A moment later, Guy whisked Ella Hepburn up into his arms, fluffy dog and all, and waded through the knee-deep mud towards the Hall.
Daisy could hardly believe her eyes. And he was even wearing the cream linen suit.
Chapter Fifteen
‘HAVE THE CAP twisters arrived yet?’ Lucasta asked, as she was about to make her grand entrance down the oak staircase.
‘Half the bleeding town’s here, freeloading bastards,’ Mrs Flanagan snarled back at her, on her way to put last-minute squirts of Parazone into the upstairs bathrooms.
‘Righty-oh then, let the games commence!’ replied Lucasta, adjusting her turban. ‘How do I look?’ This was the one night of the year when she actually got out of her smelly wax jacket and made an effort to dress up. However, her idea of an appropriate outfit for the occasion was to wear her Midsummer High Priestess robes, which she’d purchased at a car-boot sale in Thurles about ten years previously. Lucasta was utterly convinced they made her look like a pagan goddess whereas a mad middle-aged witch wearing a white sheet with a hole cut out for the head was somewhat nearer the mark.
‘How much would ya charge to haunt a house?’ was Mrs Flanagan’s parting shot.
Blithely ignoring her, Lucasta swept down the staircase to meet and greet. Half the town was indeed gathered there but the first person she bumped into was Steve. In spite of being horribly overworked, somehow he’d found time that afternoon to heed Mrs Flanagan’s advice, at least partially. He was still stuck in one of his trademark 1980s candy-striped shirts, but had actually forced himself into having a drastic haircut. Mrs Flanagan had been right; it did make him look a full ten years younger.
‘Jesus, Steve, is that you? I hardly recognized you, what have you done to yourself?’ said Lucasta, peering at him. Then, effortlessly switching into hostess mode, she chirped, ‘Well, it’s too divine of you to come! You heard about poor Daisy?’
‘Yes, I did, but actually there was some rather important business I needed to discuss with you, if you have a moment to spare—’
‘Darling, I can’t believe you’d want to talk boring business in the middle of a piss-up! Later, sweetheart, later, I must go and make sure all the bottles of Eau de Davenport are prominently placed at the drinks table . . .’And she was gone towards the Ballroom, where a trestle table with a bed sheet covering it doubled as a makeshift bar. She barged her way through the throng, being unable to get into the party spirit without a few stiff gins, and bumped into Paddy doing exactly the same thing.
‘Ah howaya, emm, yer majesty?’ he greeted her, unsure of how to address landed gentry.
‘Who are you now?’ Lucasta replied, pouring herself a triple gin with only a wisp of tonic going into it. ‘Cap twister or a film type?’
‘Emm, I’m working on the film, yer majesty,’ Paddy replied. ‘Jaysus, I never woulda worn this T-shirt if I’d known I was going to be meeting royalty.’ (His T-shirt bore a picture of a pair of double D breasts and read, ‘Suck ’em and see’.) Then, nervously trying to make an impression on the mother of the girl he fancied, he added, ‘So, like, would the Queen be your sister then or what?’
‘Well, I know my husband was related to her distantly,’ Lucasta replied, infinitely more chatty now she had a drink in her hand, ‘because I seem to remember him writing to her to borrow money, which he did to all of his bastard relatives, you know. I can’t remember what happened, I suppose she told him to fuck off like the rest of them, silly bitch.’
Paddy grinned broadly at her, never for one moment expecting the Lady of the Manor to have such a foul mouth. ‘You’re not a bad aul’ bird, you know,’ he said admiringly. ‘I’ve loads of mates who are, eh, let’s just say associated with a certain republican movement and I’m going to tell them I met a posh Brit who was all right.’
‘But I’m not British at all, darling. I may be drunk but I’m not British—’ Lucasta began, puzzled as to what he meant, but Paddy interrupted her.
‘So like, I know about Daisy and Guy and all, but do you think it’d be cool for me to chat her up, like?’
‘Go ahead, she’s sitting right beside the grand piano in the Long Gallery. She’s immobile for the night, you know, fell off the roof earlier. Christ, I hope the big lump didn’t tear the bin liners up there, or if it rains, we’re all fucked.’
Shamie and Bridie Nolan were running a good hour late for the party, all down to their feckless and unreliable babysitter. The gormless teenager had had the gall to arrive forty-five minutes late, claiming that she was at Saturday evening Mass. ‘Now, what kind of religious service would give you a hickey like that on your neck, is what I’d like to know!’ Bridie had remarked acidly on their way out of the door. The final straw was when she discovered a huge ladder down the side of her tights as they were driving through Ballyroan. Several rows later, she finally got Shamie to pull his brand-new Jaguar over right outside Spar so she could dash in quickly to buy a spare pair. Bridie was especially proud of her outfit tonight and was damned if she was going to let a knackered-looking pair of tights ruin it on her. It was a purple and red confection, a copy of Posh Spice’s wedding dress. The kindest thing you could say about it was that it was probably more suited to a Flamenco dancer or someone who pole danced in nightclubs for cash.
‘Jaysus, Bridie, would ya get a move on or we’ll miss all the food!’ Shamie had said to her as she got back into the car clutching a new pair of tights (extra extra large size).
‘Ah, feck off,’ his wife replied, thrusting her hands up her dress to take off the laddered pair. ‘If the food’s anything like last year’s then I’m doing ya a favour, ya eejit. Egg sandwiches and a few aul’ vol-au-vents still frozen in the middle! Is that anything to serve guests? Jaysus, I couldn’t go to the loo for a full week.’
Shamie laughed and scratched his head where it was itching beneath his tartan cap. ‘Well, just think, me love, this could very well be the last time we’ll be at any kind of social hosted by the Davenports!’
Bridie began to relax a bit. ‘Thank Jaysus it’s dark, at least no one will see me changing me tights,’ she said, struggling to haul her chunky white thunder thighs on to the dashboard of the car as she inelegantly pulled the old tights off and the new ones up. She was by now almost straddling the gear stick with her enormous hips in the air; not a sight for the faint-hearted.
As Shamie swerved to the left at the gates of the Hall, suddenly a battery of flashbulbs exploded in their faces. ‘Holy God! What in the name of Jaysus was that?’ said Bridie at the top of her voice.
‘Press,’ replied Shamie, never unhappy to see any member of the fourth estate. Column inches were like mother’s milk to a country politician with his sights set on higher things. ‘They probably think we’re more fillum stars after arriving!’ he added, greatly tickled by his own gag.
‘But they’ll have seen me gusset!’ shrieked his wife. ‘I can just see the fecking headlines now. “Tight Squeeze”, or even worse, “Tight Arse”. Jaysus, Shamie, all I can say is, the night’s off to a great fecking start.’
As his Jaguar sped over the potholes and on towards the Hall, the bickering continued. Bridie never even noticed that a few intrepid reporters, led by the National Intruder’s Tony Pitt, had begun to follow them on foot, scarcely able to believe their luck at the total lack of security at the Hall. (‘Why in hell don’t we try to get inside?’ Tony had asked a colleague from the Irish Press. ‘If someone can gatecrash Prince William’s twenty-first birthday party, surely we can get in here?’)
If Bridie had heard that, then she really would have had something to moan about.
With poor Daisy injured, Portia had barely had time to change for the Ball, never mind luxuries such as applying make-up. Andrew had dropped her back at the Hall earlier that afternoon and had silently helped to unload the cases of wine and beer they’d bought. He wasn’t frosty or in any way rude, just silent, totally unlike his usual chatty, effervescent self. As they carried boxes into the Ballroom, Portia
racked her brains to think of a way of bringing up the big subject. She so badly wanted to ask what it was he’d wanted to say to her, but hadn’t a clue how to broach it. You stupid, stupid girl, she lectured herself as they both walked wordlessly back out to his car. Well, you’ve learnt a valuable lesson today. There’s a time to discuss defrosting lamb kebabs and a time to keep your mouth shut.
She was spared any further agonies of indecision by the sound of Daisy screaming like a banshee from the roof where the poor thing had been stranded for hours. Ever the gentleman, Andrew had gallantly helped carry Daisy down the stone steps and all the way to the Library, while Portia rushed downstairs for some ice to keep the swelling down. But he didn’t stick around, he just muttered something about going home to change and that he’d see her later.
Portia said goodbye, surprised that he hadn’t kissed her, and watched his car speed down the driveway. Something was gnawing away at her stomach, a disquieting feeling that all wasn’t well with him. She knew she’d have to try to speak to him privately at the Ball tonight, which, given the number of guests her mother had invited, was easier said than done. She wished she had the guts to tell him how she felt, how the last couple of weeks with him had been the most amazing she’d ever known, about the butterflies that had permanently taken up residence in her stomach since they’d met, the sleepless nights spent thinking about him, the way her knees went weak when his eyes twinkled at her and this burning ache she felt inside, just watching his car drive off and knowing that she’d annoyed him.
And, worst of all, there was the voice in her head, ever present since they first met, which just kept repeating the same thing, over and over again.
Why on earth would someone like Andrew want to be with me?
It took a lot longer than expected but eventually the sisters had inched their way to Daisy’s second-floor room, with Portia supporting her and Daisy squealing, ‘Ow, ow, ow,’ every step of the way. As luck would have it, Portia remembered that there was an old pair of crutches upstairs in the nursery, which had once belonged to their great-grandfather, Ernest Davenport. He’d broken his leg in a Flanders trench during the First World War, which at the time was considered to be a very lucky injury; at least you got to go home in one piece to recuperate and your war was well and truly over. (To this day, the phrase ‘break a leg’ so beloved of luvvie types is thought to bring good fortune.)
So Portia trooped upstairs and rooted them out for Daisy, stopping to phone their local GP on her way. He wasn’t there and his locum made such a pathetic excuse about not being available to call over to see Daisy that Portia put the phone down in disgust. Tales about the Davenports’ complete inability to pay up even for urgent medical care had travelled far and wide, it seemed.
‘Never mind, darling,’ she’d said soothingly as Daisy practised using her crutches, ‘Sean Murphy’ll be here tonight, we’ll get him to have a look at your ankle. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’
‘The fucking vet?’ replied Daisy, outraged. ‘Is that what things have come to?’
Portia said nothing, and left Daisy hobbling about the room as she went to get ready. Oh God, she thought, I’m so late! It was already eight o’clock and she was beginning to hear cars pulling up the gravelled driveway outside.
She’d planned her outfit so carefully for the Ball (a stunning white silk full-length evening dress which accentuated her height and slender figure to perfection. Even the snotty shop assistant in Kildare, where she’d splashed out on it a few days ago, had told her she looked like a Greek goddess and it wasn’t often Portia was complimented.) But now, there was barely time to change and tie her hair up before the front doorbell started clanging. She didn’t mind a bit how she looked. Tonight, she had other things on her mind.
A few days earlier, at Guy’s suggestion, Daisy had had the foresight to hire a DJ to really get things going at the party.
‘I couldn’t bear another Ball like last year’s,’ she’d told him. ‘Mummy hired a ceilidh band who played the same bloody song over and over all night. At least, it sounded like the same song.’
The DJ was now really warming up, expertly bleeding one floor-filling number into another and totally unaware that large raindrops were now pelting through the torn bin liners on the roof and plopping right on to his sound equipment.
Portia had just at that moment come into the Ballroom and glanced around to see if Andrew was there when suddenly there was a great crackle and a puff of blue smoke right where the DJ had been standing. Portia and Steve were neck and neck in the race to see if he was badly injured.
‘Are you all right?’ Portia asked worriedly as he lay flat out on the floor.
‘Don’t touch me whatever you do,’ replied the DJ, who was as white as a sheet, ‘I think I could be live.’
‘Can I get you anything? Some water?’ she asked, terrified.
‘Yeah, you can get me the fuck out of here,’ he answered. ‘I feel like I’m working on the Titanic.’
‘He’s OK,’ Steve said reassuringly, ‘although I think maybe he could do with some air.’
Before Portia knew what was happening, Serge was at her side, leaping up and down with excitement. ‘Honey, I have waited all my life for a chance like this – my shot at being Boy George, or a sort of cuter version of Fatboy Slim! By the way, baby, you’re looking hot, hot, hot tonight, in an understated Nicole Kidman sort of way . . . Andrew’s a lucky son of a bitch. You just give me two minutes, I’ll be right back!’ In a flash, he’d run out of the rotting French door which led into the garden and disappeared into the darkness. Moments later he was back, drenched to the bone and carrying a portable CD player and a huge pile of CDs. ‘No make-up bus I’ve ever worked in can do without mood music,’ he said to Portia by way of explanation. Then, in one elegant movement, he leapt over the DJ’s turntable, whipped on his headphones and started rooting through the stacks and stacks of CDs for any number performed by Barbra Streisand or the Village People.
‘You do look wonderful,’ Steve added, looking her up and down admiringly. ‘The dress is a show stopper.’
‘Thank you,’ she answered, smiling at him. ‘Great haircut, by the way, Steve, you look like your own younger brother.’
She was just about to offer him a drink when he took her aside, so Serge couldn’t overhear. ‘Look,’ he said gently, with that tired, well-worn look coming into his eyes, ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day and I know this isn’t exactly the time or the place, but the fact is . . . there’s never going to be a right time to say this so I may as well tell you now.’
‘Steve, what’s the matter?’ Portia asked, thinking it must be something to do with Daisy and those awful photos in the National Intruder.
‘Let’s find somewhere quiet where we can talk.’
* * *
I’ve had some shitty nights in my time, but this beats fucking Christmas, Daisy thought furiously as she sat alone in the Long Gallery, where Sean Murphy had just finished examining her ankle. It was just a sprain, he told her, nothing to worry about, but in the meantime, she was on the substitutes bench for the foreseeable future.
‘Rest, ice, compression and elevation,’ he’d ordered her, ‘and absolutely no alcohol whatsoever.’
Daisy flashed her blue eyes at him, bitterly remembering the last time they’d met in the de Courceys’ house, when she’d called him just about every name under the sun. This isn’t the way you were supposed to meet an ex-boyfriend, she thought. She should have been in the Ballroom looking stunning with Guy by her side flirting with her and no one else and not caring who knew that they were a couple. ‘This is who I’m with now, and compared with him, you’re fucking destitute,’ was the message she wanted to convey loud and clear to Sean bloody Murphy.
But she hadn’t set eyes on Guy all afternoon. She’d given Mrs Flanagan strict instructions to let him know about her accident, that she was still in one piece, but was laid up in her bedroom, badly wanting to see him. But he never came n
ear her. Something must have happened, she reasoned, he’d been delayed on the set or something, but still . . . he could have found five minutes to pop upstairs to see if she was OK.
‘So where did you put it?’
Daisy was roused from her thoughts and looked up to see Montana, dressed in what looked like a pair of silk pyjamas.
‘Listen, Daisy, I’ve got Caroline screaming at me for a sample and I need it right now. For the last fucking time, where is it?’
Daisy eyeballed her without flinching. ‘In the fridge in the old servants’ kitchen, Montana. And just so you know, the sample isn’t actually mine either.’
‘What did you say?’ Montana’s tone cut like ice.
‘I drank a bit with Guy last night, so I wasn’t exactly clean. But don’t worry, the sample I got for you is as pure as a baby’s, I can promise you that.’
‘So where did you get it?’
Even though her ankle was throbbing, Daisy couldn’t suppress a giggle. ‘From someone called Kat Slater, actually.’
‘Daisy, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you, but, you know, I’ve been messed around here for the last time. If you think for one second—’
‘OH SHUT UP!’ Daisy shouted at her, unable to take any more abuse. ‘Can you get it into your thick skull the favour I’m doing you here? If I were to let it slip to Jimmy D. or Caroline that your drugs samples aren’t your own because you’re back on the bottle, let’s face it, you’re off the picture and back to La La Land to pick up your porn career where it left off. Now bugger off and leave me in peace! Can’t you see I’m injured?’
Montana was silenced. She gave Daisy the filthiest look imaginable before striding to the door. Then, as a parting shot, she said, ‘By the way, if you’re looking for Guy, he was last seen escorting Ella Hepburn to her room. And you wanna know something really weird? No one’s set eyes on him since.’
‘GET LOST!’ Daisy yelled after her. Montana must take her for a right eejit if she thought Daisy would ever believe that there was something going on between Guy and a woman old enough to be his grandmother. He was just making her feel welcome, and running lines with her or something, that’s all, she thought. Then the giggles got the better of her.
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