The café was packed with passengers, bags, buggies and baggage, but they queued up, ordered steaming hot lattes and two sinful, sticky chocolate-covered Florentines and eventually managed to find seats at a bockity table beside a youngish couple, who grimaced up at them, reluctantly hauling their plastic bags from seats which were clearly free.
'Thanks,' Portia said politely, starving and dying to tuck in. She had just begun to munch on her Florentine when she felt Andrew urgently squeeze her knee under the table. 'What?' she mouthed.
He winked at her and nodded his head in the direction of the girlfriends newspaper, spread out on the table in front of them. There was a huge, full-colour photo of Mark Lloyd, clearly taken on a soccer pitch as he was wearing his full Oldcastle kit, arms raised exultantly in triumph, as if he'd just scored a winning goal in a World Cup final, 'MARK TO WED!' screamed the banner headline, 'AND ELEANOR ARMSTRONG IS THE LUCKY GIRL!!'
'I never could stand that stuck-up feckin' bitch Eleanor Armstrong,' said the girlfriend, scanning the paper in disgust. 'Mark Lloyd is off his bleedin' head to have anything to do with her. Sure, what kind of life will he have with her? Stuck in bleedin' Phoenix Park bleedin' House, listening to boring speeches by . . . whatshisname . . . the father . . .'
'Robert Armstrong,' grunted the boyfriend, engrossed in another paper, which this time had a picture of a tearful Eleanor looking about ten years younger. Probably taken at her mother's funeral, Portia reckoned. 'ELEANOR'S TEARS OF JOY' ran the headline, 'AS MARK PRESENTS HER WITH A £100,000 DIAMOND ENGAGEMENT RING'.
'Yeah, well, I voted for the woman in the election,' the girlfriend went on, unaware that both Portia and Andrew were hanging on her every word. 'And Mark deserves better than that snotty cow. He shoulda stayed with that lingerie model, she's miles better for him any bleedin' day. Better-looking than Eleanor up-her-own-arse Armstrong as well. I mean, what in the name of Jaysus does he see in her anyway?'
Now it was the boyfriend's turn to get annoyed. Slowly folding his newspaper with studied venom, he was all the more threatening for not making direct eye contact with her, and just staying focused on ironing out imaginary creases in the Daily Sport. He was wearing a chunky gold sovereign ring on just about every finger, and each one reflected the light, bouncing it right back into Portia's eyes. 'Imelda, I am too hung over to be listening to your shite. Eleanor Armstrong is a very classy bird and that overpaid prick, who hasn't played one decent game this season, isn't even in her league. Now shut up and let me finish me breakfast in peace.' Sovereign-ring man sat back with his arms folded, as much as to say: If you're looking for a row, I'm your man.
'I did not leave our four kids at home with me mother so I could be spoken to like this.'
'Then go back to yer mother and let me go to Lanzarote in peace. I might ring Eleanor Armstrong and offer her yer ticket. Be a nice change for her to be with a real man, not some bleedin' over-styled hairdresser's model.'
'Don't you say that about Mark Lloyd.' Imelda was roaring by now, unaware that just about everyone in the café was enjoying the sideshow. 'Ya jealous git. Just cos you couldn't score a goal against the under-elevens in a five-a-side out on the green.'
Sovereign-ring man was busy thinking up a suitably cutting retort when he felt Portia's eyes on him and turned the full force of his bulldog stare on her. 'What are you looking at?'
'Oh, nothing,' stammered Portia nervously, 'nothing at all.'
'In fact, darling,' Andrew said, helping her up, 'we'd better get going or we'll miss our flight.'
She rose and in her haste to get away as fast as she could she stumbled over one of their duty-free bags, which were strewn carelessly across the floor. There was a loud clatter as one bottle clunked off several others but, luckily for Portia, nothing smashed.
'Sorry,' she said lamely, gathering up her own bag.
They both glared viciously at her. 'Well, enjoy your holiday,' said Andrew, aware that everyone in the café was watching.
'This isn't a holiday,' growled Imelda. 'It's our honeymoon.'
They waited until they were well away from the café and safely past the duty-free area before the pair of them collapsed into helpless fits of giggles.
'I thought he'd haul you outside and beat you up,' said Portia, hysterical with laughter, when an announcement came over the tannoy.
'Aer Lingus is pleased to announce the departure of flight EI106 to Kennedy International Airport, New York. We'd like to invite our Premier Class passengers to begin boarding through gate B25.'
'That's us, babe,' said Andrew. 'One of the perks of working for Macmillan Burke is that only business-class travel is good enough.'
'I have to warn you, I could get very used to this lifestyle,' Portia laughed, happily linking arms with him as they made their way down the gangway and stepped on to the aircraft.
No sooner had they taken their seats in huge, oversized leather armchairs by the window, than they were both immediately offered a chilled glass of champagne. 'Yup, I think the high life definitely suits me.' Portia smiled, clinking glasses with him and thinking herself the luckiest woman alive. Not even when the air hostess offered her a choice of morning papers and she noticed that every single one of them carried the story about Eleanor and Mark's engagement did she flinch. Ordinarily, she'd have been riddled with guilt about leaving poor Daisy to shoulder the burden, but not now. For a few glorious weeks, she was leaving all her worries behind her and by God she'd earned it.
As the aircraft slowly began to thunder its way down the runway, the roar of the engines building to a shuddering crescendo, she gazed out of the window, watching the runway disappear beneath her, houses becoming tiny dolls' houses and green fields slowly fading into pure white cloud. She felt exhilarated, ecstatic to be getting away and thrilled to have Andrew sitting beside her, knowing she'd have him all to herself for the next few glorious weeks. Just like a second honeymoon.
Taking a luxurious sip of champagne and feeling like a movie star, she stretched her long legs out on to the footrest in front.
Life, she thought, just doesn't get much better.
Chapter Nine
The following day, with bags under her eyes so heavy you could carry luggage around in them, Daisy found herself in a power meeting sitting across the hunting table in the Library from Julia Belshaw at her formidable best. A great one for early morning starts, Julia had scheduled the meeting for seven a.m. and arrived at the Hall a full ten minutes early, then spent the remaining time pacing up and down the marble hallway and glancing impatiently at her watch every two minutes. When eventually she heard the sound of Daisy thud-thudding down the great oak staircase, she stood impatiently waiting for her at the bottom, as though she'd been standing there for hours, despite the fact that it was seven on the dot.
'Right, come on then, lots to do and very little time to do it in,' she barked down at her, sergeant-major style, ignoring the fact that there just might be guests who were still asleep. 'If you snooze you lose, you know,' she added, clicking her fingers at Daisy for her to hurry up before she turned on her heel and headed for the warmth of the Library.
'And good morning to you too, Julia,' Daisy muttered as she sleepily trailed in her wake. 'It's lovely to see you and you're looking so well. I'm sure Jimmy Choo designed those six-inch heels you've on specifically to be worn in the countryside.'
Never a morning person at the best of times, Daisy was particularly ratty and cranky that day, and anyway, Julia looked like she always did: ready to go either to a business meeting or a nightclub; she was suitably dressed for either occasion. Today she was in a tight red satin suit with shoes exactly the same shade, which, with her bright blonde hair, made her look like country Barbie against the huge hulking stone walls of the Hall.
'Sit down,' Daisy said, closing the Library door behind them to keep in the warmth. 'I'll ask Molly to send us in some coffee, or perhaps you'd like some breakfast?'
'Thank you, no,' replied Julia, clip-clopping ahead in
her killer heels down the long wooden parquet floor. 'I don't have time in my schedule to get to the gym today and the golden rule is no workout, no food. Besides, breakfast is a luxury we don't have time for.'
Daisy rolled her eyes to heaven behind Julia's back and resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her. Why did she always make her feel like a recalcitrant schoolgirl who hadn't done her homework? She was starving and one of the biggest treats for her these days were the amazing breakfasts which Tim whipped up in the kitchen: mouth-watering, delicious confections . . . She was almost drooling at the thought . . .
'So what's the story with Andrew and Portia?' demanded Julia, dumping her briefcase at the top of the reading table as though she were chairman of a board of trustees.
Daisy knew the question was unavoidable but still dreaded having to answer her. Better to get it over with, she thought, slipping into a chair opposite Julia and trying her best to sound casual. 'They've both gone to New York. Andrew had to go on business and Portia went with him. They left yesterday and will probably be gone till May'
Julia was in the middle of pulling a great wad of files from her briefcase, but stopped immediately. 'And they left you in charge?' she asked, eyeing her sharply.
Daisy racked her brains to think of a cool, confident way to make light of the situation, then gave it up as a bad job. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was a manager now, so telling Julia to get bent, as she'd ordinarily have done, was out of the question. 'Well,' she began, hating the fact that she had to explain herself, 'Portia and Andrew both have full confidence in me and will be in touch with the Hall every day and then with you organizing the wedding . . .'
'OK, OK,' said Julia, not even waiting for her to finish. 'It's clearly none of my business so I'll just say this. It's only seven a.m. and already my day is off to a bad start. The fact that you're going to be around is not exactly music to my ears. I'm sure you're a lovely person and I'm not saying a word against you, but the thought of handling this wedding with you is almost enough to have me reaching for the beta-blockers.' She was leaning on the table with both hands spread out, eyeballing Daisy so as to really hammer the point home. 'This is the single biggest event I've ever had to coordinate and I'm afraid that dealing with hormonal girlie-girlie squeals every time Mark Lloyd's name is mentioned frankly gives me a headache.'
Daisy was about to jump in and defend herself but Julia just barrelled right over her. 'But, like it or not, you're the acting manager here and there's nothing I can do about it. So let me just paint you a little road map of your future, honey. For the next few weeks, I need you to be what I call a "good little corporal". I don't expect you to make any kind of decision, but when I give you an order, I expect it to be carried out to the letter. You do what I tell you, when I tell you and you never, ever question me. And we'll get along just fine.'
She strode over to the sideboard and helped herself to a large bottle of mineral water, unscrewing the top and taking big gulps straight from the bottle. 'But on the plus side, I will say this. As a single woman and someone who respects the sisterhood, I think your sister is a very smart lady to go to the States and stick by a man like Andrew. Believe you me, there are women out there who would gnaw through the back of Portia Davenport's head to get at a guy like that. If she'd been idiot enough to let a man like that out of her sight, then I'm sorry but he'd be fair game. There are single women who would happily propel your big sister's ass into the divorce courts in the blink of an eye and she'd never even know how she got there. Clever, clever lady to say sod the sodding hotel. What pile of bricks is worth more than a marriage? But that's neither here nor there because as far as you're concerned, until the big day, I own your soul. Right. Down to work.'
She fished a leather-bound notebook from the depths of her briefcase and unclipped a gold pen from the side of it, being ultra-careful not to chip one of her scarlet talons. 'Well begun, half done, I always say. Now, Gotcha magazine's foremost concern is security. For obvious reasons, it's critical that no photos appear as spoilers in any newspapers or magazines before the wedding issue hits the stands, or do the words Plaza Hotel and Catherine Zeta Jones mean nothing? There are going to be over two hundred guests and each and every one of them will have to be frisked on entry to make sure they're not carrying cameras, tape recorders or those infernal picture phones. A thorough sweep will have to be done of the entire estate . . .'
She continued to drone on about guard dogs and security huts and marquees and salsa bands while Daisy frantically scribbled notes, desperately trying to keep up with her. Give me ten Trinny and Susannahs instead of this one, she thought. Why is she wasting her time working as a wedding planner when her talents would be put to much better use in Guantanamo Bay? Julia wasn't exactly her favourite person, but there and then, Daisy made a silent vow to show her what steel Davenport women were made of. She was acting manager now and by Jesus she'd show Julia bossy bloody Belshaw . . .
'Can I interrupt for a moment?' she asked in a valiant attempt to match Julia's businesslike tones.
'Yes?'
'Were you serious when you said you wanted all the toilet paper to tone in with the wedding colours?'
Breakfast had successfully been served and, as per usual, Molly was run off her feet toing and froing in and out of the kitchen relaying guests' compliments to the chef. 'That honeymoon couple at table seventeen said that the vanilla perdue with quince jelly was absolutely historic,' she gushed at Tim while flicking a minuscule piece of dust off one of the lights above the warming plates. 'He said if he ever found himself on death row, that would definitely be the last meal he'd request.'
Tim was one of those people who thought that no matter what superlative praise was heaped on him, it was never anything less than his due, so Molly was quite used to him paying absolutely no attention to all the effusive compliments she dutifully laid at his feet. After all, he was forever chopping, flambéing, whipping, mixing, blending or stirring something whenever she was trying to talk to him, and when he wasn't, he was barking orders at his poor overworked sous-chef. So when he didn't even acknowledge her, she thought no more of it and went back to scouring the Newbridge cutlery, even though it was already so over-polished the silver sheen had completely worn off.
On one occasion, she had even whipped a fork out of an unfortunate diner's mouth and polished it there and then at the table, unable to bear seeing her handiwork sullied with food. She had even queried why they were allowing guests to use the good silver in the first place. 'I have to scald them for hours afterwards to make sure they're up to operating theatre standards,' she'd griped at Daisy a few days previously. 'Plastic disposable cutlery is far more suitable. And hygienic. I mean to say, would you want to eat off something that a complete stranger had used? It would be as bad as urinating in a public toilet.'
At this point, Daisy really started to worry about her.
That particular morning, though, flattery was the furthermost thing from Tim's thoughts. The moment the last breakfast had been served, he left Molly happily disinfecting every available kitchen surface and off he went in pursuit of, of all people, Mrs Flanagan. It was just after ten in the morning, which could only mean one thing: she'd be holed up in the family living room, fag in gob, flicking between ITV and Channel Four and shouting at Trisha.
'Imagine yer husband coming home with pink G-strings in a size twenty and not copping on that he's a transvestite?' she was bellowing at some poor, distraught woman on the TV. 'Did the Evans bags lying all over the house not give you a clue? If ya ask me, ya deserved what ya got, ya roaring eejit.'
'Glad to see I'm not interrupting anything,' Tim said in his nasal voice. 'God forbid that I'd actually find you supervising the housekeeping or anything drastic.'
'Piss off, baldy,' she replied automatically, not even bothering to raise her eyes from the TV. She was barely listening to him. 'Now, do ya see them pair sitting on the sofa beside Trisha?' she asked, lighting up yet another cigarette
. 'I'm telling ya, they should never have had a baby together. Apart from the fact that they're cousins, they're both minging ugly. Wait, look, watch this. She's going to have to peel that chair off her just so she can stand up.'
Tim sighed and came straight to the point. 'Mrs Flanagan, in your capacity as, ahem, housekeeping supervisor,' he whined, repulsed by even having to articulate her work title, 'I have no choice but to make an official complaint through you. I'm loath to distract you from your work, but things have reached a point where—'
Mrs Flanagan turned to face him, blowing cigarette smoke right at him and not caring. 'Have you a problem with the way I work, sonny?' she growled. 'Is it my fault that I'm able to get through my day's work in half the time it takes you to boil one of yer bleeding Michelin-starred eggs? The nearest you'll get to another Michelin is if you get run over by a truck.'
Tim chose to ignore this jibe and came straight to the point. 'The fact is that my kitchen is my artist's studio and each plate I present a meal on is like an artist's palette to me and each meal I present is like—'
'The statue of David. Go on.'
'Since yesterday, food has started to go missing from the kitchen, Mrs Flanagan,' he said, patting his bald head as though checking the comb-over was still in place. 'Vital, essential ingredients as necessary to me as nicotine and television appear to be to you. Today alone, a fresh delivery of organic fruit has completely vanished from the pantry. What am I supposed to do for my baked cherry sponge pudding with port compote? Not to mention my apple and rosemary tart with Lancashire cheese, which I may as well shake my hat at now. How am I expected to concoct desserts for tonight without the basic staple of fresh fruit?'
'Ahh, just get them pissed and serve them a few tubs of ice-cream,' cackled Mrs Flanagan, not taking him remotely seriously 'Worked for me for forty years.'
'I don't think that you appreciate the gravity of the situation,' he snivelled, although not raising his voice. 'Someone is pilfering from my stockroom, Mrs Flanagan. I've conducted a thorough check of all windows and doors throughout the kitchens and pantry area and there appears to be no sign of a break-in. It would appear to be highly unlikely that any of the guests or staff would steal into the refrigeration room at night in order to make off with a full crème Chantilly fifteen meringues and almost four pounds of Parmesan cheese as happened last night. I have no idea who is doing this or why, but that's your responsibility as, ahem, housekeeping supervisor to find out.'
Last of the Great Romantics Page 11
