He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Did you ever see the film Pacific Heights?’ Andrew asked as he lit a cigarette and sat back, surveying the room around him. Portia shook her head. ‘Well, it’s about a tenant who refuses to leave the house he’s living in. I think that could well be me.’

  ‘Do you fancy a drink?’ Portia asked, rising to go to the drinks cabinet at the other end of the room (and, indeed, the only corner of it which wasn’t covered in dead flies and cobwebs, it was so well used).

  ‘Gin and tonic would be lovely, thanks.’

  As she fixed the drinks, she called over her shoulder to him, ‘You’ve no idea what a new experience it is for me to show the Hall to someone who doesn’t bolt for the hills. Usually when I ask anyone, “Would you like a tour?” it’s followed by hysterical laughter, then a deathly silence as they realize I’m serious, followed by an even more awkward pause while they think of an excuse to get the hell out of here.’

  Andrew laughed again as she passed him a drink and sat down on the rotting Persian rug beside him. He slipped his arm around her shoulder and casually started to coil her hair around his finger.

  ‘Portia, have you any idea how amazing this house could be if you did something with it?’ he asked, moving a little closer to her. ‘I know it would take money, but with a new roof and the place refurbished from scratch, this could be one of the most beautiful houses in the country.’

  ‘It would take money? Andrew, you’re talking millions here!’ She laughed. ‘I think the last architect who visited the Hall was the man who built it, James Gandon. In 1770.’

  ‘Look, do you remember L’Hôtel de Paris in Dublin?’

  She nodded, looking straight ahead into the last dying embers of the fire. She would hardly have forgotten the night she’d met Edwina and her geriatric date.

  ‘That hotel was derelict until a few years ago, when Dermot O’Brien took it over, gutted it and restored it to what it is today. Now it’s one of the most successful hotels in the country. If you salvaged this house, you could open it to the public and make a fortune. Or what about turning it into a golf club and hotel or even a health spa?’

  Portia sighed, taking a sip of her gin and tonic. ‘It would be a dream come true for me to restore this house to what it once was and then run it as a country house hotel. And I know it would be successful. But in a million years, I could never afford it. Even the money Romance Pictures are paying me is barely enough to cover the cost of getting a small part of the roof renovated. And at that, I have to wait till the film wraps before I can even get started. According to Jimmy D., scaffolding on the side of a listed building isn’t very Victorian.’

  ‘So why don’t you get an interior designer in to help you renovate the bedrooms and get your hotel up and running?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘Easy to tell you’ve never lived in a Georgian house before, Mr Park Avenue.’ She smiled back at him. ‘Because if Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen himself were to decorate for me, I’m afraid even the most luxurious bedroom wouldn’t compensate guests for pelting rain gushing down on top of them. No, I’m afraid it has to be the roof first and, at that, it’ll only be a portion of it. A lot of my money was guzzled up by the cost of settling Mummy’s account at Oddbins.’

  ‘But look at Lord Harry Fitzherbert, he makes a fortune from renting out Navan Castle as a rock venue.’

  Portia giggled at the thought of U2 or Bruce Springsteen staying at the Hall, sampling one of Mrs Flanagan’s TV dinners, while twenty thousand fans used Portaloos outside. ‘I think only hardened Glastonbury fans who actually enjoy swimming in mud and shite would feel at home here. It’s so sweet of you to want to help, but honestly, Andrew, I just don’t have that kind of money.’

  He smiled down at her, with that twinkle in his eyes which made her stomach churn over. ‘You mightn’t be able to afford it, my lady, but I can.’ His lips were nuzzling against her cheek now, then moving down and lightly kissing her neck, in the manner of someone who had all the time in the world. Portia snuggled in beside him, running her fingers through his hair and longing to kiss him properly.

  ‘Great tour, my lady,’ he whispered, slipping his hand inside her shirt and gently playing with her bra strap, ‘but do you think you could show me the bedrooms again?’

  Later that night, as Lucasta patiently waited for the photocopier in Ballyroan’s local Spar to do its work, she fell into chit chat with Lottie O’Loughlin, the owner (known locally as ‘the oracle’, such was her in-depth knowledge of half the town’s comings and goings).

  ‘Five thousand labels is a shocking amount of photocopying to be getting on with,’ said Lottie, leaning over the counter, her curiosity piqued. ‘Would this be anything to do with all the filming that’s going on above at the Hall?’

  ‘Oh no, darling,’ replied Lucasta, picking up one of her cats which had hidden under the frozen-vegetable counter, ‘this is all for my new business. Gnasher, do come out of there, you naughty bugger!’ Then, producing one of the freshly photocopied pages from the machine she waved it proudly under Lottie’s nose. ‘What do you think? I think it’ll be the biggest thing since some genius said, “Why don’t we try putting gin into the tonic?”’

  Lottie grabbed one and read it aloud. ‘Eau de Davenport. One hundred per cent water. Practically pure.’

  Each label was handwritten in Lucasta’s schoolgirlish writing and bore the logo of a black cat drinking from a well with a sign stuck to it, which read, ‘Fat free. Can be used as part of a calorie-controlled diet. Can also be used as a mixer. Signed: the Government.’

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ chirped Lucasta. ‘And the beauty of it is, the coppers can’t come after me, there’s not a word of a lie on that label.’

  Lottie was about to reply when she was interrupted by another customer tapping impatiently on the counter and waiting to be served.

  ‘Ah, Mrs de Courcey, how are you? What can I do you for?’

  ‘I’m here to complain actually,’ came the curt reply. ‘My husband’s copy of the Irish Times wasn’t delivered this morning, for some reason.’

  ‘Oh, we used to have the paper delivered to us at the Hall,’ said Lucasta, who by now was on her hands and knees trying to extricate Gnasher from where he was stuck under the frozen-carrot display. ‘But for some reason it just stopped, can’t imagine why.’

  Lottie coughed discreetly. ‘Because you still owe me for three years’ worth of deliveries is the reason why. By the way, have you met Lady Davenport yet?’ she asked Mrs de Courcey, suddenly aware of an awkward pause.

  ‘Yes, I believe I have,’ replied Mrs de Courcey, whipping her leg up so that Lucasta’s cat couldn’t ladder her expensive, sheer Wolford stockings. ‘At our housewarming party.’ Then she dryly added, ‘You were kind enough to perform a number of party pieces for our guests.’

  Lucasta, who had been staring at this glamorous stranger, clearly racking her brains to remember where she knew her from, suddenly lit up. ‘Oh, now I remember! Thank Christ for that, I was afraid you were someone we owed money to. So you must be Andrew’s mother! Yes, I’d entirely forgotten about that night, I do hope I wasn’t too completely sozzled. My daughter says I’m a tuppenny whore when I’m drinking gin. And I can’t even argue with her because I never remember the next day. I could have shagged your husband for all I know.’ She laughed innocently.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your paper this morning, Mrs de Courcey,’ said Lottie, not paying the slightest bit of attention to her ladyship’s twitterings. ‘I will of course refund you and deliver tomorrow’s free of charge.’

  Mrs de Courcey merely nodded and was about to turn on her Jimmy Choos to walk disgustedly out the door when Lucasta came over to her, blissfully unaware that she’d caused offence. ‘You know, Mrs de Courcey, you simply must let me repay your hospitality. I’m having my annual Midsummer Ball next Saturday, to mark the summer solstice, you know, and pay homage to the Goddess of Samhradh and we’d be so thrilled if you could come. For fuck’s sake, Andrew’s practically
part of the furniture now. And you could meet all the lovely film people who are staying, they’re absolute darlings . . .’

  Before she could reply, Lottie came running up to her.

  ‘Hold on, Mrs de Courcey, you forgot your copy of this week’s National Intruder.

  Andrew managed to kick the door of Portia’s bedroom shut, without either of them breaking the kiss they were locked in. They tumbled on to her four-poster bed, landing in a heap and knocking over a huge pile of dirty laundry on to the floor. Portia was rubbing her long legs against his as he pulled her shirt over her head, then bent down to kiss her breasts. Oh God, she thought, my bra . . . The last thing that had occurred to her when she was getting dressed that morning was that she’d end up in bed with him and so, with a jolt of embarrassment, she remembered that she was wearing a once-white Marks & Spencer bra and knickers set, now gone grey from a combination of age and being shoved down the back of the Aga to dry. Thinking fast, she rolled on top of him, pulling a sheet over her as she undid the heavy clasp of his Gucci belt and undressed him. He was too quick for her though; in one expert snap, he’d undone her bra and was now dangling it over her head, teasing her, hysterical with laughter.

  ‘I think I’ve just had a boarding-school flashback,’ he said. ‘All my misspent teenage years chasing convent girls from the school next door have suddenly come flooding back to me. Very sexy, actually . . .’ He bent down to kiss her again, his tongue rolling around hers like satin. She kissed him back hungrily and then remembered.

  ‘Andrew, condoms.’

  ‘Mmmm, what’s that, darling?’ he murmured, kissing her breasts.

  ‘In the medicine chest in the family bathroom. Go on, Andrew, it’s only down the corridor.’ Then, smiling shyly at him, she said, ‘Getting condoms is the boy’s job, you know.’

  ‘Hold that thought,’ he said, kissing her forehead as he lightly sprang out of the bed, by now down to his underpants. And what a body, Portia thought as he left the room, delighted for a few moments’ respite to whip off the knackered-looking knickers and shove them under the bed.

  Andrew strode down the corridor, fully confident that no one would see him, and opened the door of the family bathroom. The light was on and there, sitting on the toilet with her interlock pants around her ankles, smoking a fag and reading Model Makeover magazine, was Mrs Flanagan.

  ‘I’ve been waiting four days for me bowels to move, luv, can you just wait four bleeding minutes?’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Andrew, totally unfazed as though he were at a dinner party. ‘I’ll just wait outside then.’

  Minutes later, safely back in Portia’s bed, he was recounting the story with tears of laughter rolling down his face yet again.

  ‘So I waited in the corridor,’ he said, barely able to get the sentence out. ‘And, being a gentleman, I thought I’d better cover myself up a bit. So I grabbed the shield from the coat of arms on the landing and stood there, waiting for the lady to finish.’

  ‘Then what?’ asked Portia.

  ‘Eventually, she came out, spraying Haze air freshener behind her, took one look at me and said, “Ah Jaysus, luv, if ya weren’t carrying that bleeding shield, you would have made an aul’ woman very happy!”’

  They held on to each other, each of them giggling uncontrollably.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ said Andrew, wiping the tears away, ‘I promise we’ll do it better next time.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  JIMMY D. SAT back into the huge green leather armchair in the Library and fumbled about in his pocket for a cigar. And not just any cigar, a Havana. Three hundred dollars’ worth. One he’d been saving for a really special occasion. He had just put down the phone on a particularly gruelling conversation with Harvey Brocklehurst Goldberg (‘Golden Balls’ was his nickname in LA, such was his talent for spinning money out of dross) and now, finally, for the first time in weeks, Jimmy D. could afford to breathe a sigh of relief.

  Ella Hepburn had just signed. Ella fucking Hepburn! He took a great puff of the cigar and surveyed the dismal view out of the French windows. For the past few weeks, both he and Golden Balls had been under colossal pressure to cast the cameo role of Blanche Charleston, Brent’s mother. No A list star worth their Botox jabs in Hollywood would deign to work with either Montana or Guy, let alone agree to stay in a shithole location like Davenport Hall. And besides, as any Hollywood agent would tell you, pitching the word ‘cameo’ at a star was just a well-known euphemism for ‘really small shitty part we couldn’t get anyone else to play’.

  This left both producer and director with a huge dilemma. The shoot had been going so badly, dogged equally by bad weather, bad morale and bad acting, that the whole movie needed a huge boost just to keep it afloat. Ella Hepburn was like manna from fucking heaven right now, Jimmy D. thought, chuckling softly to himself. Her name attached to this project could spell the difference between triumph and disaster for the picture.

  Ella Hepburn . . . Jimmy D. could well remember seeing her in the old black-and-white movies his father used to take him to see when he was just a kid back in Colorado. At five years of age she had lisped her way into America’s affections in a series of movies she’d made with Bob Hope called And Baby Makes Three. She’d been a star ever since, graduating from those awful, self-indulgent, angst-ridden teen movies of the 1950s and then, via about ten marriages and divorces (not even the National Intruder could keep track), several stints in the Betty Ford Center and a number of overdoses, had finally achieved official iconic status. She was one of those stars that you couldn’t believe was still alive and going strong. And she had just signed to play Blanche Charleston.

  Jimmy D. took another luxuriant puff on his cigar and surveyed the view (although the septic tank was all that could be seen clearly from the Library window). After two God-awful weeks, finally things were starting to look up.

  Being the bearer of bad news was never a part of his job which Steve relished, particularly where the Davenports were concerned, but this time he had no choice. He could postpone the inevitable no longer. For God’s sake, he fretted, all Shamie Nolan had to do now was apply to the planning authorities in Dublin (half of whom were his old golfing buddies) and the deal would be done. The Council would condemn the Hall and immediately slap a compulsory purchase order on everything the Davenports held dear: their home, their land and their two-hundred-year history.

  The only ray of hope Steve could see was Blackjack. If he could just get to him before Shamie Nolan did, there might be a chance, albeit a slim one, to persuade him not to sell out. Steve sighed as he drove his Jeep up the driveway to the Hall. This was the same Blackjack whose compulsive gambling had driven his family to the brink of ruin time and time again and who wasn’t exactly known for holding the Davenport title and lands in the highest esteem. (He reputedly once drank a bottle of Glenmorangie Scotch whisky and staked the Hall itself on a hand of poker. Miraculously, he’d won.) Steve knew in his heart and soul that the chances of Blackjack turning down hard cash for his property were slim to none. And then what would become of Lucasta and Portia – and of course Daisy . . .?

  He was roused from these depressing thoughts by a car passing him on the driveway. He just caught a glimpse of Portia waving at him from the passenger seat of a flashy sports car but couldn’t see who was driving. Shit. He badly needed to talk to her and as it was already well after lunchtime, the chances of Lucasta being sober enough to take in the enormity of the situation were slim. And he really didn’t want to be the one to break the news to Daisy, but now it looked like he’d just have to. Lousy timing, he knew, what with the Midsummer Ball planned for that evening, but this time his back was really to the wall. Shamie and Bridie Nolan were bound to be invited and the chances of them deliberately letting slip what was happening to one of the Davenports was a virtual certainty. Better, he thought, far better for them to hear the news from him, first-hand. He dreaded telling them, but knew it would have to be done. He brought the
Jeep to a crunching halt on the forecourt and, gathering up a bulging stack of files, headed for the kitchen door, via the walled garden to the rear of the house.

  ‘If I’ve told ya once, I’ve told ya a thousand times, I am not marinating yer bleedin’ chicken wings until after Emmerdale so piss off and leave me in peace,’ said Mrs Flanagan as she plonked herself down in front of the tiny portable TV in the kitchen.

  ‘Have it your way then, let all the guests starve. You’re such a typical Virgo about these things,’ Lucasta snarled back at her. ‘In a past life, you were definitely in the SS.’ She was about to snatch the TV guide from Mrs Flanagan’s hand when Steve walked in.

  ‘AH JAYSUS! Me nerves!’ screeched Mrs Flanagan on hearing the back door opening. Then she visibly relaxed on seeing who it was. ‘Ah howaya, Steve? Sorry if I gave ya a bit of a fright there, luv,’ she said. ‘It’s just that every time that door opens, I keep thinking it’s going to be Ella Hepburn.’

  ‘And why would you think she’d be coming to see you?’ sneered Lucasta. ‘To borrow one of your housecoats perhaps?’ Then, turning to Steve, her cranky mood completely evaporated. ‘Darling, it’s so sweet of you to call, now I do hope you haven’t forgotten about my Midsummer Ball tonight? You simply must be here, half the town are coming, it’ll be an absolute triumph.’

  ‘Emm, no, Lucasta, of course I’ll be here, it’s just that there was something important I needed to discuss with you, if you have a minute.’

  ‘Oh, not now, darling,’ said Lucasta, sweeping by him on her way out to the garden, ‘I’ve got to commune with the Goddess of Samhradh to intone her blessing for the party and I’ve got to do it now. The Ascendant Masters don’t like to be kept waiting, you know.’

  Steve braced himself. That only left Daisy and God only knew how she’d take the news.

  ‘Mrs Flanagan, I don’t suppose you have the least idea where Daisy is, do you?’ He had to raise his voice to be heard as she was hurling a string of abuse at the TV, her standard reaction to any commercial that met with her disapproval.