Portia said nothing. This awful woman and her party planner had already got off on the wrong foot with her.
‘So shall we say eight o’clock tonight then?’ Mrs de Courcey asked, not bothering to disguise the impatient tone in her voice.
‘Emm, well, we’re sort of caught up in the middle of something here,’ Portia said, unsure of how to explain the film crew who’d descended on them. ‘But I will do my best to get there. I’m so sorry about not replying to your invitation . . .’ Portia tailed off, thinking: Why am I being nice to this obnoxious woman?
‘Well, if you do decide to grace us with your presence, the address is Greenoge Stud Farm, on the Dublin Road. You can’t miss it,’ came the curt reply as Mrs de Courcey hung up.
And indeed, you couldn’t miss it. Portia and Daisy had often driven by that land on their way to and from the town and had noticed the mad frenzy of building work going on there in the past few months. They were used to city people relocating to the country in search of a quieter life, retired couples who sold their Dublin homes for huge amounts of money and moved to smaller and more manageable houses in the peace and tranquillity of Ballyroan. But Greenoge Stud was different. After Davenport Hall, it had more land attached to it than any other property in the area. Portia had only ever seen glimpses of the vast, custom-built house through the scaffolding that surrounded it, but her curiosity was certainly roused. They must have built their home completely from scratch. Who were these people and why had they come to live here? No shortage of money, obviously, she thought wryly to herself as she went in search of her mother and sister to pass on the invitation.
Her timing couldn’t have been worse. As she ran down the staircase, dodging cable wires, she met Mrs Flanagan waddling across the marble hall, autograph book in hand.
‘Get out of me way, would ya!’ she said to Portia, all but elbowing her aside in her rush to get to the main entrance. At the same moment, Lucasta stuck her head around the Drawing Room door.
‘Oh, thank God you’re there, Mrs Flanagan,’ she groaned, ‘I really feel most dreadfully unwell, you know. My head is thumping, my mouth’s all dry and my hands are shaking uncontrollably.’
‘Are you all right, Mummy?’ Portia asked, concerned. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Well, the only logical explanation is that someone’s trying to contact me from the other side. I’m such a natural conduit for lost spirits—’ began her ladyship, hoarsely.
‘Ah, there’s one spirit that’s been near you all day, and that’s a bottle of Paddy Power Gold Label,’ Mrs Flanagan interrupted rudely. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, only a good, old-fashioned hangover, ya fecking eejit. Now grab the camera and get out here quick,’ she ordered, expertly unlocking the heavy oak door.
‘What’s going on?’ Lucasta asked, confused.
‘Ah Jaysus, what do ya think, that the coal delivery man is here? There’s a stretch limo after coming up the driveway this minute, and I’d be very surprised if it’s your husband coming back to ya, wouldn’t you?’
Chapter Four
AS MRS FLANAGAN and Lucasta, closely followed by a curious Portia, trooped out into the warm sunshine, they were just in time to see the longest stretch limo you could imagine scrunch up the gravelled driveway.
‘Oh God, wait for me!’ Daisy cried at the top of her voice as she raced around the side of the house in her jodhpurs and wellingtons and clambered up the dozen or so stone steps two at a time to join them. You’d think they were expecting royalty, Portia thought, but for the sake of politeness, she slipped in between her mother and sister. What a line-up we make, she thought dryly to herself, they’ll think they’re at a Royal Command Performance at Drury Lane. All that’s missing is the red carpet.
‘Please let it be Guy van der Post arriving,’ Daisy whispered to herself.
‘Ah Jaysus, no, I’m not ready for Guy just yet!’ Mrs Flanagan replied, clearly every bit as star-struck as Daisy. ‘I’m not even in me good housecoat! I hope it’s Montana Jones, and if it is, I’ll defrost some of me calf’s kidney and liver stew for the dinner tonight in her honour.’
The limo rolled to a stately halt right by the foot of the steps. (Where in God’s name did they find a limo in Ballyroan? Portia asked herself. They must have driven directly from Dublin.) All four of them strained to peer through the windows but, alas, they were too deeply tinted to see anything at all. A chauffeur, clad in uniform, sprang out and elegantly held open the car door. Daisy was about to faint when a slightly overweight, middle-aged man stepped out, smoking a cigar and putting on sunglasses as he did so to protect his eyes from the glare. He was short and stocky and wearing denim jeans with a chunky cable-knit Aran sweater, which had obviously been a recent purchase as the label was still hanging off the back of it. He was accompanied by a woman, about the same age as himself. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, and certainly wasn’t attractive, with mousy brown hair parted severely to the side and a tired, pinched look on her face. But she had an air of authority about her that somehow let you know that here was someone you didn’t mess with. She also carried a neat clipboard and, oddly, a stopwatch.
‘Well, that’s what I call one helluva stately pile!’ the man exclaimed to his companion in an American drawl as he surveyed the Hall. ‘And the scenery on the drive here! I just know we’re gonna have a lotta fun on this shoot,’ he went on. ‘Well, I guess I’d better introduce myself. I’m Jimmy Pearlman, at your service, ma’am,’ he said, shaking hands with Portia. ‘You know, this is my first visit to your country and I am deeply honoured to be here! I just cannot wait to really immerse myself in your culture. I wanna drink all of your Guinness, eat all of your bangers and mash and listen to as much of your great bagpipe music as I can. I even bought one of your Aran ganseys at the airport as a tribute to my Celtic hosts. It’s itching like bejaysus and I may have to be cut out of it, but it’s worth it to outstretch the lamh of friendship. So, as you say here in your beautiful Emerald Isle, the top of the morning to you all.’ (He’ll be congratulating us on how well we speak the Queen’s English next, Portia thought wryly.)
‘Are you the producer, Mr Pearlman?’ asked Daisy, puzzled.
‘No, honey, better than that. I’m the director. I get to spend the producer’s money,’ he chuckled, flicking cigar ash on the steps. ‘Gee, you sure are pretty. Ever thought about getting into movies yourself?’ he went on, a slight leer coming into his voice as he scanned Daisy’s lovely face. ‘You have a great profile,’ he went on, ‘kinda like a young Reese Witherspoon.’
A young Reese Witherspoon? Portia thought. Surely Reese Witherspoon was still in her twenties? She had a lot to learn about how prejudiced Hollywood could be against actresses who had the audacity to age.
‘I know who you are!’ Daisy blurted out, the mystery solved. ‘You’re James D. Pearlman! Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m meeting you!’
‘That’s right, ma’am,’ he replied, delighted at being recognized, ‘but everyone calls me Jimmy D.’
‘Yes, I know exactly who you are now,’ Daisy went on. ‘You were nominated for an Oscar for directing Titanic Two: The Iceberg Strikes Back, and that was the year that James D. Brooks won but you only heard the first part of his name being called out and you thought you’d won and were halfway to the stage when you realized your mistake and . . .’ Daisy trailed off, realizing that this might not be the most tactful story she could be telling.
‘Longest walk of my life, back to my seat that night,’ said Jimmy D. ‘And you must work here too, right?’ he asked Lucasta, anxious to change the subject.
‘Well—’ Lucasta began, about to launch happily into her life story, before he interrupted her.
‘Let me guess. I can see your back history now,’ he said, moving his hands in front of his face as though painting a picture. ‘You’re a faithful old family retainer, kinda like that old bird in that black-and-white movie with Laurence Olivier – what was it called? Oh yeah, I got it, Wuthering Heights –
and you’ve slaved away in the kitchens for decades, with a secret lust for the Lord of the Manor you’ve been hiding for years—’
‘Ahem,’ Portia gently interrupted, judging this conversation to have gone on for long enough. ‘I think this might be a good opportunity to introduce my mother, Lucasta Davenport.’
‘Well, it’s a very great pleasure to meet a real live member of the aristocracy,’ Jimmy D. said, taking her hand and kissing it, totally unfazed at his mistake. An easy one to make too, given that her ladyship looked like she permanently slept in a hedge.
Too eccentric to take any offence at this jibe at her appearance, Lucasta innocently asked, ‘And is this the famous Montana Jones I’ve been hearing so much about?’ gesturing to Jimmy D.’s companion, who was tapping her Biro impatiently against her clipboard. At this, her tired, pinched face broke into a smile, instantly softening her appearance.
‘I’m afraid not, your ladyship,’ she said in an accent that was hard to place. She sounded English, Portia thought. ‘My name is Caroline Spencer. I’m Miss Jones’s personal assistant,’ she added in her clipped tones, shaking hands with everyone there.
‘Yeah, luv, but where’s Montana? I want to get her autograph and maybe a picture of her arriving at the Hall,’ Mrs Flanagan said, camera in hand.
‘No one speaks directly to Miss Jones except through me. And she doesn’t do either autographs or photos, ever. So I’m awfully sorry about that, but if you don’t mind, we have an awful lot of luggage to unpack, so if you could show me to Miss Jones’s room right away, please?’ she said briskly.
‘Yes, certainly, I’ll show you,’ said Portia, sensing that this was not a woman you messed with.
‘Thank you,’ Caroline replied. ‘And I may need some help with the suitcases.’
Twenty minutes later, Portia, Daisy and Mrs Flanagan, who didn’t stop moaning once, were still carrying luggage out of the limo, into the house and up the six flights of stairs to the Edward VII Room.
‘But where’s Montana?’ hissed Daisy at Portia as they passed each other on the stairs for about the twentieth time. Portia, who was struggling with a huge Louis Vuitton vanity case labelled ‘Vitamins’, said, ‘I don’t know. How could she have slipped in without our noticing?’
‘Thank you very much for your help, that’ll be all,’ Caroline called to them from the top of the stairs. ‘Oh, and I’ll need to speak to your housekeeper later on about Miss Jones’s food allergies,’ she added briskly.
‘Mrs Flanagan will love that,’ Daisy said wryly. ‘The only allergy she’s ever heard of is to penicillin.’
As they walked back out to the limo, to check that they’d unloaded everything, they both noticed waves of cigarette smoke coming from inside the car door.
‘Anyone in there?’ Daisy called out.
A long silence followed.
‘Hello?’ Daisy called out.
‘Oh shit,’ came the reply at last, followed by a long sigh. ‘OK. Get in the car.’
Without hesitating, Daisy and Portia both climbed in.
And there she was. Montana Jones. In the flesh. Although it was very hard to make out her face, so huge were the dark sunglasses that she was wearing. She also had a baseball cap on, pulled right down over her eyes. Daisy, who was used to seeing photos of her in the glossy magazines, dressed up to the nines, swanning down a red carpet at various award ceremonies with some gorgeous guy on her arm, couldn’t believe that this was really her. She seemed so tiny and thin and frail. Casually dressed in denim jeans and a deep blue fleece jumper to keep out the Irish cold, she looked like any normal teenager would. In fact, she was so completely unrecognizable, that she could have been almost anyone.
She doesn’t look anything like a proper movie star, Portia thought as they introduced themselves in the back of the car. She looked far too normal.
‘Is the old she-witch gone?’ asked Montana. ‘If Caroline caught me having a cigarette she’d report it right back to the producer in LA, and I’d be on the next plane home.’
‘Just for having a cigarette?’ Daisy asked incredulously.
‘Honey, I just got out of rehab. If I drink sparkling water instead of still I’m straight back in there again. That’s why Caroline’s watching me like the CIA, to make sure I don’t fall off the wagon again. You wanna know something? They’re making me do urine tests every day on this movie to make sure I’m clean. The insurance company will pull out if anything shows up. I mean, like, how humiliating is that?’
Portia found it hard to believe that here she was, sitting in the back of a limo chatting casually to a star like Montana Jones about her urine.
Daisy was busy gushing, ‘Oh Montana, is it OK if I call you Montana? We’re just so thrilled to have you here, I’m such a fan of yours from way back, ever since you made your screen debut with Disastrous Liaisons . . .’
And Montana let her gush on, smiling politely and thanking them for having her to stay. Yes, of course Daisy could call her Montana. Yes, she’d be delighted to pose for photos with her. Yes, she’d even tell her what Guy van der Post was really like. Three cigarettes later and Montana was inviting Daisy to come out to visit her in LA.
She’s not at all what I expected a star to be like, Portia thought as she made her way back to the estate office. She had expected Montana to be vain, spoilt, self-centred and a pain in the arse, and was stunned to find that she was actually just shy, insecure and self-effacing. It’s a real lesson, she thought, not to judge books by their covers, film stars included. I like her already, she concluded. She’s one of us.
Daisy and Montana would quite happily have spent the rest of the afternoon in the back of the limo, only they were rather crudely interrupted by Caroline Spencer. She came clicking down the stone steps on her kitten heels, calling out, ‘Miss Jones? Miss Jones, are you still in the car?’ And then, sticking her head inside the window, she spotted her charge and added in her crisp, Mary Poppins-like tones, ‘Really, Miss Jones, I can’t be running all over this vast house looking for you all day, you know. Now, it’s four-thirty p.m. and we know what that means, don’t we?’
Daisy turned wide-eyed to Montana, who responded by rolling her eyes heavenward.
‘Yes, Caroline, thank you, Caroline, I’ll be right there,’ she answered sullenly.
‘And what’s that smell?’ asked Caroline, sniffing at the air like a bloodhound. ‘Do I smell cigarette smoke?’ The colour suddenly drained from Montana’s face as she turned imploringly to Daisy.
‘Yes, that is cigarette smoke you smell,’ Daisy coolly replied, taking the hint as she looked her straight in the eye. ‘I have a sixty-a-day habit, you know.’
‘Hmmph,’ was all Caroline grunted in reply as she stumped back into the Hall. The girls waited till she was out of sight before collapsing into fits of giggles.
‘Oh, you absolute doll,’ Montana cried, hugging Daisy tightly. ‘You covered for me! I’d be out of a job if that bitch caught me smoking. You know what she wants me for?’
Daisy shrugged.
‘An afternoon nap, how juvenile is that? Christ, they treat me like a five-year-old since I got clean. Boy, am I glad you’re gonna be around, Daisy. At least we’ll be able to have a little fun. Say, do you have mini-bars in the rooms here? How about we celebrate my arrival here with a couple of beers?’
‘But what about Caroline and the urine tests they make you do every day?’ asked Daisy, puzzled.
A dangerous, devious glint came into Montana’s eyes. ‘Honey,’ she purred, ‘I may have just thought of a way around that . . .’
Chapter Five
THEY WERE ALREADY running an hour late for the de Courceys’ housewarming party by the time the three Davenport ladies were ready to leave. As they clambered into their ancient, mud-splattered Mini Metro, Portia glanced at her watch for about the hundredth time that evening. Nine p.m. Would they ever get there? Mind you, she’d had some job persuading Lucasta and Daisy to go to the party in the first place.
&
nbsp; Montana Jones and Daisy had bonded in a seriously big way (‘My new best friend!’ as Montana had called her) and it had taken all Portia’s powers of persuasion to drag Daisy out of the house. The pair of them had spent all afternoon gossiping (and drinking, judging by the smell of booze coming from them) on the huge four-poster bed in Montana’s room.
That is to say, after Montana had recovered from the shock of realizing that this was where she was expected to stay for the next few months. In fairness to her though, once she’d taken in the full horror of her bedroom (the filth, the dust, the freezing cold, the peeling wallpaper and the prevailing smell of damp), she adopted an admirably positive attitude.
‘OK, sure, so it’s not the Beverly Hills Hotel, but what the heck? It’ll help me with the part. My character lives here and so will I.’
She never even flinched when it was pointed out to her that the lump hammer beside her bed was to bang on the pipes in order to get some hot water running in her bathroom. The plumbing at Davenport Hall was ancient, bordering on dangerous, and this was the only way to enjoy the luxury of running water anywhere in the house.
Few other method actors would have endured so much for their craft.
‘Why is it called the Edward the Seventh Room, anyway?’ she asked Daisy.
‘Oh, he stayed here once, I think,’ Daisy had replied vaguely, never a great one for knowing the history of the house. ‘I know,’ she giggled, ‘you’d think he’d lived here for years, calling the room after him like that.’
‘Well, I thought Edward the Seventh was the title of a movie,’ Montana had replied, and the two of them had collapsed drunkenly into hysterical laughter on the bed. ‘Now, lock that door to keep ol’ hatchet-face Caroline away and let’s have ourselves another beer.’
Montana had also taken it on herself to give Daisy a Hollywood-style makeover, plastering her naturally beautiful, blemish-free, porcelain skin with inches of heavy make-up. As if this weren’t enough, she decided that Daisy needed to show off her figure a bit more, and proceeded to dress her up in one of her more outlandish movie-star outfits.
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