He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me

by Claudia Carroll

  God, he’s a bit scary, Portia thought to herself. Wouldn’t fancy coming up in court in front of him with an unpaid TV licence.

  ‘I hear you have some notable celebrities staying with you at present, you’ll have to introduce me. I’m something of a movie buff myself, you know,’ he boomed on. ‘Now, can any of you ladies name all of the Magnificent Seven?’ he said, with all the swagger of someone about to launch into a well-rehearsed party piece. ‘Well, can you?’

  There was a short silence as Portia and Daisy looked at each other, both of them suddenly feeling very small, as though they were back in school and unable to answer a simple question about the Battle of Waterloo.

  ‘Dopey, Sneezy, Grumpy,’ Daisy muttered under her breath, but thankfully, the Chief Justice didn’t hear her.

  ‘Yes, that question does seem to separate the men from the boys, I find,’ he said, shaking his head sadly as though speaking to two dimwit students. ‘Well now, there was Yul Brynner, Steve McQueen—’ he recited by rote, before his wife cut across him.

  ‘Oh shut up, Michael, no one’s interested. But, you know, our housekeeper has been marvellous about filling us in on all the local gossip, particularly about your recent domestic troubles. I understand your husband’ – with a perfunctory nod to Lucasta – ‘has abandoned you, traded you in for a younger model so to speak. Bad luck.’

  Lucasta, thankfully, was too engrossed in downing her gin and tonic to feel the full force of this insult. But Portia and Daisy did. ‘You know, it’s enough to give happily married men ideas!’ she went on, patting her husband’s bulging waistline under the misguided impression that she was being funny. He at least had the good grace to look embarrassed by this, Portia noticed.

  ‘How dare you?’ Daisy blurted out, cutting her short. ‘You have no idea what a wonderful man Daddy is. If he were here now, he’d smack you one for saying that—’

  Thankfully, she was interrupted by Steve who, with impeccable timing, had just arrived at her side. ‘Hey, girls,’ he greeted them cheerfully, unaware that the third Gulf War had been about to break out. ‘Nice outfit by the way, Daisy,’ he added, unable to take his eyes off her see-through top.

  Portia kissed him on the cheek, delighted to see at least one friendly face at this awful party.

  ‘Oh, hi, Steve,’ Daisy answered dully, taking in Steve’s characteristically unkempt appearance (crumpled corduroy trousers and a patterned jumper, which looked as though one of Lucasta’s cats had thrown up on it). She would gladly have continued berating her hostess, only, just then, she spotted her ex-boyfriend, Sean Murphy, in the throng.

  Oh God, please don’t let her cause a scene, Portia thought. Don’t let’s give these awful people any more ammunition against us than they already have. Daisy had a habit of tearing strips off anyone who crossed her, anytime, anyplace, anywhere, particularly when fuelled by alcohol.

  ‘I don’t bloody believe this,’ she said, striding towards Sean, gunning for a fight. ‘That bastard dumped me and broke my fucking heart and I’ll bloody well sort him out now. My blood’s up.’ Portia could see Sean Murphy going white in the face as Daisy marched towards him. But there was no stopping her. Once the volatile Daisy was up for a fight, God help anyone who got in her way, especially after an afternoon spent knocking back one beer after another.

  ‘Oh Steve, it’s going to be a long night,’ Portia sighed as she half-heartedly sipped her champagne.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on Daisy,’ he said protectively. ‘I’ll make sure she doesn’t douse him in paraffin and chuck him on the fire.’

  ‘How the hell am I going to get the pair of them out of here?’ asked Portia, knowing full well that it would be near impossible to drag Lucasta home until the free booze ran out. She could see poor Sean in the corner of the room being accosted by a semi-naked Daisy; there was no way her sister was going anywhere until she’d drawn blood. Lucasta was by now perched beside the pianist and was singing along to ‘Night and Day’, her favourite Cole Porter song. ‘She’ll be up on that piano next, doing her impression of Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys,’ she added wearily. When in her cups, Lucasta had no doubt that she sang like Charlotte Church, whereas she actually sounded more like Ozzy Osbourne after a vodka-fuelled night on the tear. And that was usually before she launched into her party piece, a self-composed little ditty entitled ‘Soap up your Arse and Slide Backwards up a Rainbow’.

  ‘Look, go outside and get some air,’ Steve said gently. ‘Give them an hour and then I’ll help you get them home. There’s just a few old friends from law school here I want to catch up with. One hour, Portia, that’s all.’

  Portia did as she was told. It felt so good to step outside into the crisp night air, away from the awful de Courceys and their pristine home. She found herself strolling to the bottom of the garden, champagne glass in hand, where she found a stone bench perched beside a Japanese-style water feature. As she plonked down, grateful for a little peace and quiet, all she could think was: Thank God I’ll never have to socialize with these dreadful people again. True, Ballyroan was a small town, but they were so isolated up at the Hall that it was easy enough to avoid anyone you didn’t want to see.

  ‘Had enough already?’ came a man’s voice from the darkness behind her.

  ‘Jesus!’ screamed Portia, nearly leaping out of her skin and spilling the dregs of her champagne down the front of her jumper. ‘Who’s there?’ she asked, peering into the sculpted hedgerows behind her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he replied, stepping from the shadows. Portia glanced up. A tall, fair-haired man, about her own age, stood in front of her. He was wearing a beautifully cut suit, black of course, and was lightly tanned as though he’d just returned from a holiday. His eyes were a deep blue and twinkled as they took in this strange lady, all by herself, doused in champagne.

  ‘Were you trying to escape from all those legal eagles inside?’ he asked, sitting down beside her. ‘You certainly don’t look like a barrister or a solicitor,’ he added, smiling. ‘Let me guess, you’re a socialite who’s dodging your ex-boyfriend inside. Or maybe you’re the religious type and you’ve come out here to contemplate life, the universe and everything. Or maybe, like me, you just slipped out for a quiet smoke,’ he concluded, offering her a cigarette as he lit one for himself.

  ‘None of the above, I’m afraid.’ Portia laughed, amused that anyone could describe her as a socialite. ‘I just slipped out for a breather,’ she went on, ‘and I think as far as the hostess is concerned, my family are personae non gratae tonight.’

  ‘Who are you with?’ asked the stranger, exhaling smoke into the night air, his eyes studying her face keenly.

  ‘My mother and younger sister,’ she replied, wondering who this handsome man could be. Not a local, anyway; she wouldn’t have forgotten meeting him before. Probably a friend of the family who’d come from Dublin.

  ‘And why would you think you and your family are unwelcome here?’ he asked, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

  ‘Well, let’s just say we don’t exactly fit in with the gathering inside. I’m sure they’re all lovely people and everything, but I don’t think country folk like us are quite the type of guests Mrs de Courcey wants at her elegant soirée. If you’d seen her face when we arrived – I was half expecting her to delouse us. I could have sworn she was looking over her shoulder to see where we’d parked our caravan.’

  The stranger said nothing, but chuckled to himself. Portia found herself gazing at him from the corner of her eye. God, he was gorgeous-looking. She was so out of practice when it came to chatting up men, she was afraid she’d come across as a stalker or a serial killer. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d flirted: the 1980s probably. Anyway, she thought resignedly, why would any guy as divine-looking as this one give her the time of day? He was probably only being polite, and would soon drift inside to join his girlfriend. Or wife. And yet her companion seemed in
no hurry to leave her.

  ‘And what do you think of the house?’ she asked, figuring she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. ‘Did you ever see anything like it? I was afraid that de Courcey battleaxe would berate me for leaving imprints on her cashmere carpets, just by standing on them. It’s almost as though she had her guests interior designed; they all seem to be colour-coded. Do you think these people ring each other up beforehand, just to make sure that they’re all dressed to blend in?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, looking at her with interest, ‘gatherings like this aren’t exactly my cup of tea either. A load of boring legal people talking about the Tribunals in Dublin, how much dosh they’re all making out of them and how white-collar crime is really paying these days. No one in Ireland goes to prison any more, it seems, you just sit in front of a Tribunal for a few months and then nothing happens. No, give me a good old-fashioned knees-up any day. And as for the women! They’re all afraid to smile in case they get wrinkles and they’re all terrified to sit down in case their fabulously expensive dresses happen to crumple. The thirty-something ones are the worst,’ he went on, warming to his theme. ‘It’s almost like they’re interviewing you for the role of husband-to-be. Honestly, they must think I’m blind or something. Do they think I can’t see them looking down to clock whether or not I’m wearing a wedding ring?’

  Portia just smiled; this guy obviously had a lot of women chasing after him.

  ‘I’m not, by the way,’ he said, smirking at her.

  ‘You’re not what?’ she asked, at a loss.

  ‘Married.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all she could manage to say, trying very hard to sound casual and uninterested.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on. ‘You’re very patient to put up with my rantings; most women would have told me where to go. I’ve been working on Wall Street for the past few years and Manhattanites tend to say it like it is. You must forgive me, I’m just bitter and twisted.’ He twinkled at her, looking neither bitter nor twisted.

  ‘What a change it must be for you, coming back to Ireland after so long,’ she went on. ‘I presume you’re living in Dublin?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact—’ he began, when suddenly they were interrupted by a voice calling from the door to the garden.

  ‘Andrew? Andrew, are you there? Senator Callaghan wants a word with you!’

  Portia would recognize those strangulated vowels anywhere. It could only be Mrs de Courcey.

  ‘Be right there, Mum,’ he answered as he sprang to his feet.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ said Portia, squirming inside. ‘I had no idea that this was your home. There’s no way I’d have gone on like that if I’d known . . .’ She trailed off. Bloody typical, she thought, the first interesting guy over sixteen and under seventy that I’ve met in decades and I have to insult his mother, and his house for good measure.

  ‘Don’t apologize,’ he said, offering his hand to help her up. ‘Between you and me, I actually agree with you.’ He winked at her conspiratorially. ‘I’m only here temporarily until my own apartment in Dublin is ready and then I’ll throw a proper housewarming. One you can smoke at for starters,’ he added, stubbing out his cigarette.

  ‘Well, I see you’ve met the neighbours then, Andrew,’ said Mrs de Courcey as she waited for them by the door. ‘What was it again? Patricia, isn’t it?’ she asked.

  ‘Portia,’ she replied, unable to contain herself. ‘I’m named after a character in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, actually, not after a stripper in a Chris de Burgh song.’

  Mrs de Courcey said nothing, merely eyed Portia up and down, her eagle-eyed gaze noticeably resting on the stain where she’d spilt her drink on her jumper. It looked like she’d drooled all down her front.

  ‘Well, it’s lovely to meet the girl next door, so to speak,’ Andrew said, politely shaking her hand. ‘At least, to meet you properly.’

  ‘And you,’ was all Portia could manage in reply, fully aware of his mother glaring at her.

  Andrew smiled down at her. ‘I think you’ve finally met your match, Mum,’ he said, steering Portia back towards the house.

  ‘Andrew, please, the Senator is waiting,’ snapped Mrs de Courcey, barging on ahead of them.

  As they went back inside, Portia’s heart sank. Her mother was singing her lungs out at the piano, belting out her favourite show tune, ‘Memory’ from Cats. Except that the woman hadn’t a note in her head. She was drowning out any conversations that may have been going on and was blissfully unaware that she was making a complete show of herself. Other guests were tactfully moving away from the piano, one by one, as Lucasta screeched her head off tunelessly.

  As if this wasn’t bad enough though, Daisy was standing at the marble fireplace loudly and drunkenly berating Sean Murphy for having dumped her and not giving a damn who overheard.

  ‘You ASSHOLE GOBSHITE!’ she almost roared at him. ‘Did you ever ONCE consider MY feelings? You never once introduced me to your family or your friends—’

  ‘But, Daisy, we only ever went on three dates, it’s not like it was serious or anything,’ Sean was trying to say. But in vain; there was no stopping Daisy once she got going.

  ‘SHUT UP and listen!’ she snarled drunkenly at the poor terrified Sean. ‘You were just using me for sex, you tosser. What sort of bastard are you that you think that’s an acceptable way to treat your girlfriend?’

  ‘But, Daisy, you were never my girlfriend, I only ever called you once . . .’ Sean tried to interject, deeply embarrassed and probably feeling like he was re-enacting the bunny-boiler scene from Fatal Attraction. In vain, Portia looked around to see where Steve had got to, but he was deeply engrossed in conversation with Andrew’s father, the Chief Justice.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry about the sideshow,’ said Mrs de Courcey to the distinguished Senator, well within Portia’s hearing. ‘I’d no idea our new neighbours were, emm, so colourful, shall we say?’ she added.

  Portia could take no more. ‘Would you excuse me?’ she whispered to Andrew as she left his side and headed straight for the piano. ‘Time to leave, Mummy,’ she said softly into her mother’s ear, closing down the lid of the piano as she did so. ‘Party’s over.’

  ‘Don’t be a bore, sweetie, I’m only warming up,’ said Lucasta, gulping back another gin and tonic.

  ‘I know, Mummy, and that’s why the party’s over,’ replied her daughter, gently but firmly steering her towards the door.

  ‘Need a hand?’ came a voice from beside her. She looked up. It was Andrew.

  ‘Would you mind telling my sister that it’s time for us to leave,’ she asked calmly. Bugger it, there was plenty of time to be mortified tomorrow. ‘You can’t miss her, she’s the girl dressed in next to nothing screaming her head off beside your fireplace.’

  Andrew said nothing, merely nodded and went off to find Daisy.

  As Portia struggled to the door with her drunken mother, she was aware that the room had gone deadly quiet and that, probably, all eyes were on them. She finally made it outside, dragging her mother in her wake, and got as far as the car. Once again, the security lights came on full blast, just in case there was anyone inside who hadn’t noticed them leave. The cold night air suddenly hit Lucasta, making her drowsy and easy enough for Portia to bundle into the back of the car. Daisy was another story, however. Portia looked up to see Andrew practically hauling her out of the house, as she continued to hurl drunken abuse at the hapless Sean Murphy.

  ‘BASTARDS! YOU’RE ALL FUCKING BASTARDS!’ she was roaring at the top of her voice as Andrew helped load her into the front seat.

  ‘She’s just tired and emotional,’ he said, smiling at Portia, greatly amused by the whole situation. ‘She’ll be fine when she sleeps it off.’

  Portia couldn’t look him in the face. As she got into the driver’s seat, she was aware that he was standing beside the car waving her off. Please let the bloody car start, was all she could think. Please, dear God, just let it start. On the fourt
h attempt, it finally did. Oh, thank Christ, she thought as she drove back down the driveway. In her rear-view mirror, she could still see him waving as her car spluttered great clouds of blue smoke from the exhaust into his face.

  As Andrew strolled back to the party, deep in thought, his mother came to meet him at the front door.

  ‘Really, Andrew, Senator Callaghan has to leave now and you’ve hardly said two words to him all night,’ she said, angrily twirling the pearl necklace around her neck.

  ‘I was just seeing our guests off, Mum,’ he answered coolly.

  ‘Well, just so long as that’s the last you see of them. You were an awfully long time chatting with the tall skinny older one. What was her name again?’

  ‘Portia,’ he replied, thinking how poor an actress his mother made. Of course she remembered the name, this was just her subtle way of showing disapproval.

  ‘Well, whatever her name is, she and her family behaved like an absolute sideshow tonight. If I’d wanted a cabaret, I’d have booked one. Poor Elizabeth Montgomery is still talking about Lady Davenport screaming her head off at the piano. And the young blonde daughter who was dressed like a trollop most definitely used the “see you next Tuesday” word. Your father had to have a lie down when he heard her. And I’m quite certain I saw her ladyship slipping a bottle of Cristal under her jacket as she was being dragged out of the door.’

  He was about to retort when his mother delivered one of her trademark killer lines.

  ‘I mean, for goodness sake, Andrew, what will Edwina say?’

  Chapter Seven

  PORTIA BARELY SLEPT a wink that night. It was well after three a.m. when she finally got to bed and sleep just wouldn’t come. All night long she lay there, listening to the grandfather clock in the hall booming away the passing hours. And thinking. Wondering if she’d ever be able to look any member of the de Courcey family in the face again.

  Ordinarily, she wouldn’t really have cared; after all, her family had been the talk of the town many times before and no doubt would be again. But this was different. Her mind kept coming back to Andrew and the way his eyes had danced when she was slagging off his mother’s party. She’d been so completely starved of male attention for so long that it was impossible to trust her own instincts. Portia was probably the least vain creature in the world and so had no faith in her ability to attract men.