‘It’s just that the last time I remember you climbing out a window to get out of the Hall, I think you were about fourteen and you wanted to go to some nightclub in Kildare.’
‘And Daddy grounded me because he said nightclubs were only for tarts so I climbed out the Billiard-Room window,’ she replied, smiling at the memory. ‘There was a guy from my school taking me and I was so completely knickers about him, I think I’d have dug a tunnel to escape from the Hall. Then, of course, when I got to the club – the Galleria, or the Gonorrhoea as we used to call it – who was the first person I walked into but Daddy, with one of his girlfriends.’
Steve shot a sideways glance at her, just to check that she wasn’t upset. On a bad day, the very mention of Blackjack’s name was enough to have her in hysterics, but she seemed fine. A comfortable silence passed as they both sat side by side, savouring the view. She had bullied Steve into driving her all the way up to the Mausoleum and, gentleman that he was, he hadn’t argued with her.
‘This is my favourite spot on the whole estate,’ she said. He nodded in agreement. The view was nothing short of spectacular, especially on a clear day like this.
‘Did you know that the awful Nolans were going to demolish the Mausoleum and build a bowling alley here?’ she asked. ‘Mummy says, just for that alone, Shamie Nolan should be reincarnated as a toilet brush in his next life.’
He smiled, always tickled by Lucasta’s eccentricities.
‘Steve, can I ask you something?’
‘Fire away.’
‘Are all men either complete bastards or else insane stalkers? Is this it? Is this the spectrum I get to choose from?’
He was about to answer when she cut across him. ‘I mean, first there’s Guy, who I was mad about but who just wanted to shag me until something better came along. If you could call Ella bloody Hepburn something better,’ she added bitterly. ‘I may not be Hollywood royalty but I’m about sixty years younger than her, I’m not in danger of breaking a hip every time I stand up and at least I’ve got my own tits. And now there’s Paddy, who’s acting like he’s totally obsessed with me. In warped Paddy land, he seems to think that we’re boyfriend and girlfriend when nothing has ever happened to give him that idea.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Well, I slept with him, like, twice, but only out of loneliness, you know the way it is,’ she said, amazed at how frank she could be with him. ‘And now he’s turned into a stalker; he won’t leave me alone for two seconds together. He’s like a study in male psychology: the worse I treat him, the more he chases me. That’s why I had to climb out the bathroom window. He won’t even let me go to the loo in peace, he was standing right outside the door reading me one of his love poems.’
‘Daisy, if you want my advice, the simplest thing to do is to be direct. Tell him you’re flattered but just not interested.’
‘But you don’t understand!’ she wailed. ‘One of the crew let it slip that he’s going to propose to me. At this bloody dinner tonight! In front of everyone! What am I going to do?’
Although unused to being appealed to for advice when it came to matters of the heart, Steve thought for a moment, applying himself fully to the problem.
Daisy was kicking her heels off the moss-covered stone bench they were sitting on when suddenly inspiration struck. ‘I’ve got it!’ she said, beaming at him with her blue eyes sparkling.
He smiled back at her. ‘What?’
‘It’s a piece of cake,’ she replied. ‘But, emm . . . Steve? Could you do me a favour?’
Mrs Flanagan was as good as her word. No less than an hour later, she had thrown her collection of housecoats into a tattered suitcase and flung it into the back of the Mini Metro. Portia stood beside her on the forecourt, hoarse from pleading with her to change her mind.
‘If it was only yerself and Daisy, luv, I’d happily spend the rest of me days here. But . . . I know she’s yer mother and all, but that fecking cow has me persecuted. I work so hard and I just feel so unappreciated . . .’ She broke off, tears starting to flow down her lined, craggy face.
‘Oh Mrs Flanagan, I know what she’s like, but I’m begging you to reconsider. You’re part of our family and losing you is unthinkable. I’m sure Mummy didn’t mean the awful things she said, you know how hurtful she can be one minute and then it’s all forgotten the next. She snaps my face off twenty times a day, and five minutes later, she’s Mother Teresa.’
Mrs Flanagan dabbed her eyes. ‘It’s just after thirty-five years of slaving for her I can’t take any more of her abuse. If she’d only apologize to me, that would be something, but she was vicious when I told her I had another job to go to, vicious.’
Portia hugged her tight, feeling close to tears herself. ‘You know, I bet she’s upstairs now, regretting every word and wishing you’d stay as much as I do.’
‘Do ya think?’ Mrs Flanagan was faltering a little.
‘I’m certain,’ Portia replied soothingly. ‘She loves you so much deep down, she just has an odd way of expressing it sometimes.’
Mrs Flanagan looked at her with red watery eyes and seemed to be on the brink of changing her mind when a screech came from behind. They both looked up to see Lucasta’s head stuck out of a third-floor window.
‘May the curse of Apollo crash down upon you, faithless servant!’ she was chanting. ‘In fact, bugger that, may Apollo shit on you and your descendants from a height!’
Mrs Flanagan took one last look at Portia and said, ‘Well, goodbye, luv. If ever ya need a wash and blow dry, ya know where to come. And thanks for the lend of the car.’
‘MAY A PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS DESCEND ON YOUR POXY HAIRDRESSER’S AND MAY YOU DIE ROARING FOR A PRIEST!’ Lucasta’s screaming had swelled to a crescendo as the Mini Metro backfired its way down the driveway.
The last Portia saw of Mrs Flanagan was when she rolled down the car window, stuck her hand out and waved two fingers at the whole lot of them.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
NEEDLESS TO SAY, the cast dinner was shaping up to be an unmitigated disaster. After Mrs Flanagan’s departure, Portia had no choice but to enlist Daisy’s help in the kitchen, to try and rustle up something to serve their guests. However, given that their cooking prowess would never cause Nigella Lawson to have sleepless nights worrying about her competition, this was easier said than done.
‘But Mrs Flanagan must have left something for the dinner before she walked out?’ Daisy moaned. ‘Because if she didn’t, then what’s that rotten smell?’
‘Dublin coddle,’ replied Portia, throwing it into the bin.
‘Why are you throwing it out? I know it smells like raw sewage, but won’t it do?’
‘Boiled sausage and bacon? For a table full of vegetarians?’
The sisters looked at each other. A moment of panic flittered between the two of them.
‘We could order pizzas from Ballyroan?’ said Daisy hopefully.
‘And if all else fails, we will. But look, there must be the makings of something here, we just need to think laterally. You check the fridge and I’ll check the freezer,’ said Portia with authority. They both snapped into action.
Twenty minutes later and they had a solution – of sorts. Between them, they’d unearthed about two dozen eggs from the pantry and five family-sized bags of frozen chip wedges.
‘How in God’s name will we get away with this?’ asked Portia.
‘Simple,’ said Daisy, tying an apron on backwards around her waist and looking like the world’s most incompetent waitress. ‘We just tell them that eggs are a traditional Davenport family staple, only eaten on very special occasions . . . because . . . emm . . .’ she said, thinking on her feet. ‘Oh, I know! Because during the famine the Davenports and all their tenant farmers survived by living off the hens on the home farm and so now we only ever eat eggs on St Patrick’s Day and when VIPs come to stay.’
‘And how do we explain the oven-ready wedges, Professor David Starkey? Do we say that although th
e potato crop had failed, the Davenports still had access to frozen chips?’
‘Well, can you think of anything better?’
Dinner was at seven-thirty for eight so Portia almost fell over when the doorbell’s foghorn blared out at six-thirty. The meal, if you could call it that, wasn’t nearly ready and she and Daisy froze in panic wondering who this could be. Just then, Montana stuck her head around the door and cheerily said, ‘Hi, ladies! I was just wondering if you could use some help in here?’
‘That’s so nice of you,’ replied Daisy as she chopped up some onions finely. ‘Do you think you could answer the door for us?’ Montana was behaving angelically towards her ever since she’d been so publicly dumped by Guy. And at times like these, a little sympathy went a long way.
‘Be right back,’ said Montana, lightly tripping up the back stairs, which led to the main entrance hall. She stood on tiptoe to reach the huge latch which opened the heavy oak door and was surprised to see that it was Paddy, dressed in a 1980s Miami Vice-style suit and carrying a small bunch of garage carnations.
‘Well, hey there, handsome, are they for me?’ she asked teasingly.
‘Piss off,’ he replied, looking nervous and uncomfortable.
‘OK, well, I think Lady Davenport is serving aperitifs in the Long Gallery so if you wanna go right on up . . .’ she said, a little taken aback by a crew member speaking to her like that.
‘Ehh, yeah, thanks very much,’ he said, brushing past her and making a beeline for the gilt mirror above the mantelpiece to slick back his gelled hair and squeeze a zit that had really been annoying him. Pausing only to check that he was entirely satisfied with his appearance, he took a deep breath and bounced happily up the great staircase, humming a few bars of ‘I’m Getting Married in the Morning’ as he went.
‘Who was that?’ asked Portia as Montana rejoined them in the Korean sweatshop that the kitchen had become.
‘Oh, that sound guy . . . what’s his name?’ she answered.
‘Paddy. God, he’s early, isn’t he?’ said Portia.
Daisy didn’t reply, she just continued to whisk a big bowl of eggs and blushed a bit.
‘And, you know, he’s all dressed up like a dog’s dinner.’ Montana giggled as she picked up a tea towel and expertly tied it around her waist. ‘In fact, he looked really cute. OK, so what needs doing?’
‘Could you help me crush some garlic?’ asked Portia.
‘Of course, but, let me ask, are you trying to batter those eggs to death, Daisy?’
‘I’m making an omelette,’ she replied defensively.
‘Oh honey, give it over. The idea is that you can eat the omelette, not plaster your walls with it. Here, let me show you how it’s done.’
Both sisters stopped what they were doing to gawp at her in surprise.
‘Well, don’t look so shocked,’ she laughed. ‘I was an out-of-work actor in LA for years, which is code for saying I was a waitress. Do we have any chives?’
Less than thirty minutes later, Montana had everything under control. She’d even discovered asparagus in the kitchen garden and was scrubbing them at the sink to serve as a starter. ‘It’ll be fabulous with just a little lemon juice, trust me,’ she’d said in between gossiping about Guy and Ella. It seemed the latest revelation (according to the good old reliable National Intruder) was that they’d swapped phials of blood and were now wearing them around their necks as love tokens.
‘Ugh! That’s vile!’ said Portia, wincing.
‘And you know, apparently the five times a night thing is true, according to Serge,’ Montana went on. ‘He swore he didn’t have a glass pressed to the door of the trailer, but I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘Well,’ said Daisy, who’d now been made completely redundant in the kitchen because of Montana’s efficiency, ‘if the National Intruder ever want to pay me for my story, I’ll sing like a bloody canary. Do you see this?’ she asked, holding up a tiny frozen baby carrot. ‘This is roughly the same size as Guy van der Post’s willy. I’m serious. If they’re looking for a headline, I’ll give them one, no problem. I can see it now: WHEN I FIRST SAW GUY NAKED, I THOUGHT THE SURGEON WHO DID HIS PENIS EXTENSION OPERATION SHOULD HANG HIS HEAD IN SHAME.’
The three of them fell about laughing, especially Portia who rarely indulged in girly sex talk and who hadn’t had a good laugh in weeks.
‘So how about you?’ Montana asked her innocently. ‘Whatever happened to that divine guy that the papers kept calling the Earl of Ireland? Weren’t you kissing him at some stage?’
‘Yes, I was, but not any more,’ she replied simply.
‘So what happened, honey? Do you wanna talk about it?’ Montana was persistent, as though conducting a group-therapy session.
‘Nothing to talk about I’m afraid, no headlines for the National Intruder here. He got back with his ex-fiancée and their wedding is going ahead. They were on a break when we met so I imagine I was just his rebound person.’
‘Sweetheart, you mustn’t be so hard on yourself. You’re a beautiful, elegant woman and he must be some kind of fucked-up weirdo to leave a babe like you. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense to me.’
Portia looked at her for a moment. ‘You know, when women get dumped, they always say that the guy is either a messed-up commitment phobe or else a bastard from hell. The truth is, Andrew is neither. He’s a wonderful man who just didn’t want to be with me.’
Meanwhile, in the Long Gallery, most of the dinner guests had assembled and were knocking back extremely large home measures of gin and tonic supplied by Lucasta. ‘The secret of serving shite food,’ she always said, ‘is to make sure your guests are far too sloshed to notice.’ Which is why she never bothered with good wine, claiming that it had no effect on people whatsoever, whereas plonk got them completely twisted, and far quicker too.
Instead of bashing the living daylights out of a Broadway show tune at the piano, as she normally would, this evening she had decided to play Lucasta the tragic, wronged employer, abandoned by her faithless family retainer. She’d spent the last hour smoking by the stained-glass windows and whining at poor Steve about the day’s events.
‘You know, darling,’ she said, stubbing out a fag on the windowsill, ‘at times like this, I really wish I had a dog.’
‘But, Lucasta, you own about forty cats,’ he replied patiently.
‘I know, sweetie, but I really feel like kicking something up the arse.’
‘Mrs Flanagan’s only been gone for two hours, she’s left you for longer periods when she’s been shopping in Tesco’s.’
By then, Portia had joined them, eschewing the gin and tonic Steve proffered and just in time to hear her mother moan, ‘Oh, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have nurtured such disloyalty! Nobody will ever know how utterly abandoned and alone I feel!’
‘But, Mummy, you’ve still got us,’ replied Portia.
‘That’s what I mean.’ Lucasta was well oiled by now and alcohol was loosening her tongue.
‘So what would be so terrible about picking up the phone and apologizing to her? She’s staying at Lottie O’Loughlin’s until she finds somewhere else, you could call her right now if you’re missing her that much,’ Portia reasoned.
‘Apologize? To that pig in knickers? I’d rather use Gnasher as an ashtray,’ Lucasta sniffed, managing to look wounded and betrayed at the same time.
At this point, Daisy walked in, no longer able to put off the inevitable. Paddy had been loitering by the door, almost giving himself whiplash each time it opened, in case it was her. When she finally breezed in, he was over to her like a bullet.
‘Holy Christ’ – taking in his suit – ‘it’s Don Johnson!’
‘Do ya like it? I only wear it on really special occasions.’
‘I’m guessing the first one was your confirmation,’ she said, trying to sound as bitchy as possible.
‘No, the last time Arsenal won the double. But, ya see, the thing is, Daisy, t
here’s something I have to ask ya and it won’t wait.’
Sensing what was coming, she launched her offensive.
‘Stop! Stop right there, Paddy! Before you say anything, there’s something you should know about me. We Davenports only ever marry our cousins, you know, we’re totally inbred. I mean, why do you think aristocrats’ eyes are so close together, for fuck’s sake?’
‘Ah, is that all that’s worrying ya, luv? Cos I didn’t exactly come from the deep end of the genetic pool meself, ya know?’
‘And of all the useless institutions in the world, I think marriage is by far the worst,’ she went on, her voice rising in panic. ‘And . . . oh yes! I have no morals to speak of, you know. I worked in a massage parlour in Thailand for two years.’
‘Wasn’t Lucky Chang’s by any chance, was it? I was there too! Years ago, when we were filming Shanghai Noon. Or, as we used to call it, Shanghai Shite.’
Daisy glared at him in utter exasperation. She was raising her voice by now and was aware that everyone in the room seemed to be staring at them.
‘Paddy, you’re not listening to me! I never ever want to get married, ever! For one thing . . .’ She racked her brains for a good lie. ‘. . . I can never have children. I have no womb!’
‘Luv, between all my sisters I’ve about thirty nieces and nephews; I couldn’t give a shite if I never had to babysit again. Frankly, I’m relieved.’
‘Right, that’s it!’ she said, falling back on to her final line of defence. ‘You’ve forced the truth out of me. I never meant for you to hear it like this, but I don’t have a choice. I’m in love with another man and I only want to be with him.’
‘Who is the bastard? I’ll sort him out for ya!’
Steve, who had been discreetly hovering on the sidelines, now sensed that this was his cue. Moving towards Daisy, he gingerly put his arm around her waist.
‘There you are, darling,’ she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
‘Him?’ said Paddy, aghast. ‘I thought he was gay. I saw him wearing a pink stripy shirt once, for fuck’s sake.’
He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me Page 28
