Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  'Ehh, yes, I think so, your ladyship,' replied Molly, patiently mopping up the drops of gin and tonic Lucasta was freely sloshing all over the place.

  'Yes. Three whole weeks till the next full moon' – Lucasta went on gazing into space – 'which means I'm stuck in mourning until then.'

  Daisy did what she always did at times of crisis; she went straight to the stables, saddled up her favourite mare and galloped off towards the low-lying hills which edged the Davenport land. Be a miracle if she's even back in time for the opening, Portia thought, watching her slim outline disappear over the horizon at a rate of knots. Even though she was totally reliant on Daisy's help that afternoon and now had been well and truly landed in it, she found it hard to feel any resentment. Daisy had always been something of a Daddy's girl and was genuinely devastated at the news. She'll be back when she's good and ready, Portia decided, grudgingly thanking Andrew for forcing her to hire the services of a publicist.

  Julia Belshaw was exactly the kind of tornado of efficiency they needed to get through the opening tonight. The human equivalent of eight strong cups of espresso coffee, she'd arrived at the Hall about a month previously, instantly impressing both Portia and Andrew with all of the amazing ideas she was brimming over with for the big night.

  'Oh, it's just got to be the event of the season,' she'd enthused to them over a coffee meeting in the Library, pushing her Gucci sunglasses into her sleek blonde bobbed hair and wrapping one long, toned, suntanned leg over another. (How did she manage to get a tan in January? Portia had innocently wondered.)

  Julia was the epitome of fabulousness, instantly demanding that they both guess her age and then gleefully telling them that she was, in fact, forty-five.

  'Wow, I thought you'd have difficulty getting served in pubs, you look so young,' Andrew had gushed, barely able to take his eyes off the permatan.

  'Oh, that is just the sweetest thing to say,' she replied, playfully touching his arm, addressing Andrew and Andrew only. 'Now, why aren't there more guys like you out there? If a single man said something like that to me, I can tell you right now he'd be on a one-way ticket to panty land.'

  Had Julia gone the whole hog and come out with: 'I could just spread you on a cracker, right this minute, you big hunk of gorgeousness,' she couldn't have flirted any more outrageously. Andrew, who had been provoking this reaction in women ever since secondary school (the only boy in his class who never got a single spot), was completely oblivious but Portia bloody wasn't. She knew in her soul that her husband didn't have a wandering eye and that they'd most likely have a good laugh about Julia afterwards, but it still bugged her when other women flirted with him. Particularly with his wife sitting right beside him. Rude, she thought. Really rude . . .

  Julia's fee was exorbitant too, but, reluctantly, Portia had to admit that she was worth every red cent. Firstly, she'd tackled the guest list, whittling it down to a mere four hundred. 'It's got to be a hot ticket,' she'd explained to Portia. 'If we want the press to cover this then I'm sorry but neighbours and red-necked farmers have to go. Beautiful people only. And we need to coax celebrities down here, so you'll have to offer them goodie bags or they just won't show. If there's one thing celebs love more than publicity, it's freebies. Expensive perfumes, watches, vouchers for beauty treatments, that sort of thing.'

  Portia almost fell off her chair. 'You mean as well as inviting them here, we've got to buy them presents?' She also felt a bit shifty about not inviting old friends and neighbours from Ballyroan, people she'd known for years, some of whom had already begun asking her quite pointedly when the opening was to be. It was beginning to get embarrassing.

  'We only get one chance to put the Davenport Hotel on the map,' Julia calmly replied, 'in fact, to put County Kildare on the map. The countryside just isn't hot at the moment, in spite of Madonna going around dressed in tweeds and Wellingtons. Wall to wall A list, that's what we need. Of course, I'll invite a few minor B-list people too, just to flesh the party out a little. Soap stars and wannabe actors, that type. They won't be needing goodie bags either; they'd turn up to the opening of a fridge.'

  Julia had also worked closely with Tim on the menu for the party, insisting on finger food only and tiny amounts at that. 'We're going to blow the budget on champagne,' she'd explained. 'The less food you serve, the more guests will drink and the more they drink, the better the party. Trust me. If you feed them, you'll get no thanks for it; they'll only fall asleep on you. We want guests to wake up the next morning with royal hangovers, as though they'd been drinking paint-stripper. That's how people judge how much they enjoyed a night out, you know. In direct proportion to how wretched they feel the next day. The worse they feel, the better the night.'

  'I did that once you know,' Lucasta had chipped in, wafting through the Library carrying a bowl of cat food, 'drank paint-stripper.' Portia, Andrew and Julia all turned to look at her in surprise. 'It was when the decorators were here and I'd completely run out of booze. First morning in years I woke up without a hangover.'

  'And that's another thing,' Julia said under her breath as soon as Lucasta was out of earshot. 'The cats have to go.'

  Portia was outside with Mick Feeney, their head gardener, when a bright red BMW convertible sports car came scrunching up the driveway, Julia at the wheel, with her blonde hair blowing in the breeze. Portia had been helping Mick laboriously pour lighter fuel into the bases of three dozen long wooden torches which lined the driveway and was now well and truly freezing, saturated in methane and stinking to high heaven. A torchlit driveway would look stunning later as guests arrived, she knew, but for now she was glad of the chance to welcome Julia and thaw out indoors.

  'I'll be back later to help you, Mick,' she said as she strode over to the car, silently marvelling that even though Julia had driven all the way from Dublin with the top down, her hair still managed to remain shiny and immaculate.

  'I've been frantically trying to call you from my mobile, you know,' was Julia's greeting as she stepped elegantly out of the car. 'Why in God's name is there no signal down here? You look terrible, Portia. It's three p.m., you should be having your hair done by now. Didn't you read your itinerary?'

  Julia had handed each member of staff, Portia and Daisy included, a detailed agenda for the big day. It was worked out to the tiniest, minutest detail such as: 'Portia. 8 a.m. Get up. Shower. Toilet break in gate lodge. Do not use bathrooms in the Hall; they must be kept pristine and are for guest use only. Do not wear anything that needs to be pulled over your head as this will play havoc with your hairstyle later.' She even handed Mrs Flanagan a cleaning schedule, and was promptly told to shove it up her bony arse.

  'Look, Julia, I'm afraid your itinerary's gone out of the window. We've just had some bad news. My father died suddenly this morning.'

  'I'm sorry,' Julia replied curtly, clearly looking on this as a minor inconvenience she hadn't allowed for, 'but you have now missed your hair appointment in Kildare. Greasy hair isn't going to help anyone, you know.'

  Before Portia knew where she was, it was seven-thirty and guests had already started to arrive. She had spent the whole afternoon working with Julia to make sure every last-minute hitch was ironed out and that the Hall was looking its sparkling best. In fairness to Julia, she wasn't afraid to get down and dirty; Portia even found her standing on a tapestry chair in the Long Gallery, frantically polishing the mirror behind the bar till it gleamed under the Waterford crystal chandelier above.

  And still no word from Andrew. She was really starting to worry by now and was on the verge of calling the police when Julia bossily insisted that she go back to the gate lodge and change. Realizing that she was now in a race against the clock, Portia obediently legged it down the stairs, racking her brains to remember whether or not she'd even switched on the immersion before she left the lodge that morning. Well, if I didn't, a cold shower will just have to do, she thought, bounding down all eight flights of stairs two at a time. She'd made it as far as the upstai
rs landing when she heard the sound of cars pulling to a halt in the gravelled driveway outside. Peering in a panic out of the stained-glass window that overlooked the main entrance, she realized there was now a long line of flashy cars drawing up outside the Hall, punctually on the dot of seven-thirty, just as their invitations had decreed. Julia had inveigled no less a personage than Robert Armstrong, President of Ireland, to officiate at the grand opening and as it was considered the height of bad etiquette to arrive after the President, there was virtual limo gridlock the entire length of the driveway. 'Oh please, dear Jesus, just give me time to get changed,' she was praying out loud, when running up the stairs came Andrew.

  'Darling, Julia's just told me the news about your father,' he said breathlessly, putting his arms around her. 'I'm so, so sorry,' he whispered, holding her tight and racking his brains to think of a few good words he could say about Blackjack. 'He was . . . well, he was quite a character, wasn't he? I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you.'

  'Where on earth were you?' she asked, detecting a strong smell of whisky and stale cigarette smoke on him. 'I've been like a lunatic trying to contact you all day and your bloody phone was switched off.'

  'Plenty of time for that later,' he said, slurring a bit. 'Now, I know you've had a rough day, honey, but we really have to get you out of that tracksuit before the VIPs get here.' It was tiny, barely perceptible, but there was just the faintest whiff of his trying to avoid the subject, which immediately set an alarm bell ringing in Portia's head.

  'No. Tell me now.'

  'Portia, do you really want to meet and greet the President dressed like that? Now is not the time. Go. Change.'

  She sat on a stair and eyeballed him.

  'OK, OK,' he said, realizing that there was no budging her until he came clean. 'Ken Courtney phoned me this morning and asked me to meet him at the airport hotel in Dublin. He was on his way to Frankfurt and didn't have time to drive all the way down here. He said it was urgent, I couldn't get out of it . . .'

  'And?' Portia tried hard to keep the impatience out of her voice. Ken Courtney was Andrew's best friend; they'd worked together in the States for years. Portia had never liked him. He was married and openly cheated on his wife with anyone who was willing and didn't particularly care who knew.

  'Well, the thing is . . .' Andrew was smiling sheepishly now, as though he were about to launch into a risqué after-dinner anecdote. 'Globex Pharmaceuticals are being investigated by the SEC in New York at the moment and they've hired my old firm to handle the case. Ken and I spent all afternoon going over the notes. But, emm, well, you see, there's a condition.'

  'Go on.' Portia's head was starting to pound.

  'They want me to represent them. The MD of Globex specifically wants me, or else there's no deal. They're offering huge money, my old apartment on Park Avenue back – it's only for three months, I'd be back in the game—'

  'Three months? Just as we're trying to get the hotel up and running? It doesn't matter if they're offering you a king's ransom, Andrew, it's out of the question. I presume you told Ken you weren't available?'

  'No,' he replied, looking a bit hangdog. 'As a matter of fact, I didn't.'

  Chapter Three

  By eight o'clock, the party really was in full swing. The entrance hall was wall-to-wall A list, just as Julia had insisted, all of them looking their fabulous best and competing to be photographed by the society magazines who'd shown up in droves to cover the event. Davenport Hall was thronged with flashbulbs and whirring cameras clicking furiously as actors, politicians, film directors, even one or two movie stars paraded designer-clad toned bodies in front of the assembled media hordes. The great and the good had shown up, all of them in their glittering, dazzling prime.

  Even Josh Hamilton had turned up, Ireland's latest twenty-something hotshot export to Hollywood, managing to look scruffy, red-eyed, hung over and yet sexy all at the same time. He was accompanied by Tiffany Richardson, American teen pop sensation, whose debut album Get a Load of Me had recently spent a record thirty weeks at the top of the charts. The joint arrival sent the press into a frenzy and all you could hear were catcalls of: 'Tiffany! Over here, Tiffany! Would you care to comment on your recent twenty-four-hour marriage to Karl Hughes? And the rumours that you and Josh are an item?'

  Tiffany beamed, then twirled around in her diamanté-studded hot pants for all to see, before snuggling up to Josh and saying in her husky, rasping, lick-my-underwear smoker's voice, 'I wanna tell you folks that this is the guy for me. I know we only met last Tuesday, but Josh really, really, really is the one. It's gonna be a long engagement, but we hope to be married by the end of next week.'

  You couldn't have bought publicity like it. No wonder Julia looked pleased.

  Tim and his team of galley slaves in the kitchen had pulled out all the stops too, and now waiters dressed in elegant black tie swiftly circulated around the packed reception rooms, loaded down with trays of goodies. Guests were happily nibbling away on confections of shallow-fried sage and anchovy fritters, grilled rabbit tartlets with aubergine caviar and partridge canapés served with artichoke puree, all fish and game courtesy of the Davenport estate.

  But the star of the night was unquestionably the Hall itself. The restoration team really had worked miracles; guests were hard pressed to think of another mansion house in the country which could rival it either for grandeur or for style. There were eight reception rooms in all, including a Billiard Room, a Ballroom, a Library, the Long Gallery, the Red Dining Room (which could comfortably seat eighty) and three interconnecting Drawing Rooms, each lovingly renovated to the highest standards and now looking in their magnificent prime. The Georgian wooden floors in each room were covered with only the best and most expensive hand-crafted Persian rugs, antique furnishings which had rotted away for years were now French polished to within an inch of their lives and stunning tapestries and canvas paintings now graced the walls looking as though they'd been hanging there elegantly for centuries.

  They hadn't, of course. The original Davenport art collection had been gambled away by Blackjack over the years, leaving huge, gaping holes on the walls. So Andrew and Portia had duly trooped over to Sotheby's in London and started a new collection from scratch.

  'For the amount of money you spent,' Lucasta had moaned at the time, 'I'd have expected a candlelit dinner for two with Joshua Reynolds himself. I don't give a tuppenny bit if he's dead. And if I see one more piece of Victorian shit in the house, I'll train my cats to piddle on it:

  Exactly forty minutes behind schedule, thereby throwing Julia's itinerary right out the window, a string quartet in the entrance hall struck up the national anthem, heralding the arrival of the President. A hush descended on the crowds in the hall as a black, chauffeur-driven limousine pulled up at the bottom of the stone flight of steps which led to the main entrance. All eyes were on the great oak door, which was wide open so everyone could get a glimpse of the guest of honour stepping out on to the red carpet.

  Robert Armstrong was a handsome, patrician man of about sixty, although he looked much younger, thanks to a gruelling fitness regime which included daily ten-mile jogs around the perimeter of the Phoenix Park in Dublin and games of tennis which regularly went to five sets. Tall and silver-haired with a charm that was legendary, he was a modern-day example of a true Renaissance man.

  As a young man, he'd served with the UN peacekeeping force in Cyprus and had been decorated for his trouble; he'd then gone into business, made a vast fortune from his financial services company and ploughed most of it back into the cancer charity he'd set up in memory of his late wife. After a few years, he was appointed Ireland's ambassador to Washington, where he penned an autobiography based on his experiences there. Not only was his book shortlisted for the Whitbread prize, it also stayed on The New York Times bestseller list for a record-breaking forty weeks. On chat shows and in interviews, he was unfailingly warm, funny, self-deprecating and wise. In short, he was easily the most popular presiden
t Ireland had ever produced, a national treasure, one of those rare people about whom absolutely nobody had a bad word to say.

  He was accompanied by his daughter Eleanor, an only child, who often stepped into the breach at state dos and occasions such as this. Ireland may not have had a first lady, but at least had a first daughter who, at twenty-five, was drop-dead gorgeous. Not in an obvious way, though, no diamanté hot pants for her. She wore a simple black cocktail dress enhanced with a single strand of pearls which had been her mother's. Her waist-length straight auburn hair was tied into a chignon and, pulled back from her face, perfectly accentuated her long, swan-like neck and white, white skin. Well used to dealing with the press on these occasions, she waved demurely in the direction of the cameras before linking her father's arm and gracefully ascending the stone steps.

  A line-up of sorts had formed inside the hall door, and guests parted like the Red Sea as the President and his daughter entered. A ripple of applause broke out as Julia guided the guests of honour down the line, as though taking on the role of lady-in-waiting to crowned heads of state. By now, she'd changed into a tight-fitting black bodice worn with a sexy pair of bootleg-cut satin pants, blonde hair tightly gelled back to show off diamond earrings so long they practically dusted her shoulders. She looked so sensational that even Tiffany Richardson's star was temporarily eclipsed. Both father and daughter greeted her warmly like an old friend; clearly their paths had crossed somewhere before.

  As it happened, the first person the President stopped to speak a few words to was Mrs Flanagan. She was sporting her crisp, new black uniform, but it was her nametag, 'Housekeeping Supervisor', which caught the President's eye.

  'You must work here then, I think?' he asked politely, making direct eye contact and smiling. There was nothing insincere about his question though, it was as though there was nothing else on earth he'd rather be doing than discussing a housekeeper's duties with this total stranger. It's a gift from God to be able to walk into a roomful of strangers and immediately launch into the inconsequential patter of small talk, a gift Robert Armstrong had in spades.