Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  Eleanor beamed at him, linking his arm. 'Come and meet everyone and you can apologize for landing on top of the poor Davenports without warning like this.'

  Daisy could feel Amber's hand gripping her arm tightly as the man himself stepped elegantly out from the driver's side. Eleanor graciously made the introductions, singling out Daisy as the Hall's acting manager.

  'Great to meet you,' said Mark in an unmistakable south London accent, dark eyes glinting at her. 'What a great pile of bricks you got here.' He took his gaze off her for a moment to survey the front façade of the Hall then turned his full attention back to her. 'I just love it,' he said, really impressed. 'Yeah, I'm lovin' it. I'm a big fan of neo-classical architecture. Doric columns, yeah, great, cool, man, I really dig. Fantastic choice, Ellie, my mum's really gonna love this.'

  As they all made their way inside, Daisy found herself struck by the twin illusion of familiarity and estrangement with Mark. Celebrities must experience this all the time, she thought, total strangers feeling as though they know you intimately, because you're a household name and your face is so well known. They all stood com-panionably in the Hall chatting, or babbling like the village idiot in Amber's case, the way people do when they meet really famous people in the flesh. Daisy excused herself for a moment and slipped off to the reception desk to see if she could hastily reschedule her appointment with Portia's particularly snotty hotel supplier. As she stood with the phone in her hand, interminably on hold, she had a good chance to observe the famous Mark Lloyd close up.

  He wasn't particularly tall, but was lean, lithe and athletic with that golden glow about him which super-fit people always seem to have. He was dark-skinned and tanned with deep, dark brown eyes which didn't so much dance when they looked at you as do a wild Latin American salsa. Although it was a chilly March morning, wild and windy, he was only wearing a light, Lycra T-shirt which clung to his powerful muscles as though designed for no other purpose, with a pair of army-fatigue-style combat trousers slung low at the hips which clearly showed his knicker elastic. (Calvin Klein: what else?) Instead of this seeming like a major fashion faux pas, however, he carried the look off as though he'd just happened to step off a catwalk during London fashion week. In a nutshell, he looked every inch the off-duty superstar, Daisy thought, although she was half expecting him to turn around and start plugging men's aftershave at any second. He was parading around the entrance hall as though he was surveying it and would soon put in an offer when the hotel supplies manager butted in on her thoughts, telling her crisply and in no uncertain terms that she'd reschedule the appointment to facilitate her just this once, but under no circumstances could this be allowed to happen again.

  'Thank you so much,' said Daisy, feeling that she at least owed her an explanation. 'My sister would kill me if she knew I'd cancelled on you, but, you see, can you keep a secret? Mark Lloyd has just arrived and wants to see the Hall—'

  'MARK LLOYD?' came the astonished reply. 'Oh my God, tell him I love him SOOOO much! Will you tell him that my boyfriend and I got the DVD of Mark Lloyd's Greatest Goals for Christmas and that we've watched it about a thousand times between us? And will you be sure to tell him that his equalizer at Stuttgart in the European Championships was the MOST AMAZING piece of ball control I have ever seen?'

  'Ehh, yeah, I'll be sure to pass that on,' Daisy said, marvelling that just the magic of his name could transform even the snottiest old battleaxe into a gushing, star-struck teenager. Even Julia had abandoned her usual bossy, narky persona and was smiling sweetly at the happy couple as though she had nothing better to do all day than stand around making small talk. Clocking that Daisy was finally off the phone, she snapped into action.

  'Mark, Eleanor, I know how little time you both have, so I suggest that we start at the top of the Hall and work our way down. That way, you can see all the best bedrooms for yourselves and allocate them accordingly. I remember one particular wedding I planned where the groom insisted on the bride's family having the bedrooms in an old coach house about five miles away from anyone else.'

  'Actually, Julia,' Eleanor gently interrupted, on catching a look of raw panic flitter across Daisy's face, 'I'm not so sure that's really necessary. The last thing we'd want to do is bother the other guests. Maybe if we could just take a peek at the reception rooms and then we could show Mark the spot we've chosen for the marquee in the garden? We can easily leave the bedrooms for a more convenient time.'

  Really impressed by her thoughtfulness, Daisy led the way, beginning with the Yellow Drawing Room to the left of the reception on the ground floor. Mark was the only one who had never seen it before, and his reaction was all that his bride-to-be could have hoped for and more.

  'Oh wow, now you're talkin'! This reminds me a bit of Buckingham Palace, 'cept it's miles nicer. Classier. And it don't have the disadvantage of corgi hair all over the furniture.'

  Eleanor grinned and blushed and glowed behind the silk curtain of her long, straight hair.

  'I was there, you know, last year,' Mark went on as Daisy shepherded them on through to the Red Dining Room, 'when the Queen gave me my OBE. In fact, this place reminds me of there a lot, actually. 'Cept I think your taste in art is a lot better. They've just got pictures of horses and foxhunts and that, which wouldn't be my scene at all. Wow! Come here, Ellie, look! They got a Graham Knuttel! That is so fantastic!'

  Eleanor, however, was over by the French windows deep in conversation with Julia and didn't hear him. He made a beeline for the painting (one Andrew had bought at auction) and surveyed it expertly. 'Cool! What wouldn't I give to have this hanging in my place! Don't you love the sharp, angular thing he's got going on? And that great, really bold use of colour? How old is this one, then?'

  'Emm . . .' Daisy hadn't a clue, to her it was just a big blobby yoke on a wall, but didn't want to sound completely thick.

  'Early eighties, I'd guess,' said Mark, squinting up at it. Then, turning his jet-black, dancing eyes back to her, he said, 'If you're ever selling it, will you give me first refusal? I'll make it worth your while.'

  Daisy found herself gazing at him and had to say to herself forcefully: Don't go all girly, don't go all girly . . .

  'It's just that I'd really love to see that hung up against my wall.'

  Oh Jesus, she thought, I'd love to see how you're hung up against any bloody wall . . .

  'Mark? Can you come over here please?' Julia commanded, although she did tone it down a tad, given that she was addressing Mark Lloyd. 'It's just that we really need to discuss Georgian sugar sculptures and whether you want them encased in white or red roses for the table centrepieces.'

  'On the way,' the man himself replied, ambling over as if there was nothing else he'd rather be doing.

  'Empire line, Jane Austen style,' Eleanor was whispering to Julia about her wedding dress, 'very plain and simple, with just my mother's pearl necklace. I'm only having one bridesmaid, my best friend Karen, and her dress is going to be a similar style. Timeless and classical, you know; after all, I don't want to wince when I look at my wedding photos in twenty years' time. Oh, and I need to speak to your head chef about the food, if that's OK,' she said, turning to Daisy as she and Mark rejoined them. 'I have this idea that the meal should hark back to Georgian times, in keeping with the surroundings.'

  'Whatever you want, my love,' said Mark, slipping his arm around her shoulder. 'Sounds like it's gonna be a real classy do. There'll be nothing tacky or cheap about our wedding, will there? Not like poor old Shane Donohue's, eh?' He correctly interpreted the blank looks from Julia and Daisy. 'You know Shane? Oldcastle striker? Equalized against Arsenal in the last minute of the FA Cup Final last season?'

  More blank looks.

  'Repeated groin strain injury? Got sent off ten minutes into the last Man U match of the season?'

  Even Julia was beginning to sweat a little now. Who in the name of God was this guy?

  'Married to Falcon Archbold?'

  'Oh yes, him!' Daisy
and Julia chimed in unison, the mystery solved. Falcon Archbold was a glamour model and minor C-list celebrity who had just been crowned queen of the jungle in a reality TV show called We Are Famous, Try and Shame Us. She had won her way into the nation's heart by spending two weeks in the Australian rainforest eating slugs and cockroaches and, on one occasion, a live eel. She'd even spent over an hour buried in a coffin full of live rats, which, expert opinion went, is what finally sealed the competition for her. She had married Shane Donohue shortly afterwards, in what had to have been one of the tackiest weddings ever seen this side of Hollywood.

  'Oh God, that was a ghastly affair.' Julia winced. 'Didn't he have this whole "Maharajah for a day" theme going on? With a live elephant?'

  'I remember reading about that in Dish the Dirt magazine!' said Daisy. 'And she dressed up as Pocahontas in a bra and sari and all her bridesmaids were like concubines. Awful!'

  'You should have been there,' said Mark. 'That wasn't the worst of it, not by a long shot. The Jewel in the Crown restaurant on the Tottenham Court Road did all the food for it, on platters of solid gold. I'm not kidding. We all had to sit on cushions on the floor, looking like right plonkers, while Shane and Falcon sat on these giant gold thrones drinking out of golden goblets. "King and Queen for the day" type vibe, you know.' He stopped, catching the slightest hint of an embarrassed blush from Eleanor. 'Nothing like that for you and me though, Ellie. Class, all the way. Whatever you want, I'll go along with. If you want to get married on top of the Himalayas with Michael Palin himself doing the ceremony, I'll be there.'

  Much later that night, Daisy was in her room getting ready for bed when the phone on her bedside table rang. She glanced at her watch. Midnight. Has to be Portia ringing from the States, she figured as she bounded across the room to answer it. Eejit still mustn't be used to the time difference, she thought, although she was absolutely dying to chat to her. She was itching to tell all about her day, about Mark Lloyd and how fab he was; how unlike the usual stereotype of the thick, rich, tasteless footballer. Eleanor Armstrong was the luckiest girl on the planet . . . that was official.

  'Portia, that you?'

  'What? Have I got the right room number?'

  A man's voice. A south London accent.

  'Who is this?'

  'Daisy, that you?'

  'Yes, who's this?' Jesus, my nerves, she thought.

  'It's me, Mark. I really hope it's not a problem, me ringing you so late.'

  She nearly dropped the receiver. 'Yes! I mean no! I mean . . . it's great to hear from you, Mark.' Stop hyperventilating, she told herself. And whatever you do, stop gushing; you're starting to sound like Geoffrey Rush in Shine.

  'Only I'm back at Oldcastle now for training, you see, and I won't get a chance to go back to Ireland till the week of the wedding.'

  'Oh right. Well, happy training!' Jesus! said her inner voice. Happy training?

  'This is a bit delicate, you see, and I didn't want to mention it in front of Eleanor today. She gets embarrassed dead easy, you know.'

  'Is everything OK, Mark?'

  He sighed. 'Well, it's just that I really want Ellie's day to be perfect for her, you know? Money is no object, none at all.'

  'Aren't the magazine paying for it?' Daisy was getting confused as to where this could be leading.

  'Technically, yeah. But what Ellie doesn't know is that I'm gonna donate all their money to my favourite charity and foot the bill myself. I'm saving it for a surprise for her though. I think she'll be dead chuffed with me.'

  'Oh Mark, of course she will! That's an overwhelming gesture!'

  'You think?'

  Daisy said nothing, just reflected, for about the fortieth time that day, on how JAMMY Eleanor was to have landed a guy like this.

  'What's the charity?'

  'One my friend Alessandro set up. S.A.C.'

  'Sorry?'

  'Sexually addicted celebrities. Don't laugh, it's a big problem for a lot of people I know.'

  Daisy was far from laughing. If Mark Lloyd had told her he was donating his entire fortune to help the lesser-spotted eel, she'd still have swooned like a teenager with a major crush.

  'So here's what you can do for me, Daisy. I need you to call me every day and keep me posted on everything that's being decided, is that OK?'

  'Of course! I know how much Eleanor has on her plate. Anything I can do to help.'

  'Great, that's great. So, is it OK if I give you my personal mobile number?'

  Chapter Twelve

  'Say, lady, you've gotta be having a Pretty Woman day,' the doorman at the Park Avenue apartment said as Portia wafted by him, laden down with carrier bags.

  'You said it, Sam,' she laughed. 'Big night tonight!' She'd just spent one of those rare, blissfully happy days where you honestly feel you must have done something spectacularly good in a past life, like been a nun in a comptemplative order or else done voluntary work in a leper colony, to merit such good fortune now. Andrew had had to go into his office first thing that morning and had left her with strict instructions to spend, spend, spend and then meet him later that night for dinner. Which she had gleefully carried out to the letter.

  She had spent most of the day excitedly exploring Fifth Avenue: Saks, Bergdorf Goodman, Lord and Taylor, and had even treated herself to a colour and cut at the famous Elizabeth Arden Red Door salon. She really wanted to look good for Andrew that night and was thrilled with the outfit she'd bought: a beautifully cut black shift dress and an exquisite tweed coat. Sinfully expensive but it made her look and feel a million dollars.

  'Ma'am,' the sales assistant in Saks had cooed at her, 'you look just like Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. And she was my style icon!'

  Who could resist a sales pitch like that? Sold, ten seconds later.

  Andrew had arranged to meet her at Cipriani's in the Rockefeller Center at seven, and so on the dot, she stepped out of a yellow cab and made her way inside the cool, marble building, following the signs which read: 'Cipriani's, top floor'.

  Meanwhile, as the express elevator rocketed skywards and Portia's eardrums were popping once every twenty-five floors, Andrew sat at the best table in the whole restaurant, eagerly glancing over towards the door every few minutes. With him were his old friend and colleague, Ken Courtney, and another lawyer assigned to the case, a New Yorker, Lynn Fairweather. When Andrew eventually spotted his wife arrive, he immediately excused himself from the table and went over to where she was standing by the restaurant door, asking the maître d' which table she should go to.

  Ken and Lynn said nothing, just watched the romantic reunion being played out in front of them as husband and wife hugged each other tightly like they hadn't seen each other in weeks, rather than hours, neither one caring that they were on view for the whole restaurant to see.

  Ken sat back, tossing the menu carelessly aside. 'So what do you think?' he asked.

  Lynn didn't lift her gaze from Portia, not even for a second. 'Meet my new best friend.'

  'Good to see you again, Portia, you look well.' Ken rose to kiss her on each cheek and unconsciously eyed her up and down as he did. It was an irritating habit of his, Portia knew well, something he had always done, and not just with her, with all women. Ordinarily it annoyed her, but not tonight. With Andrew beside her, clasping her hand and knowing she looked great in her new finery, who cared what the Ken Courtneys of this world thought? Ken, she knew of old, was a great one for judging women solely in terms of looks, but tonight Portia was far too happy to give a shite about being in the company of her least favourite of Andrew's friends.

  'Good to see you too, Ken,' she lied.

  'I'm sure you wanted Andy all to yourself tonight, but I'm afraid you're stuck with us, for dinner anyway. Don't worry, Lynn and I have no intention of overstaying our welcome.'

  A perfectly innocuous statement, but somehow, coming from Ken, it managed to sound sleazy and patronizing. And it really bugged her the way he always called Andrew 'Andy'. She didn't know why, it ju
st really annoyed her. It was as though this was his way of subtly reminding her that he and 'Andy' went back a lot further than she did. (They'd been at boarding school and then both went on to study law at UCD together.) His accent grated with her too, almost like he'd studied every film James Dean ever made and then copied him, vowel for vowel.

  'You really are looking well,' he added, this time dropping his neck to check out her cleavage. Yet another delightful habit of his.

  'Thanks, Ken, you too,' Portia lied, noticing that he was even more pot-bellied than the last time she'd seen him. 'It's so fantastic to be in New York. I can't tell you how much I'm loving it,' she added, beaming at her husband and, this time, not lying.

  'It's great to be back and all the better that you're with me,' Andrew said as he squeezed her waist and kissed her cheek, not caring that half the restaurant was staring at this very uncool spontaneous show of affection. Very un-Cipriani's. 'Sit down, honey, and I'll order you a drink,' he said, gallantly pulling out a chair for her, 'and let me introduce Lynn.'

  'Welcome to New York, I've heard so much about you.'

  'And you,' Portia lied again, shaking hands with her across the dinner table. Andrew had never mentioned anyone by the name of Lynn; she'd have remembered. Probably one of Ken's many bits on the side, she thought, smiling pityingly at her while Andrew caught a passing waiter's attention. She certainly looked like someone Ken would have a fling with; she seemed to fulfil all of his requirements to the letter.

  Lynn was a) young, barely thirty Portia guessed; b) beautiful, with wide even features, blue eyes, cheekbones that could have doubled up as a cheese grater and a neat, trim figure to boot; but above all she was c) blonde. Ken had a big thing about blonde women. He had even tried it on with Daisy once, during one of his whistle-stop trips to Ireland, when he'd stayed with Portia and Andrew at the gate lodge, conveniently leaving his lovely wife back at their beach house in the Hamptons.