‘Yes, yes indeed,’ came the reply in that booming voice which could be heard in Cavan. ‘I’m in chambers all day but I wondered if we could meet for a chat tonight, if you’re free?’
‘Unfortunately, I have plans for this evening, but how about tomorrow? I could call at your house in the evening if you’re in court during the day.’
‘I’m afraid not. Loose lips cost ships, you know. I’m awfully sorry to inconvenience you, but we’ll have to meet in Dublin and it’ll have to be tonight. This won’t wait.’
Steve did indeed have plans for that night, which he was very reluctant to cancel. It was the annual Hunt Ball to be held in the Four Seasons Hotel in Dublin and every year he escorted the Davenport ladies. In spite of the upheaval the family had been through in recent weeks, this year was to be no different; they were still going, as usual. Daisy had bewailed the fact that it was the most boring night of the year and that she was sick of all those hunting-shooting-fishing types looking down their noses on the unfortunate Davenports. But, as Portia gently but firmly pointed out, they had to arrange for the horses on the estate to be stabled elsewhere when they moved out, and where better for them to organize this than at the Hunt Ball?
So when Steve called Portia later that day to cancel, she didn’t really mind, although her curiosity was piqued.
‘Promise you’ll tell me what old foghorn voice wants, won’t you?’ she’d pleaded.
Steve just smiled and said nothing, knowing there was something going on but not fully understanding the state of play between Andrew and Portia.
Lucasta also pulled out at the last minute, but for a very different reason. Along with half the country, Jimmy D. had seen her masterful performance on the TV news and had offered her a part in the film. He had long wanted to do something to help out his hosts and felt that casting one of them in the film was the ideal way to throw a little cash in their direction. A ‘special extra’ role, he had called it, which was a polite way of saying that she’d only have a few lines to say, but as far as Lucasta was concerned, she’d been discovered.
‘Now I know just how Lana Turner felt!’ she said, over the moon with excitement. ‘Do you know she was discovered working in an ice-cream parlour somewhere in America? I really think this is the start of a whole new career for me! I could be another Greta Garbo!’
‘And think of all the acting experience you already have, with all the times ya made up sob stories to tell the debt collectors,’ Mrs Flanagan replied, not a little pissed off that she hadn’t been asked. Especially as the part was that of a housekeeper.
‘Oh fuck off, you’re just jealous they asked me instead of you. Can I help it if I have these wonderful cheekbones that are just crying out to be filmed?’
To add insult to injury, Lucasta decided to spend the day trailing around after Mrs Flanagan to observe a housekeeper at work, so she could fully immerse herself in her role, but gave this up as a bad job after ten minutes.
‘You’re of absolutely no use to me whatsoever. For Christ’s sake, all you’re doing is sitting on your arse watching telly.’
‘Get the fuck out of my kitchen and don’t come back till after Oprah!’ Mrs Flanagan had screamed back at her, unable to take any more.
Then disaster had struck just as Portia and Daisy were setting off later that evening. They had arranged to drive into Dublin with Steve in the comfort of his big Jeep, but now that he’d cancelled, they were left with no choice but to take the Mini Metro. No sooner had Portia turned the key in the ignition than, there it was, the all-too-familiar chug, chug, chug sound.
‘Shit! Now what?’ Daisy groaned.
‘Are youse having trouble with that aul’ rust bucket?’ It was Paddy, carting a pile of cables into the Hall.
‘Oh fuck it,’ Daisy whispered. ‘Did he see me?’
‘Youse are both looking very well tonight,’ he said, leaning on the window, unable to take his eyes off Daisy, who did indeed look stunning in a strapless blue crushed velvet gown. Portia had just pulled on the only decent thing she had, which was the same white dress she’d worn to the Midsummer party. She’d scraped her hair back into a ponytail and hadn’t even bothered with make-up. What’s the point? she’d thought.
‘Givvus a look,’ Paddy said, letting Portia out of the driver’s seat and getting in himself. He turned the engine over a few times and then stuck his head out of the window. ‘Yeah, I think I can tell yis what the problem is all right,’ he said, like a doctor giving a diagnosis. ‘It’s fucked. Come on, I’ll drive yis.’
‘Paddy, you can’t!’ said Daisy, panicking. ‘What about the scene they’re filming tonight, won’t they miss you?’
‘Ah, sure, they can manage without me,’ he replied, gazing at her like a teenager in the throes of puppy love. If she’d asked him for a packet of fruit pastilles, he’d probably have flown through the poisoned gases of Mars to get it for her. Before either of them had a chance to protest, they were sitting side by side in the front seat of his white Hiace van, which was adorned with just about every mascot Arsenal ever produced, zooming down the motorway to Dublin.
When they arrived at the Four Seasons (in record time), neither sister could fail to notice that theirs was the only van pulling up amongst all the assembled Mercs and BMWs in the hotel car-park. The Davenports arriving in style, as usual, Portia thought.
‘Paddy, you must come in with us for a drink,’ she said, clambering out of the passenger side, ignoring the filthy look Daisy was flashing at her.
‘Ah Jaysus, yeah, cool. I’m dying for a pint of Bulmers,’ Paddy answered, delighted with the way his evening was turning out.
‘What did you have to go and do that for?’ Daisy growled at her in the Ladies a few minutes later. ‘Now we’ll be stuck with him all night!’
‘Darling, he drove us all the way here, it would have been the rudest thing imaginable for us to use him as though he were a taxi,’ Portia answered.
‘But he’s not even wearing a dress suit! We’ll stick out like sore thumbs!’
There was certainly no argument there. As they walked into the bar together, they saw Paddy chatting away to a woman dripping with diamonds and a man in black tie. Paddy did stand out a bit, dressed in his Arsenal T-shirt, jeans and trainers with fluorescent lights shining at the back of them. As Portia and Daisy approached, they were just in time to hear the tail end of a conversation he’d been having.
‘So do you ride?’ asked the diamond-clad woman.
‘Ah, here, luv, that’s a bit bleeding personal!’ Paddy laughed.
‘Where do you keep your horses stabled then?’ asked her husband.
‘Eh, where I come from, we don’t really have, like, stables as such, you know? There’s plenty of horses knockin’ around all right, but they mostly just wander around the green in the middle of our estate.’
‘Right, well, thanks again for the lift, Paddy, but we’d better go into dinner, so I suppose we’ll see you back at the Hall later then?’ snapped Daisy, anxious to be rid of him.
‘No way am I letting my girlfriend hitch all the way back to the back arse of Kildare, especially not dressed like that. Other blokes might try it on with ya. No, youse go into the dinner and I’ll just wait here for youse. I’m starving and all but I’m sure they sell peanuts or something in a posh place like this, and I’ll just get a kebab on the way home,’ he replied, laying it on with a trowel.
Daisy stared furiously into space but emotional blackmail always worked like a charm on Portia.
‘Paddy, of course we wouldn’t dream of leaving you here on your own, starving. Steve was to be with us tonight but had to cancel so there’s an empty seat at our table. Won’t you join us?’
‘Ah Jaysus, that’s very good of ya,’ he said, delighted. ‘Now don’t be worrying, I won’t make a show of yis or anything – ya just keep yer hands to yerself during the dinner, Daisy, ha, ha, ha!’
As they made their way into the packed dining room, Paddy went over to a noticeboa
rd where the seating plan had been posted up, leaving the sisters on their own for a moment. ‘You are so fucking dead when we get home, Portia. How could you have invited him? He even thinks we’re an item – didn’t you hear him use the GF word?’ snarled Daisy.
‘GF?’
‘Girlfriend, idiot.’
‘I never would have had you down as being such a snob, darling. He may not be dressed appropriately but it was sweet of him to drive us here and besides, you told me you’d slept with him,’ replied Portia, unfazed by Daisy’s rudeness.
‘You’re such a bloody nun, you have so much to learn about comfort sex. I was devastated over Guy; I’d have shagged anything.’
‘We’re at table sixty-nine, but don’t let that give ya any ideas, baby,’ Paddy said, suggestively patting Daisy on the bum. She darted yet another filthy glare at Portia, who calmly ignored it as they made their way to their table. These functions were always excruciatingly dull and the best you could hope for was to have friendly faces sitting at your table. They were in luck there; Portia heaved a huge sigh of relief to see Agnes and Lucy Kennedy sitting beside them, two elderly spinster sisters from Newbridge in Kildare, whom Portia knew well from her hunting days.
‘My dear, how wonderful to see you,’ said Agnes, rising to kiss her warmly on the cheek.
‘And how well you’re looking!’ said Lucy. ‘And sweet little Daisy, you just get prettier and prettier! And who might this be?’
‘I’m Daisy’s fella, howayis all?’ Paddy said, introducing himself.
‘Oh, we’re so pleased!’ they chanted in unison. ‘Because, you know, we’ve been following everything in the newspapers, all about the film they’re making at Davenport Hall and we were horrified to hear about that Guy . . . whatever his name is . . .’ said Lucy.
‘Van der Post,’ Daisy finished the sentence for her.
‘Yes, that’s it! Well, we couldn’t believe it when the papers all said that he’d broken up with our darling little Daisy and gone off with Ella Hepburn, who’s old enough to be his grandmother!’
‘Do you know, I remember during the Emergency going to see her in Rover, Come Home at the old Ambassador picture house in Bray, do you remember, Aggie dear? Daddy took us in the Daimler and we both cried buckets at the end . . .’
‘Oh yes, Lucy, and I remember, because of the wartime rationing, we couldn’t buy sweets or chocolate or any treats so Daddy gave us lumps of brown bread instead . . .’
‘Gonna be a long night then,’ Paddy whispered to Daisy, lighting up a cigarette. ‘And them two aul’ ones are sisters, are they?’ Daisy nodded. ‘Just think then, luv, yourself and Portia coulda ended up like them in about another two hundred years, if I hadn’t come along.’
‘And that’s why we’re so pleased you’ve met another lovely gentleman, Daisy dear,’ said Lucy, beaming across the table, oblivious to the fact that Daisy looked like she was going to bolt for the hills.
‘Yeah, I’m delighted and all,’ Paddy answered. ‘I call her my Lady Chatterley. Do yis get it?’
‘And what about our lovely Portia?’ asked Agnes, fondly patting her hand. ‘Any sign of a ring on that finger yet?’
‘Oh, but don’t you remember, dear?’ Lucy interrupted. ‘Portia’s stepping out with that wonderful-looking young man whom the papers kept calling the Earl of Ireland. We did laugh at that.’
‘Oh yes, dear, and there were such a lot of photographs of you both and you did make such a handsome couple, you with your beautiful slender figure and he was awfully good-looking, rather like Edward the Eighth when he was Prince of Wales; of course you’re all far too young to remember, but he was the George Clooney of his day, you know, and do you remember, Aggie dear . . .? Oh, look, there he is!’
‘George Clooney?’ said Portia, who hadn’t quite been able to keep up with the meanderings of Agnes’s train of thought.
‘No, dear, your gentleman friend, the “Earl of Ireland”. Over there, by the door, look!’
She was right. Portia glanced over and there was Andrew. He was with a group of men, none of whom she knew, but they all seemed to be really good friends and were falling about laughing at some joke one of them had just told.
Stay cool, stay calm, her inner voice kept telling her. He hasn’t seen you and even if he has, it’s all going to be fine. She even surprised herself by silently thanking Susan de Courcey for so deliberately letting it slip about him and Edwina being reunited. Could you imagine if I didn’t know, she thought, and if I had to hear it from him, now, first hand? It was too awful to contemplate. At least this way she was forewarned and forearmed.
Daisy had clocked him too and leant forward to whisper, ‘I don’t fucking believe this! What’s Andrew doing here?’
Portia just looked at her, imploring her to be quiet, and calmly resumed the chat with Agnes and Lucy as though nothing had happened. Both the starter and main course had been served and he still hadn’t seen her. Or, if he had, Portia said to herself, he’s avoiding me as well. She was doubly glad to be sitting beside the Kennedys whose stream-of-consciousness one-way dialogue didn’t allow for any interruptions, which meant that she could get away with just smiling and nodding in response.
Pretty soon, the meal was over and the dancing was under way. Agnes and Lucy had kindly agreed to stable Daisy’s horses for her, so their mission was accomplished and they could now get the hell out of there. But just as they stood to say their goodbyes, Paddy grabbed a passing waiter.
‘That dinner was nicer than my ma’s Christmas dinner any day, but I can’t finish it. Can you get me a doggy bag?’
The waiter looked at him for a moment, wondering if he was serious. (Never in the history of the Four Seasons Hotel had anyone asked for a doggy bag, ever.) But his silver service training soon came to the fore and he politely asked Paddy to wait; that he’d see what he could do.
Next the band started to play a medley of Elvis songs and Paddy nearly jumped out of his skin. ‘The King! Come on, luv, what are ya waiting for?’ Then, without giving her time to breathe, he whisked Daisy off on to the floor and launched into a series of mad gyrations while she screamed at him in vain that her ankle was still dodgy.
Shit, thought Portia, who had wanted to slip quietly away as soon as possible.
‘And how is your dear mother?’ Agnes was asking. ‘Still as eccentric as ever? I remember going up to Davenport Hall once and I interrupted a naked seance she was giving. She never forgave me . . .’
Portia was about to answer, when, without her knowing quite how it happened, Andrew was beside her.
‘Oh look, there he is now, the Earl of Ireland himself. How do you do?’ laughed Lucy.
Portia could feel her knees begin to buckle but she willed herself to stand up straight and meet his gaze. ‘We’re local celebrities, it seems,’ she said, blushing.
He didn’t reply, but ran his fingers nervously through his hair and shuffled around a bit. After what seemed like ages, he met her gaze. ‘Just out of curiosity, do you ever return phone calls?’
‘Andrew, there was no need for us to talk. We’ve nothing to talk about. I just want you to know that I’m really happy for you.’ She was pleased she’d got that in first and only hoped her voice wasn’t wobbling too much.
‘Wish I had your generosity of spirit. I’ll give you this though, you certainly don’t let the grass grow under your feet, do you?’
There was no mistaking it, his tone was harsh and bitter. For the life of her, Portia couldn’t understand him. You’d think I was the one happily reunited with an ex from the way he’s speaking, she thought, instead of it being the other way around. She was just about to ask what he meant by that remark when he spoke again – gently and more like himself, this time.
‘Portia, I really have to speak to you, can I call you tomorrow? Maybe we could meet up if you’re free? It’s just that—’
‘Andrew darling, there you are.’ Portia turned to see Edwina, who’d glided up beside him looking as immac
ulate as ever. ‘And you’re Portia, aren’t you?’ she purred, stretching out an impeccably manicured hand. ‘We’ve met before.’
‘Yes, hello,’ was the best Portia could come up with, silently cursing herself for coming out without make-up and thinking that she must look like a big unscrubbed potato beside Edwina, who looked effortlessly like a goddess. A silence followed whilst she desperately racked her brains for something to say that would make her sound casual and relaxed but she couldn’t think of a single thing. Her eyes darted around the room frantically looking for either Paddy or Daisy to come and bail her out, but they were still dancing, or, in Paddy’s case, mosh pitting.
‘You know your picture was all over the tabloids,’ said Edwina, breaking the silence with her tinkling, cocktail-party voice. ‘We did laugh about it, didn’t we, Andrew? They said you were a scullery maid in some creepy haunted house somewhere. And then there was a picture of you wrapped around some guy . . .’
Although not fully understanding her, Portia knew that she could take no more. Ten generations of breeding rose to the fore as she stood up tall and drew on all her reserves of dignity. ‘You really mustn’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ she said and, turning on her heel, she was gone.
She made it as far as the sumptuous Ladies powder room, thinking that she’d lie low for a few minutes until Paddy had finished hurling himself about the dance floor and they could retreat to the safety of his van. Her heart was pounding and a weak, whooshing rush was beginning to come over her. The room was full, but at least there was no one there she knew, which spared her from the torture of having to make small talk. She was mistaken, though, if she thought that the agonies of the evening were over. Just as she was running soothing, icy water over her wrists and splashing it liberally all over her temples, the door burst open and in swanned Edwina, purring into her mobile phone for all to hear.
‘Kate, darling, you must understand, I know it’s one a.m. in the morning but you’re my wedding planner and I’m paying you to be on twenty-four-hour call. I’m stuck at a ghastly do in the Four Seasons and we have an emergency! They have exactly the same cream linen napkins here which I picked out for my reception with exactly the same burgundy bows tied around them. Now, I’m trying my very best to stay calm here but you’re going to have to get on to Brown Thomas first thing tomorrow . . .’ The Ladies was so packed that Portia was able to slip outside without the other woman even noticing she was there. Well, at least that’s one bit of luck, she thought on her way to the car-park to wait for the others, delighted at least to be out of there in one piece. Never once did it cross her mind that Edwina’s performance had been a one-woman-show staged solely for her benefit.
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