In a few days’ time, in a laboratory somewhere in California, a sample would be sent for analysis in a test tube with Montana’s name written on it. Daisy hadn’t been lying when she said that the sample she’d procured (with great difficulty) belonged to a Kat Slater.
What she hadn’t said was that Kat Slater was a two-year-old brood mare.
‘You know, Susan, if you didn’t want to come, why didn’t you just say so in the first place?’ Michael de Courcey was well used to dealing with his wife’s legendary foul temper, but even he was at a loss to understand why she was so insistent on them going to the Davenports’ Midsummer Ball. ‘You’ve done nothing but badmouth the family ever since you met them. To be perfectly honest with you, I can’t make out why you didn’t just phone them and cry off. I’m quite happy to go in there alone, you know. Only really came to get a glimpse of the Hollywood elite at play, if the truth be known.’
Susan glared at him as she patted her gravity-defying hairdo. ‘You know perfectly well why I’m here, Michael. One quick word in Miss Davenport’s ear and then we’re leaving. With or without Ella Hepburn’s autograph.’
As they gingerly made their way up the steps to the main entrance door of the Hall, Susan caught a disapproving look in her husband’s eye. Changing tack, she said, ‘Darling, I’m doing that woman a favour. You saw those photos in that dreadful magazine. She’s obviously decided to hurl herself at poor Andrew and you know how easily people take advantage of him. When she realizes that she’s messing around with a man who’s as good as married, she’ll see sense. Portia Davenport will thank me in the long run, mark my words.’
Forty long years of marriage had taught Michael when to argue the toss with his wife and, more importantly, when not to. Anything for a quiet life, he thought as they walked through the great oak door and into the entrance hall.
‘Oh, Andrew’s mother’s here! How lovely of you to come,’ said Lucasta, spotting them through the crowd from across the hallway. Having completely forgotten Mrs de Courcey’s Christian name she turned her full attention on to Michael. ‘And this dishy man must be your husband,’ she said, winking suggestively at the Chief Justice. ‘All I can say is I see where Andrew gets his yummy looks from.’
‘Actually, we’ve met before—’ replied Michael before Lucasta interrupted him.
‘Really? I must have been slaughtered drunk or I’d have remembered meeting someone as hunky as you. By the way, where’s Andrew?’
‘He was unexpectedly called to an urgent meeting in Dublin. He’ll be here later,’ Mrs de Courcey crisply replied, distinctly unamused by the sight of her ladyship flirting with her husband.
‘Isn’t it too wonderful about Andrew and Portia?’ Lucasta went on, slopping some gin and tonic on to the marble floor in her excitement. ‘He really is the loveliest man! Do you know, I don’t think Portia’d had a shag in about five years until Andrew came along and he seems to be dotty about her—’
Mrs Flanagan interrupted, in the nick of time. ‘Howayis? Do youse want a drink or what?’
‘I’ll have a single malt whisky, if you have it,’ the Chief Justice boomed at her.
‘And I’ll have some apple juice,’ replied his wife.
‘Is that it? Apple juice?’ said Mrs Flanagan, not used to dealing with teetotallers.
‘Yes. I don’t drink.’
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ Lucasta cooed sympathetically. ‘Are you an alcoholic?’
Mrs de Courcey, although possessed of a spinal cord of reinforced steel, could take no more.
‘Forget it, I’ll just go and find something to drink myself,’ she said, stalking off, leaving her husband in Lucasta’s firing line.
Just as Daisy thought the evening couldn’t get any worse, it did. Bad enough that Guy hadn’t come near her all day, but when she was finally reduced to seeking him out, she wasn’t at all prepared for what she saw. Just as she hobbled out of the Long Gallery, she became aware of a hushed silence descending on all the guests in the hall below. She looked down from the first-floor landing only to see every head there turned up looking at her. Oh Jesus, she thought, do I have knickers on my head or something? A sweeping sound from behind made her turn just in time to see Ella Hepburn making her grand entrance down the staircase, head held high, looking just like Gloria Swanson at the end of Sunset Boulevard. She wore an impeccably cut white trouser suit with a long flowing red silk scarf trailing from her neck to the ground and was hugging her Pekinese dog close to her. Guy was at her side, looking like a devoted lapdog, making sure that the crowd parted like the Red Sea before her. A polite ripple of applause and a battery of camera flashes broke out, which Ella acknowledged with the merest hint of a wave as Guy ushered her into the Library and firmly shut the door behind them. Bloody hell, Daisy thought, that one would give the Queen Mother a run for her money. Then, gingerly manoeuvring herself on her First World War crutches down the staircase she followed them into the empty Library, where Ella was sitting bolt upright on a leather armchair with Guy at her feet. Never one to stand on ceremony, Daisy came straight to the point.
‘Guy, what’s going on? Didn’t you get my message? I’ve been waiting for you all afternoon!’ He said nothing, but excused himself from Ella’s side and strode towards Daisy, who was by now close to tears.
‘Can’t you think about anyone other than yourself for a minute?’ he hissed. ‘Ella’s had an exhausting journey and is still in deep shock about the room she’s expected to stay in here. And she’s allergic to your mother’s cats; she says one tried to attack her earlier. She picked it up by accident thinking it was her mink muff. Not a pretty sight. You might have just a little consideration right now . . .’
Ella never uttered a word, just sat there like a silent movie star, smoking a Sobranie cigarette and letting Guy do all her dirty work for her.
‘But, darling, I had this horrific fall and I just wanted to—’
Guy looked coldly at her. ‘Me, me, me. Could you try thinking of other people, just for once?’ he whispered, as though a raised voice would upset the fragile Ella even more.
This was too much for Daisy. Her eyes welled up as she clumsily executed a three-point turn on the crutches and limped her way out of the door, where she immediately bumped into Paddy.
‘Is that wanker giving you grief?’ he asked, concerned. Daisy said nothing, just gulped back the angry tears that were choking her. ‘And I wouldn’t mind, only Jaysus, Ella Hepburn’s about eighty-five,’ he went on, under the impression he was making things better, ‘and most of her films are shite. I wouldn’t mind if she was someone who’d actually made a contribution to world culture, like, say, Cilla Black or someone, but she’s brutal! And you’d think she’d been in Dallas the way she’s going on.’ Then, seeing that Daisy was genuinely upset he changed tack. ‘Come on, luv, and I’ll buy ya a drink at the free bar.’
Daisy forced a smile as she gratefully allowed Paddy to help her through the crowd. Had she been a little less tired and emotional she might have paid some attention to the bitter war of words that was going on in the hall between Shamie Nolan and, of all people, Chief Justice de Courcey.
Hold it together, Portia kept telling herself, just hold it together. Steve had steered her away from the throng and had taken her outside to break the news as gently as he could. However, as it was still bucketing down with rain, the gazebo beside the kitchen garden was just about the only spot where they could have an ounce of privacy. Portia was pacing up and down in the vain hope that the cool evening air would calm her down, but no such luck. She was still reeling from all that Steve had just told her and a dull pounding headache was starting to thud at her temples.
‘Was I right to tell you?’ he asked, genuinely concerned. She was so consumed with sheer panic that she barely heard the question. She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, she just turned to face him, her face as white as a sheet. ‘Portia, I’m so sorry, but we will fight this, you know, I’ll do everything I can . . .’
She couldn’t answer, she just collapsed on to his chest, limp as a rag doll as the tears started to roll. Very gently, he steered her towards a wooden bench, sat her down and held her tightly to him.
‘Shhh, calm down, we’ll think of a way out,’ he said soothingly. ‘Come on, let’s get you upstairs to your room, you’re fit for nothing. I’ll see if I can find some sort of sedative to help you sleep. You’ve had quite enough for one night, Portia.’
To an outside observer, they looked like two lovers having a secret tryst away from prying eyes. At least that’s what Susan de Courcey thought, standing silently at the kitchen door, having traipsed over the entire Hall, determined to have it out with Portia. Well, well, well, she thought, staring at their silhouettes in the gazebo, just the ammunition she’d been waiting for. She barely even jumped when Daisy stumped into the kitchen on her crutches in search of a painkiller for her throbbing ankle. Taking the scene in, it only took Daisy a split second to cop what was happening. Andrew’s battleaxe of a mother was spying on Portia; there was no other explanation for her being in the servants’ kitchen. How fucking dare she? Daisy thought, full of indignation on her sister’s behalf. The first time in years that Portia’s actually got a boyfriend and his mother has to start behaving like Hercule fucking Poirot.
‘May I get you something?’ she spat at Mrs de Courcey, causing the older woman to turn her transfixed glare away from the gazebo. But Daisy had met her match. If she thought this was a woman to be easily intimidated by a slip of a girl wobbling about on museum-piece crutches, she was greatly mistaken.
‘Yes, thank you,’ came the reply. ‘I came downstairs to get some apple juice.’ The lie came easily to her; she never even flinched, just eyeballed Daisy, cool as a breeze.
‘Certainly,’ Daisy replied, smiling sweetly as she opened the fridge. Then, taking out the jug containing Kat Slater’s urine sample, she poured out a full pint of it into a glass.
‘Would you like some ice in that, Mrs de Courcey?’
Five in the morning and only a few stragglers remained. Daylight was already streaming through the huge, filthy shutters as Lucasta bashed away at the grand piano in the Long Gallery. She was blessed with the stamina of an SAS marine and traditionally partied all of her guests under the table. She was currently belting out a jaw-droppingly bad rendition of ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business’ as a tribute to all her houseguests from the entertainment industry, oblivious to the fact that they’d all long since retired. Only Jimmy D. was present, dressed all in green, like a giant leprechaun, as if he’d somehow confused Midsummer with St Patrick’s Day. He lay semi-comatose in a leather armchair with a lighted cigar about to fall from his hand. Daisy too was almost asleep, stretched out on a sofa with her crutches on the floor beside her.
This will go down as the most disastrous night of my life and that’s really saying something, she thought. She had fully expected Guy to seek her out, apologize for his behaviour earlier and explain that he just felt sorry for Ella Hepburn on her first day or something, but he never did. She hadn’t set eyes on him again all night. It almost killed her, but she’d even struggled on her crutches up to his bedroom door and had bashed on it like a woman possessed, but it was locked. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow. I’ll deal with him tomorrow.
Just then, Paddy staggered in, pissed out of his head and barely able to walk. He immediately spotted Daisy in the corner, paused for a moment, then went over to Lucasta at the piano. He whispered a few words in her ear, swaying on his feet, then sat down on the stool beside her and proceeded to address the room.
‘Ehh, excuse me, everyone, I know youse are all locked an’ all, but if ya could just bear with me for a minute. This is just a love song I’ve been working on for a while now and it’s dedicated to a certain young lady who shall remain anonymous, but she knows who she is, sitting over there with her crutches beside her.’
Then, expertly tinkering with the keys, he launched into his party piece.
‘The minute I saw you
I nearly fucking died;
You are so beautiful,
An unbelievable ride.
Oh Daisy, I love you,
I hope you don’t spew;
Please hear my love song,
I wrote it for you.
I know you are posh,
I know I’m a knacker,
But give me a chance, love,
I’ll go like the clappers.
We’ve more in common
Than you might think.
Both our mas
Are poisoned with drink;
Your house is a shithole;
But that’s all right.
If you were my girlfriend
I’d shag you all night.’
Daisy sat upright, fully awake now and watching him intently from the other end of the room. Well, she thought, looking at Paddy in a whole new light. If this didn’t make Guy jealous, what would? Inching herself up from the sofa, she stretched her arms out to grab her crutches and gingerly hobbled over to the grand piano. Paddy saw her wobbling towards him and was about to leap up to help her when Lucasta roughly grabbed his arm and shoved him back down on to the piano stool.
‘Thank Christ for someone musical!’ she said, helping herself to one of Paddy’s cigarettes. ‘Serge’s been playing that puffy gay shite all night long and now, at last, we can have some decent music. You must play something else, darling, or maybe we can sing a few duets together? Do you know “Save your Love” by Rene and Renata?’
‘Was he a sweaty fat fella who threw some blondie one a rose in the video? Ehh, yeah, right, yer majesty, I do remember. Shitty song, but it’s your gaff, if that’s what ya want to hear,’ replied Paddy, launching into it.
Daisy was standing beside them at the piano stool, by now swaying from exhaustion and unable to bear another minute of her mother’s squalling.
‘Maybe I’ll see you later then, Paddy,’ she whispered into his ear, ‘if you’d like.’
Paddy looked up at her in stunned surprise, unable to believe his luck. ‘My bedroom is on the second floor,’ she went on. ‘Take the left-hand corridor all the way down to the end, then go right at the bust of Napoleon, across the landing, up a small flight of stairs, past the armoire, left at the portrait of Granny Davenport, right down to the end of the passage and I’m the fourth room on the left. Will you remember?’
‘Jaysus, yeah, no bother,’ Paddy slurred, feeling as though all his birthdays had come at once.
Lucasta was screeching by now, but still managed to break off the caterwauling to say, ‘Bugger off to bed and leave us alone, Daisy. Sex is sex and it’s all very well, you know, but you can’t beat a good sing-song.’
‘Maybe see you later then?’ Daisy repeated sotto voce as she hobbled out of the door.
Paddy winked back at her, red as a beetroot.
It was eight o’clock in the morning by the time Andrew arrived. He burst through the Hall door out of breath and the first person he bumped into was Mrs Flanagan. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t make the Ball last night,’ he began, ‘but talk about having a good excuse! Do you know where Portia is? I know it’s early, but I don’t think she’ll mind being woken up for this news.’
‘Ah, still in bed, luv,’ she yawned, wearily gathering up empty bottles from the hall table. ‘Steve took her off last night. I saw them disappear upstairs together, early on in the night too.’
‘Steve? Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, luv,’ she replied innocently as she waddled down the back staircase which led to the servants’ kitchen. ‘And he told me on no account were they to be disturbed.’
Andrew paused for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief. Running up the stairs two at a time, he raced along the upper corridor to Portia’s room. Tapping gently on her door, he waited for an answer. Silence. He knocked again. Still nothing. Then, whispering in a low voice so as not to disturb Daisy, whose room was opposite, he said, ‘Darling, it’s me,’ before gently opening t
he door and stepping inside.
Two minutes later, he was gone, furiously slamming the Hall door behind him and this time not caring whom it disturbed.
Chapter Sixteen
‘NOW, DON’T FORGET to bring me back Celine Dion’s autograph and a nice bit a costume jewellery that I can wear to the next gala dinner in Government Buildings. Something subtle now, Shamie, like a tiara with earrings to match. The golden rule is, what’s good enough for Cher is good enough for me.’
‘Not a bother,’ replied her husband, dutifully writing out Bridie’s shopping list. ‘Anything else, me love?’
Bridie racked her brains as she sped along the MI motorway in North Dublin en route to the airport. She had just collected her husband from the Minister for Foreign Affairs’ private residence in Howth and was now dropping him off in time to catch a flight to London and then a connection on to Las Vegas.
‘Well,’ she mused, ‘a few spare sets of acrylic nails is always a handy thing to have and if ya happen to come across that fabulous antique shop where Michael Jackson went shopping with Martin Bashir in that documentary, anything from there will be perfect. They had beautiful life-sized stuffed tigers and all . . . in fact, Shamie, ya might as well open up an account there.’
‘An account?’ he replied, a bit perturbed by the amounts of cash his wife was intending to spend. ‘Is that not a bit extravagant?’ He was rewarded with one of Bridie’s trademark turn-you-to-stone looks.
‘Ah now, Jaysus, it’s not that I’m being tight-fisted or anything, luv,’ he said, backpedalling for all he was worth, ‘but what if them fellas on the Opposition benches got wind of the fact that I’m spending this much on a new house? If that got into the papers . . .’
‘Ah, feck off,’ replied Bridie, unimpressed. ‘If this is going to be our dream home then there’ll be no cutting corners. It’ll all be worth it when half the Government can come down to the Hall to visit ya at weekends. For God’s sake, Shamie, you’ll be like Tony Blair hosting weekends at Chequers.’
He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me Page 18
