He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me

by Claudia Carroll

  Shamie paused for a moment, contemplating the greatness which lay ahead. ‘Jaysus, didn’t we come a long way from selling slurry to cattle farmers, all the same, luv!’

  ‘We did not sell slurry, we were in the waste management business, ya fecking eejit,’ she replied, pulling her four-by-four Land-rover over at the drop-off point beside the entrance to the business-class departure lounge. ‘Now, have ya got everything, tickets, passport, money?’

  ‘All here, me luv,’ he replied, patting the bulging pockets of his tweed tartan jacket.

  ‘And the Minister didn’t seem to think there’d be bother in tracking him down?’ she asked for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Not a problem in the world,’ he replied, hauling from the seat behind him a huge suitcase covered in the same bright yellow tartan as his matching hat and jacket.

  ‘Sure, how many seventy-year-old men with eighteen-year-old girlfriends are there going be in the big casinos?’

  ‘Most of them, I’d fecking think, if that programme on Sky, Las Vegas Uncovered, is anything to go by,’ Bridie replied, checking in the driver’s mirror to make sure her mascara hadn’t run.

  ‘Don’t you be worrying, luv, the Minister knows a fella in the consulate in Nevada, who knows a fella, who knows a fella who’ll sort me out. And if all else fails, sure, all we have to do is make a tour of every blackjack table in every casino in the city! How hard can that be?’

  ‘You gave his mother horse pee to drink?’

  Portia could hardly believe her ears. A rush of fury came over her but disappeared just as quickly when she remembered the grim task that lay ahead of her that morning. She and Steve had agreed at the party that they should waste no time in communicating the bad news to the rest of the family, Mrs Flanagan included. Kind-hearted Steve had even volunteered to call over that morning to go over everything in detail with them and see what could be done. If, indeed, anything could be done.

  ‘But I thought you’d be really pleased with me!’ Daisy wailed. ‘Mrs de Courcey’s an old witch and she behaved monstrously last night. For God’s sake, Portia, I caught her spying on you, probably checking to see if you’re good enough for her precious Andrew. I felt like singing that song “Watching the Detectives”.’

  Portia rose wearily out of the bed with her head pounding just as relentlessly as it had done the previous night. Steve had managed to unearth a sleeping tablet from the medicine chest in the family bathroom which he’d insisted on her taking before she went to bed. It had certainly done the trick, she was completely knocked out all night, but was now feeling the ill-effects of it; she felt groggy and sluggish.

  ‘I’m not even going to ask what horse pee was doing in the fridge in the first place,’ she said, bending down to pick up her new white dress from the floor where it had fallen. For all the good an expensive outfit did me last night, she thought ruefully.

  ‘It was . . . emm, fermenting,’ replied Daisy. As Portia picked up a towel and headed for the bathroom, Daisy jerked upright from where she’d been sprawled all over her sister’s bed, surprised at Portia’s reaction to what was only ever meant as a joke. ‘Don’t go yet,’ she pleaded, ‘that’s not even half of what I’ve got to tell you. Something really awful happened last night with Guy, and then I went and did something, well, a bit stupid . . .’

  ‘Darling, I’ll see you downstairs in five minutes,’ Portia answered dully on her way out the door.

  Whatever the awful thing was that happened between Daisy and Guy, she thought, it’ll be a walk in the park compared with what I’ve got to tell her.

  It was a rare, warm, sunny morning and as Portia stood under the tiny trickle of lukewarm water from the ancient shower in the family bathroom (‘About as much water pressure as an old man spitting from the shower-head,’ Daisy used regularly to complain) her mind raced. Yet she wasn’t thinking about the huge threat that was now hanging over Davenport Hall like a giant sword of Damocles. No, just for a moment, she allowed herself to think about Andrew. He’d never even shown up last night, which was odd, to say the least. Nor had he phoned to let her know that he wasn’t coming, which, considering how they’d been practically joined at the hip for the past couple of weeks, was nothing short of rude.

  Mind you, once Steve had dropped the bombshell on her, the whole night had gone into a blur, but a few awful things did stand out. She remembered him sitting her down in the gazebo and crying and then feeling his arms around her and the smell of his aftershave. Then, in another hazy, woozy blur, she remembered him bringing her up to her room, laying her gently down on the bed, and then leaving her in peace to try to get some rest. The sleeping pill had acted quickly; minutes later she was comatose, in a deep, troubled sleep punctuated with wild dreams about Andrew.

  She dreamt she was wearing a wedding dress, sitting in Ballyroan church, watching Andrew get married to Edwina. Weird. And what was even weirder was that, at the same time, she kept imagining that he was in bed beside her. At one point she stretched her arms out, fully sure that he was there; he’d arrived late, her subconscious mind told her, and come straight upstairs to her. His side of the bed even felt warm, but he wasn’t there. Maybe he’d phone her later, she thought, stepping out of the shower and slipping a towel around her before padding back to her room in her bare feet. Or better still, just call over to the Hall as he’d done every single day since they’d met. She sighed deeply as she looked out of the window, where the film crew were madly setting up for yet another day’s work.

  If ever I needed him, she thought, I need him today.

  Meanwhile, the door of Daisy’s bedroom door opened and a head peeked round. The coast was clear. Good. Then, pulling a T-shirt inside out over his head, he tentatively crept along the second-floor corridor, being careful not to tramp on any floorboards which were too squeaky.

  ‘Oh Paddy, lovely to see you, aren’t you quite the early riser!’

  ‘AHHHH JAYSUS!’ Poor Paddy almost leapt out of his skin to see Lucasta standing behind him with her arms full of empty wine bottles.

  ‘Ah, yer majesty, howaya?’ he said nervously. ‘I bet yer’re wondering what I’m doing up here, well the truth is . . . emm—’ He broke off, frantically trying to think of a good lie.

  ‘I couldn’t give a tuppenny fuck what you’re doing here,’ replied her ladyship, ‘but now that I’ve found you, darling, could you do me the most enormous favour?’

  Twenty minutes later, Paddy found himself outside the gate lodge beside the main entrance gates to the Hall, where about a dozen journalists, radio reporters and a TV crew from a national news station had all gathered. The month of June, it seemed, was a silly season in terms of news and so the story about a semi-derelict manor house being taken over by a Hollywood film crew was now being classified as hot news. Especially when you threw a legend like Ella Hepburn into the mix; just a picture of her alone could earn a photographer upwards of ten thousand euros, easily.

  Lucasta, in her permanent quest to generate a quick buck, had spotted the marketing potential of the situation immediately. She had driven down to the gates earlier that morning, a monster hangover notwithstanding, and had set up a picnic table covered in bottles of her Davenport water. Now, just as the press were arriving, she was waiting for them like a praying mantis. Nodding like a waggy dog at Paddy, she gave him his cue to ‘casually saunter’ over to the table.

  ‘Good morning, yer ladyship,’ he said in the stilted delivery of a particularly bad amateur actor but loudly enough for the press boys to hear. ‘I am here because Ella Hepburn, that famous star of stage and screen, has sent me to buy some of your world-renowned Eau de Davenport. She says she will drink fuck all else— Oh shit! Sorry, yer majesty,’ Paddy whispered the last bit, embarrassed at cursing when a TV camera was pointing at him.

  ‘Lads, youse won’t show that bit, will yis?’ he called out to the assembled media. ‘My ma would kill me if she found out I used bad language on the telly.’

  ‘Keep going, sweetie, it�
�s working a treat,’ Lucasta hissed back at him.

  ‘And as for them other legends of the silver screen, Montana Jones and Guy van der Post,’ Paddy went on, as a battery of flashbulbs popped in his face, ‘why, they claim that Eau de Davenport is good enough to wash yourself in.’

  Then, smiling beatifically for the cameras, Lucasta whipped the cork from one of the bottles and gracefully handed it over to Paddy.

  ‘How wonderfully kind of you,’ she said. ‘You must try some of my Eau de Davenport for yourself.’

  Then, as rehearsed, Paddy took a few gulps from the bottle before turning back to the cameras, making sure that it was impossible for them to miss the label. ‘Why, it’s so amazing, I can’t believe it’s not alcohol,’ he said in fake surprise.

  ‘Now, don’t forget the tag line,’ Lucasta urged him under her breath.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he replied, ‘I forgot.’ Raising his voice a few decibels he said, ‘Eau de Davenport. Truly the drink of kings.’

  ‘Well done!’ she applauded him, delighted at the success of her free marketing scam. Then, addressing the assembled media, she said, ‘Now then, darlings, how many bottles would each of you like to order?’

  Serge was in a complete tizz. Caroline had just come thumping on the door of the make-up trailer demanding to know why he hadn’t begun making up Ella Hepburn yet. ‘We’re scheduled to begin shooting the mother-and-son reunion scene in an hour’s time; I cannot believe that you don’t have her ready to go on camera.’

  Serge nervously patted his chest and waved his hands in front of him, indicating to Caroline that he was having great difficulty breathing. ‘In for two and out for four,’ he kept repeating, inhaling and exhaling with the controlled precision of a yoga master.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Caroline asked, worried now. ‘May I get you something?’

  Serge nodded, indicating one of his make-up bags, which lay open on the table in front of her. Caroline began to root through it, eventually producing a tiny bottle of Rescue Remedy, which he immediately snatched from her. He didn’t bother with the little dropper, he just unscrewed the lid and knocked the whole thing back in one gulp.

  ‘Oh, that is so much better,’ he said, feeling the warm hit from the brandy it contained rush through him. ‘Honey, you have absolutely no idea how très difficile this is for me. Ella Hepburn! I’ve been watching her movies ever since I was in diapers, I had my first kiss at a drive-in where she was starring in Cleopatra Two, Rise of the Mummies, and in the club scene I’m part of in LA, she’s like a living icon! You know when elderly people say they remember exactly what they were doing when they heard that Kennedy was shot? Well, I remember exactly what I was doing when I heard she was divorcing Kent Douglas for the second time. And now, here I am, about to do her make-up! Oh God, I am so unworthy!’

  ‘You have exactly one hour,’ Caroline replied, unmoved by his prima donna carry-on.

  Serge breathed deeply, picked up his make-up bag and headed for Miss Hepburn’s trailer. He paused for a moment to compose himself and to repeat his mantra. ‘Living legends have feet of clay, living legends have feet of clay,’ he whispered to himself before knocking.

  ‘Yes!’ came the reply from inside.

  Taking another deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. ‘Oh Miss Hepburn, I know I’m not worthy to apply your foundation, but just say the word and—’

  ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

  Serge almost passed out. Ella Hepburn was lying naked in bed with Guy on top of her shagging her for all he was worth.

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ he groaned, on the brink of orgasm, completely ignoring Serge standing at the door with his jaw somewhere on the floor.

  ‘Well, I guess this will add a whole new dynamic to the mother-and-son scene, won’t it?’ Serge said, unable to resist the quip before turning on his heel and banging the door behind him.

  Later that morning, a scene of a very different type was unfolding in the Library of Davenport Hall.

  ‘Now you listen here for a minute,’ Mrs Flanagan said threateningly to Steve, as if somehow all this was his doing. ‘I may be stupid, but I’m not completely thick. You can go on all ya like about County Councils and planning permission and land rezoning, but gobshite and all as he is I can’t see Shamie Nolan going ahead with this.’

  Steve wearily rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, wondering if, apart from Portia, any of them had taken in a single word he was saying. Lucasta was gaping at him in deep shock and Daisy had already started to bawl. The foresighted Portia had anticipated this reaction and was now handing out great wads of Kleenex to her.

  ‘What Steve is trying to explain is that the matter is entirely out of our hands,’ she said, deliberately keeping her voice calm. ‘Shamie Nolan has already applied to the planning authorities in Dublin to have our land rezoned. Now, if he’s successful and the planning application goes ahead, then all they have to do is issue a compulsory purchase order on us and we have no choice, we have to sell.’

  ‘But, sweetie, I don’t quite understand,’ said Lucasta, still in shock. ‘How can anyone force us to sell our home and our land if we don’t want to? Can’t we just tell them all to bugger off?’

  Steve glanced over at Portia, knowing that one of them would have to explain, yet again.

  ‘A compulsory purchase order is issued by the County Council only on a building which has first been condemned,’ he said as gently as he could.

  ‘But nobody would condemn Davenport Hall,’ said Lucasta, aghast at the thought. ‘It’s our home! It’s part of the nation’s heritage! They simply couldn’t do it—’

  ‘Mummy, may I remind you that Daisy almost fell through the roof and nearly broke her neck only yesterday. We’ve got to be realistic, the Hall could be condemned in a heartbeat.’

  ‘Oh Portia, you have such a cruel streak!’ sobbed Lucasta, reaching out for the Kleenex.

  ‘But isn’t there anything we can do?’ wailed Daisy, rocking back and forth in her chair, inconsolable.

  ‘There is one ray of light,’ Steve went on. ‘But only one. Your father is the legal owner of the Hall, so if we can get to him and persuade him not to sell under any circumstances, there’s a chance we could stall any condemnation order until the Hall could be renovated to pass the Council’s safety standards, although where we get the money to do that is another matter entirely.’

  Daisy sat forward, brightening a little. ‘Steve, you’re a genius,’ she declared. ‘Of course! That’s the answer! Daddy would never consent to sell Davenport Hall in a million years, no matter how much money he was offered. Not in a million years!’

  ‘In a million years, I never thought Blackjack would sell up this easily,’ Shamie said into the mouthpiece of the phone, having to raise his voice because the connection from Vegas to Ballyroan was so crackly.

  ‘Yer’re a darlin’ man,’ replied Bridie from the comfort of her customized kitchen: ‘I’m delighted with ya, Shamie, Donald Trump couldn’t have done better. And how much did he sell for?’

  ‘This is the best part, luv, I hope yer’re sitting down for this,’ Shamie shouted, barely able to contain himself. ‘Two million. Only two million! Sure, once we get the planning permission, the land alone will be worth ten times that!’

  ‘And did ya get everything signed, sealed and delivered, all above board?’

  ‘Signed, sealed and delivered,’ her husband replied, delighted with himself. ‘Sure, Blackjack had the cheque ripped out of me hand before the ink was barely dry. So tell us, luv, how does it feel to be the new Lady of the Manor?’

  Chapter Seventeen

  EDWINA HAD NO difficulty whatsoever in finding Mrs de Courcey’s room. As she clip-clopped on her Jimmy Choos down the corridor of Kildare General Hospital clutching a hand-tied bouquet of stargazer lilies, she was fully aware of the admiring glances she was attracting from a passing group of student doctors. Sensing that this stunning-looking woman was a bit lost, one of them even volunteered to escort her
all the way up to the second-floor intensive care unit, where a sign on the door read, ‘Immediate Family Only Beyond This Point’. Without even pausing to consider, she buzzed loudly on the intercom. A few seconds later, a surly-looking matron answered the door.

  ‘May I help you?’

  ‘Yes thank you, I’m here to see Mrs Susan de Courcey.’

  ‘Are you her daughter?’

  Edwina smirked. ‘In a manner of speaking, yes; now can you please just let me in?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, immediate family only,’ replied the matron and was about to slam the door in Edwina’s plucked, powdered face when one of the male consultants came down the corridor. In one expert movement, Edwina whipped the clip from the back of her straight, blonde hair, allowing it to tumble sexily about her bare shoulders.

  ‘Can you help me at all, I wonder?’ she asked him, flashing him with the full force of her perfect smile. ‘It’s just that I’ve driven all the way from Dublin to see a friend, and you know, it’s not that I’d stay for long or anything, I just want to give her these.’ She simpered, indicating the flowers.

  He looked at her, utterly unable to resist. Few men could, when Edwina really chose to turn it on. ‘Oh, I think we can make an exception just this once, can’t we, matron?’ he said, holding the door open for her. Edwina breezed through, not even bothering to thank him now she’d achieved her objective.

  ‘Edwina, darling, you’re so sweet to have come to see me,’ Mrs de Courcey said in a feeble voice, lamely attempting to sit up in her bed.

  ‘Let me help you,’ her dutiful daughter-in-law-elect said, rushing to help prop up the pillows at her back. ‘How are you feeling, you poor thing?’

  ‘A little better, thanks, but still as weak as a cat,’ Mrs de Courcey replied, with a look of suffering on her pale face that Mother Teresa would have envied.