Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  Daisy had gamely taken him up to the Hall for a tour, so that he could see all the renovation work which was still in full swing and the pair of them then spent the night getting rat-arsed drunk. One thing led to another and, according to Daisy, he started kissing her, claiming he was way too pissed to find his way back to the gate lodge and wouldn't it just make more sense if he bunked down with her for the night? Needless to say, she had unceremoniously thrown him out of the Hall telling him in no uncertain terms to fuck right off, that she didn't do married.

  'The only exercise you're going to get tonight is the two-mile walk home, fatso. Besides, you're far too old for me and, just for the record, my type does not include married pot-bellied pigs with irritating affected accents. You're from Limerick, for Christ's sake, not Long Island.'

  It was probably the one and only time in his life he'd been rejected.

  Of all the many things that bugged Portia about Ken, chief amongst them was the cheating. He was married to a gorgeous woman and had two beautiful little daughters. Ordinarily she wouldn't have minded – after all, Ken's extra-marital affairs were thankfully no concern of hers – but Jennifer Courtney was such a lovely person, beautiful inside and out, the sort of woman any guy would be proud to be with, that it broke Portia's heart to see her so flagrantly made a fool of.

  She and Andrew often talked about it, with Portia taking Jennifer's side and saying things like, 'He's so lucky to have her in the first place, why does he do it? Is he stupid or does he actually want to get caught?'

  Andrew would treat the whole thing as a joke, always sticking up for his old pal and invariably winding up the whole discussion with, 'Ken's Ken. He's always been a playboy and he'll never change.'

  'Just don't let him give you any ideas,' Portia would playfully joke back at him, 'or I'll do a Lorena Bobbitt. And I'll get away with it too. A judge would take one look at my mother and let me off on the grounds that insanity runs in the family.'

  So as the drinks arrived and the chat went on, Portia began to feel almost sympathetic towards this gorgeous creature, destined to be nothing more than another notch on Ken's bedpost. Probably a model, she thought, looking over at her, or an off-off-off-Broadway actress, or even a dancer; that was the type he normally went for, she knew of old. Some poor wannabe who'd be impressed by all Ken's name-dropping and money and swagger.

  Andrew, typically, had ordered champagne to toast his wife's first visit to New York and the sommelier kept topping them all up, so before Portia knew where she was, she began to feel a bit woozy and light-headed. Wonder if the old gitface has even mentioned the fact that he has a wife, she wondered silently as Ken launched into an anecdote she'd heard a thousand times before about the time he went on a drunken razz with a gang from Cape Cod and had somehow ended up in the Kennedy compound, in the pool with Ethel and Ted. Hilarious . . . the first time.

  Lynn dutifully tittered and Portia thought she'd throw up. Just then, Andrew's cell phone rang. 'Do you mind my taking this?' he whispered to her. 'It's probably Globex. I'll be back in a moment.'

  She smiled at him as he left the table and went outside in search of a little quiet. A silence fell and she decided to seize her moment. 'So, Ken, how's Jennifer? I really hope I get to see her while I'm here.'

  'Oh, she's very well,' Lynn answered for him, in a crisp, cultured East coast accent. 'I had lunch with her only yesterday. She's invited all of us up to the beach house some weekend soon. That's if you're free, of course. Andrew certainly seemed keen when I mentioned it to him at work today.'

  Portia just looked at her, a bit shell-shocked. 'Oh, is Jennifer a friend of yours too?'

  Lynn contemplated the question as she added sparkling mineral water into her champagne. (That gesture alone should have me running for the hills, Portia thought. The one piece of motherly advice Lucasta had ever passed on to her elder daughter was never, ever trust anyone who waters down their drink.) 'Well, I suppose I'm pretty friendly with all of the Macmillan Burke wives, yes. You and I are going to become great buddies too,' Lynn laughed. 'Whether you like it or not.'

  'Oh, you work at the firm too?' Legal secretary, Portia thought? She seemed a bit young to be one of the high-rolling attorneys Macmillan Burke usually hired . . . not to mention too pretty.

  'I'm a senior tax consultant, freelance mostly, but Macmillan's paid me a fortune to come on board for the Globex case.'

  'Can you believe Lynn's only early thirties and yet she's earning more than me?' said Ken, looking at her googly-eyed. 'Me or Andy.'

  'I'm really glad you've arrived though,' Lynn went on, not even bothering to acknowledge the compliment. 'Straight up, I have such a huge favour to ask you—'

  'Sorry about that, darling,' Andrew interrupted, rejoining them and slipping his arm lightly around Portia's shoulders as he sat down. 'That was Dick Feinberg from Globex, I had to take the call. That meeting has been moved forward to seven a.m. tomorrow, Ken, he needs to go over the Feinman deposition before the plenary session at nine. That OK?'

  'No problem, Andy.'

  Shit, thought Portia, who had been looking forward to a good long leisurely morning in bed with her husband, but she quickly reasoned herself out of the disappointment. After all, they had weeks and weeks ahead of them to look forward to . . . What more could she ask for, she thought, squeezing his hand and gazing at him in that glazed loving way that couples do, which never fails to make single people want to throw up.

  'Ken, switch seats with me, I wanna talk with Portia,' Lynn ordered in the manner of someone who's used to getting her own way.

  Ken obediently hauled himself up and moved over so that he was now facing Andrew, while Lynn could command Portia's full attention.

  'So, may I ask you something?'

  'Fire away.'

  'Can you tell me about every single male friend you and Andrew have?' she asked. 'Age, address, education, occupation, earnings and dating history. That's all I need to work on, for the moment.'

  'Bloody hell,' said Portia, winded and totally unused to the directness of your average Manhattanite.

  'Oh, I'm sorry.' Lynn laughed, revealing a row of flawless pearly white teeth. 'I always forget you've gotta preamble things with Europeans. Basically, Portia, I'm getting married this year.'

  'Oh, well, congratulations. Who's the lucky man?'

  'I don't know yet. If I knew that, I wouldn't need your help.'

  'I'm afraid I'm not with you.' Portia was raging that Andrew was so deep in conversation with Ken; she'd have loved him to overhear this, so they could have a great giggle over it afterwards.

  'OK. My life coach says I'm totally ready to be in a loving, committed marriage and, astrologically speaking, I am one hundred per cent certain that it'll happen this year.'

  'Based on what exactly?'

  'Something a fortune teller told me back in nineteen ninety-seven. But everything else he told me came out right, so why wouldn't this?'

  Portia found herself double-checking her glass to try and ascertain exactly how tipsy she was. Was she really having this surreal conversation?

  'He was right about my mother's facelift, and he was right about my moving apartment and changing hair colour and he was deadly specific that two thousand and four was the year I would marry. He said it would happen the same year Friends came to an end.'

  Portia was about to say that, since 1997, it might conceivably be a fairly safe bet to assume that one might move, or dye your hair a different colour, but she kept quiet, remembering how seriously some women took these things. Lucasta would give you a black eye for even daring to suggest that her tarot cards readings weren't so much accurate forecasts of the future as a series of lucky guesses. Lucky and not very difficult to predict. ('You may take a shower, very soon. You may also enjoy a social occasion, but that could happen any time within the next five years. I'm afraid I can't be more specific than that. That'll be eighty euros, thanks.')

  'So here's where you come in,' Lynn went on, now drinking u
nadulterated mineral water. 'In January, I took a night class called 'How to find a husband when you're over the age of thirty'. It's all about applying the principles of marketing taught at Harvard Business School to finding a life partner.'

  'But you're so fabulous looking, I can't believe they're not queuing up for you,' Portia blurted out.

  'Welcome to Manhattan, honey, the town where single women outnumber men by a ratio of six to one. Know what that means?'

  Portia shook her head, absent-mindedly fiddling with her wedding ring.

  'It means that, statistically, I'm more likely to die in a car crash than I am ever to get one of those,' she said, pointing at Portia's wedding band.

  'Have you tried internet dating?'

  'Weirdos, saddos, sickos and whackos. Yes, I have tried it and it's a waste of time and time is what I don't have. I am thirty-five years old. If I don't look it, it's thanks to the fabulous oxygen facial they do at Bergdorf Goodman's – you've gotta try it, one session a week and they start IDing you in bars. But, anyway, like it or not, I'm looking down the barrel at forty. I want two kids, one dark and one fair, so, working backwards, that means I need to be pregnant with my first by next year, which means I need to get married this year which means I need to find the right guy and go through the whole dating thing now. Also, as soon as I meet him, I need to book the Plaza straight away for my wedding reception and the wait is almost ten months.'

  Portia shot another glance over at Andrew, raging that he was missing all this, but he was still deep in conversation with Ken.

  'Anyhow, one of the things they taught on the course was to change your reference group to reflect your desired status.'

  'Sorry?' Portia was well tipsy by now and was having a tough time keeping up.

  Lynn smiled patronizingly, as if explaining Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time to a slow-witted pass maths student.

  'Single people want you to stay single. That way they don't feel so bad about being alone themselves. Married people, on the other hand, want you to be married too, particularly when they're childless. It's so that they can have adult company to talk to when they get bored with each other. All of which makes you my new best friend, Portia. You are my personal pipeline of opportunity. So, will you tell me all about the single guys you and Andrew know? I'm not looking for perfection either, you know. On the course, we're all taught to lower our standards to realistic levels. Just as long as he can use a knife and fork, that's OK with me. At the end of the day, they're all bastards. What you have to do is try and find me a nice bastard.'

  Hours later, as Portia lay snuggled up in Andrew's arms in the enormous emperor-sized bed back at their Park Avenue pad, she relayed the gist of the conversation to him.

  'I know, isn't she a howl?' he said, rubbing her bare back and gently massaging her shoulders as he stared at the ceiling. 'I knew you two would hit it off. Lynn's great, best tax consultant in town. She's going to win this case for us, I know it.'

  'I couldn't believe how she had everything all worked out, right down to the gynaecologist she was going to book for her delivery It's not just that she'd like to meet someone, she's looking for a husband in the same way that Scott was looking for the Antarctic. God help the poor eejit, whoever he is. Talk about having your whole life mapped out for you . . .'

  'Some guys like that. A woman who'll take control and make their decisions for them. Men are so crap at all that.' He sounded drowsy now, ready to drop off.

  'Yeah, well, just so long as she doesn't target married men, my darling,' Portia replied. 'At least, not this married man,' she added, kissing his earlobe seductively and brushing away a stray piece of hair.

  But it was too late. He was out for the count.

  Chapter Thirteen

  FROM: daisydavenport@davenporthall.ie

  TO: portiadavenport@aol.com

  SUBJECT: Mark Lloyd is a bona fide sex god and I fancy him like you wouldn't believe and Eleanor Armstrong is just so lucky and he's knickers mad about her and WHY CAN'T I MEET A GUY LIKE THAT???

  Hi Sis,

  Yet again, I've said it all in the subject box. Jesus, you should see him. I swear, his eyes are the colour of coal, jet black. Honest.

  Yours, in a hot flush,

  Daisyxxxx

  FROM: portiadavenport®aol.com

  TO: daisydavenport@davenporthall.ie

  SUJBECT: Hands off!

  Dearest Daisy,

  Just remember he's on the verge of marrying someone else and you'll be fine. As Mummy would say, it's bad karma to go poaching another woman's man. Be cool, calm and professional, remember you're an acting manager and all will be well. I don't mean to pry or appear overly inquisitive but was kind of hoping you'd have some news about the running of the Hall for me?? Apologies if this appears in any way nosy . . .

  Much love,

  Portiaxxx

  FROM: daisydavenport@davenporthall.ie

  TO: portiadavenport@aol.com

  SUBJECT: Oh yeah, the Hall, sorry.

  Hi again Sis,

  Am in a mad rush as am late for one of Julia's bloody power meetings, so here is the news in point form.

  1. Miss Plastic Fantastic has finally-settled on a name for her beauty salon: 'The Retreat' . Ironic, don't you think? Given that the only retreat she'll be beating is when I kick her lardy arse out of here the morning after this wedding? Bring it on . . . This has one big advantage though. It's keeping her well out of my way, for the time being at least.

  2. Mrs Flanagan had been roped in to helping her. I wanted to get our own builders in to renovate the old nursery but Shelley-Marie just smiled and simpered and took matters entirely into her own hands. Herself and Mrs Flanagan headed off to Atlantic Homecare in Dublin and the next thing, a truckload of furniture arrived, mostly chairs and tables and God knows what else. To be honest with you, apart from having about ten thousand million other things to be getting on with, I'm half afraid to go up there to see what's going on for myself. I think I'll just hold off until she hands me another invoice and then I'll rant and rave and demand to know where our money's going.

  3. There is no third point. Did I mention Mark Lloyd gave me his PERSONAL mobile number???!!!

  Love to Andrew. Hope all the sex and shopping isn't completely wearing you down, you jammy bloody bitch.

  Dxxxxx

  It turned out Daisy didn't have to wait long to discover what Shelley-Marie had been up to. The following morning, just as she was tucking into one of Tim's divine full Irish breakfasts ('a health-conscious fry-up' she'd call it, or else 'a heart attack on a plate'), Shelley-Marie galumphed up to where she was happily ensconced in the Dining Room.

  'Well, good mornin' to you,' she stage-whispered in her breathy, baby-doll voice.

  Christ, Daisy found herself thinking, that little-girl-lost act is going to wear so thin by the time you hit forty.

  'I do declare you are the easiest person in the whole house to find. Come mealtimes, you're always gonna be in the Dining Room, aren't you?'

  Daisy, who was starving and had been really looking forward to the mouth-watering confection of rashers, fried eggs and sausages she'd just helped herself to from the buffet, felt her appetite instantly evaporate.

  'So what can I do for you?' she asked curtly, pushing her uneaten plate away and feeling a flush of irritation at Shelley-Marie for ruining her breakfast, the one meal of the day she could enjoy in peace without Julia barking up her bum.

  'Why, nothin', except to settle up a couple of accounts I seem to have run up. Furniture mostly, but the hair-dressin' sinks are arrivin' any day now and I think you better prepare yourself for a shock. They're mighty expensive, and that's before you even get goin' on all the products I'm gonna be needin'. Now, I've gone and ordered some, but I'm gonna need a heck of a lot more.'

  Daisy impatiently began to leaf through the three-inch-deep pile of invoices in front of her and almost fell off her chair in shock. 'Ninety-five euro for a jar of moisturizer? You've got to be kid
ding me. Who in their right minds is going to fork out that much for a pot of bloody face cream?'

  'Why, that's just cost price. I intend to retail with a fifty per cent mark-up, which makes it one hundred and forty-two euros and fifty cents to the consumer, I think you'll find.'

  Not for the first time, Daisy got a brief glimpse of a shrewd, hard-headed business brain under the meringue-head image Shelley-Marie normally presented to the world. Busy and all as I am, she silently vowed, I'll make it a priority to watch you like a hawk until the happy day you're sent packing.

  'I'm very sorry, but I absolutely cannot permit our guests to be overcharged in that shameless manner,' she said, putting on a very posh accent as though this would intimidate Shelley-Marie further. 'You'll have to explore other product ranges which are more, shall we say, realistically priced.' Now I'm starting to sound like the Duchess of Devonshire, she thought, resisting the temptation to grab a Danish pastry from the freshly baked pile on the buffet table and opting instead to try and make a dignified exit without stuffing her face.

  'Crème de l'océan was formulated by scientists workin' at NASA, you know,' said Shelley-Marie, hot on her heels. 'Each and every gram of it is extracted from royal jelly and its results are truly miraculous; you oughta try it. Why, I believe it could take the desperation lines off your face and, who knows, maybe even get you a boyfriend.'

  Daisy did a lightning quick scan of the Dining Room to double-check that no one could hear. Apart from Molly furiously scrubbing the sideboard with what looked like a wire brush and a youngish, honeymooning couple from Galway who were sitting in the bay window giggling at some shared joke, the room was empty. 'Shelley-Marie, let me explain in words of one syllable just so you're absolutely clear. I don't care if your overpriced bloody face cream is personally hand squeezed by the Pope from the liver of a Grand National winner, under no circumstances will our guests be ripped off. Got it? Good.'