He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me

by Claudia Carroll

  If the evening had been disastrous, the long, bumpy drive home in Paddy’s van did nothing to help matters. Daisy had bagged the window seat, as physically far removed from Paddy as she could get, and promptly fell fast asleep. All Portia wanted was a little peace and quiet to marshal her thoughts, but no such luck. She was completely squished up against Paddy, so that his swinging Arsenal mascots kept hitting her forehead. He was delighted, though, clearly seeing this as a golden opportunity to inveigle himself with his girlfriend’s one and only normal relation. They’d driven as far as Newlands Cross, almost halfway home, before he even paused for breath.

  ‘So, I’d have to say, definitely like, that nineteen ninety-eight was the happiest year of me life. Now, that wasn’t the first time that Arsenal won the double, though; they won it in nineteen seventy-one as well, but I wasn’t even born, so that’s fuck all use to me. So, tell us, Daisy, how do you feel about Arsène Wenger’s managerial record?’

  ‘She’s asleep,’ said Portia.

  ‘During me Arsenal story? Are ya sure?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off the motorway.

  ‘Mmm, out for the count,’ she answered, envying Daisy all the more for her ability to conk out anywhere.

  ‘Gift. It’s just I’ve been meaning to say to ya for ages now, thanks for being such a good aul’ skin.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Portia was genuinely at a loss.

  ‘The night of the Midsummer party . . . do ya not remember? I was pissed out of me gimp, off me bleedin’ bickies, I was so twisted, locked; totally out of me game I was . . .’

  ‘Bit squiffy then, do you mean?’

  ‘You said it, luv. Anyway, I just wanted to say to ya, yer’re a grand looking aul’ bird and all that. Jaysus, yer’re a bit of a ride really, considering ya must be coming up to forty.’

  Portia let this pass.

  ‘Sure, I’ve a sister yer age and she’s a granny now . . . not a word of a lie!’ Paddy laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s not that I don’t think yer’re lovely looking, for an aul’ one, but I just want to say sorry for crashing out on yer bed that night. And I swear I kept me hands to meself.’

  With a jolt, Portia remembered. That was the night Steve had told her about the rezoning of the Hall; she’d been desperately upset and he’d given her a sleeping pill to help her rest. She had a vague memory of someone being in bed beside her, and had mistakenly thought it was Andrew.

  ‘I just got a bit lost on me way to Daisy’s room, ya know?’ Paddy was saying. ‘That house is like a bleedin’ maze. But as soon as I woke up and saw that I was in bed with the wrong sister, I got the fuck out of there like ya wouldn’t believe. So nothing happened, luv, I swear on Sven Goran Erikson’s baldy head. But ya won’t mention it to Daisy, sure ya won’t?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Ah, yer’re an aul’ sport. I knew you’d be cool about it. But, Jaysus, suppose something had happened? Two sisters on the one night? I’d feel like I was in an episode of EastEnders. Could ya imagine if anyone had seen us?’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  BRIDIE NOLAN’S DAY had not got off to a good start, she having spent a wholly unproductive morning in her brother-in-law’s architect’s office bashing out plans for the future of Davenport Hall.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell ya, Bridie?’ said Mickey as he mopped up some coffee which her five-year-old son Hughie had sloshed all over his blueprints. (His final design for the Mausoleum at Davenport Hall, as it happened, which was to be completely gutted and turned into a bowling alley.) ‘Do yerself a favour and put a bloody match to the Hall and then we can start clean again from scratch. Here I am slaving away on plans for the fast-track housing on the Davenport land and you want to ruin it by keeping that ugly aul’ shithole right in the middle of the estate.’

  ‘Ah, Shamie has to be very careful in his position. He gave me a big fecking lecture last night about how Caesar’s wife should be above suspicion or some shite like that. I think he’s seen that film Gladiator once too often. Anyway, he’s in enough trouble with the lads from the Inland Revenue without having an arson charge hanging over him as well. No, I’ve a miles better idea than that.’

  ‘What’s that, Bridie?’

  ‘The Davenport Hall restoration project. I’m going to get a documentary crew to follow me around the kip and film me and Shamie and the kids lovingly putting our stamp on the place. Shamie has a pal, a producer in RTE, who’ll direct it for us – mind you, Shamie says he can barely direct piss into a toilet bowl, but sure he’ll have to do. Then I’ll give guided tours of the place when it’s all finished, to show the “before” and “after”, you know. Jackie Kennedy did it in the White House and it did her no fecking harm. And it’ll be a great vote-catcher altogether. Jeremy Irons with his pink castle in Cork can feck off.’

  Then, as she and Hughie were leaving the office, she bumped into Lottie O’Loughlin on Ballyroan Main Street.

  ‘Well, hello, cover girl!’ said Lottie delightedly. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t been in to me to buy ten copies for yourself to keep!’

  ‘What are ya on about?’ replied Bridie, at a loss.

  ‘Go into the shop and see!’ said Lottie, crossing the street as though she couldn’t get away fast enough. ‘I’m on my lunch break, so just leave me the money on the counter.’

  A less thick-skinned person would almost have got the impression that Lottie was avoiding them, but over-sensitivity had never been a failing of Bridie’s. She dragged Hughie inside Spar, bribing him with the promise of an ice-cream if he behaved for two minutes. She quickly cast her eagle eye over all the titles on the magazine stand, but saw nothing untoward. Then, looking over at the stack of newspapers in the corner, she nearly passed out. There it was, in glorious Technicolor, the photo the press had taken of her when she was changing her laddered tights in the car on the night of the Davenports’ Midsummer party. All you could see was the astonished look on her face as the camera flash went off, with her gusset huge in the foreground and her wobbly, thundering thighs straddling the dashboard of the car.

  MEET THE NEW LADY OF THE MANOR! screamed the banner headline.

  BRIDIE NOLAN CLIMBS THE ‘LADDER’ OF SUCCESS.

  TODAY’S POLL: IS THIS BUM BIGGER THAN THE GRAND CANYON? IS THIS BUM LUMPIER THAN COTTAGE CHEESE? TO VOTE YES, PHONE 1850 123123, TO VOTE NO, PHONE 1850 223344.

  Without even pausing for thought, Bridie whipped out her mobile phone and pressed the speed-dial button.

  ‘Hello, Shamie Joe Nolan Junior speaking.’

  ‘Shamie! It’s a fecking catastrophe! Drop whatever it is you’re doing and get on to your solicitor immediately! You’ll be able to paper the fecking walls with the number of legal writs and libel actions we’re going to take!’

  ‘I don’t think so, luv,’ he replied nervously. ‘I’ve a bit of news for you too.’

  Meanwhile, Lucasta’s big moment had arrived. She’d spent a wonderful morning being preened and pampered by the unfortunate Serge who was dumped with the task of transforming her into a nineteenth-century housekeeper.

  ‘There’s nothing like a challenge, as I tell all my paramours,’ he’d cheerfully said to Jimmy D. earlier in the day, ‘but I think I’ll need a good two hours before she’s camera ready. And, please don’t think I’m teaching Grandma how to suck eggs here, but you might wanna think about using a lot of soft focus in this scene.’

  Being the centre of attention was not exactly a hardship for Lucasta and, as Serge patiently washed and combed out her matted hair, she was in heaven.

  ‘So, Lady Davenport, when was the last time you had your hair done?’

  ‘Oh darling, do the words Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band mean anything to you?’ she laughed in response. Serge just smiled back, not having a clue what she was on about.

  Exactly two hours later, Caroline knocked crisply on the door of the make-up bus, ready to escort her to the location, which happened to be the newly transformed Ballroom. ‘Dear God, I hardly recognized
you,’ she said, on seeing Lucasta sitting in the make-up chair as Serge whipped off the plastic gown that was covering her shoulders to reveal the magic he’d woven.

  I know!’ squealed Serge, thrilled with the result. ‘I’m so talented I need to have a lie down. David Blaine should really worry.’

  The transformation was indeed miraculous. Lucasta was clad in a Victorian housekeeper’s costume, which comprised a long black crinoline skirt and a tight black blouse worn high at the neck, with just a simple cameo brooch at her throat. Serge had painstakingly teased out her long hair and coiled it around her ears, with perfect attention to period detail. The corset she was wearing nipped in her expansive waist giving her an almost girlish, hourglass figure.

  ‘Lady Davenport, you look wonderful!’ said Caroline in a rare burst of enthusiasm.

  ‘Thank you, darling, but I’m afraid I’m in character, so if you could just address me as Miss Murphy from now on, that would be terrific,’ she replied, doing her best to sound like Meryl Streep.

  As they walked from the make-up bus inside the Hall and on into the Ballroom, Lucasta, never one to be at a loss for words, gasped. The design crew had indeed worked miracles and the result was astonishing. In just a few short days they had repainted the great domed ceiling, removed all the bin liners that had been sell-otaped to it and replastered every patch on the roof, which had gaping holes in it. Then they’d removed all the pots and pans strewn over the floor to catch the rain, and polished the wooden parquet till it shone for probably the first time in about a hundred years. In addition, they had draped lush velvet tapestries all over the walls, which covered the damp patches perfectly and also absorbed the awful echoing sound, which was the norm in that room. The final touch was the candlelight, which twinkled from the candelabra dotted tastefully around the room.

  ‘Holy fuck, I didn’t recognize the old kip!’ gasped Lucasta. ‘This is Davenport Hall, isn’t it?’

  Jimmy D. strolled through a group of extras who were practising waltz steps in the middle of the floor and warmly kissed Lucasta on each cheek.

  ‘Well, don’t you look fancy, Lady Davenport,’ he said, simultaneously grinning at her and puffing on a cigar.

  ‘I’m in character now, darling, so I’m only answering to Miss Murphy from now on, but what an amazing job you’ve done here! I feel like I’m stepping back in time, or having a past-life flashback, which happens to me quite often, you know. But you mustn’t worry a bit, I want you to know that I’m very at home in Victorian times. And I’ve evoked all of our ancestral spirits to help me. Now, you’re my director so go on then, direct me.’

  ‘Piece of cake. In this scene, Brent and his mother Blanche are waltzing with the other couples while Magnolia looks moodily out the window. So when Johnny cues you, here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re outside in the corridor and, on cue, you’re gonna come rushing into the middle of the dance floor and call out for your mistress in terrible distress. Magnolia will go over to you, ask you what’s the matter, you deliver your lines and then we cut. Got it?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes I think so,’ replied Lucasta, not really following, ‘I’m just a little nervous, that’s all. You know, new career and all that.’

  Jimmy D. then nodded at Johnny and sauntered over to his director’s chair, where Ella and Guy were sitting side by side, deep in conversation and totally ignoring Montana who sat demurely behind them. Or rather, Guy was chatting away while Ella just smoked a Sobranie cigarette looking bored.

  ‘Astounding how well this place can look with a little effort, isn’t it, darling?’ Guy was saying in his Southern accent. Ella gave the tiniest nod of assent, without even looking at him.

  ‘You know, my love, if someone took this dump in hand and put a little money into it, it could be really something. A romantic Irish love nest about as far removed from LA as you can possibly get, huh?’ he said, brushing a stray hair away from the voluminous folds of her crinoline ball gown. Now he had her attention. She looked at him with just a flicker of interest in her eyes.

  ‘Ah, yer majesty, how’s it going?’ Paddy said cheerfully to Lucasta, delighted to see her.

  ‘Not now, darling, I’m immersed in character,’ she replied distractedly. ‘I’ve got to dig deep into my emotional reservoir to prepare for this scene.’

  ‘Oh right, yeah,’ said Paddy, well used to actors behaving like self-absorbed loonies. ‘So, like, what are ya thinking about then?’

  ‘It’s nineteen eighty-two. I’ve just given birth to Daisy,’ Lucasta said with her eyes closed, as though she was in a trance. ‘I’m lying in bed feeding the baby when my husband bursts in and takes her from me to use her as collateral in a poker game he was losing.’

  ‘Jaysus, ya must have been in awful trouble with the social workers,’ said Paddy sympathetically.

  ‘OK, first positions, everyone, we need to go for this now!’ cried Johnny at the top of his voice. There was a general commotion as the crew took up their battle stations and the extras moved into place, all of them looking resplendent in Victorian evening dress.

  A silence descended on the set, broken only by the sound of a phone ringing some distance away.

  ‘Disconnect that bloody phone while we’re shooting!’ Johnny bellowed.

  ‘It’s coming from the Library,’ said Caroline, slipping out of the door. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it!’ Moments later she returned, nodding at Johnny to indicate that the problem had been dealt with.

  ‘OK, people,’ said Johnny, ‘here we go, this is not a rehearsal! And roll sound!’

  ‘Speed!’ called Paddy, winking at Lucasta and giving her a thumbs-up sign.

  ‘Roll camera!’

  ‘Shot!’

  ‘Mark it!’

  ‘Scene seventy-nine, take one.’

  ‘And . . . action!’

  An invisible string quartet struck up a Strauss waltz and the extras launched into their dancing; gentlemen in white tie elegantly swirled their partners in huge crinoline hoop skirts around the makeshift dance floor. Lucasta went out into the corridor to await her cue, clutching a battered page of script which had her lines written on it.

  ‘Ya look like a right dog’s dinner,’ said Mrs Flanagan, who by a total coincidence had decided to scrub the skirting boards outside the Ballroom, the first time in about thirty years that they’d seen the wipe of a cloth.

  Totally ignoring her, Lucasta paced up and down the corridor, whispering her lines over and over like a mantra.

  ‘Are ya going to say it like that?’ said Mrs Flanagan, squeezing out a sponge into a bucket of water.

  ‘Bugger off. Don’t make me come out of character.’

  ‘No, I’m just saying, I never heard anyone out of the serving classes talk in a posh accent like that. Ya sound like the bleedin’ Queen Mother.’

  Before Lucasta had a chance to respond, Johnny was frantically waving at her from the other side of the door.

  ‘Cue!’ he mouthed silently at her.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ she said, momentarily startled, before making her grand entrance. Marching purposefully into the middle of the dance floor she almost bashed the poor waltzing extras out of her way before delivering her line.

  ‘Miss Magnolia! The potato crop is after failing to be sure! It’s famine, I tell you! And the dispossessed tenant farmers are baying for your blood at the back door, begorrah!’ she delivered in a cut-glass accent which a 1930s debutante would be proud of.

  ‘Cut!’ called Jimmy D., getting out of his canvas chair. ‘Take five, people! Lady Davenport, may I have a word?’

  ‘Yes, of course, darling,’ replied Lucasta as he took her aside.

  ‘That was, em, an interesting interpretation of the role but I feel the character is a little more working class.’

  ‘Do you think I’m too regal? Yes, I’ve been told that before,’ she replied, nodding sagely.

  ‘I told her that outside and she wouldn’t listen,’ said Mrs Flanagan, who was now miraculously scrubbing the fl
oor right under their feet. ‘And another thing. There’s a historical inaccuracy in the script, let me tell you.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Jimmy D.

  She picked up the tattered piece of paper which Lucasta had discarded outside in the corridor.

  ‘Now I could have this arseways, but I don’t think they had Hoovers in eighteen sixty-four, did they?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ asked Jimmy D., taking the page of script from her.

  ‘Look, right there! It says, “Magnolia Hoovers at the window.” Now, they may have had brushes and sweeping pans then, but they definitely didn’t have Hoovers.’

  ‘Magnolia hovers in the background, you moron!’ Lucasta hissed at her.

  ‘And what about her accent? I see me fair share of films and I’ve yet to see a member of the working classes talk like that. She sounds posher than Queen Victoria.’

  Lucasta was about to snap her nose off when Jimmy D. said, ‘Mmm. Interesting. I’ll tell you what. Lady Davenport, great work, we’ve got you in the can. Why don’t you let Serge here take you back to make-up and get you back to normal? You must be exhausted after turning in such a professional performance.’

  ‘Do you mean I’m finished?’

  ‘That’s a wrap for you, well done!’ he replied, clicking his fingers at Serge, who jumped to attention and rushed to escort Lucasta back outside.

  ‘Well, I must say, that was remarkably easy,’ she could be heard saying to Serge as they left the Ballroom. ‘Acting’s a complete doddle really. So why do actors make such a great fuss over nothing?’