Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  'Ah lads, I never thought I'd live to see the day that we'd beat England one-all.'

  The corporate bar was like a cool, calm oasis of tranquillity compared with the scenes of sheer joyous madness on the stands and Daisy happily put in for another cosmopolitan. Jasper and Simon had rejoined Lucasta, probably the only person there who was oblivious to the fact that a) there had been a match in the first place and, more importantly, that b) Ireland had actually equalized.

  They were all deep in conversation at the bar when a steward discreetly approached Daisy.

  'Excuse me, are you Miss Daisy Davenport? I've a message for you,' he said, slipping an envelope into her hands.

  She greedily ripped it open, delighted no one was around to quiz her.

  So what did you think of the match then? Hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed seeing you in the box. You and me have a lot to catch up on. How about you come to a small private party I'm having later on? In the Berkeley Court Hotel, at about eight.

  We'll have a laugh.

  Love,

  Mark

  PS. You should read and destroy this. The last time I sent someone a note, it ended up on eBay.

  Yes! she thought, scrunching up the note and shoving it into her jeans pocket. Could this day get any better?

  Chapter Twenty

  Could this day get any worse?

  Portia, a woman blessed with the patience of a Tibetan monk, had officially reached breaking point. It's sometimes the case in life that you can have ten thousand tiny, niggling bothersome things annoying you all at the same time, and you rise above them and just let them wash all over you. Inevitably, though, one more inconsequential trifle will come along and that one little thing is what will set you over the edge.

  And thus it was with Susan de Courcey

  By now, Portia had endured day after interminable day of Susan's snide comments towards her, her legendary rudeness and her blatant disregard for the fact that, like it or not, Portia was the woman her only son had chosen to be his wife. Susan's attitude to her daughter-in-law had barely changed one jot since she first met and married Andrew: Portia may have come from a landed family but was still an arriviste of the highest order, who by a stroke of pure luck had happened to worm her way into her son's affections and who now lived for no other purpose than to fritter away every penny of his hard-earned cash on herself and, worse, that monstrous pile in Kildare she'd inherited from her sodden old alcoholic of a father.

  'And she's an appalling wife too,' Susan would chatter away on the phone in her bedroom to her great friend Nan Keane who lived on Vanderbilt Avenue and who also had a daughter-in-law she couldn't endure. Portia used to think it was almost like a contest between them, a really sick 'whose son married worst' competition, with tea and sympathy at the Palm Court as the glittering first prize.

  'Hasn't got the first clue about how to look after a man,' Susan would say at the top of her voice, not caring, in fact probably hoping that Portia would happen to overhear. 'And so poor Andrew is forced to eat out night after night, when he's working all the hours God sends on the Globex case. It's the sort of case that makes or breaks a career, you know, and then what does he come home to? A Post-it note stuck on a filthy microwave saying: "I left you some quiche." Quiche! For a grown man! I really don't know how the poor exhausted darling puts up with it.'

  Portia simply couldn't win. Susan had her at every turn. The quiche episode had happened once and once only, when, surprise surprise, Andrew was working late. Portia had nipped down to Cielo's deli, just half a block from the apartment, and had bought it for him, knowing that he'd love it, that he'd have eaten earlier and that all he'd want would be some small snack when he got in. But to listen to Susan go on, you'd think she'd tried to feed him barbecued dog poo on a skewer, marinated in a puddle of rat wee.

  Three days later, Portia was still listening to her go on about it. She tried to explain to Susan that yes, she did of course occasionally cook for Andrew at home, but that seeing as how he was seldom back from the office before one a.m. these days, there seemed little point in her making elaborate meals for him.

  Thereby walking right into Susan's emotional trap. For the next twenty-four hours, she had to put up with a spate of: 'So you don't think it would be nice maybe to cook something for me? Seeing as how I am a visitor here?'

  'Susan, we eat out every night. That's what New Yorkers do. That's what people do when they're on holiday. You love eating out.'

  'Well, of course, dear, if you're happy spending Andrew's money on expensive meals, what can I say to that?'

  Then there was the clothes agenda. If Portia bought a new outfit and tried her best to look smart, she would catch Susan on the phone saying something like: 'I couldn't believe it, Nan. She was in another new trouser suit today, from Saks Fifth Avenue, you know, so it must have cost an absolute packet. I really don't understand women like that who can just take, take, take . . .'

  However, having overheard a couple of conversations along that line, Portia decided to dress down a bit, opting for a fleecy tracksuit with her brand-new Reebok trainers, which she'd bought at the Century Twenty-One discount store for a fraction of what they'd have cost in Ireland.

  Game, set and match, Susan. Portia was in the bath that night, waiting on Andrew to come home when she heard, 'Oh Nan darling, I was actually embarrassed to be seen with her today. Like something out of a trailer park in the most revolting tracksuit you ever saw. I kept praying we wouldn't meet anyone I knew. Yes, darling, tea in the Palm Court at the Plaza tomorrow would be lovely. That's not half of what I've got to tell you and I can't really talk now, if you're with me.'

  It didn't help that Andrew was working the hours he was, and it wasn't his fault either, Portia was quick to remind herself. After all, he couldn't be held responsible for his mother's personality, or lack of it. She couldn't even talk to him properly about it, seeing as how the only time they seemed to get on their own together was generally in the wee small hours of the morning, when he'd collapse into bed beside her, more often than not too exhausted to talk.

  He'd rung her cell phone one day when she had a rare break from Susan, who was meeting her friend Nan and had categorically not invited Portia along with her. So they could gossip about her, Portia correctly assumed.

  'So how are you surviving the onslaught of Mommie Dearest?' he asked her teasingly.

  She thought for a moment, knowing she'd have to exercise extreme tact. 'It's, emm . . . Well, let me put it to you like this. Two women on their own together in an apartment, spending all day every day in each other's company, is never going to be a pretty sight.'

  'Oh shit, here's Ken, I've got to go. Look, I'll see you tonight, OK? Don't worry, babe, she's not going to be around for much longer. I'm just happy that you've got company all day when I'm not around.'

  She hung up and took a deep breath, wondering if he even had the first clue what she was going through.

  It was the next night when the straw that broke the camel's back finally fell. Lynn had organized a girls' night out in Nico's restaurant, an Italian trattoria in the Village. Much as Lynn irritated her, Portia accepted the invitation on the grounds that any chance to get away from Susan was a gift from the gods to be seized on. No such luck, though.

  'Oh, I adore Nico's, how lovely of your friend to pick one of my favourite restaurants in the city!' she said when Portia told her where she was headed. The only saving grace about what promised to be an utterly dismal evening was that Jennifer Courtney was there too, Ken's gorgeous wife.

  Portia hugged her warmly when she arrived, genuinely delighted to see her.

  'Oh my God, it's been so long!' said Jennifer, hugging her back. 'I haven't seen you since Lucy's christening and she's, like, walking now!'

  'It's been way too long.' Portia beamed at her. 'Look at you, you look amazing. Two children and sea air suits you.'

  Jennifer really did look wonderful. She was fine-boned and petite with short ringlety auburn h
air cut tight to her face, which accentuated her huge brown eyes and made her look like a tiny Victorian doll. They'd first met at Portia's wedding and she had instantly liked her; Jennifer was warm and friendly with that wonderful directness that New Yorkers have.

  'You're an angel to say that. I'm carrying a lotta baby blubber still. I feel like a hick country bumpkin coming up to town with all of you fancy ladies.'

  'You and Ken live in West Hampton, don't you?' asked Susan, peering over the glasses she used to study menus, which made her look, if possible, even more scary.

  'When I see him, which is hardly ever these days,' laughed Jennifer. Then, turning to Portia she squeezed her hand and joked, 'So, welcome to the wonderful world of the Macmillan Burke widow. How do you like it so far?'

  Portia laughed, loving the sensation of having an ally. Someone who really understood.

  There were just four of them for dinner and Lynn plonked herself down beside Portia and immediately launched into her favourite topic of conversation, this time involving an Ivy League tax consultant she'd just started dating, who was going through a very messy divorce.

  After an appetizer and main course of listening to: 'I don't mind that he's separated and I don't mind that his ex practically conned him into giving her the brownstone on the Upper East Side. I've gotten really, really skilled at bashing square pegs into round holes over the years. But what I do mind are his three pre-teenage children, who for some weird reason don't seem to like me.'

  In an attempt to bond with the kids, Lynn had taken them to Toys Us on Times Square, hoping that throwing cash at them would somehow turn her into a fairy stepmother. 'Assholes. Three thousand bucks it cost me and then the youngest one insisted on McDonald's. (Me? In McDonalds? Hello? Is the universe trying to tell me something?) So I took them and then the middle one got sick all over my Hermès Birkin bag. Do you know how long the wait is to get one of those? No, of course you don't . . .'

  After about two hours of this, Portia could take no more and excused herself to go to the ladies' room. She switched on her cell phone, hoping there'd be a message or at least a text from Andrew, but there wasn't. So, having lingered over the freebies for as long as she could, she eventually slunk back to rejoin the others. Lynn had left the table to make a call and she found she'd arrived just in time to overhear her esteemed dragon-in-law preaching on at poor Jennifer.

  'You are so lucky having children, you know. My biggest regret in life is that I'll never be a grandmother now. Well, not much chance really, with Portia the age she's at. My husband and I often talk about it; we really wish that Andrew had gone for someone a bit younger, you know. I always say to my great friend Nan that he'll regret it in a few years' time—'

  She shut up when she saw Portia.

  There was an awful, ugly silence broken only by a waiter plonking a trayful of teas and coffees on their table. Portia eyeballed Susan, wanting to leave her in no doubt that she'd heard everything and willing herself not to cry. At least, not in front of her.

  Eventually Portia spoke. Slowly, deliberately. 'I'm glad I'm not crying, Susan, because I would really hate for you to think that what I'm going to say is in any way clouded by emotion.'

  Susan took her glasses off and met her eyes, almost willing her to cause a scene. Something really juicy for her to tell Nan in the Palm Court the following day.

  'I want you to know that it's not OK for you to treat me like this. Not by a long shot. How dare you? How dare you speak about me like that? I have bent over backwards to make your stay here as pleasant as I can and in return you've bitched about me, belittled me to my face and behind my back and generally done your level best to make my life a living hell. Well, congratulations, Susan, I have finally reached the end of my tether. Now one of us is going to have to leave that apartment tonight because over my dead body will I endure another night in your company.'

  The silence was broken by a waiter arriving with the check. 'Is everything all right, madam?'

  'Nothing a good funeral won't fix.' Portia was trembling but her voice held steady.

  It seemed as though the tables around them had fallen silent too, having a great time enjoying this unexpected worm-that-turns sideshow.

  Eventually a very shell-shocked Jennifer spoke. 'Ladies, I need the bathroom. Portia, would you mind showing me where it is? Excuse us, Susan.' She got out of her seat, linked arms with Portia and gently steered her back towards the ladies' room. 'You OK?'

  Portia nodded as her eyes began to well up.

  'That was some speech! Boy, remind me never to get in a fight with you. You sure are one feisty lady.'

  'Oh Jennifer, I'm so sorry you had to witness that, but by God, she had it coming.' Portia was running cool water over her wrists now, in an effort to calm down.

  'She's something else, all right. I don't know how you've been coping with her. When I first met her, all I could think was: Well at least now I know whatever happened to Baby Jane.'

  Portia laughed, but got teary a split second later. 'I meant what I said, Jennifer. I can't go back there tonight. I can't spend one more second in that bitch's company. Oh God, what am I going to do? Andrew's just never around, ever, and I've been stuck with her from morning till night, criticizing me, harping on at me, constantly having a go at whatever I do or don't do . . .' The tears were rolling unchecked down her cheeks now.

  'Oh honey, don't let her get to you. You wanna know what I think you should do?'

  'Rip out her still beating heart and wave it in front of her face?'

  Jennifer laughed. 'Better than that. Get into the car with me right now and come stay at the beach house with me and the kids till she's safely gone. We don't even need to go back to the table, let's just leave now. Swing by your apartment, pick up your stuff, and hit the road like Thelma and Louise. If we're gonna be Macmillan Burke widows, might as well do it together. Andrew's not gonna mind, is he?'

  Portia smiled at her, really touched. 'I doubt he'll even notice I'm gone.'

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The match was over, the post-match commentary had been discussed in painstaking detail, the 'Man of the Match' had been declared (Alan Heap, who else?), the fans were falling out of pubs and clubs the length of Lansdowne Road and Daisy was DRUUUUNK. Not just tipsy, or giddy, or a bit merry, or what's euphemistically known as 'in flying form'; she was classically pissed, flopping around a bit like a cartoon rag doll.

  Not long after the final whistle blew, the diehards left in the Players' Lounge decamped to the stunningly swish Berkeley Court Hotel, where the English team were sequestered in fabulous, five-star luxury. But not to anywhere as plebeian as the lounge; they were all immediately whisked off to Mark's penthouse suite, which, needless to say, boasted its own private bar. Lucasta was in her element and immediately plonked herself on a barstool where she remained for the rest of the evening.

  'Two free bars in the one day?' she squealed excitedly at Jasper. 'I think I've died and gone straight to heaven.'

  Meanwhile, Mark himself had disappeared off to his bedroom to slip into something more comfortable, and was gone for bloody ages, but boy was he worth the wait when he eventually did make his grand entrance.

  He'd changed out of his navy England suit and tie and now looked infinitely more relaxed in combats and a cut-off T-shirt that accentuated his taut rippling arm muscles. Daisy almost fell over when he made a beeline straight for her, ignoring the bitches of Eastwick and just about everyone else in the room. The only trouble was, he had taken so long to get himself showered and shaved that, while waiting for him, she had downed so many home-measured vodka and Red Bulls, she'd lost count. This, on top of all the cosmopolitans she knocked back during the match, was giving her a serious dose of the helicopters; it seemed as though she was standing perfectly still, while the rest of the room revolved around her.

  This is hilarious, she thought, aware of Mark giving her a sexy, lingering kiss in front of everyone. She tried her best to say, 'Congratulations, Mark,
you had a great game and you must be very proud.' Except that it came out something like this: 'Congattshhhhullaaatms. YOU are a fuckkkkking great foootshballerr and if shu weren't getting marrhhied in a few shays' time, I would give you one ANNNYYTIIME . . . Class act, that's what shu are. But you sheee . . . your geeshing marrhhied to Eleanor sooooo you reeeally shhhounllndt kiss me like that . . . alllthough it was a looooovely kisshhh and you're a faaab kisshhher . . .'

  (Translation: Heartiest congratulations on a wonderful performance today However, the fact that you are on the verge of matrimony unfortunately precludes any chance of a deepening friendship blossoming between us. And by the way, you kiss very well.)

  She was dimly aware that other people in the suite were staring at her but was way too far gone to care. Then, like in a drunken dream, she became aware of Alessandro Dumas beside her too. 'Itshhhh's you! I think YOU are very, very VEEEEERY cutsh too. I mean cute, I receconisssed you from shat ad you do on the telly . . . you know . . . the shampoo ad . . . .you know the one I mean . . . you're in it for fuuuck's sake . . . And shurrr going out with the tartyy-looking one . . . shhwhatssher-name . . . over shere . . . shhhitting at the bar with my shhhmother . . . Jeeezzzz . . . hope Mummy's not too shloshed . . .'

  (Translation: Your appearance is familiar to me as a result of the television campaign you spearhead to advertize hair care products. In addition, it is my understanding that you are dating the rather provocatively dressed young lady who is currently sitting at the bar in conversation with my mother, whom I fervently hope has not overindulged herself this evening.)

  Then turning back to Mark, who was practically holding her up by now, she gushed, 'Look at you. I meeean to ssshhhay, take a look at shu. Seeeeexy, shat's what youu-ure. I nearly caaame in my shnickers when you shhhepped on to that foootie thingggie . . . JASPER! Whadddya call the grasssyy thing they kick the ball on again? You smust know, for fuuuckk's sake, you were there.'