Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  'One fecking paragraph on page twelve of the Blanchardstown Bugle?' Mrs Flanagan moaned. 'Tucked away under the weather report, so ya can hardly see it? And the bastards even cut me out of the photo; they just put in you looking like a mental patient with a banner that says "we all have to die of something". Is that what I walked me bleeding feet raw for? I could have done Lough Derg today, I'm that knackered.'

  'Oh, shut your bloody whining, where's the Dunkirk spirit?' Lucasta snapped. 'It's just a minor setback, that's all. We need to regroup, rethink our strategy . . .'

  'A minor setback? That copper at Government Buildings said that in the history of lunatic demonstrations, this one was up there with the "how do you know St Patrick wasn't gay" Lesbian Alliance march, and you're calling this a minor setback?'

  'Your negativity is knocking my aura off kilter, now shut up and let's pour ourselves a nice, soothing couple of g. and t.s at the bar. Might as well drink ourselves senseless and be thankful that at least we have one small pleasure the bloody Government can't throw us in jail for.'

  They were about to trounce upstairs to the Long Gallery when the phone at reception rang. Mrs Flanagan was over like a bullet, sore feet notwithstanding. 'I listen to the red-hot sound of Sun FM, Kildare's coolest radio station by miles.'

  Ever since Portia had left, this was her standard way of answering the phone, whenever she could get to it before either Daisy or whatever duty manager happened to be on. It was an ongoing battle between them; Mrs Flanagan was hoping that she might win a cash prize or, better still, a holiday abroad ever since the station started running this stupid promotion and kept grabbing the phone whenever she could. It led to endless bickering between them as Daisy quite rightly maintained that if either Portia or Andrew were to find out, they'd have a fit. This time, however, they weren't around to hear.

  A crisp, clipped woman's voice on the other end of the phone said, 'This is Phoenix Park House calling. Could you put me through to Lucasta, Lady Davenport, please? I have a call holding for her. Thank you.'

  'Yer not looking for the cash call amount for this hour then, are ya, luv?'

  'I'm afraid not.'

  'Ahh, no bother then, luv, just hang on to yer knickers for a minute. She's right here beside me,' Mrs Flanagan replied, waving like a lunatic for Lucasta to come and join her.

  'Who is it?' said Lucasta, taking the phone from her.

  'Dunno. Phoenix Park House was all yer one said.'

  Lucasta gasped and covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand. 'Do you think they heard about our protest today and now they're phoning to complain? Or arrest us, even?' Her tone was hopeful, as though the column inches this would generate could only boost their campaign.

  'Lucasta Davenport speaking,' she said grandly, 'Acting President of the Nicotine Nazis' Puff Off campaign. May I help you?'

  'Please hold for a call, thank you.'

  'Hello?' A man's voice, deep and resonant.

  'Yes, who is this?'

  'It's Robert Armstrong here. Please excuse me for ringing so late, but—'

  'I know that name from somewhere.'

  Robert laughed. 'We met only a few weeks ago, actually, at your opening night launch party, perhaps you remember? Anyway, the reason I'm calling is . . .'

  'Oh bugger,' Lucasta whispered, this time not bothering to cover the mouthpiece. 'It's that head case from the opening night piss-up. The one who kept saying he was the President of Ireland or some load of shite like that. Hello?'

  'Yes, I'm still here,' Robert replied patiently. 'The thing is, you see, my future son-in-law, Mark, is playing in a friendly soccer match against Ireland on Thursday, and I was wondering if I could organize some tickets for you, and your family, of course. Unfortunately, I won't have the pleasure of your company as I have to go to Beijing on a trade mission but Eleanor tells me this is the least we can do after all your kind help in organizing what I'm sure will be a wonderful wedding.'

  'Oh dear, oh dear. Are you some sort of retard?' Lucasta cooed sympathetically. 'Does your psychiatrist know that you're making these phone calls? Yes, a football match sounds absolutely delightful and I'll tell you what. Why don't you send Apollo Thirteen around to collect us?'

  Chapter Seventeen

  A few days earlier, a continent away . . .

  The day had started out all right, as Andrew hurriedly pecked Portia on the cheek on his way out of the door, overtired and late for work, as usual. 'It's all going to be fine darling,' he said. 'I've organized a car to collect her from the airport, she'll be in town by about fourish, so all I'm asking you to do is call her hotel and see if she's OK. That's all. Promise.'

  Portia nodded. Like she had a choice.

  'So, maybe we could have dinner with her later on?' He ran his fingers through his hair in that nervy way he had.

  'Of course,' she said automatically. Like we're going to leave Baroness Thatcher on her own, her first night in New York?

  'The three of us, I meant.'

  'I know.'

  'And maybe you'd spend a bit of time with her when she gets into town? I know she'd really love that.'

  Portia couldn't bring herself to answer that one, knowing full well that Susan de Courcey would prefer a night in Fallujah to an afternoon in her daughter-in-law's company.

  'Thanks, honey. Dunno what I'd do without you. I'll make it up to you, I promise.'

  He bent down to kiss her, and she would have loved nothing more than to slide her arms around his neck and hug him tight, but just then, right on cue, Consuela, the cleaning lady, arrived.

  'Holà, buenos días,' she grunted, shoving past them. Consuela was used to having the run of the apartment and it bugged her to have irritating distractions such as the people who actually lived there cheekily getting under her feet.

  'Later, hmm?' was all Andrew said as he absent-mindedly pecked her on the cheek and was gone.

  Portia closed the door behind him, made for the bathroom and snapped into action. OK, OK, OK, she reasoned with herself, so this isn't exactly how she thought her romantic trip to New York would pan out, but what could she do? Nothing. Susan was, after all, Andrew's mother; she was probably only going to be in town for a short stay and that was all there was to it. And anyway, she figured, it wasn't as though she was staying with them; Andrew said she always stayed at the same hotel, so at least that was something. She stepped into the shower, shuddering at the thought of what lay ahead over the next few days. Bad enough that she'd barely had any time alone with him since she arrived, bad enough that Lynn bloody Fairweather seemed incapable of wiping her bum without first consulting Portia, but now this . . .

  She sighed and let the power shower gush all over her, the carefully positioned jets hitting her muscles in places where she didn't even know she had places. Just a few more days, she thought, just a few days and then she'd finally have her husband to herself. . .

  Andrew had given her a cell phone, which was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing to be able to keep in contact with him all day; a curse because Lynn the human stick insect had managed to inveigle the number out of him.

  She had just wrapped a towel around her and was heading for the bedroom when it rang. 'Jesus Christ.' She jumped, still not used to the bloody thing. 'Hello?' she answered, dripping on the carpet. 'That you, honey, did you forget something?'

  'No, it's me, Lynn. I'm very busy, this is just a quickie.' She was whispering, as though she were phoning from the toilets and didn't want anyone to overhear. 'So a new guy has just started here, his name is Ross Chamberlain, about thirty-five I'm guessing but I need you to find out all about him for me. I haven't clocked a wedding ring, but you know how some guys never advertize their status, so that doesn't mean a thing. OK, so a crowd of work colleagues are going to the Tribeca Grill tonight, in the village, which is the perfect opportunity for you to suss him out for me. I'll meet you at your building at seven sharp—'

  'I'm very sorry to cut you short, Lynn, but I'm afraid I can't.' P
ortia spoke slowly, savouring the deliciously new sensation of telling Lynn where to get off.

  'I don't understand.'

  'My mother-in-law is in town and we're taking her out.'

  'Andrew's mother? Well, that's even better! Nothing like an old lady to matchmake . . . this is so matriarchal, it's perfect! Oh, look, my learning-impaired assistant is here, I gotta go. You leave all the dinner arrangements to me and I'll call you back. Love you, mean it!' And she was gone.

  Portia had planned on spending a leisurely morning all around Fifth Avenue, maybe climbing the Empire State and then browsing in the famous Barnes & Noble bookstore, her idea of heaven on earth. But she was in too much of a temper after Lynn's phone call to do anything but sit in a Starbuck's café sipping on a latte and trying her best to cool down.

  What did she need to do to get a little quality time alone with her husband? She knew how much he adored the buzz and the sense of being on the go twenty-four hours a day, and she loved it because she loved seeing him happy, but she was starting to feel walked on, hemmed in and thwarted at every turn. This she could probably have dealt with; what was really getting her down was the fact that she'd barely even seen him since they arrived. Of course, he was working all the hours God sent, she knew, but it was upsetting her to think that they were turning into two flatmates who shared the same living space and hardly ever saw each other, rather than a husband and wife who should have been ripping the clothes off each other like they were on a second honeymoon . . .

  It was a sobering thought. She'd even gone to the bother of buying a fabulously sexy nightie in Barneys the previous day, a beautifully designed creation, all lacy and low-cut, which accentuated her womanly curves beautifully whilst still holding her tummy in nice and tight. Any designer who could achieve that should be working at NASA, she thought, annoyed at what a total waste of money it had turned out to be. She'd gone to so much trouble to make it a special evening too, dotting expensive aromatherapy candles around the apartment and having a good long soak in a hot tub before slathering every inch of herself with the Jo Malone body lotion he loved the smell of.

  And then waited. And waited. His direct line clicked through to his voicemail when she eventually rang before she fell into bed herself, exhausted and still not fully used to the time difference. It wasn't a good sleep, though; she woke every hour on the hour until the digital alarm clock on the bedside table read one a.m. and still the bed was empty and cold beside her. Early morning sunlight was streaming through the bedroom curtains when she woke again, realizing that he had come home and was snoring like a tram yard beside her. She instinctively snuggled into him, but woke him up, by accident.

  'I'm sorry, sweetheart,' she whispered. 'I was so worried about you. When did you get home?'

  'Whattime's it?'

  'Six-thirty. Did I wake you?'

  'Yes, you woke me.' He was out of bed now, on his way to the bathroom.

  'Sorry. I didn't mean to.'

  'Jesus, Portia. Ken and I are in court this morning and we had to prepare all night last night. I just could really do with an uninterrupted night's sleep, you know.'

  She let it pass, knowing how cranky he got without sleep and that, even at the best of times, he was never what you'd call a morning person. Back home, she had a rule never even to try to engage him in conversation until he'd had at least two cups of coffee, by which time he had reverted to his usual charming, wide-awake self. But God Almighty, she thought, rolling back over to her side of the bed, if ever there was a couple who needed a bit of quality time together, it was them.

  'Susan, it's lovely to see you, welcome to New York.' Portia wasn't a natural actress, but she really tried her best to fake sincerity as she kissed her mother-in-law on each cheek. 'You must be exhausted,' she added politely although Susan was one of those women who always looked exactly the same, irrespective of health, time of day or what she was wearing. Probably something to do with the Maggie Thatcher helmet hair-do, always impeccably chiselled into place and lacquered enough to put a sizeable dent in the ozone layer.

  'Do you think she sleeps on her back with the hair in one of those long wooden slats, like they did in the eighteenth century, like Marie Antoinette?' Daisy mischievously used to ask – behind her back, of course.

  'Nonsense, I'm not in the least bit tired. I'm absolutely dying to hit the shops, in fact,' Susan snapped, briskly handing her mink coat to Portia to arrange on the empty chair beside her. 'One quick pick-me-up and I'll be off.'

  They had met in Teddy's Lounge, the cocktail bar in Susan's usual hotel, the Roosevelt. It was an old-fashioned, timelessly elegant building tucked away in a discreet corner of Madison Avenue and East Forty-fifth Street. Sweeping staircases, oak-panelled walls and high ceilings groaning with lead crystal chandeliers: Portia thought it was exactly the kind of place where Susan should stay. Even the staff seemed to remember her from her last visit and were suitably fawning towards her.

  'What may I get you, Mrs de Courcey?'

  'A chilled glass of Sancerre, thank you very much,' she replied, never for a moment thinking that there was another Mrs de Courcey present. Not that this bothered Portia, she hadn't changed her name when she got married, precisely to avoid there ever being any confusion between the two of them.

  'Now, here's the plan of action,' she said, not quite as bossily as Lynn, but not far off it. 'I'm having my hair done at Elizabeth Arden's on Fifth as soon as we leave. I can't possibly go to dinner with Andrew with it looking like a bush, which it always does after a long-haul flight.'

  Portia said nothing but an image flashed into her head of some poor unfortunate hairdresser with a blow torch, hammer and chisel attacking Susan's scalp, the only conceivable way she could imagine it shifting by even a millimetre.

  'And then after dinner, I want to see a show.'

  'Won't you be tired? With the time difference and all, I mean? I find it gets to about nine in the evening here and I'm completely wiped.'

  'Andrew always takes me to a Broadway show on my first night. I feel I'd be letting him down if I didn't go.'

  Susan had a horrible habit of excluding Portia from any of her plans, even though she knew Portia'd have to be there, whether she liked it or not. Like the awful Christmas Day the previous year when Portia and Andrew arrived at the de Courceys' house for dinner to discover that there wasn't even a place set for Portia. It was almost as though Susan regarded her as her son's much disliked live-in girlfriend, one who was unlikely ever to rise to the rank of the new Mrs de Courcey. Ninety per cent of the time, Portia could laugh at it and let her legendary rudeness pass, mainly for Andrew's sake. The remaining ten per cent of the time, though, was tougher. A lot tougher.

  'So, I thought you'd go to that ticket place on Times Square and get that out of the way while I'm at the salon,' she barked on. 'Just on no account get seats in the stalls. I suffer dreadfully from claustrophobia.'

  Twenty minutes later, having been given careful directions by the hotel concierge, Portia found herself standing at the bottom of the longest snaking queue she'd ever seen. It was already freezing cold and before she'd even inched her way up to the 'YOU ARE ONE HOUR AWAY!' from tickets sign, it started to pelt rain – one of those near torrential downpours so peculiar to New York that seem to come out of nowhere. Bugger, bugger, bugger, she thought, whipping out the cell phone to seek advice. 'Hi. You have reached the voicemail of Andrew de Courcey. Sorry I can't take your call right now, leave a message and I'll get back to you.'

  Two hours later, not only had he not got back to her, but Portia was drenched to the skin, frozen to the bone and so pissed off she thought she'd kill someone. The only thought keeping her sane was that a nice long hot soak in the bath with a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc was only minutes away.

  The first sign that something was amiss was when she let herself back into the apartment only to discover the hallway strewn with suitcases and luggage. Then poor Consuela came out of the kitchen, a bit panicked-looking, to
put it mildly.

  'Ay, señora, I so sorry, lo siento mucho, pero no podía echarla de la casa. I can do nothing to stop the lady.'

  Portia was about to tell her to calm down, that nothing could be that dreadful, when she realized that, yes, unfortunately, there was something that could be.

  The kitchen door swung open to reveal Susan, in a pair of Marigolds, scrubbing away at the insides of the microwave. 'Oh, there you are, Portia. I've been trying to explain to that useless maid of yours that a good squirt of lemon juice in boiling water is the only thing really to disinfect the inside of any microwave. I almost fainted when I saw the state of it. And the fridge! Barely enough milk for a decent cup of tea. No food to speak of, just full of booze, if you don't mind. How Andrew can be expected to work the hours he's putting in and then come home to a smelly kitchen and a rubbery old microwaved dinner, I don't know.'

  Portia kept her cool and was about to tell her that they ate out most nights, as did most New Yorkers, but she never got the chance.

  'Did you get the tickets?'

  'Eventually, yes. I had to queue for them for the last few hours, in bucketing rain—'

  'Good. What show? We'd better get a move on if we're to have dinner first.'

  'Phantom of the Opera. It was the only thing I could get three seats together for.'

  'Oh dear God, you are joking.'

  'What?'

  'Do you honestly think I've come all the way to New York to sit through an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical? Are you mad?'

  'Susan, this is all that was available. I've just got soaked to the skin getting them for you at a cost of almost three hundred dollars—'

  'Of your hard-earned money, dear? Is that what you were about to say?' She always enjoyed making a point out of the fact that it was Andrew's earnings which Portia lived off and usually managed to get in a dig or two about Davenport Hall, that it would still be the crumbling shithole nature intended had she not had the very good luck to marry into money