He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Honey, let’s get you out of these jodhpurs and woolly jumpers, that look is just sooo two thousand and two,’ Montana had said, in her Valley Girl accent. She’d then dressed her in the thinnest, flimsiest piece of metallic gauze, which basically served as a bra and nothing else. It was completely see-through and was worn with an equally revealing pair of 1960s-style hot pants, which clearly showed off Daisy’s knickers. In short, Montana had transformed Daisy from a naturally beautiful, casually dressed country girl into a Versace-clad, over-made-up Beverly Hills slapper.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked Portia, twirling around to show off her new sartorial splendour. ‘Montana says I look like a movie star.’

  ‘And so you do,’ Portia had replied, shoving her into the car. ‘Julia Roberts when she was a streetwalker in Pretty Woman.’

  And then there was Lucasta. By the time they were due to leave for the party, she’d already moved on to her fifth gin and tonic. Portia had found her in the Drawing Room, knocking them back and flirting outrageously with Jimmy D.

  ‘And you know, even though I’m dealing with the pain of a broken marriage on a daily basis, I simply wouldn’t dream of letting that get in the way of my finding happiness with someone else,’ she said, pointedly gazing at Jimmy D.

  ‘Well, I think that you’re a mighty strong lady, with everything you’ve been through,’ Jimmy D. had replied, sipping a pint of Guinness and chomping on a cigar, completely oblivious to the fact that her ladyship was throwing herself at him.

  Eventually, Portia had managed to prise the gin and tonic out of her hand and get her into the car. There was no time for Lucasta to change, she’d just have to go looking like a bag lady. Not that Portia was entirely happy with her own outfit. The only decent thing she had to wear to this sort of occasion was a pink woolly twin set and her jeans. Not very glamorous, she knew, but she had no choice. Ballyroan wasn’t exactly the fashion capital of Ireland, and even if it was, she hadn’t the money for luxuries like new, trendy clothes. Anyway, she reasoned, they were only putting in an appearance, just to be neighbourly.

  And then, of course, the car had broken down on their way. It often happened; it just needed a little water and Portia was well able to fix it herself. But it did mean another delay as she ran into O’Dwyer’s pub in the town with the empty plastic bottle she kept in the boot for emergencies like this.

  ‘Here, Portia,’ Mick O’Dwyer, the friendly landlord, had said to her as he handed over the replenished bottle of water. ‘Is it not high time you bought yourself a new car? Things can’t be that bad up at the Hall!’ he joked.

  ‘Got to dash, Mick, we’re on our way to a party and we’re so late,’ was all she said in reply as she ran out of the pub door.

  ‘In response to your question, Mick, yes things are indeed that bad up at the Hall.’

  Mick turned around only to see Shamie Joe Nolan, Jr, Ballyroan’s local TD (and easily one of the best-known members of Ireland’s Parliament, the Dáil). He and his wife, Bridie, were standing at the crowded bar, patiently waiting to be served. Even though the pub was packed to the rafters, it was impossible to miss them. Shamie was wearing a red tartan peaked cap on his head, which brought out the broken veins on his huge, bulbous nose, and his wife was dressed in an outlandish mother-of-the-bride blue suit, with a bright yellow buttonhole and brassy blonde hair to match.

  ‘Ah Shamie, how are you? And Bridie, you’re looking as gorgeous as ever tonight. What can I get you?’ Mick asked, tactfully ignoring the fact that Bridie looked like she was on the game.

  ‘I’ll have a pint and my lady wife will have a gin and tonic, thanking you, good sir!’ Shamie replied, hauling himself up on to a bar stool that had just become free and shouting as loudly as if he were haranguing the Opposition leader during a heated debate.

  ‘You are one ignorant fecking gobshite, so you are, Shamie,’ his wife hissed at him under her breath. ‘Pints is only what knackers drink, ya thick eejit.’ Then, raising her voice and suddenly dropping her Kerry accent, she called out to Mick, ‘He meant to order a chardonnay, thanks very much.’ As Mick nodded and went to get their order, she went on, ‘And shift yer fat arse off that stool, me shoes are killing me and I need to sit down.’

  Shamie obeyed and made a great show of seating his wife; after all, in a small country pub you never knew who’d be watching.

  ‘There you go,’ said Mick, delivering their drinks at breakneck speed. ‘How did your clinic go tonight by the way, Shamie?’ he added, whipping the proffered fifty-euro note from his hand and ringing it into the till.

  ‘Well, there’s a lot of talk about what’s going on above at Davenport Hall, to be honest with ya,’ replied Shamie, and then, raising his voice so most of the pub could hear, ‘and keep the change out of that fifty for yourself there, Mick, good man.’ Twenty years in politics had taught him that it never did any harm for people to think you were generous to a fault.

  ‘It’s all very fecking well for film stars to come here to make a picture, but what good is that going to be to Ballyroan?’ said Bridie, sipping her gin and tonic and crossing her fat, pork-ham-and-sausage-roll bare legs with studied elegance. ‘Of course, that’s the Davenport family for ya. They’re all too fecking cracked in the head to think about the disruption this’ll bring to the town. Once Lucasta Davenport is making a quick buck, that’s all she gives a shite about. And as for Blackjack fecking off with some teenager, it’s a disgrace. Landed gentry, me arse!’

  Shaking his head, her husband said, ‘It’s a terrible thing for this town to have a family of lunatics running the Hall. I mean, what did we fight the War of Independence for only to get shut of the Anglo-Irish anyway? When ya think of the amount of prime land that lazy shower are sitting on and them letting the ground rot from under them—’

  ‘Shut the feck up or people will think yer’re in the Labour Party,’ hissed his wife.

  Reddening, Shamie changed tack. ‘And when you think of how this town is only crying out for a motorway to put us on the map, and them inbreds at the Hall with two thousand acres sitting idle, it’s a fecking disgrace!’ he said, banging his fist on the bar.

  ‘Well, maybe it’s high time the Davenports got a kick up their behinds,’ said Bridie. ‘All it would take is the right word in the right ear.’

  Her husband smiled down at her. ‘Jaysus, I did well the day I married you, Bridie. You’re the perfect wife for a politician, do ya know that? Eva Peron eat yer heart out! I’m telling you, love, the day will come when I’ll have a ministry of me own above in Dublin, and won’t you be the last word in style arriving to meet the girls for lunch in a chauffeur-driven ministerial Merc!’

  His wife glowed, excited by the thoughts of what lay ahead. A ministry for her husband, and then who knew? The Taoiseach was getting on a bit and was always on the lookout for a successor . . . She could see herself now, Ireland’s first lady – and by Jaysus wouldn’t she give them a run for their money? A style icon, a Jackie Kennedy for the noughties, that’s what she’d be. (She’d get her roots done twice a month, develop an eating disorder like royalty and open an account on Frawley’s of Thomas Street, to hell with the expense!) All it would take was for her to steer her husband in the right direction. A bit like Macbeth in that boring aul’ Scottish play they once had to sit through at her son’s school, all he needed was a wife who’d give him a right good kick up the arse.

  ‘I’m only saying, stranger things have happened, Shamie,’ she replied. ‘Look at the time they found some fecking medieval ruins in Foxrock, and you still got an eight-lane dual carriageway built over it, in spite of the gobshite conservationists protesting. And you were dead right! Do ya remember that great speech ya made in the Dáil, in front of half the Cabinet, when ya stood up and said, “I mean, for feck’s sake, what’s more useful? Getting into the city centre ten minutes quicker on the motorway or a few fecking piles of ancient aul’ rocks that are of no use to anyone?”’

  ‘Yeah, the papers really
sat up and noticed me after that,’ replied her husband, fondly reminiscing about the amount of column inches that speech had generated. (‘SHAMIE NOLAN GETS HIS ROCKS OFF’, the banner headline in the Evening News had read.)

  ‘And what about the time ya took on that lazyarse shower of nuns in the convent in Balbriggan?’ Bridie went on. ‘I never heard the like of it before or since. There were only half a dozen eighty-year-old Little Sisters of the Poor sitting on nine hundred acres of land! And ya bought that up for half nothing and got the shopping mall up in no time.’

  ‘They were the little Sisters of the Rich by the time I’d finished with them,’ laughed Shamie.

  ‘Well, this could do the same thing for yer career all over again,’ insisted Bridie. ‘Think of what ya could do for Ballyroan, Shamie! Think of the tens of thousands of young people in this country who can’t get on the property ladder! For feck’s sake, you’d get six housing estates on the Davenport land alone. Young people could buy starter homes here and commute to Dublin – young people with votes! Will ya use yer fecking head!’

  ‘And all it would take would be an aul’ bit of rezoning,’ said Shamie, lost in thought, ‘and, of course, a fabulous new motorway to Dublin . . .’

  ‘I’d say the Davenports would be delighted to get shut of the place,’ said Bridie. ‘Sure, haven’t that family been there long enough?’

  Chapter Six

  AND SO, NEARLY two hours late, the Davenports’ bashed-up Mini Metro eventually pulled up beside the de Courceys’ house. It had been relatively easy to find: there was a long line of Mercedes, BMWs and more soft-top convertible cars than Portia had ever seen parked in the driveway, all with Dublin registrations. Portia parked discreetly under a tree, as far away from the door as she could, in the hope that no one would see her car and laugh.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s like something from a magazine!’ Daisy exclaimed as the three of them trooped up the pink-gravelled driveway towards the house. (‘Pink gravel!’ Lucasta had sniggered. ‘What the fuck next?’ and Portia, for once, had to agree with her.)

  The house was an enormous flat-roof bungalow, entirely new and ultra-modern in design, with wall-to-wall glass windows looking out on to the immaculate front garden. Portia had heard the phrase ‘manicured lawn’ before, but had never seen anything like this. Davenport Hall was a wilderness in comparison.

  ‘Wow, they must have had the garden landscaped,’ she said, noticing the tasteful shrubberies and beautiful bay trees in twin ceramic pots standing neatly on either side of the front door.

  As they approached the door, however, they were suddenly illuminated by bright security floodlights, making them completely visible to the other guests inside the glass walls of the house.

  ‘Jesus, what’s that?’ said Lucasta as she stumbled over with shock, temporarily blinded by the glare and knocking over one of the bay trees as she did. There was a loud crash as it toppled over, smashing the ceramic pot into a thousand tiny pieces.

  ‘Oh Mummy, are you all right?’ Daisy cried out, bending down to help her mother up. However, she’d momentarily forgotten that she was only wearing a tiny pair of hot pants. As she bent down, the hot pants came down too, so that the entire houseful of guests was now treated to the sight of Daisy’s bare bum wriggling about as she dragged her mother to a standing position. As far as they were concerned, it looked like she was mooning at them.

  Unaware that her family was providing a sideshow for other guests, Portia rang the doorbell. It was one of those elegant bells that chime resonantly throughout the house, unlike the one at Davenport Hall, which sounded like a foghorn.

  The most immaculately dressed woman Portia had ever seen answered the door, with perfectly coiffed fair hair, groomed to within an inch of its life. Her make-up was impeccable and made her look far younger than her sixty-odd years. The dress she was wearing was simple, black and almost certainly cost a four-figure sum. The whole look was completed with a string of pearls and a pair of elegant, strappy sandals which most definitely were not purchased in Ballyroan. (Fitzsimon’s, the only shoe shop in the town, still considered the Dubarry Hush Puppy to be the height of chic.) In short, she looked a million dollars. Unfortunately, however, the same could not be said of the three new, rather scruffy arrivals on her doorstep.

  ‘Yes?’ she said in that South Dublin accent Portia immediately recognized from the phone call earlier. ‘Have you come about the hedges? Isn’t it a bit late to start gardening? And besides, I have guests, so if you call back tomorrow that would be much more convenient,’ she concluded, about to slam the door in their faces.

  ‘Well, actually, I think we have been invited,’ Portia said apologetically. ‘You must be Susan de Courcey? I’m Portia Davenport, we spoke earlier, and this is my sister Daisy.’ Their hostess said nothing, but coldly shook hands with each of them. Portia could feel her looking them up and down, taking in their appearance. ‘And this is my mother, Lucasta,’ she concluded, wondering again why she was being polite to this awful woman. But then, she thought, she’d forced the others to come out in the first place, why not stay for a few minutes, put in an appearance and then get the hell out of there?

  ‘Oh, you’re Lady Davenport?’ asked Mrs de Courcey, momentarily impressed at meeting aristocracy. ‘Well, do come in, then,’ she said, finally holding open the door for them.

  ‘Thank bloody God for that,’ said her ladyship. ‘I’m dying for a drinkie. Where’s the bar?’ She all but knocked Mrs de Courcey over as she barged inside, followed tentatively by her daughters.

  Neither of them had ever been inside a house like it in their lives. Everything was open plan, so that when you walked in the door you were immediately in the living area. It had been designed with stark Japanese minimalism, in total contrast to Davenport Hall, and it seemed to be painted white everywhere. The first thing that struck you was the heat; it was boiling hot even though the night outside was freezing. Then there was the deep-pile white carpet that felt so incredibly luxurious underfoot, like walking on cotton wool. A pianist was tinkling away, playing Cole Porter tunes at the grand piano beside the door.

  Dotted around the walls were some tasteful oil paintings and a few watercolours that seemed to have been chosen to go with the house, they blended in so perfectly with their surroundings. To the left, in a sunken area you stepped down to, was a long white sofa facing a rectangular coffee table. Facing it was an elegant white marble fireplace with a giant plasma TV screen above it. To the right was a dining area with a magnificent mahogany dining table which could easily seat twenty people, and ahead, a curved staircase made of glass brick and covered in the same white carpet which was such a feature of the house.

  And then there were the guests! There must have been over two hundred people elegantly standing around quaffing champagne from fluted crystal glasses. Waiters dressed in black tie hovered discreetly in the background waiting to replenish people’s glasses. These people just oozed wealth and privilege, Portia thought, noticing how beautifully dressed all these skinny women were. (God, they look like they’ve thrown up everything they’ve ever eaten in their lives! she thought, scanning the room.) It seemed that every single one of them was wearing black, and designer labels at that, perfectly complemented by the dazzling diamond jewellery they wore around their fingers and throats. She spotted Steve in the throng, chatting to one of these elegant creatures: a woman wearing a backless dress, which showed off her suntan to perfection. (The dress was black, what else?) Apart from him, though, she didn’t recognize a single soul.

  ‘We must look like the Beverly Hillbillies compared with these people,’ whispered Portia to Daisy. She had never felt so scruffy in her whole life, and was suddenly aware of the picture she and her family cut. Lucasta, with her filthy waist-length grey hair, wearing a tweed skirt, muddy flat brogues, laddered tights and the navy wax jacket, which would have to be surgically removed from her. She literally lived, ate, drank and slept in that stinking jacket and normally kept the pockets perman
ently stuffed with cat biscuits, as treats for the dozen or so strays she kept at the Hall. Daisy, looking like an over-painted trollop trying hard to be Jennifer Lopez in that ridiculous outfit; and Portia herself, feeling like a middle-aged frump in her Marks & Spencer woolly twin set. She found herself wishing fervently that she’d at least washed her hair before she came out. These women looked like they’d spent all day in the beauty salon getting ready for the party.

  ‘May I offer you a glass of champagne?’ a waiter who’d magically appeared at Portia’s shoulder asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Portia replied. She rarely drank, but thought she’d need something to get her through this ordeal.

  ‘And a beer for me,’ Daisy added, oblivious to the stares her outfit was attracting.

  ‘About bloody time someone offered me a drink,’ said her ladyship. ‘Large gin and tonic, please, and do you have a light?’ she asked, fumbling in the huge pockets of her jacket and producing a bashed-up packet of cigarettes.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s absolutely no smoking in this house,’ snapped Mrs de Courcey. ‘I loathe the smell.’

  ‘And these must be our new neighbours,’ said an elderly and rather overweight man, joining their group. He was dressed in black tie and wore a cummerbund, which only served to attract attention to his bulging waistline. ‘Susan, do introduce me, darling.’

  ‘This is my husband, Michael,’ said Mrs de Courcey, carrying out the introductions without a flicker of enthusiasm. ‘That’s Chief Justice Michael de Courcey,’ she added, as if they should have heard of him.

  ‘Do you know, we’ve only been here a few days and already I’ve heard so much about your family,’ he went on, peering over the half-moon glasses perched on the edge of his nose. His voice was loud and booming and seemed calculated to intimidate, probably from years of pontificating from the bench.