He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Look, the rain’s eased off a bit, do you fancy a stroll along the beach, my honourable friend?’ Portia readily agreed, although she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the ‘friend’ reference.

  Still munching on their chips, they clambered down the half-dozen stone steps that led to the strand, with Andrew thoughtfully holding Portia’s hand, so that she wouldn’t slip. Descending on to the sandy beach, they sauntered out towards the sea, looking for all the world like a honeymoon couple out for a moonlit stroll. Unused as she was to male attention, Portia still had the wherewithal to realize that it simply wasn’t good manners to hog the entire conversation as she had been. Tentatively she raised the subject that had been hovering at the back of her mind ever since they’d left the restaurant.

  ‘Andrew, may I ask you something?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘That girl we met at the restaurant, who is she?’

  He sighed deeply and kept on walking in silence. Portia glanced sideways at him and saw that he was staring straight ahead with a blank expression on his face. Oh God, she thought, had she said the wrong thing?

  ‘I’d no intention of prying, Andrew, if it’s something you don’t want to talk about . . .’

  ‘It’s OK. I suppose I was just wondering when this would come up.’ His tone had changed too. He sounded preoccupied and distant. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘I was just curious, that’s all. She seemed to be on very good terms with your mother,’ she answered, regretting she’d ever brought the subject up in the first place.

  ‘Edwina and I were together for eight years and were engaged to be married this summer. Next month, in fact.’

  Portia felt as though she’d been punched in the stomach. She could physically feel the blood draining from her face and was grateful that it was dark and that she could turn her face out towards the sea, pretending to be engrossed in the view.

  ‘You’ve gone very quiet, my lady,’ he said, his tone softening a bit. ‘Look, Portia, I’m thirty-five years old. You just don’t get to my age without accumulating some sort of baggage. Most people my age are married, divorced, separated or struggling with single parenthood. I consider myself lucky to have got this far in life relatively unscathed.’

  Well, that settles that, she thought. The only reason he asked her out was that he was on the rebound from the beautiful, elegant Edwina. They walked on in silence, and eventually came to a small wooden bench facing out to sea. They both sat down, Portia grateful for the chance to look straight ahead and not directly at him. Christ, she thought, I must look like a car crash compared with bloody Edwina in her bloody designer evening dress who’s probably never even met anyone who was turned away from a posh restaurant in her life.

  After a long silence, Andrew eventually pulled a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket and lit one up. He must have sensed her insecurity because, turning his whole body to face her, he gently brought the subject up again.

  ‘You know, Edwina would never in a million years have sat on a beach eating chips in the rain with me.’ He was rewarded with a slight smile from Portia as she continued to look out to sea, pretending to be absorbed in the view. Another silence. This night is turning into a play by Samuel Beckett, she thought.

  ‘Portia, will you let me explain?’ he asked. ‘I know there’s nothing worse than people who go on and on about their exes, but I really feel I owe you an explanation. Edwina and I spent eight years together in New York living the high life, eating out all the time, going to the theatre, throwing dinner parties, weekends at the Hamptons. Christ, we would have gone to the opening of a fridge. I was expected to network constantly with my job and, looking back, she was almost a trophy girlfriend. She thrived on that lifestyle. Everyone said she was the perfect woman for me.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ was all she could manage in response, shifting nervously on the soaking-wet bench. She flicked at a vinegar stain she noticed on her jeans, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious and wishing this conversation could end. She started to feel a rumble of anger bubbling up inside her. Was this the only reason he asked her out? To talk about his ex-fiancée? What was she, his therapist?

  Sensing her discomfort, he went on, ‘I know I’m not explaining this very well. On paper she may have been my perfect partner, but the reality was very different. I began to notice that we never spent any time on our own together, we were constantly surrounded by people, buzzing around us. On the outside, it may have looked like we had the perfect relationship but inside, I don’t think I’ve ever been lonelier. It’s as though we surrounded ourselves with people to avoid ever being alone together.’

  ‘And you were to be married next month?’

  He sighed deeply. ‘Oh, Adare Manor was booked and we were to go to South Africa on safari for our honeymoon, but you know, the wedding seemed to be more about seating plans and gilt-edged invitations than whether or not we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together.’

  ‘So you called the whole thing off?’

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ he said, stubbing his cigarette out on the ground. ‘A couple of months ago, just after Christmas, I had one of the worst days in work I can ever remember. I lost a huge corporate case for the firm I worked for and I rang Ed to talk about it. I really needed to confide in someone and just blow off some steam. The minute she picked up the phone she launched into a tirade about the life expectancy of ice sculptures for the wedding centrepiece. I can remember trying to explain to her that, for once, I needed to talk and she just fobbed me off like I was being monumentally selfish in the middle of her horrific day. I remember leaving the office on Wall Street and walking uptown just to clear my head. I got as far as Union Square and sat down on a bench to have a cigarette and a think. I looked around and noticed this young professional couple sitting right opposite me. He had taken off his tie, she had kicked off her shoes and they had tossed their briefcases on the grass. They were chomping on sandwiches and roaring with laughter at some gag one of them had cracked. It sounds so mundane, but I can remember sitting opposite them and thinking: That’s what a relationship is. It’s snatching time together because you can’t bear a whole day apart, laughing at some private joke with that amazing intimacy that couples have. And I can remember thinking: That’s it. That’s what I want. That’s what I want and I don’t have it. Oh, I knew exactly what lay ahead for me that evening. I knew I’d go back to our Park Avenue apartment and that she’d be all dressed up to go out for the night, she’d tell me I’d ten minutes to get ready and to wear such and such a suit. There wouldn’t be any time for conversation, just on with the whirl. Maybe in the taxi she’d elaborate on her day and tell me the minutest detail about the bridesmaids’ bloody knicker elastic. That’s when I decided enough was enough.’

  ‘Oh my God. How did she take it?’

  ‘Ed’s made of very stern stuff, you know. She decided to come back to Ireland with me, as we’d planned to do anyway when the wedding was still going ahead. She said she needed the break.’

  Portia thought quickly. What the hell? She might as well know one way or another. ‘And do you think you may get back together again?’ she asked, trying to keep the wobble out of her voice.

  Andrew sighed and stared out to sea. ‘If my mother has anything to do with it, we will. She absolutely adores Edwina, they’re like mother and daughter. I think she took the break-up far worse than either Ed or myself.’

  Well, that’s that then, Portia thought. I was just a handy little diversion to pass a Saturday night with while he’s visiting his parents in Ballyroan. Serves me bloody right for ever thinking that I could land a bloke like this. And anyway, how could I compare with Edwina? God, she even has his dragon lady of a mother eating out of her hand. She glanced down at her watch. Two-thirty a.m.

  ‘It’s getting late. Don’t you think it’s time we got going?’ she said, rising to her feet.

  ‘Whatever you say, my lady,’ he replied, a little st
artled at the suddenness of her decision to leave. She walked briskly ahead of him, frantically racking her brains to think of a topic of conversation that wouldn’t involve Edwina, and eventually gave up. All conversational roads seemed to lead back to the unalterable fact that he should have been getting married the following month.

  Bugger it, she thought, they could just go home in silence.

  * * *

  ‘Well, that is certainly one experience I won’t forget in a hurry,’ drawled Guy as he stretched out to replenish the whiskey glass that lay empty beside him on the bedside table.

  ‘Mmmmmm,’ was all Daisy, her long, lean body naked beside his, could murmur in reply. She snuggled up into the crook of his arm, still a bit woozy from the shots of neat Jack Daniel’s they’d knocked back together and dreamily thought that she must be the luckiest girl alive. She could scarcely believe it, here she was, in bed with Guy van der Post, the sexiest man on earth! From the corner of her eye, she could dimly make out the outline of her hastily discarded clothes strewn all over the floor at the far corner of the darkened room. In fact, was that her see-through pink bra hanging off the edge of the four-poster bed? She giggled knowingly to herself, wanting to savour every second so she could think back over the whole evening in minute detail later. Beside her, Guy had slowly sat up and was knocking back the dregs of whiskey from the bottom of his glass. Turning to face Daisy, he lay back down beside her and stroked a loose blonde curl away from her semi-comatose face.

  ‘You sure are one mighty pretty lady,’ he murmured, putting his arms around her and noticing as he did that his tan was beginning to fade a little. Damn this freezing Irish weather anyway! For crying out loud, it’s June, does the sun never shine in this hellhole? He made a mental note to himself that he’d put in a request for a sunbed to be installed in his trailer asap.

  He cast a quick look down his naked body and decided that, in all other respects, it was in pretty good nick. Sure, his abs were a tiny bit flabby, but that was good for the part, after all Brent Charleston famously consumes nothing but neat whiskey in the script. A couple of extra pounds around his waistline would be entirely in keeping with the character.

  He thought back to life in LA and how he’d regale the rat pack of young, twenty-something movie actors he hung around with there with tales about this shoot, the minute he got back. Christ, that dinner tonight was something else . . .Were this family completely crazy or what? The mother should have been locked up years ago by the look of her. If it hadn’t been for Daisy, he’d never have got through the miserable evening. And when he thought of what a bitch Montana was being towards him, when she should be thanking her lucky stars to be working with an actor of the calibre of Guy van der Post with her stock as low as it was in Hollywood! Well, he’d show her and that’s for sure. Just wait till their first scene tomorrow, he’d wipe the fucking floor with that smug bitch. He’d show her what movie acting was all about; she wouldn’t know what hit her.

  He chuckled to himself, thinking what a great story this whole experience would make to tell Leo and Ben and Tom back home. Not that Leo and Ben and Tom were exactly hanging around with him any more. No, he had to admit, since his last movie had turned out to be such a turkey, there had been something of a downturn in his life. He wasn’t even getting seen for parts which should have been straight offers for him. This was such a lousy business, he thought, furiously kicking at the bedclothes. You make ten hit movies back to back, then one minor flop, just one bad call, and you’re right back on the shitheap. And it had looked like such a winner on paper too! ‘Waterworld, the musical . . . Moulin Rouge in bikinis!’ the tag line had run. How could it have turned out to be such a loser?

  Well, he’d change all that. Just wait till this movie came out, he’d be back on top of the A list before you knew it. Hell, all he had to do was put up with Montana for a couple more months and then he’d be home and dry. Guy glanced down at the half-asleep Daisy, looking like an angel beside him. Yip, this shoot sure had some interesting diversions to offer, he thought, then, taking one final gulp of whiskey, he chuckled softly to himself.

  ‘What are you giggling about?’ whispered Daisy, sleepily fondling the nape of his neck and snuggling in even tighter to him.

  ‘Why, I was just thinking what a lucky man I am to have a beautiful woman like you in bed beside me,’ he replied, without even pausing to think.

  * * *

  It had begun to drizzle again as Portia and Andrew hit the motorway that would take them through Kildare and then, via the back roads, on to Ballyroan. Apart from a few polite comments about the appalling weather, they hadn’t exchanged a word since they left the beach.

  Eventually, however, Portia could take no more. So what if he was on the rebound from Edwina? she thought to herself. After all, he’s a lovely guy and, let’s face it, they were pretty thin on the ground where she came from. Maybe they’d turn out to be just friends, was that so awful? Apart from Steve, she hadn’t a single male pal in the world. She turned sideways to face him, just as a car swished past on the far side of the road, momentarily lighting up Andrew’s face. God, he looked divine, she thought, even in this light. His ice-blue eyes were focused on the road ahead and the gold signet ring which had his initials engraved on it glinted at her from the corner of her eye. Even the way he handled a car was sexy. Small bloody wonder Edwina had followed him all the way back to Ireland. She must have been secretly hoping to wear him down, aided and abetted by his mother, no doubt. For a split second, a rush of pity came over kind-hearted Portia for the other woman. To have your wedding called off at the last minute must be horrific, but to have lost someone like Andrew in the process must be soul-destroying.

  ‘Andrew?’ she began tentatively, as they arrived at the outskirts of Ballyroan. He glanced sideways at her.

  ‘Yes, my lady? I was just wondering if you were intending to speak to me again.’

  ‘Of course I’m still speaking to you.’ She smiled. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Because that was something of a bombshell I landed on you back there.’

  ‘Well, I was a bit taken aback, but the thing is—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt but it’s left here for Davenport Hall, isn’t it?’ he asked, turning the car and deftly avoiding the potholes all around.

  ‘Yes, and straight ahead on through the gates,’ she replied as they pulled up to the huge stone pillars at the entrance to the Hall.

  The gates loomed ahead of them, twelve feet high, held together by rust and badly in need of a lick of paint. Needless to say, there was absolutely no lighting whatsoever on the two-mile driveway to the Hall itself, making it something of an assault course for the unfortunate night-time visitor. As Andrew skilfully negotiated the pitch-black dirt track that led to the Hall, Portia seized her moment.

  ‘You know, I’m not very good at this, but I just wanted to say that . . . well, I had a really good time tonight and, of course, it goes without saying that if you ever need to talk about—’

  ‘You had a good time tonight?’ he interrupted, glancing at her from the wheel.

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘Of course I’m surprised. I thought I’d blown it by droning on about Edwina.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t,’ she replied, grateful that it was pitch dark and that he couldn’t see her face, which was probably tomato red by now. ‘Of course you’re entitled to talk about her, I mean, you were meant to be getting married this summer after all. And that’s what I’m trying to say. I know you’re only in Ballyroan for a short time, Andrew, but we are neighbours and, well, I’m here if you ever do need to talk.’

  He said nothing, but smiled to himself.

  As the car twisted past the tennis courts, he eventually said, ‘I was just thinking how utterly different to Edwina you are. In fact, how utterly different you are to anyone I think I’ve ever met.’

  Not used to being complimented, Portia wasn’t quite sure how to take this.

  ‘Becau
se I get asked to leave posh restaurants?’

  ‘Because you’re beautiful and funny and sexy and warm-hearted and have absolutely no idea that you’re any of those things. I think you’re probably the least pretentious person I’ve ever met in my whole life, which is saying something, considering you’re a titled member of the aristocracy.’

  Before she could reply, they’d arrived at the gravelled driveway in front of the main entrance to the Hall. Oh God, thought Portia, what do normal women do in these situations? Invite him in for coffee? Peck him chastely on the cheek and jump out of the car? They should have night classes to guide out-of-practice single women through these social minefields, she thought. Bloody, bloody hell, who invented the concept of dating anyway?

  She was saved from wondering any further by a loud, thundering crash from inside the Hall. In a flash, both she and Andrew had leapt out of the car and rushed to the main entrance door. Shoving the door open, Portia switched on the lights only to discover that a huge plasterwork stone harp of Leinster from the dome in the great hallway had fallen on to the floor beneath, smashing several of the Kilkenny marble tiles on the ground to smithereens.

  ‘Oh, thank God no one was hurt,’ Portia began, when suddenly they both heard an ear-piercing scream from the top of the staircase.

  ‘Leave this house, evil spirit, I condemn you to the flames of hell!’ screamed Lucasta, running down the stairs in her long white flowing nightie, with her mane of grey hair loose about her shoulders. ‘Oh hello, darling, did you have a nice time? And this must be Andrew, whom I’ve heard so much about—’ She broke off, as though suddenly finding herself in the middle of a garden party. With her talent for blocking out anything disagreeable, she clearly had absolutely no recollection of Andrew having seen Portia physically hauling her into the car the previous night.

  ‘Mummy, what’s going on?’ asked Portia, almost afraid of the answer.

  ‘It’s Great-aunt Cassandra again. The silly cow has been wandering around the Hall all night, and now look at what she’s done,’ replied Lucasta, indicating the smashed plasterwork harp on the marble floor.