire island of Manhattan for a shoot, you think a couple of windows are gonna slow me down?’ replied Jimmy D., not brooking no for an answer.
‘Well, Daisy!’ said Montana delightedly. ‘I sure hope you’re feeling better, honey, that was some tumble you took today,’ she added, rising to kiss her warmly on each cheek, Hollywood-style.
‘Well, I suppose I was rather lucky really,’ Daisy replied. ‘The horse shit actually broke my fall. Without it, I’d probably have broken my neck. Sorry if I still smell a bit.’
‘I’m very pleased you’re not hurt,’ replied Caroline in her clipped tones, ‘but we lost over an hour of production today because of your fall and, you know, in this business, time is money.’
Daisy was about to snap her head off when Montana, sensing trouble, hastily interrupted.
‘Say, Daisy, have you met Guy? He just got here today, I’m sure he’d love to meet you,’ she said, gesturing over to where Guy was standing, still transfixed by his reflection in the gilt mirror above the fireplace. He appeared to be measuring how much his moustache had grown in the last few minutes.
‘Well, we sort of bumped into each other earlier,’ Daisy began, unsure whether or not to go into the graphic details of how they’d met. ‘Mind you, I don’t think that he’d have recognized me, actually. Would you introduce us properly, Montana, please?’ she implored, her tummy filling with butterflies.
‘Guy, there’s someone I want you to meet!’ Montana called over to him, but to no avail. He completely and utterly ignored her, even though he was only a few feet away from where she was sitting. ‘Oh shit, I totally blanked, he’s so immersed in his character, he’s not answering to any name other than Brent,’ said Montana wearily. ‘Not even asshole,’ she added under her breath. As though making a point, she said, ‘Brent, could you come over, please?’
‘Why, that would be my pleasure,’ Guy replied in his Southern drawl as he joined the three ladies on the couch. ‘And who might this delectable creature be?’ he asked, lightly taking Daisy’s hand in h
is and pressing his lips against it.
‘Oh, that tickles!’ Daisy giggled, feeling the handful of hairs that passed for Guy’s moustache brushing against the back of her hand.
‘This is Miss Daisy Davenport who’s working as horse wrangler for the duration of the shoot,’ said Caroline crisply.
‘I think we may have met earlier actually,’ said Daisy, blushing to her roots. Guy continued to hold her hand in his, in no rush to let go.
‘Well, I think that I’d have remembered meeting someone as pretty as you,’ he replied, holding her gaze.
‘Oh, will you shut up, Guy, you make me wanna hurl,’ said Montana impatiently. ‘I’m sorry, I meant Brent.’ Then, turning to Daisy, she added dryly, ‘Guy’s a method actor, honey. He’s very influenced by Daniel Day-Lewis, ever since they made Thugs of New York together.’
‘Hey, Empire magazine gave me three stars out of a possible five for my role as Bill the Baker in that movie, you know,’ Guy interrupted her, momentarily forgetting his Southern accent in exasperation. ‘I can’t help noticing that you haven’t been awarded anything in quite some time now, Montana – oh, unless you count that Golden Raspberry you picked up last year for The Hours Part Two: How the Time Drags.’
Montana refused to rise to the bait, but jokingly said to Daisy, ‘And surely you heard about the time when Guy was shooting Space Bastards and to help him get into character, he spent the entire shooting period wearing an astronaut’s suit? This was in LA, during July, in forty-degree heat, by the way. He lost over twenty pounds in weight and had to be rushed to hospital twice during filming to be treated for dehydration, for fuck’s sake!’ She laughed, but with a slight edge in her voice.
‘Why, that’s nothing compared to the time you played the title role in The Diary of Anne Frank,’ drawled Guy, by now back speaking in his Southern accent.
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