‘With Pádraic Pearse and the lads? And was she shot along with the rest of them?’
‘Emm, no. She only went in to buy a stamp and didn’t realize there was a Rising going on. So she only really got caught in the crossfire by accident. I often wonder if anyone in history ever sacrificed their life as she did, just for the sake of renewing a wireless licence and buying a twopenny stamp. Anyway, the point is, the TV cameras and newspapermen at our front gates are like a PR goldmine, just crying out to be exploited.’
For six full days now, Portia hadn’t heard a single word from Andrew. Not a whisper. From someone who’d barely left her side in the time they’d known each other. She’d had so much else to worry about that she’d done her best to push him to the back of her mind but, try as she might, he was rarely out of her thoughts for very long. After yet another mind-numbing day sweating blood with Steve in the estate office, scraping the barrel trying to find some way around the inevitable, she could take no more.
‘Look at you,’ Steve had said to her as they walked towards his Jeep in the forecourt together, ‘you’re making yourself physically sick from worry and exhaustion. You need to get out of here for a bit, clear your head.’ He looked at her ghostly pale face with concern. She smiled wanly at him as she stood on tiptoe to peck him on the cheek before he drove off.
He’s dead right, she thought, nothing like a good, brisk walk to take my mind off things. But just as she was about to set off down the driveway, she remembered: the bloody press were camped at the front gates and they still had her cast in the role of humble scullery maid lusting after the Earl of Ireland. They were snapping anything that moved on the estate these days and Portia wasn’t in the mood to be used as tabloid fodder. Who needs that, she thought, jumping into the Mini Metro instead, and putting on a pair of sunglasses that she found in the glove compartment. I’ll just drive into Ballyroan instead, she decided, making a quick mental list of various bits and pieces she could buy in Spar while she was at it.
She made it through the front gates in one piece. An electrical storm of flashes did go off into her face, but the sunglasses disguised her and she heard one wag remark, ‘Doubt very much if Ella Hepburn’s going to be driving around in a heap of crap like that.’
As she pulled out of the gates and headed for the town, her mind was racing. Maybe she’d done something to annoy Andrew without even realizing it. Whatever it was though, he’d have to spell it out to her; she was at a loss even to guess what was going on. It just seemed so weird that one minute they were practically joined at the hip and then he was gone, when he didn’t come across as a messer or a guy who would behave like that. But then, she reasoned, I’m not exactly Madonna; it’s not as though I have a vast back catalogue of relationships to compare this with. For all I know this could be perfectly normal, acceptable behaviour. It didn’t feel normal, though.
A slow, sickening feeling began to creep over her. A nagging doubt which she’d been suppressing at the back of her mind for the past few days now came centre stage. When it boiled down to it, she actually knew so little about Andrew. She knew he was a man-about-town, that he thrived on the high-octane life he’d had for years in New York. Maybe this is what he does, she thought. He’d moved from Manhattan to Ballyroan in the blink of an eye and was temporarily stuck in this backwater until his super-cool, metrosexual stag pad was ready. He could have just been feeling restless and bored and then . . . enter the girl next door. Portia’s heart was beginning to thump as a cold reality hit her. She was just a diversion to him. Someone to pass the time with, nothing more. Daisy often used to say that most men would basically have sex with a tree if they could, only women clouded the issue with emotions. And that was exactly what Portia had done. The time they’d spent together, which had meant so much to her, was obviously nothing more than a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am job to him. And yet Andrew didn’t seem to be a shag-and-run merchant . . .
I can handle it, she thought, feeling suddenly strong. If he’s buggered off, I’ll deal with it and, similarly, if he hasn’t, if this is all just a big misunderstanding, I’ll handle that too. The not knowing was the thing that was driving her insane. With a jolt, she remembered the magnificent bouquet of flowers he’d sent her the day after that horrific party in his mother’s house, which seemed like it was last year, so much had happened since then. He’d written her a card and left his mobile phone number on it. She found herself fervently hoping to God that the card hadn’t been thrown out in all the chaos that was going on at the Hall. Well, that’s the answer then, she thought, I’ll just call him when I get home, simple as that. At the very least he’d want to know that the Hall had been sold from beneath them. Her gut instinct was telling her something completely different though.
If he had any interest at all, wouldn’t he just have called to see her, as he’d done every day since they’d met?
‘We’re all very sorry to hear about the Hall being sold,’ Lottie O’Loughlin had sympathized with Portia as she packed her groceries into a plastic bag for her. ‘But at least it’s going to local people, not some rock stars from Dublin. Sure Shamie and Bridie Nolan will take great care of the place, won’t they? And I’m sure they’ll put a few bob into it as well. Let’s face it, it’s not exactly Buckingham Palace at the moment, is it?’
Portia couldn’t bring herself to answer, she just nodded and got the hell out of there.
No sooner had she sat back in the car and turned on the ignition than her heart sank. There it was, that all-too-familiar chug, chug, chug sound the car made whenever it refused to start. She sighed tiredly and stepped out on to the pavement to retrieve the water bottle from the boot of the car and put some into the radiator; that usually did the trick. Just then, a black BMW coupé pulled up alongside her and an electronic window buzzed down.
‘Car trouble?’ asked Susan de Courcey from behind the wheel. ‘May I be of any assistance?’
‘No, thank you very much,’ replied Portia, shocked, but trying to keep her voice calm. ‘This happens all the time, the car just needs a little water.’
A silence followed as both women eyeballed each other. Portia was torn between asking her about Andrew: was he still staying with her, had she seen him, what was happening, anything, any information at all would have been welcome. But the dignified, proud side of her kept silent, thinking: Why should I bloody gratify you by even mentioning his name?
‘I hope you enjoyed the Midsummer party,’ was her best shot.
‘What, do you mean apart from ending up in hospital with severe blood poisoning? Not a night that I’ll remember with great fondness, no,’ Mrs de Courcey replied, tapping her elegantly manicured nails on the steering wheel and glaring rudely at Portia, almost daring her to ask more.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ Portia replied. ‘I hope you’re feeling better.’
‘Much better,’ she said, allowing herself a slight smile now that the conversation was going her way. ‘Actually, Michael and I have had some wonderful news which has cheered me up and helped my recovery no end.’
Portia started to feel sick.
‘Yes, we’re both over the moon. Andrew and Edwina are back together again and their wedding is going ahead, as planned.’
Chapter Twenty
PORTIA COULDN’T QUITE remember getting home or how she got up the stairs and into the privacy of her bedroom, but somehow she did. She was sitting at her dressing table shaking like a leaf and barely heard soft knocking on the door, but the next thing she was aware of was Daisy barging in, wearing a flowery nightie and plonking straight down on her bed.
‘Thought I heard you coming in, Sis. I have to talk to you, I’ve done something really daft and now I’m so upset—’ Daisy began, then broke off as she clocked the look on her sister’s face. ‘Jesus, what happened to you?’
Portia couldn’t hold it in any longer. Since the news about the Hall being sold had broken, she’d been nothing but a tower of strength, supporting her mother and sis
ter and never for one moment letting her own guard down, but now she’d reached breaking point. The past few days of fretting and stressing over their homelessness and bankruptcy she could deal with, Daisy’s devastation over Guy she could deal with, her mother’s inability to do anything except make matters worse she could deal with, but not this. She let herself sink into Daisy’s arms and sobbed out the whole story. Daisy held on to her tight and rocked her gently from side to side, totally unused to being the stronger one of the pair.
After a few minutes, Lucasta appeared at the door wearing her wax jacket over a filthy grey nightie.
‘I thought I heard whingeing, girls, what on earth’s going on?’ she asked, taking in the unusual sight of Portia being emotional and Daisy being the one in control.
‘Shhh, Mummy,’ Daisy replied, gesturing for her to sit on the bed as Portia continued to sob. ‘She met that old battleaxe Susan de Courcey in town and she told her that Andrew’s back with his ex and their wedding’s going ahead. He’s a bastard, a bloody user bastard. Same as the rest of them.’
‘You’re fucking joking,’ replied Lucasta, pulling a box of fags from her pocket and lighting up.
‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ Portia replied, sniffling. ‘Explains a lot, doesn’t it?’
‘But he’d practically moved in here, you and he were inseparable. I simply can’t believe that he’d just up and away with someone else.’
‘It’s not just someone else, it’s the woman he was supposed to be marrying this summer, they were together for years.’
‘Well, I can’t accept that,’ said Lucasta firmly. ‘He was knickers about you, Portia, absolutely knickers about you. And not forgetting the fact that he promised me he’d invest in my Eau de Davenport. I simply can’t understand it; what is the matter with men these days?’
‘If you saw his ex-girlfriend, you’d understand,’ Portia replied, a little calmer now. ‘She’s so beautiful, I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t be happy with her. The whole thing makes perfect sense to me.’
‘You’re beautiful too, darling. You could do with breast implants, but apart from that, you’re lovely.’
Tears started to fill Portia’s eyes again; she was so unused to any degree of kindness or sensitivity from, of all people, her mother.
‘What is it about us Davenport girls that not one of us can hold on to a man?’ Lucasta went on, stubbing her cigarette out on the bare wooden floor. ‘There’s only one logical explanation and that’s that there’s a curse of some sort on us. Right, well, there’s nothing else for it. I’ll just have to cast a spell.’
‘Oh Mummy, not base metal into gold again, I’ve still got that nasty green ring around my neck from the last time,’ said Daisy.
‘Oh no, darling. This time I’m calling out the cavalry.’
* * *
She was as good as her word. The next morning at sunrise, Mrs Flanagan was dispatched down to the entrance gates at the bottom of the driveway where the press were gathered, to issue an invitation.
‘Good morning, lads,’ was her opener. ‘Now don’t be bothered taking any photos of me, I’ve no make-up on for starters, but if youse would all like to follow me inside the Hall, Lady Davenport has the scoop of the century for youse.’
Much puzzlement ensued as the assembled press corps tried to figure out what the hell was going on, but Tony Pitt and the more hard-nosed hacks needed little encouragement. They were actually being invited into the Hall! Who knew what candid shots of Ella Hepburn and Guy van der Post they might be lucky enough to get?
All in all, about a dozen reporters and TV cameramen trooped indoors and were ushered by Mrs Flanagan into the Library. There, lying prostrate on a chaise longue was Lucasta, looking so frail and fragile that she could have given Elizabeth Barrett Browning a run for her money.
‘I have something to say to you all, and I need you to pay very careful attention,’ she began, checking first to make sure that the TV cameras were rolling. Then, casting her eyes downwards and looking as doe-eyed as possible, she began. ‘I am speaking to you now not as the proprietor of Eau de Davenport but as the former owner of Davenport Hall. In the past few days a catastrophe of epic proportions has befallen us.’ She sounded like a TV appeal to help starving babies in Somalia. ‘This heritage house, this jewel in the architectural crown of County Kildare has been cruelly snatched from the loving arms of the family who for nine generations has lived here and worked the land. The Davenports were never absentee landlords, they never buggered off during Ireland’s struggle for independence, oh no. They stood shoulder to shoulder with the people of Kildare through thick and thin. And now our illustrious story is at an end. The Hall has been sold out from under us and I, along with my two daughters, am about to be made homeless. As I speak, bulldozers are gathering like storm clouds outside, waiting to destroy the land our ancestors sweated blood and tears over – and for what? So that a vulgar housing estate can be built? So that a motorway can defile this beauteous countryside?’ She was reaching a pitch now – starting to sound a bit like Winston Churchill rallying the troops. ‘I urge you to help us! Hear my plea and let us snatch victory from the jaws of defeat! Please send what you can to Davenport Hall and help us to fight the barbarians who are seeking to usurp our home!’ Then, with a tearful sigh, she sank back into the chaise longue, as though completely overcome by her passionate plea.
A polite ripple of applause broke out among the assembled hacks, which Lucasta graciously acknowledged with a wave of her hand.
‘Now, before youse all leave, there’s a complimentary bottle of Eau de Davenport for each of you,’ said Mrs Flanagan, handing out bottles from a crate inside the door.
‘Was that all right?’ Lucasta hissed at her under her breath.
‘You were like Princess Diana when she went on Panorama,’ she replied. ‘There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.’
‘Whoever would have thought that Mummy was such a good actress?’ Daisy asked as she and Portia sat in the kitchen watching Lucasta’s performance as it was broadcast on TV4’s lunchtime news bulletin. ‘Nice to see that all those years of watching the Queen’s Christmas Day speech weren’t wasted on her.’
‘Right. Come on then, back to work,’ Portia said, picking up a stack of old newspapers and continuing carefully to wrap up the china tea service.
‘Oh, must we?’ moaned Daisy. ‘I don’t see why we have to pack in the first place. If Mummy’s appeal works, we’ll only have to unpack all over again.’
Portia silently raised her eyes to heaven and continued to pack.
Steve had miraculously hammered out an eleventh-hour mercy deal with the Nolans whereby the Davenports could remain in the Hall until the film had wrapped (only a matter of two months anyway), and then could stay in the gate lodge until they found somewhere permanent to live. Which was yet another nightmare Portia had to face up to; where would they eventually go and how in God’s name would they support themselves? She had carefully salted away most of the money Romance Pictures had paid them for using the Hall, but they couldn’t live off that for ever. And apart from a few dozen bottles of Eau de Davenport which Lucasta had bullied people into buying, the family had no other source of income now that the Hall no longer rightfully belonged to them.
And look at me, Portia thought bitterly, who in their right mind would ever give me a job? There’s absolutely nothing I’m qualified to do except mismanage country estates and I doubt if there’s much demand for that.
‘Hey, maybe we could get jobs as housemaids here when the Nolans move in,’ Daisy said, as though reading Portia’s thoughts. ‘Or, better still, we could become style gurus to Bridie Nolan, she could certainly do with it. You know, a bit like Carole Caplin and Cherie Blair. Did you see the outfit she was wearing to the Midsummer party? Paddy said he thought she was a strippergram.’
‘Paddy?’ Portia stopped her wrapping for a moment. ‘Paddy the sound man?’
Daisy grimaced and suddenly threw herself into the wrapp
ing with a vengeance.
‘Excuse me, missy, will you please tell me what is going on?’
‘Well’ – Daisy wondered how on earth she could explain – ‘you know what men are like, I mean look at Guy! He took one look at Ella fucking Hepburn and that was the end of me. So, I’ve sort of been having mercy sex . . . it’s just interim shagging really, to keep the juices flowing, you know . . .’ she trailed off weakly but was saved by the bell as Mrs Flanagan waddled in, panting.
‘Jaysus, I think I’m the only one that won’t be a bit sorry to leave this kip, I’m worn out looking all over the place for ya,’ she said to Portia.
‘Is something the matter, Mrs Flanagan?’ she replied.
‘Phone call for you in the Library. It’s Andrew and he says it’s urgent.’
‘Oh shit,’ said Daisy, banging her hand off her forehead in exasperation, ‘I knew there was something I forgot to tell you. He rang the other day too.’
Portia thought for a moment, feeling the full force of both of them staring at her expectantly.
‘Thanks, Mrs Flanagan. Will you tell him I’m not in?’
Chapter Twenty-One
LUCASTA’S HEARTFELT TV appeal had a most unexpected consequence. Apart from a few minor contributions that were sent to the Hall (‘Barely enough for us all to go on a week’s holiday to Torremolinos,’ Mrs Flanagan had moaned) it transpired that someone else had been watching her performance on TV with great interest. About a week afterwards, Steve was rushing into his office already late for a meeting when his secretary handed him a message.
‘Chief Justice Michael de Courcey was looking for you, he says it’s critical that he speaks to you today.’
Steve took the phone number, thanked her and kicked the inner door of his office closed before calling him back, totally at a loss as to what could be so urgent.
‘Michael? Steve Sullivan here. I believe you were looking for me?’
He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me Page 22
