He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me

by Claudia Carroll

  Portia slipped into one of the empty bus seats beside Paddy, whereupon one of the caterers plonked a cup and saucer in front of her.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, coffee, please,’ said Portia gratefully as her cup was filled to the brim. It tasted divine, nothing like the watery instant stuff Mrs Flanagan served up. Just then, the green-haired guy she’d seen powdering Montana’s face sat down opposite her.

  ‘Hi, we haven’t met, I’m Serge from make-up,’ he said, shaking hands with her. ‘Oooh . . . somebody needs their eyebrows plucked!’ he added, immediately scanning Portia’s face. ‘You look so natural, honey, but we could do a lot more with this face. You want me to do your eyebrows for you now?’ he asked, magically producing some tweezers from his pocket.

  ‘You’re very kind, maybe another time?’ Portia laughed. It was impossible not to like these people, they were all so warm and welcoming to her.

  ‘Say the word, honey,’ replied Serge. ‘You Irish cailíns have such great skin to work on, not like back in LA where everyone’s so Botoxed it’s like working on corpses. And as for you,’ he added, turning his attention to Paddy, ‘I really wanna highlight your hair for you. I think a few blond streaks at the front would make you look so . . . virile.’

  ‘Piss off,’ replied Paddy as he doused tomato ketchup all over a freshly baked bagel. ‘No way am I going around with a head full of dye.’

  ‘Honey, I wasn’t talking about the hair on your head,’ replied Serge nonchalantly as he winked at Portia.

  Just then, running round the side of the Hall, Daisy appeared. As she raced towards the catering bus, it seemed that every man there turned to look at her, momentarily forgetting about their tea and sticky buns.

  ‘Woooah, who’s yer one?’ asked Paddy, leering out of the window at her. ‘I wouldn’t think twice about bending her over the pool table and letting her play with me cue. Ha! Ha!’

  ‘That’s my younger sister, actually,’ said Portia primly as Daisy clambered on to the bus.

  ‘There you are, Portia, I’ve been all over looking for you,’ she panted, introducing herself to Serge and Paddy. ‘Hello, you’re very welcome, I’m Daisy.’ She smiled at each of them, looking ravishing and not at all as though she’d been throwing up all morning.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a doll!’ exclaimed Serge, immediately running his fingers professionally through her long blonde curls. ‘What great hair! What do you use? Who’s your colourist? Tell me everything!’

  ‘Never been inside a hairdresser’s in my life,’ Daisy answered truthfully. ‘Portia cuts it for me when it gets too bushy.’

  ‘Howaya, Daisy?’ said Paddy, red in the face. ‘I work on sound and I tell you, you can play with my boom anytime! Ha, ha, ha!’

  Daisy, who’d been provoking this sort of reaction in men since she was about three, let it pass. ‘Portia, could you come back to the house straight away?’ she asked.

  ‘Well . . .’ said Portia, indicating her half-drunk cup of coffee.

  ‘Emergency,’ said Daisy, not taking no for an answer as she steered her sister towards the bus door. ‘See you guys later!’ she called out, unaware that every man’s eyes were still following her, until she was out of sight.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Portia, imagining the worst as they picked their steps over the electrical wires that lay strewn like plates of spaghetti at the main door.

  ‘Be patient, sis,’ was the only reply she got.

  As they went into the freezing cold, damp entrance hall, Portia nearly fell over. There, sitting on the huge oak sideboard beside the door, was the most magnificent bouquet of flowers she’d ever seen in her life.

  ‘Well, they must have arrived for Montana,’ she began, ‘probably from some deranged fan in Ballyroan who found out she was staying here and—’

  ‘Portia,’ interrupted Daisy, holding out a small white card, ‘they’re for you.’

  She was serious. The card simply said, ‘Miss Portia Davenport’. ‘They arrived about half an hour ago,’ said Daisy, breathing down Portia’s neck as she ripped open the envelope.

  Just to say thank you so much for livening up an otherwise impossibly dull evening. Call me: 0863319677. Andrew de Courcey. P.S. Am also enclosing something for your mother and sister.

  ‘What? What did he enclose?’ said Daisy, impatiently grabbing the envelope from Portia. Two Solpadeine tablets fell out on to the marble floor.

  ‘Well, he’s got a sense of humour, I’ll give him that.’ Daisy giggled in spite of herself.

  Portia suddenly felt weak. She got as far as the staircase and slumped down, still holding the card in her hand.

  ‘You OK, sis?’ asked Daisy, sitting down beside her, suddenly worried.

  ‘I’m just a bit stunned, darling,’ Portia replied, her voice sounding as though it was coming from another room, ‘but I’ll be fine.’

  So engrossed was Daisy in making sure her sister wasn’t about to pass out that she never even noticed a black Harley-Davidson motorbike thundering at a rate of knots up the gravelled driveway. Nor did she see the driver dismount, whip off his helmet and immediately clip on a pair of designer sunglasses, slinging a rucksack over his back as he strode towards the film set.

  If she had, she’d have passed out cold.

  Chapter Eight

  IT HAD TAKEN some doing, but eventually Daisy had persuaded Portia to pick up the phone and call Andrew. Mind you, they had to do a couple of dry runs first, with Daisy acting out the role of Andrew answering the phone, before Portia felt confident enough to do it for real.

  ‘Right, pretend I’m him, and I’ve just sent you these magnificent flowers and I’m sitting in my mother’s all-white, Snow Queen palace, thinking: Why hasn’t she called to say thanks? She seemed like such a lovely girl!’ Daisy said, doing a lousy impression of a man and waving the phone in the Library menacingly under Portia’s nose.

  ‘Oh darling, I’m just so out of practice at this. What do I say to him then?’ Portia wailed, clenching and unclenching her hands nervously.

  ‘Come on, Portia! You’re only making a polite phone call, it’s hardly the Duke of Edinburgh Awards, you know,’ replied Daisy in her best sergeant-major tone of voice. ‘Now, get a grip. What are you, a man or a mouse?’

  ‘OK,’ said Portia, taking deep gulps of air, ‘you’re right. It’s not as though he’s going to ask me out or anything. I mean, why would he? He probably just feels sorry for me and—’

  ‘Dial!’ said Daisy, in her most threatening manner.

  ‘You have to stay in the room with me!’ Portia pleaded. Oh God, she thought, what’s wrong with me? I’m thirty-five years of age, why can’t I just pick up a bloody phone? Suddenly, she thought back to all the beautiful people at the de Courceys’ party last night. Would any of those women have the slightest difficulty in calling a man like Andrew? Not on your life, they’d be confidently chatting away to him right now. Bugger it anyway, she thought. What’s the worst that can happen? She found her fingers dialling his number. Daisy said nothing, just turned to look out of the filthy French windows, concealing her triumph.

  It rang. And it rang. Portia’s stomach was doing somersaults until she heard a voice answer, ‘Hello?’ It was unmistakably him.

  ‘Emm, hi. It’s, eh, Portia. Davenport. You know? From last night?’

  Shut up now, Portia, her inner voice said. From last night? I sound like a prostitute.

  ‘Well, hello, Portia Davenport, from last night,’ said Andrew, sounding cool and relaxed and sexy all at once.

  ‘I was just phoning to say thanks for the flowers. They’re . . . emm . . . nice.’ Put the phone down now and run away, very, very fast, the same inner voice said. It’s never too late to emigrate to Bolivia.

  Portia could see Daisy rolling her eyes to heaven as she looked out of the window.

  ‘I’m very glad you think they’re nice,’ replied Andrew. ‘I’ll tell you what else I think would be nice – dinner tonight, say abou
t eight? Would that be nice enough for you?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she replied, stunned.

  ‘Good. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.’

  Portia started to panic. How would she explain the film crew and the general chaos at the Hall? His parents’ house was an oasis of calm and tranquillity compared to the asylum she was living in. God, he’d run a mile if he saw the squalor of Davenport Hall, and that was before you factored in Montana, Jimmy D. and half of Hollywood who’d descended on them in the last few days.

  ‘I’ve a better idea,’ she said, amazed that she could finally think clearly. ‘How about meeting in the town instead? Do you know O’Dwyer’s pub? I’ll see you there at half-seven.’

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ he replied as she hung up.

  ‘YES! You did it! I am so bloody proud of my big sister!’ cried Daisy, throwing her arms around the shell-shocked Portia. ‘Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ she went on. ‘After all, you’re only calling a bloke on the phone, it’s hardly brain surgery.’

  Portia couldn’t answer. She sat very still, playing absent-mindedly with the phone cord in front of her. So this is what it feels like to be a normal woman who goes on dates. Oh Christ, she was so out of practice. She’d had boyfriends in the past, of course, but had been pretty much chronically single since she turned thirty.

  Daisy often bemoaned the fact that they were so utterly isolated, living in the back arse of County Kildare among men who looked like they’d been hewn from the rocks, as she so poetically put it. ‘We’re just like all the women who were left unmarried after the First World War,’ she used to say, ‘when a whole generation of young men was completely wiped out and so you had all these single women and no men. There’s nothing wrong with us, it’s just, well, can you name me two eligible bachelors in the whole of Ballyroan?’

  And, apart from the unfortunate Sean Murphy and Dickie McGhettigan, who played the fiddle in O’Dwyer’s pub on a Saturday night (and hadn’t a tooth in his head), she wasn’t joking. The highlight of Portia’s social calendar up till this point was the Ballyroan Annual Ploughing Championships, held on one of the Davenports’ fields at the back of the Hall, which was hardly the Monaco Grand Prix. She had long since given up all hope of ever meeting anyone, and had accepted that she’d remain single for the rest of her days. Ordinarily, this wasn’t something that caused her any great pain; if her history of boyfriends past had taught her anything, it was that she was far, far happier as a single girl than as part of a couple with a guy who treated her badly and made her miserable. And it could safely be said that her track record here was certainly nothing to envy.

  Her first boyfriend, Tom Malone, had been one of her tutors during her happy years at college. They’d dated for a full six months before it even occurred to Portia that he only ever stayed over at her tiny student bedsit; she was never invited to stay at his enormous, four-bedroomed townhouse. He fobbed her off by saying that he lived with his deeply Catholic mother who would be horrified at the very idea of Tom entertaining overnight female guests. Then, on his birthday, she decided to be impulsive and romantic and arrived on his doorstep with a bottle of champagne. His wife answered the door with Tom standing behind her, pretending he didn’t even know who Portia was.

  Then there was Simon McGuinness, a farmer from Kildare whom she’d met at a hunt ball several years ago. On paper, he seemed perfect for her: they were both country-lovers and he always treated her like a princess. He seemed attentive, kind and sensitive (or so Portia thought), the type of guy who would hold open a door for you, hand you a wad of Kleenex as you sniffled over a chick flick and then go out and buy you tampons. She had fallen head over heels in love with him and invited him for a weekend’s shooting at Davenport Hall. However, Daisy picked that very weekend to be expelled from yet another boarding school and happened to be wandering around the Hall in her school uniform just as Simon arrived. He took one look in her direction and spent the entire weekend making overt passes at her, right under Portia’s nose. Daisy at the time was fifteen. Following that episode, he was unceremoniously dumped and subsequently only ever referred to within the family as ‘Sleazy Simon, the scumbag git’. Various dates followed for Portia after that, but the general rule of thumb was that anytime someone attractive came into her life, he would meet Lucasta and Blackjack, take one look at Davenport Hall and run screaming into the arms of someone whose family were . . . a little more normal.

  Daisy, however, wasn’t going down without a fight. Despairing of the lack of talent in Ballyroan but fully determined to find love, she had even tried Internet dating at one point. She patiently spent hour after hour reading profiles of men she found sexy on the ancient old computer in the freezing estate office. When eventually she did meet an interesting guy in an online chatroom and they agreed to swap photos, she immediately packed the whole thing in. He’d sent her his wedding photo, with his wife’s bouquet in her severed hand clearly visible.

  ‘We’re going to have to speak very nicely to Montana and ask her if she has some kind of half-decent outfit she can lend you to wear,’ Daisy was chirping on, ‘and there’s a sale on in Fitzsimon’s shoe shop in Ballyroan, maybe we could pop into town and get you kitted out there.’

  ‘If what Montana kitted you out in last night is anything to go by, forget it. I’d prefer not to, thanks,’ said Portia. ‘In fact, I think I’d actually rather go out in one of Mrs Flanagan’s housecoats instead. The Beyoncé Knowles look just isn’t me, somehow.’

  Daisy playfully punched her, reddening at the thought of what she must have looked like the previous evening.

  That afternoon passed by in a blur for Portia. Without knowing what she was doing, she found herself heading for the halting site of caravans and trucks that the field in front of the Hall had become, frantically searching for the one with ‘HAIR AND MAKE-UP’ written in block capitals on the door. Eventually she found it and, bracing herself, gingerly knocked.

  ‘Come in if you’re good-looking and available!’ Serge called from inside.

  She obediently stepped in.

  ‘Well, honey, what can I do for you?’ asked Serge as he put down the clutch of make-up brushes he was soaking in disinfectant.

  ‘Oh Serge, I know you’re awfully busy and everything, but the thing is . . . I was sort of hoping you could help me out,’ she stammered.

  ‘Mi casa es su casa,’ said Serge. ‘What’s up?’

  Portia found herself blurting out the whole story, about the awful party the previous night, the incredibly snotty de Courceys, the sleek, groomed, beautiful women that filled their house and finally, Andrew. Her date with Andrew. Tonight.

  ‘And just look at me, Serge,’ she went on. ‘Queen Victoria had a sexier, more up-to-date image than me. I know you’re up to your eyes, but is there anything you can do to help me?’

  ‘Well, stick a halo on my head and call me your fairy godmother,’ replied Serge. ‘Do you see this?’ he asked, waving a make-up brush in front of her face. ‘This is not a make-up brush, it is a magic wand. Sit right down, honey, I’m gonna turn you from Queen Victoria into Mrs Victoria Beckham.’

  Meanwhile, Daisy, in her capacity as horse wrangler on the film, was about to start her first afternoon’s work. Montana Jones had finally been coaxed out of her Winnebago and back to work, but only after several hours of the ugliest threats being hurled at her by Jimmy D. Chiefly, this involved him letting her know in no uncertain terms that if she failed to behave on set or to deliver her lines as scripted, he would personally see to it that she spent the rest of her jaded career shovelling French fries into chip bags at her local McDonald’s on Sunset Boulevard.

  It worked. Just after lunch, she emerged from her trailer, meek as a lamb and ready for her close up, Mr De Mille. So, once they’d completed the scene she’d walked out on that morning at the equestrian centre (with Montana word perfect this time) Jimmy D. nodded his satisfaction and said, ‘OK. Next scene, the stable interior. Let’s go!�
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  Given that the crew only had to relocate from the forecourt of the stables, the setting up of the following scene didn’t take too long. As the lighting men and electricians (‘sparks’, as Johnny called them) shifted mounds of cables and lamps around the particular stable they were going to film in, Daisy decided the most useful thing she could do would be to keep out of everyone’s way until she was needed. Her job was a doddle, she had decided. For God’s sake, all she had to do was coax the horses on to the set when they were required, and take care of them when they weren’t. Money for old rope, she reasoned to herself. So, to while away the time, she ambled over to Montana’s Winnebago and tapped lightly on the door. Caroline, hatchet-faced as ever, opened it.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘I’m awfully sorry but I’m afraid Miss Jones is resting before her next scene and can’t possibly see anyone, so if you don’t mind . . .’

  She was about to close the door in Daisy’s face, when Montana called from behind her, ‘Daisy, honey! Boy, am I glad it’s you! Say, would you do me, like, the biggest favour in the whole world?’

  ‘If I can,’ Daisy replied, peering in the door.

  ‘It would be sooo cool if you could help me learn my lines for the next scene,’ pleaded Montana. ‘I got in such trouble with that asshole Jimmy D. for not being word perfect this morning that I really have to get my act together for this afternoon. Would you be, like, a total doll?’ she went on, indicating to Daisy to come in.

  ‘I’d be delighted!’ replied Daisy, stepping inside.

  Montana was still wearing the same Victorian riding habit she had on that morning, but she had thrown a bright orange fleece jacket around her shoulders, which looked not a little anachronistic.

  ‘Oh, you are lifesaver!’ Montana went on, thrusting three pages of typewritten script at Daisy. ‘OK, here’s what. I need you to pull me up on every little mistake I make, OK? Every freaking comma and full stop that I forget. Christ, it is sooo hard to learn these lines! Learning shit is so much harder than learning stuff that’s well written.’