‘Those bastard kitchen towels are the greatest load of shite yet invented and yes, I have tried them wet yet,’ she was shouting.
‘Mrs Flanagan, I hate to interrupt, but I really need to speak to her.’
‘Who?’
‘Daisy. Have you seen her at all?’
‘Ah, she’s out riding,’ Mrs Flanagan replied, her eyes not leaving the TV screen.
‘Do you know which direction she took? I could follow her in the car.’
‘Ha, ha, that’s not the kind of riding I meant,’ Mrs Flanagan cackled, still glued to the box. ‘Ya obviously haven’t seen this yet,’ she went on, holding out a battered copy of the National Intruder for him.
Steve glanced at the cover and nearly fell over. Plastered all over the front page was a colour photo of a semi-naked Daisy pressed up against the banisters with her head thrown back as Guy van der Post passionately kissed her neck. He had one hand clearly on her naked breast and the other on her bottom, whilst her legs appeared to be wrapped around his. The banner headline screamed: STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN. GUY AND MONTANA IN IRISH SEX TRIANGLE.
Then, flicking the magazine open, his jaw dropped as he saw a picture of Portia sitting at the bottom of the great staircase kissing the face off Chief Justice de Courcey’s son, Andrew. Had poor Steve not been so shocked about Daisy’s antics, this headline would have made him laugh: A TRUE LOVE EXCLUSIVE. THE ALL POWERFUL EARL OF IRELAND AND HIS HUMBLE SCULLERY MAID GET JIGGY WITH IT.
As the final credits rolled on Emmerdale, Mrs Flanagan rose out of her armchair and was about to get back to work, when she saw that Steve was still there, transfixed by the National Intruder.
‘Yeah, according to that magazine, they’re all at it here,’ she said, rolling up her sleeves. ‘Jaysus, Steve, it’ll be you and me next! Mind you, you’d have to smarten yerself up a bit first, luv. There’s a lot of rides wandering around the house these days and you’d have to be able to compete, if ya know what I mean.’
Poor Steve just looked at her, utterly at a loss.
‘Now don’t get me wrong or anything,’ Mrs Flanagan went on, waddling towards the freezer. ‘I mean, yer’re a lovely fella an’ all, it’s just, sometimes, ya can be a bit . . . I dunno, beige.’
‘Beige?’
‘Ah, ya need to start watching a bit of daytime telly, luv,’ she went on, hauling out bag loads of chicken wings from the freezer. ‘Now, I never miss Oprah and, I’m telling ya, no one does a makeover like she can. Read the fashion magazines, Steve, black polo-neck sweaters is what all the Hollywood stars are wearing now, not bleedin’ patterned jumpers that look like they’re holding a grudge against ya. And what about yer hair, luv, are ya waiting on it to come back into fashion or what? Jaysus, Prince Charles has a trendier hairstyle than you.’
Steve said nothing, just took another glance down at the National Intruder.
‘A nice, sharp haircut would take ten years off ya,’ she said, noticing where his gaze had fallen. ‘And then maybe Miss star-struck Daisy might start paying ya a bit of attention. And if she doesn’t, there’s always me.’ Then, winking slyly at him, she added, ‘So how’s about it then, babe?’
Andrew had been an absolute pet. Not only had he driven Portia into Kildare and taken her shopping for all the booze for Lucasta’s Midsummer party, he had even insisted on footing the bill and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Portia tried to fight her corner but to no avail.
‘Look, since I met you, I’ve practically moved into the Hall,’ he reasoned with her as they loaded case after case of wine into the back of his car. ‘The least you can let me do is pay my way. And I can well afford it. I am the Earl of Ireland, you know, or don’t you read the National Intruder?’
Portia laughed. In fact she and Andrew hadn’t stopped laughing since that ludicrous article had appeared, Andrew in particular getting great mileage out of the fact that she’d been cast in the guise of ‘humble scullery maid’.
‘Besides,’ he went on, holding the car door open for her, ‘can’t you tell I’m trying to be the golden boy in your mother’s eyes?’
She was highly amused at the idea that anyone would feel the need to inveigle themselves into her mother’s favour. ‘Well, that’s certainly a first. The last time anyone tried to impress poor Mummy was when Blackjack was courting her. In nineteen sixty-six.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He bought a racehorse and named it after her. Lucky Lucasta, it was called, but talk about not living up to your name! The poor animal was as slow as a donkey, you’d think it had a milk float harnessed to it. In the end, Blackjack shot him.’
‘Your father certainly sounds colourful,’ Andrew replied. ‘Have you heard from him since, emm, since . . .?’
‘It’s OK, you can say it; since he bolted.’ Normally her father was a perpetual source of embarrassment to her, but for some reason Portia could be completely open with Andrew. He never judged or, worse, feigned false sympathy, he just listened.
‘No, I haven’t but he did send Daisy a postcard. From Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas.’
‘Caesar’s Palace? Bit of a change from his ancestral pile, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, you needn’t worry about him, he’ll be in heaven there until the cash runs out. And it always runs out.’ She smiled to herself.
‘What’s so funny, my lady?’
‘Nothing, I was just remembering the Midsummer Ball last year, that’s all,’ she replied, slipping into the passenger seat of the car.
If someone had told her then that only a short year later she’d be hosting a film crew at the Hall, she’d have scoffed. If they’d told her that she’d meet someone like Andrew, who seemed so completely perfect he was like a dream come true, she’d have gone into a coma. In fact, that was it, she’d inadvertently hit the nail on the head. He was too good to be true. Unlike any previous boyfriend she’d had, he treated her well, made her laugh, didn’t ogle Daisy every time he saw her, loved Davenport Hall and, most surprising of all, actually got on with her mother.
Way, way too good to be true . . .
As ever, he seemed to be reading her thoughts. Getting into the driver’s seat, he paused for a moment, as though trying to make up his mind about something, then turned to face her full on. Taking her hand gently in his, he massaged it softly, his blue eyes not leaving her face. Portia sensed that there was something coming, but wasn’t quite sure what. Oh God, she thought, please don’t let it be anything to do with Edwina.
‘Portia, I’ve lived in New York for so long that it’s second nature for me to be upfront and direct about things. Don’t you think we should at least talk about what’s going on here? I mean, what’s going on between us? Dare I say it, how we’re feeling about each other?’
Portia couldn’t bring herself to speak. Not that she had much to compare it to, but everything seemed to be going so well between them, what could he want to talk about? And then a sickening feeling came over her. Edwina. It had to be something to do with Edwina: what else could it be? He must have sensed that she was falling for him more and more each day and was probably about to tell her that he was just getting out of an eight-year relationship and wasn’t looking for commitment and blah bloody blah. What else could he mean by a comment like ‘how we’re feeling about each other’? Her eyes welled as she dropped her gaze and looked out of the side window. Any other single woman of her age would know exactly how to react in this situation, she thought to herself, but not her. Someone more sexually experienced would probably have batted his comment skilfully away, while still flirting outrageously with him, playing it cool and keeping everything nice and light. Non-threatening for a man. If women’s magazines had taught her anything, they’d taught her that men ran a mile if they felt a woman was in deeper than they were. God, she thought, what to do? The last thing she’d ever been in her life was a game player and she was far too long in the tooth to start now. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but she just couldn’t do it, her heart was too f
ull for her even to begin to tell him what was going through her head. Not now.
‘Can we go home?’ was all she could stammer lamely. ‘I have to defrost the lamb kebabs for tonight.’
Andrew looked at her for a moment, with an odd expression in his eyes, and then wordlessly started the car, looking straight ahead of him.
They drove back to the Hall in silence, with Portia wishing she could kick herself black and blue every mile and pothole of the way.
Daisy was really in no bloody mood for this. Serge had promised her that he’d do her make-up and hair for the Midsummer Ball and she was already late for her appointment when she had the bad luck to run into Mrs Flanagan, up to high doh about the party.
‘Shove that up on the flagpole for tonight, will ya, luv?’ she had asked, throwing the Davenports’ tattered family standard at her.
‘Oh Mrs Flanagan, why do I always get the shitty jobs? You know I hate going up to the bell tower. Mummy says it’s still haunted by Satan . . .’
‘Well, if you’d prefer to disinfect the outside toilets instead, that’s your choice.’
Daisy thought for a second, decided which was the lesser of two evils, then snatched the flag from Mrs Flanagan’s hand.
‘Ah, yer’re a great young one,’ said Mrs Flanagan, waddling back towards the kitchen. ‘I knew ya wouldn’t want Guy van der Post to see ya in a pair of Marigolds with a bottle of Domestos in yer hand.’
As Daisy walking out on to the roof of the Hall, still breathless from walking up the two hundred spiral stone steps which led up there, she cursed the family tradition of always having a standard flying on Midsummer night. And the flag itself was a disgrace; it was raggedy, moth-eaten and so faded with age that you could hardly see the family crest. (It was a picture of two cats fighting, which bore the Latin inscription ‘Quid Rides? De Te Fabula Narratur’ (‘What are you laughing at? The joke’s on you’). Daisy mischievously used to tell tourists it translated as ‘All men are bastards’.)
‘Do you ever keep your promises?’
Daisy almost fell off the roof when she saw that Montana had followed her to the top of the steps, with rollers in her hair and clad only in a very flimsy, see-through dressing gown. ‘Montana!’ she said, shocked. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘What do you think?’ she replied. ‘That I’ve come to admire the tar paper? You know, I thought we had a deal, but you’re obviously too busy fucking Guy’s asshole brains out to remember. When are you gonna wise up to him, Daisy? Can’t you see that he’s just using you?’
Daisy said nothing, just glared at her in silent fury.
‘You know, I thought we were friends so I figure the least you can do is keep your promise to me. I need another sample for my drugs test and I needed it yesterday, now are you gonna help me out, or what?’
A wave of anger slowly began to come over Daisy. How dare Montana speak to her like this and how dare she be so bitchy about Guy into the bargain? Stupid, selfish bitch, she thought to herself as the colour rose in her cheeks.
‘Well?’ demanded Montana.
Daisy thought for a moment, the mischievous side of her brain working overtime.
‘Christ, Daisy, I have better things to do than stand on a freezing rooftop waiting on your Barbie brain to make a decision. Do we have a fucking deal or not?’
It was the Barbie comment that swung it. Daisy breathed deeply to suppress her fury and flashed her beautiful smile at Montana. ‘You have nothing to worry about. I’ll have it for you tonight.’
Montana didn’t even bother to thank her, just turned on her kitten heels and clambered back down the stairs. As soon as she was out of sight, Daisy started sniggering. There was no doubt about it, Montana was asking for her come-uppance and by Jesus she’d get it tonight. As she slowly began to hoist the standard up the flagpole, waves of laughter got the better of her. Just wait till she told Guy! He would be so thrilled with her for helping him to bring Montana down a peg or two. He always said that Montana Jones was the George Bush of the film world, thick, talentless and utterly beyond all hope. Wait till he heard about this little prank!
‘You’d think a prerequisite for being an actor would be that you could actually act, but a wooden sideboard would make a better Magnolia O’Mara than that talentless bitch,’ he’d said to her in one of his more poetic moments, as they both snuggled up in his huge four-poster bed the previous night. ‘Some actors should just stick to doing porn,’ was his final word on the professional prospects of Miss Montana Jones.
As Daisy checked to make sure that the standard was flying straight, she paused for a moment to survey the view from the parapet. A childhood spent chasing over those very rooftops had left her fearless about heights; any normal person would have demanded a bungee rope before balancing precariously on the balustrade as she was doing now. It was a beautiful clear day and the roof was so high that she could easily see as far as Ballyroan. Glancing down towards the River Kilcullen on her left, she dimly made out Lucasta, standing in the river buck naked waving a stick around, doing her incantations. Daisy giggled aloud. This was an annual Midsummer ritual of her mother’s to invoke the blessing of some pagan goddess on the night’s festivities. Well, she thought, I certainly won’t need some ancient goddess with a name that sounds like a panty liner with wings to help me have a good time tonight! Further afield, over towards the Mausoleum, she could see the film crew like tiny dots in the distance, beavering away, setting up a shot by the looks of it. She could also make out Guy in his Victorian white linen lounge suit, looking like a Greek god, she thought lovingly. It was his favourite costume, he’d told her (‘So how badly do you wanna fuck me in this?’ were his actual words), and he made the girls in wardrobe launder it freshly for him each day.
Then, coming from a long way off, she heard a sound like blades whirring, growing gradually louder and louder. She hadn’t noticed before, but there seemed to be a small gaggle of photographers and a TV crew beginning to congregate at the main entrance gates. Daisy tittered. They’d probably seen the National Intruder and wanted a follow-up story and more embarrassing pictures, if that were possible.
All of a sudden, everyone’s attention was drawn upwards as a helicopter hove into view coming from the Dublin direction. Daisy momentarily forgot all about her hair appointment as she too almost gave herself whiplash from staring up. The helicopter came closer and closer as Daisy stood on the parapet, straining forward to see who was in it. It was at her eye level now, the gale from the blades whipping Daisy’s hair and making it stand on end. The pilot seemed to be vainly searching for a spot on the forecourt to land on that wasn’t entirely covered in either trailers or cables, but while he looked, poor Daisy was subjected to Hurricane Harry, causing her to sway on her feet.
The pilot appeared to give up on the idea of landing in front of the house, and in one great sweeping motion tilted the helicopter dramatically to the right and whooshed on towards a muddy-looking empty field just beyond the tennis courts. This was the end for poor Daisy though, who’d already lost her balance from the force of the wind. Just as the helicopter whipped out of sight, she fell. And fell. And fell.
Now I know just how Alice in Wonderland felt, was the insane thought that flicked through her mind. Everything’s happening in slow motion, I’ll see a fucking white rabbit next. They say that just before you drown your whole life flashes before your eyes, but in Daisy’s case, all she could think about were Lewis Carroll books. She was screaming for dear life without even knowing it, then suddenly . . .THUD!
There was a split second when Daisy wondered if she’d died and was now in some kind of Purgatory. She lay on her back looking up at the sky thinking: Funny that Purgatory looks just like the view from the roof of our Ballroom. A heartbeat later, she became aware of a searing, raw pain in her left ankle and looking down she saw that it was fast swelling to twice its normal size. For fuck’s sake, she thought. The biggest knees-up of our calendar year and I’ve gone and sprained m
y ankle. Then, tentatively, she put her hand out to feel . . . plastic. Gently, very gently, she eased herself up into a sitting position. She was still alive anyway . . . she thought. Lucasta always said that Daisy was like a reincarnated cat with nine lives and now here was proof. Gripping on to the ledge with trembling hands she realized that she’d fallen down two floors on to the slate roof of the Ballroom, but miraculously, the black bin liners they had covering the leaky holes in the roof had broken her fall. Holy Christ, she thought, I owe my life to Tesco’s extra-strength wheelie-bin liners.
Still trembling, she looked over to the field where the helicopter had just landed. The ground was ankle deep in mud from all the rain they’d been having and she could see the machine slowly starting to sink into it. Just then, the pilot opened the passenger door and out stepped . . . Ella Hepburn. At least, Daisy assumed it had to be her, even though she was at a distance. She was entirely clad in fur, even though it was June, wore sunglasses and was carrying what appeared to be a white fluffy handbag (but turned out to be a tiny Pekinese dog). She made absolutely no attempt to move, just stood there as though expecting a Chinese litter to arrive and carry her over the mud so her high heels wouldn’t be ruined. A Queen Elizabeth waiting for Sir Walter Ralegh. If Daisy hadn’t been in such acute pain, she’d have giggled. Bloody diva, she thought, wait till Guy sees the state of her. He’ll crack up.
Just at that moment, Guy himself, followed by most of the crew, raced over to the helicopter and seemed to be bending down to kiss Ella Hepburn’s hand. Brilliant, she thought, if I scream loud enough he’ll hear me and carry me back inside. Swelling her lungs out to their fullest, like Kiri te Kanawa launching into an aria, she yelled his name so loudly they could have heard her in Wales. But Guy didn’t respond. He seemed to be so engrossed in meeting his screen mother that Daisy’s plaintive wailing fell on deaf ears.
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