‘And have they any idea what the matter is?’
‘Poisoning of some kind, but my blood tests all came back perfectly clear, so they don’t really know what caused it. All I know is that I was feeling as fit as a fiddle one minute and then no sooner had I crossed the threshold of Davenport Hall than the most violent nausea I have ever experienced in my whole life came over me. It took Michael twenty minutes just to carry me to the car. What can I say, my dear? One evening in that madhouse and I wanted to die. I would actually have welcomed death just to get out of there.’
‘Your picture is in the paper, you know,’ replied Edwina, producing a bundle of magazines and newspapers from the depths of her Hermès Kelly bag and spreading them all over the bed. ‘Yes, look, there you are in a crowd of people. And isn’t that Ella Hepburn in the middle?’
‘Do you know, I feel so sorry for that poor woman,’ replied Susan, sounding as weak as one of Lucasta’s kittens. ‘Unless she has the constitution of an ox, they’d better get a bed ready for her in here.’
‘The papers certainly had a field day,’ Edwina went on. ‘Davenport Hall is getting more coverage than a royal marriage break-up these days. Oh, look at this,’ she said, brightening as her eagle eye fell on a grainy black-and-white photo in the National Intruder. ‘It’s difficult to make out because of the rain, but isn’t that Portia Davenport with some man?’
Susan sat bolt upright in the bed, all but snatching the paper from Edwina’s grasp. It was indeed a blurry, long-lens photo of Portia and Steve, taken when they were in the gazebo, the night of the Midsummer Ball. It had obviously been shot from quite a distance, but it was still possible to make out that she was slumped against him and that his arms were locked tightly around her.
BEGORRAH, IT’S GOMORRAH! the banner headline ran. THERE’S MORE HOT SEX IN THIS TINY CORNER OF KILDARE THAN IN THE ENTIRE RED-LIGHT DISTRICT OF AMSTERDAM!
‘For such a plain-looking woman, she certainly has no problem pulling, does she?’ said Edwina, thinking aloud. ‘I suppose ugly women just have to try harder.’
‘Yes, that’s right, I saw her with someone,’ said Susan, instantly perking up, ‘just before I was taken ill. Edwina darling, do you mind if I keep a copy of this? It’s just that I’m sure Andrew will be in to see me later on. Now, ordinarily he wouldn’t wrap his chips in the National Intruder but in this case . . .’ She sat back on the bed and smiled wanly, looking almost as white as the starched pillows at her back.
Edwina took her hand and patted it soothingly, delighted. ‘You poor, poor thing, Susan, it’s been simply awful for you! But, you know, I didn’t come all this way to see you just to talk about what’s in the papers. I think I just might have some news that’ll cheer you up.’
Daisy could take no more. For the third day running, she had spent the afternoon holed up in the estate office with Portia and Steve as they frantically tried to trace Blackjack’s last known whereabouts. Daisy had remembered he’d sent her a postcard from Caesar’s Palace in Vegas, but when they contacted the hotel, they were told he had moved on. The receptionist’s actual words were, ‘Oh yeah, we did have this springtime/fall couple staying and he did strut around claiming to be an Irish duke or lord or some crap, but we get a lot of that here. Is he escaped from an institution or something?’
Meanwhile, Steve was trying to get hold of every member of the Kildare County Council that he could, to ascertain just how far the planning application had advanced. Portia sat opposite him at her huge walnut desk, calmly scribbling notes and chipping in with helpful suggestions. Daisy’s sole contribution to the whole operation had been to pace up and down and burst into fresh bouts of tears whenever Blackjack’s name arose, which was about once every five minutes. After a couple of hours of this, she thought she’d scream.
Steve had been on hold to speak to the chairman of the County Council for what felt like an eternity and was just about to be put through when Daisy erupted. ‘How can you both be so bloody calm and sit there making phone calls when bulldozers could be waiting at the gates to turn our land into the next Ballymun Towers?’ she howled.
A rare flash of irritation passed over Portia’s face, but she quickly calmed herself. ‘Darling, Steve and I are doing everything that’s humanly possible to try to get us out of this mess. If you want to help us, fine; if not, why not go outside and get some air?’
Daisy thought about it for a moment, then excused herself. After the neutron bomb which had landed on her, she found herself desperately wanting to see Guy, to tell him what was happening and to see if he had any solutions to offer. She hadn’t set eyes on him since she’d stormed out of the Library on the night of the Ball. It was almost as though he’d been avoiding her – he seemed to spend every spare second in Ella Hepburn’s trailer and . . . who knew? Maybe he was just being attentive to her because he felt sorry for her or . . . well, who knew? But there sure as hell was only one way to find out.
‘Don’t mention anything, darling, will you?’ Portia called after her. ‘It’s just that there are so many press and journalists around, we want to keep this in the family.’
‘Yeah, the only way I can keep up with you these days is by reading the tabloids, it seems,’ Steve quipped, smiling softly at her in an attempt to lighten the situation. But it backfired. Daisy’s huge blue eyes welled with tears, remembering all the coverage about her and Guy and how the National Intruder in particular raved about what a beautiful couple they made. (LOOK AT THE ARSE ON THAT had been the actual headline, but she recalled it as fondly as if it had been a soft-soaped Hello! magazine lovey-dovey spread.)
‘Daisy, I didn’t mean to upset you—’ he said as she picked up her crutches and stumped out of the room in high dudgeon.
‘It’s OK,’ Portia mouthed silently at him. ‘Long story.’
As Daisy inched her way down the staircase, she heard the phone in the Library ringing. And ringing. Fucking ridiculous that there’s no mobile phone signal in this house, she thought furiously. She paused for a moment, then, sighing deeply, decided she’d better answer it in case it was someone important from the Kildare County Council, returning one of Steve’s calls and unable to get through to the line in the estate office, which had been tied up for most of the day.
‘Hello, Davenport Hall.’
‘Daisy? It’s Andrew.’
‘Oh, hi,’ she answered dully, unaware of what was going on, that there was anything wrong between him and her sister. ‘Are you looking for Portia?’
‘Yes. Is she there?’
Before she answered, Daisy happened to look distractedly out of the window and noticed that the crew were setting up in the old orchard. From a distance, she could make out Guy and Ella, he in his famous fucking cream linen suit and she in a Victorian hooped skirt confection. In a flash, her mind was working overtime. Never one to sit silently wondering what was going on inside any man’s head, she was of the ‘shoot first, questions later’ school. It had got her into a lot of trouble in the past, but she didn’t care. There was bugger all to lose by being direct, she figured, so she may as well just march or, rather, hobble up to Guy and demand to know what in God’s name was going on. She was momentarily diverted from her plan of action by Andrew’s disembodied voice on the other end of the phone, saying, ‘Daisy? Are you there?’
‘Emm, look, it’s not a great time,’ she muttered distractedly, anxious to be gone. ‘She’s busy upstairs with Steve, but I’ll get her to ring you, OK?’
‘It’s urgent – absolutely vital that I speak to her, Daisy. Do you promise you’ll pass on the message?’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ Then, banging the phone down and thinking no more of it, she went outside.
As she stumped past the catering bus, Serge spotted her and immediately discarded his non-dairy, gluten-free, low-carb snack and ran out after her.
‘Well, hey, honey, how’s your war wound?’ he asked, indicating her ankle.
‘Fine, thanks,’ she replied. She was in no mood for t
rifles. ‘Serge, are they filming at the moment?’
‘Yeah, the end of the mother-and-son reunion scene.’ But there was something in the look of steely determination in her eyes which made him add, ‘Honey, you know you can’t go near the orchard when they’re shooting . . .’
Off Daisy went, not even waiting for him to finish his sentence. Serge followed at a discreet distance, never one to miss out on a good old-fashioned showdown.
‘Mother, why have you followed me all the way from Atlanta to the O’Maras’ family farm here in the land of saints and scholars?’
‘Because, my darling boy, I cannot permit you to align yourself with that woman yet again, after the shame and disgrace she has already visited on the Charleston clan! Oh Brent, my darling baby, when will you realize . . . Magnolia’s nothing but a harlot!’
‘CUT!’ Jimmy D. roared at the top of his voice. ‘Somebody’s walking through the goddamn shot!’
‘I will personally disembowel whoever it is . . .’ said Johnny, then broke off, recognizing that it was Daisy, who’d taken a short cut through a side gate into the orchard and was now hobbling towards where Guy and Ella Hepburn were standing side by side, blissfully unaware that filming was in progress.
‘Guy, thank goodness—’ she panted breathlessly.
‘I hope you’re satisfied with yourself,’ Guy interrupted furiously. ‘Ella and I have been rehearsing this scene for hours and we’ve just played it perfectly and now we’ve gotta do it all over. And frankly, I feel like I’ve already peaked.’
‘But, Guy, you don’t understand,’ Daisy replied. ‘We’ve just had the most dreadful news about the Hall, they’ve applied to rezone all of our land and want to put a compulsory purchase order on the house and—’
He laughed cruelly. ‘You know, the sooner you face up to the fact that your house is a fucking dump the better. You should be thankful that anyone in his or her right mind wants to buy it at all. It’s a shithole!’
‘Davenport Hole,’ said Ella Hepburn in her heavy, guttural, smoker’s voice, the first words Daisy had heard her utter since her arrival.
‘You know, I’d really prefer not to be having this conversation in front of Lucrezia Borgia here,’ said Daisy, close to tears now.
‘Ignore her,’ Guy said to Ella dismissively. ‘I only fooled around with her because that’s what Brent Charleston would have done.’
‘Honey, come with me,’ said Serge, who’d come up behind Daisy and slipped his arm protectively around her shoulders. ‘Let’s just get you out of here.’
Too stunned to protest, she allowed herself to be led away, aware that everyone on the set was watching her. She took a final glance over her shoulder and wished she hadn’t. Guy and Ella were running the scene over again, but this time his hand lay suggestively across her bottom, not a bit like a mother and son at all.
‘Don’t you worry one teeny bit, honey,’ said Serge, fussing around the make-up bus, ‘my magic coffee is just what you need, and then we’re gonna talk this through. Like I always say, why would anyone need a psychiatrist when they have a hairdresser?’ Then, grabbing a freshly brewed pot from where it had been percolating quietly in the corner, he filled a mug half full and topped up the rest with brandy.
‘Now, you get that into you, honey, and your Uncle Serge will tell you a few horror stories about the male race,’ he said, handing the mug over to Daisy, who, with her ashen face and a blanket thrown around her shoulders, looked like she’d been in a terrorist bomb blast. ‘You know, an ex of mine broke up with me by text message once, can you believe that?’ he went on, massaging her hands in his. ‘And we’d been dating for three months! A lousy text message that said “Welcome to Dumpsville. Population: you!”’
They were interrupted by a gentle knocking on the door.
‘Come in,’ said Serge, as quietly and respectfully as if he were in a funeral parlour. In walked Montana, carrying a bunch of roses and looking sheepish.
‘Daisy, I know this is a really shit time, but it’s all over the set about Guy and Ella Hepburn and I just wanted to give you these and let you know how, like, really sorry I am.’
Daisy stared at her, speechless.
‘And I know I’ve been, like, a total bitch to you lately,’ Montana went on, sitting down beside her, ‘when you’ve been such a doll to me from day one. There’s no excuse for the way I spoke to you at the Ball, I just hated seeing you with that asshole Guy. You really deserve so much better than him. So now do you believe me about, like, what an unbelievable shit he really is?’
Daisy nodded weakly. ‘It’s just that it hurts, you know?’ she sobbed. ‘It really fucking hurts.’ The brandy in Serge’s coffee was beginning to kick in and the tears had started to roll. ‘But you know, maybe, just maybe he’ll get tired of her, realize he’s made a mistake and want me back. What do you think?’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ Serge said, gently massaging her shoulders. ‘You’re clutching at straws now, honey. You know, I hold Meg Ryan entirely responsible for this.’
‘Meg Ryan?’ said Montana, surprised. ‘What has Meg got to do with it?’
‘You mean you haven’t seen this?’ Serge replied, indicating a tatty piece of paper stuck to the back of the bus door. He went over to remove it, and read it aloud to the girls. ‘It’s just a little list I’m compiling. I call it: “The Movies of Meg Ryan and their Crimes against Humanity.
‘“One: her movies perpetuate the belief that feeling, sensitive, single women everywhere will eventually find true love.
‘“Two – and this is the one that pertains to you, honey: her movies peddle the notion that even if you start on the wrong foot with the man of your dreams, even if he cheats on you with your best friend, it doesn’t matter, it’ll inevitably end in marriage anyway.
‘“Three: how dare her movies encourage single women to believe that all of their male pals, of whatever orientation, are up for grabs.”’
Montana glanced across at Daisy, who had momentarily forgotten her tears. Serge was one of those people who are at their funniest when they’re not trying to be.
‘And just don’t get me started on Miss Ella Hepburn!’ Serge went on, by now in full rant mode. ‘I got a good look at her when I was doing her make-up this morning and, honey, the amount of work she’s had done! Let’s just say there’s a bucket in some cosmetic surgery clinic somewhere with most of her real face in it.’
A slight smile flickered across Daisy’s beautiful, tired face. Montana noticed, and decided that now might be an appropriate moment to change the subject.
‘Oh, by the way, you wanna know something? I owe you, like, a really big thank you, Daisy,’ she said. ‘I totally forgot to tell you! My lab results came back from LA and your friend Kat Slater really did the trick. I’m as clean as a whistle, healthier than I’ve ever been!’
In spite of herself, Daisy began to chuckle. Large tears began to splash down her cheeks as laughter completely overcame her. For a moment, she forgot all of her cares in a helpless fit of giggles and, without quite knowing why, Serge and Montana both joined in until the make-up bus sounded like the canned laughter track on a US sitcom.
‘Laughter through tears,’ said Serge, ‘my favourite emotion!’
At around the same time, Shamie Nolan’s Jaguar was zooming over the potholes on the driveway up to the Hall.
‘Jaysus, Mickey, if I have to go past that feckin’ shower of bastard journalists once more, I’ll go off me head,’ said Bridie to her brother-in-law. ‘They’ve been camped out at that gate all bloody week photographing anything that moves. I’m telling ya, I know exactly how Princess Diana must have felt.’
‘Just think of the scoop you’ll be able to give them when this story breaks, Bridie, or should I say, me lady!’
She laughed heartily at this as she pulled over just outside the main entrance. ‘Come on, Mickey,’ she said, hauling her huge frame out of the car door. ‘Let’s get this over with. Have ya got everything ya need?’
/> ‘I think so, yeah,’ he replied, taking his architect’s sketchpad, measuring tape and a small stepladder from the back of the car. ‘Righty-oh, lead the way.’
Without further ado, they marched up the steps and Bridie bashed at the doorbell for all she was worth.
‘Keep yer knickers on, will ya?’ Mrs Flanagan could clearly be heard saying from behind the door (her standard greeting). Then, opening up and seeing who the visitors were, she said, ‘Howaya, Bridie? What brings you all the way out here?’ Then, a bit suspiciously, she added, ‘Is Shamie not with ya then?’
‘No, he’s in the States on business,’ replied Bridie, cool as a cucumber. ‘This is his brother Mickey who’s here to do me a favour.’
‘Well, if yer’re looking for Lady Davenport I’m afraid she’s pissed,’ said Mrs Flanagan, beginning to smell a very large rat. ‘But Portia’s up in her office. Did ya want to speak to her?’
‘I did indeed,’ replied Bridie. Then, unable to help herself, she added, ‘You can just tell her the new owners have arrived.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘I’VE COME ACROSS some worthless shitheads in my time, but Blackjack Davenport beats fucking Christmas,’ said Mrs Flanagan for about the tenth time in as many minutes, as she gazed morosely into space.
No one contradicted her.
This is like a scene from the final act of a Chekhov play, was the bizarre thought that filtered through Portia’s mind. The decaying manor house that’s been sold from under the noses of the family who’d lived there for centuries, the faithful family retainer, the beautiful willowy youngest daughter who’d spent the day crying for Ireland and the lady of the house anaesthetized with alcohol, all sitting in stunned silence around an empty grate wondering what would become of them. All we’re short of is a bloody seagull circling us, she added ruefully to herself.
It had been a day of one devastating blow after another. She and Steve had worked side by side like lunatics firstly to track her father down in the vain hope that he could be persuaded not to sell; then, when they’d failed to contact him, the next Herculean task had been to try and persuade each member of the County Council not to condemn the Hall . . . and all for nothing. Once Bridie Nolan landed on the doorstep with an architect in tow, it was all over bar the shouting.
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