‘That’s brilliant!’ said Paddy. ‘Jaysus, I’m delighted I asked ya, yer’re, like, really in touch with yer feminine side. And yer’ll keep it a secret and all, won’t ya? I really want it to be a surprise.’
‘Honey, if there is a more discreet man in the northern hemisphere, then get me his number quick.’
Exactly ten minutes later, Serge barged into Daisy’s bedroom without knocking and plonked down on her bed. She was midway through packing, or rather stuffing her jodhpurs into yet another bin liner, and looked at him in astonishment.
‘You’ll thank me for this later,’ he said. ‘Let me just say that I’ve been entrusted with a huge secret but my will to communicate is just too overwhelming.’
‘Serge, if you’re going to sit there talking shit then at least make yourself useful and help me pack.’
‘Not in a million years will you ever prise it out of me, but I’ll just give you this tiny little clue, you lucky bitch! The ring finger on your left hand isn’t gonna be bare for very much longer!’
Chapter Twenty-Six
AFTER YET ANOTHER sleepless night, Portia wearily forced herself out of bed at six a.m., just as the film crew were starting to crank up for the day. Even if she had been able to sleep, it would have been impossible once they began setting up for the day, such was the noise level from the Ballroom below, where shooting continued. Needless to say, minus the tiny but pivotal character part of Miss Murphy the housekeeper, who had been unceremoniously axed from the scene.
‘Your mother and Mrs Flanagan sure as hell are two mighty strong personalities,’ Jimmy D. had explained to Portia the previous evening, ‘and I really don’t feel up to the challenge of refereeing between the two of them. I think even Kofi Annan would have difficulty doing that. So in the interests of non-violence, it’s best that we just cut the part altogether.’
Portia could only feel that he was wise.
She pulled on the only clean pair of jeans she had, scraped her hair into a ponytail and threw on a warm, snuggly fleece jacket to keep out the cold. It was July, and the sun was actually shining for once, but the temperature at Davenport Hall remained resolutely freezing. Running lightly down the staircase, she made a mental note of everything she had to get through that day. Packing was such a massive job and she wasn’t helped by the fact that every time Daisy or Lucasta tried to give her a hand, they invariably ended up in floods of tears. If she had to listen to either of them bewailing the unfairness of the situation they found themselves in once more, she thought she’d scream. Just get used to it, she’d patiently tried to explain to them, with Andrew not far from her thoughts. Where is it written that life is fair?
As she opened the kitchen door, an overpowering smell of bacon and cabbage hit her square in the face. Coughing, she reached for the kettle to make some tea as Mrs Flanagan came waddling out of the pantry clutching about five pounds of raw sausages in her bare hands.
‘Ah howaya? Luv, there’s fresh tea in the pot,’ she said, seeing who it was. ‘I’m just getting the ingredients ready for the cast dinner tonight.’
The cast dinner, Jimmy D. had explained, was the only night apart from the wrap party when cast and crew sat down for a meal together. A big affair, it was to be held in the Red Dining Room, which comfortably seated about sixty people. (The golden rule of cast dinners, according to Montana, was to arrive neither too early nor too late. Too early and you’d end up sitting beside the director, too late and you’d end up sitting beside the wardrobe department.)
‘Smells really interesting,’ Portia lied. ‘What are you making?’
‘A Dublin coddle. Boiled bacon and sausage swimming in milk. ’Bout time someone put a bit of weight on all these bleeding film stars; poor aul’ Montana looks like she just got out of Dachau.’
‘Tea?’ asked Portia, reaching for two mugs from the dresser.
‘No thanks, luv, but I must say, it makes a change to hear a polite word from a member of yer family. I wonder, if I ever left, would yer mother even notice I was gone?’
Portia protested, knowing that all Mrs Flanagan wanted to hear were a few reassuring words to let her know that at least someone at the Hall valued her.
‘Now, how can you even think that? You’ve been here since I was a baby, Mrs Flanagan, you’ve done so much to hold this family together and now we need you more than ever,’ she said gently.
‘I often wonder how ya turned out so normal, with mental cases for both yer parents,’ sniffed Mrs Flanagan. ‘I swear to God, if that woman has one more go at me, that’s it. I’m gone. See how the stupid aul’ cow likes having to pare her own corns without me.’
Portia wearily sat down at the kitchen table, well used to dealing with the love/hate relationship between the two women and its perpetual fallout. It’ll blow over, she thought, it always does. Just then a copy of the Kildare People lying open beside her caught her eye. It wasn’t the headline which grabbed her attention (ELLA HEPBURN DOES IT FIVE TIMES A NIGHT it screamed, with yet another picture of her and Guy. Where in God’s name did they get their information from?) No, it was the fact that the jobs page had been torn out. And in her scrawly, spidery hand, Mrs Flanagan had circled several of them in bright red Biro.
‘I’ve been in worse buckets of shite than this and still come up smelling of roses,’ proclaimed Shamie Nolan as he and Bridie sat side by side in the Dáil bar. Government business had concluded for the day and the bar was packed with TDs availing themselves of the duty-free drink prices, in no rush whatsoever to get home. A television was blaring in the background, showing the commercial break, which went out just before the main evening news.
‘Will ya for Jaysus’ sake listen to me, Shamie?’ said his brother and campaign manager, Tommy, banging down his pint of stout. ‘Can we just get the hell outta here before it comes on? I’m telling ya, I’m after being on me mobile phone to me pal whose cousin has a neighbour who has a pal that’s the Controller General of RTE and there was feck all he could do to pull it.’
‘Tommy Nolan, you just listen to me,’ replied Bridie imperiously. ‘Do you honestly think meself and Shamie are going to hide away like common criminals? Like we’ve done something we should be ashamed of? Over my fecking dead body. We’re staying here for the news with our heads held high; let them report what they fecking well like.’
Tommy shifted in his seat, fervently wishing he was anywhere less public than the Dáil bar. All his brother’s old friends and cronies were standing around, with one eye on Shamie and the other on the TV. Finally, the Angelus was over and the news theme blared out. The barman thoughtfully even reached for the remote control to raise the volume in case there was anyone from the planet Mars in the bar who wasn’t aware of what was going on.
‘Are you sweating yet, Nolan?’ called one wag from the corner of the snug.
‘Let’s just hope you don’t have to trade in your BMW coupé for a Lada yet, Bridie!’ another invisible voice sneered.
‘Don’t think me offended by that remark or anything,’ Bridie hissed to her husband, ‘but when all this unpleasantness is over, you make sure that bollocks is fired.’
The lead story was about a car bomb explosion in Iraq, in which there were a dozen fatalities, and the report went on for a good four minutes of screen time. Next, there was an item about a missing schoolgirl from Liverpool who had just been safely reunited with her terrified parents. Shamie was just beginning to breathe a bit easier when the newsreader announced with gravitas, ‘And staying on home news, Shamie Joe Nolan, TD for Kildare South Central, is today at the centre of a number of allegations concerning planning irregularities. A report due to be published at the end of the week indicates that, on several occasions, Mr Nolan was involved at Government level in the illegal rezoning of private lands for commercial purposes. A report now from our political correspondent, Richard McHugh.’
The camera cut to a reporter standing outside the entrance gates to Davenport Hall (with graffiti on the wall which said ‘Virg
in Megastore’ clearly visible in the background).
‘It’s hard to believe that Davenport Hall was once considered the jewel in Leinster’s architectural crown, but there’s no arguing that the land it sits in, over two thousand acres, is worth its weight in gold,’ said the unfortunate reporter, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. ‘And it’s this very land that’s at the heart of the storm of controversy surrounding Kildare’s beleaguered TD Shamie Nolan today. A report, which has been leaked from the Planning Office in Dublin, clearly implicates him in corrupt rezoning practices, which stretch to the highest levels of Government. It would appear that Mr Nolan knowingly purchased the Hall and its adjacent lands only after a motion to rezone the land for residential purposes had already been passed by Kildare County Council.’
The camera cut back to studio, where the anchorman said, ‘So, Richard, what now for Shamie Nolan? Can we expect another planning Tribunal to spring from this?’
‘It seems likely,’ replied the reporter as the camera cut back to Davenport Hall. (This time Mrs Flanagan could be seen in the background driving the Mini Metro through the gates and waving like a lunatic at the camera.) ‘Chief Justice Michael de Courcey has indicated that he has already been approached with a view to examining the minutiae of Mr Nolan’s business transactions. In the meantime it seems the only honourable course of action for Shamie Nolan is to resign his Dáil seat immediately, and wait for the Tribunal to begin. Then, of course, this raises the question of his legal fees which are sure be substantial.’
The anchorman then continued, ‘Thank you, Richard. Earlier, we caught up with Mr Nolan at Leinster House, and this is what he had to say.’
The camera swiftly cut to a close-up shot of Shamie, standing uncomfortably outside Government Buildings and sweating profusely.
‘Well, sure, Jaysus now, listen to what I’m telling ya. If you were to examine the financial wheelings and dealings of every politician in here, sure we’d have enough Tribunals to waste the taxpayers’ money till kingdom come. There’s not a TD in the whole of Government Buildings that doesn’t receive a calendar every January from one of their offshore bank accounts in the Cayman Islands.’
‘And now, briefly in other news . . .’
The barman switched off the TV. In the awful silence that followed, it felt as though every eye in the place was fixed on Shamie.
Stammering, he said, ‘They took that feckin’ quote totally out of context, lads! The bastards cut out loads of what I said! Sure I’d never say anything derogatory about any of ye boys . . .’
A slow handclap started at the back of the bar, which gradually increased in volume until it became deafening. A couple of boos grew into a barrage of catcalls and cries of ‘Resign! Resign!’ could be heard loud and clear.
It seemed that the entire Dáil bar was jeering and stomping their feet in disgust; at least that’s what Bridie thought as they sat there, heads held high.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
STEVE WAS WELL used to the everyday drama and chaos at Davenport Hall, but nothing had prepared him for this. Along with the family, he had been invited to the cast dinner that night, but drove over a little earlier to brief them on the latest Shamie Nolan revelations. He was driving up the avenue approaching the Hall when the sight of a pair of bare legs topped by bright blue knickers and dangling from a first-floor window almost made him crash. As he drew closer he saw that it was Daisy, hanging precariously by her fingernails from an outside ledge, with her skirt practically around her neck. He pulled the car over and jumped out immediately.
‘Need a hand?’ he called up to her.
‘Well what does it fucking look like?’ she snapped back. ‘Steve, I’m stuck!’
He couldn’t help himself. ‘So are you working as Montana’s stunt double now? If you don’t mind me saying, unless the film is X-rated, hadn’t you better cover yourself up?’
‘Steve!’ she wailed, unamused. ‘Just help me down!’
‘OK, I’ll come inside and haul you up; what room were you in?’
‘You can’t come in! Can’t you help me down from where you are?’
‘Not unless you jump for it.’
‘I’m just recovering from a sprained ankle, I’ll break my spinal cord this time!’
‘No you won’t, it’s only ten feet at most. I’ll catch you, trust me.’
‘Oh God, why do these things only ever happen to me?’
‘Look, Daisy, you can’t cling on to that ledge for much longer. Now do you want the press boys at the front gates to take a picture of your delightful underwear or do you want to jump? I can just see the headlines now: BLUE MOON.’
Faced with choosing between the lesser of two evils, she jumped. Steve had been right, the drop was no more then ten feet and he easily caught her in his strong arms. They looked at each other for a split second, with Daisy panting to catch her breath back. He was certainly looking remarkably well and Daisy almost found herself doing a double-take. He’d clearly taken Mrs Flanagan’s advice about smartening himself up a bit even further to heart and was now sporting a trendy navy linen suit, with a crisp white shirt, all crumpled-looking and sexy.
‘Drive,’ she said after a moment, wriggling out of his arms. ‘Just let’s get into your car and drive.’
‘Where?’
‘As far away from here as possible.’
Mrs Flanagan had really pulled out all the stops and was happily putting the finishing touches to the dining table for the big dinner that night. Linen napkins were unheard of at the Hall, but she’d gone into Ballyroan specially to buy paper serviettes, in marked contrast to the wads of kitchen roll they normally used. She’d even managed to root out candles to use as a centrepiece. (Unfortunately not in tasteful white, but in the green, white and orange of the Irish flag with ‘World Cup Italia 1990’ emblazoned in gold across them, which she’d been saving up for a really special occasion.)
She had just stepped back to admire her handiwork when a squealing noise from above caught her attention. She looked up to see one of Lucasta’s favourite kittens, Uri Geller, who appeared to be caught in one of the crystal arms of the chandelier overhead. Ah, ya stupid gobshite of a cat, how did ya get up there? she said to herself. There was no budging him though; he looked helplessly down at her as the chandelier swung dangerously from side to side. There was nothing else for it but to grab a sweeping brush, which was conveniently at hand, and try to get him down. However, given that the ceiling was thirty feet high, this left her with no option but to haul herself up on to the dining table, broom handle in hand, and poke at him in the hope that he’d budge.
Just then, Lucasta came in, took in the scene and immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion, as was her wont.
‘Leave that innocent little soul alone, you murderous woman!’ she screeched.
‘I’m trying to help him down, ya batty aul’ bitch,’ said Mrs Flanagan, continuing to prod at poor Uri Geller with her broom handle.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t have murderous thoughts in mind!’
‘The cat is still alive, ya thick eejit; what do ya think I’m trying to do, sweep him to death?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past you,’ said Lucasta, gunning for a fight. ‘And may I ask what the Italia ninety candles are doing out? Are you completely mad? They’re collectors’ items, you know, they’re not to be used. Jack Charlton would spin in his grave, if he were dead.’
‘Right, that’s fecking it,’ said Mrs Flanagan, throwing her sweeping brush to the ground and clambering down from the table. ‘I’m here thirty-five years—’
‘Oh really?’ Lucasta interrupted. ‘That must be why I’m so sick of the sight of you.’
‘I’ve just about put up with enough from you,’ snarled Mrs Flanagan. ‘Ya treat me like shite, ya talk to me like dirt and ya pay me fuck all. Find yerself another bleeding white slave, I quit!’
Lucasta looked at her as though she’d been smacked across her face. ‘Don’t be so ridiculo
us . . .’ she stuttered, shocked. ‘You can’t just quit!’
‘Well excuse fucking me, that’s exactly what I’m doing.’
‘But . . . but . . . you live here! And you work here, and where in God’s name do you think you’ll go anyway?’ Lucasta was starting to panic now that her bluff had been well and truly called.
Mrs Flanagan waddled over to face her square on. ‘As a matter of fact, I went for a job interview today and I got it. I’m starting a whole new career.’
‘As what? Don’t tell me, you’re the new face of L’Oréal.’ Lucasta was red in the face by now.
‘If ya must know, I’m after getting a job in the Crown and Glory in Ballyroan and they said I could start straight away. I wasn’t going to take it, but I’m fucked if I’m putting up with any more of yer abuse!’ she said, her eyes watering.
‘The hair salon? And what in God’s name do you know about hairdressing?’ Lucasta was still shouting, but with a wobble in her voice.
Mrs Flanagan eyed her up and down, getting really upset. ‘I know that the grunge look is out, so that’s you fucked!’
‘Well, look out, fashion world!’ Lucasta shouted after Mrs Flanagan as she waddled past and went out of the door. ‘It’ll be the only hair salon in the country where you can catch nits from the stylist!’
‘Well, you’ll never know, because we don’t serve Rastas!’ she replied, banging the door behind her. Lucasta stood there alone for a moment in the silence.
In the space of a few short months, she’d dealt with her husband walking out on her, losing her beloved home and not having the remotest idea how she or her daughters would survive. But this was the first time that she cried.
‘So do you want to tell me what’s going on then?’
Daisy didn’t answer, she just stared straight ahead.
He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me Page 27
