She slipped into the empty seat beside Daisy and Lucasta and was surprised to see Serge sitting with them, unscrewing a bottle of Rescue Remedy and passing it along. ‘Take one big gulp each, girls,’ he said, ‘and I promise you won’t feel a thing.’
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Portia. ‘I thought Jimmy D. gave you all the morning off.’
‘Oh yeah, he did, honey, I’m just so drawn to real-life drama, I can’t help myself.’
As though on cue, the grandfather clock in the hall boomed out midday and, gradually, the room quietened down.
‘Oh, this is just like High Noon!’ said Serge. ‘My piles are clenching with the tension!’ An onlooker could easily have been forgiven for thinking that he was the rightful owner.
‘I’m on tenterhooks,’ said Daisy.
‘And I’m on Zanax,’ he replied.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, you’re all very welcome here today for the auction of Davenport Hall,’ began Eamonn Cassidy, shouting to make himself heard. ‘As you will see from the brochure in front of you, this important property was built by James Gandon in the mid-eighteenth century and is showing the effects of some minor wear and tear.’
‘Minor?’ whispered Serge, amazed at the brazenness of estate-agent speak.
‘The Hall itself contains eight reception rooms, including a Ballroom, which many of you will have already seen, a Library, a Billiard Room and the Long Gallery you’re seated in now. In addition there are sixteen bedrooms all of which are . . . emm . . . in need of refurbishment. The property also encompasses over two thousand acres of land, including woodlands, fishing rights along the River Kilcullen and Loch Moluag bordering the edge of the estate. So without further ado, may I have an opening bid? Do I hear one million euros?’
Portia didn’t hear anyone reply, but someone must have because seconds later the bidding had leapt up to one point five and in lightning time it had reached two million. Eamonn then proudly declared Davenport Hall to be ‘on the market’. From the word go, the bidding was fast and furious and in no time had climbed up to three million.
‘Turns my stomach to think that Shamie bloody Nolan will make a profit on this,’ Daisy whispered to Portia.
Very soon, it boiled down to a three-horse race between Billy Toner, who was sitting right behind them, Chasing Moonbeams and a third bidder at the back of the Gallery whom none of them could see. They were at the three point five million mark now and Lucasta was on the edge of her seat, as though she were watching a horse race.
‘Come on, Billy Toner!’ she screeched. ‘You can do it!’
Eamonn Cassidy had to bring proceedings momentarily to a halt in order to ask for quiet before moving on. For once, Portia found herself in agreement with her mother. At least Billy Toner had a big family and there was something lovely about the idea that Davenport Hall would be full of children again.
‘And he’s all into cancelling Third World debt,’ Daisy whispered, ‘so maybe he’ll cancel our debts too. Or at least give us jobs here.’
Poor Eamonn was about to continue when there was a further, most unexpected development. A side door which led into the Gallery suddenly opened and in strolled Guy and Ella, hand in hand and looking like they already owned the place.
‘Now, don’t tell me you all started without us,’ Guy announced to the room as autograph-hunters began to cluster around Ella. ‘Why, I didn’t think anything began on time in Ireland.’
‘There are two seats here on this side, if you’d care to bid,’ said Eamonn, almost falling over himself at the sight of Ella Hepburn. She did indeed look spectacular, in pale blue palazzo pants with a matching headscarf tied around her head, clutching her tiny Pekinese dog. There was a ripple of applause as she and Guy took their seats, which she acknowledged with the tiniest nod of her head.
‘I’ll set fire to Davenport Hall before I see them living here,’ said Daisy, flushed with anger and not caring who overheard.
‘Well, hand me a box of matches while you’re at it and I’ll set fire to her fucking dog,’ replied Lucasta, glaring over at her. ‘That fart of a thing is upsetting Gnasher.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ wailed Serge, getting hopelessly swept up in the moment. ‘They can’t buy it, they’ll turn it into a theme park for ageing movie actors.’
But it seemed that they had every intention of buying it, with Guy immediately jumping in and bringing up the bidding to three point eight million.
‘Come on, go higher!’ Daisy hissed at Billy Toner in the row behind her. ‘Forget the Third World, you need to buy Davenport Hall!’
‘Exactly!’ said Lucasta, agreeing. ‘Never mind all those African loser countries, you should spend your money here.’
Portia had clenched her knuckles so tightly as the bidding edged towards four million euros that she thought she’d cut off the circulation to her hands. By now, Chasing Moonbeams had thrown in the towel, shaking his head at Eamonn to indicate that he was out of the running.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ whispered Lucasta. ‘Who wants bloody weirdos living here anyway?’
Eamonn ploughed on, with Guy pushing the price higher and higher until at four point five million euros, Billy Toner backed down.
‘Bloody coward!’ said Daisy, on the verge of tears. By now, the field had narrowed down to a two-horse race between Guy and the person at the back of the Gallery who was matching him relentlessly, bid for bid.
‘And we are now at five million euros,’ declared Eamonn. ‘Do I hear five million?’
Guy and Ella conferred with each other. Then there was an embarrassed pause during which Guy was heard whispering, ‘I know it’s your money, but I thought we were agreed!’
‘Sir?’ Eamonn asked him, anxious to move on. Guy folded his arms and shook his head, throwing a filthy look at Ella.
‘Do I hear five million euros? Yes? The gentleman at the back of the room, thank you.’ Portia and Daisy were craning their necks to see who it was, but the room was way too crowded to make him out.
‘Five million euros it is,’ declared Eamonn. ‘Going once, going twice, sold to the gentleman at the back for five million euros.’
There was a round of applause before Eamonn could bring the proceedings to order again.
‘What name, sir?’ he asked. But the reply was completely drowned out by the cacophony of voices in the room.
‘Sir?’ Eamonn was shouting by now. ‘May I have your name, please?’
‘Oh, didn’t you hear me?’ came a voice from the back of the room, which immediately sent a shiver down Portia’s spine.
‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Eamonn. ‘Could I have your full name, please?’
‘It’s Davenport. Jack Davenport.’
Portia felt her knees buckle from under her as she gripped on to Daisy’s arm for support. Lucasta had passed out and Serge was pouring neat Rescue Remedy straight down her throat. There was no mistake. Through the crowds at the back of the room who’d milled around to congratulate him, she could just about make out the back of her father’s head. He was shaking people’s hands, smiling and laughing, like a king returning from exile. Steve was behind him, looking every bit as shell-shocked as they were by the outcome. She could see Blackjack clearly now, his usual dapper, flamboyant self in an immaculately cut suit, with his jet-black hair slicked back and his black eyes glowing. For a moment, she caught his eye and he waved regally at her and Daisy, indicating that he’d be with them in a moment. But it wasn’t that which made Portia’s nerves jangle and her breath catch in the back of her throat.
Standing right beside him, looking as tall and tanned and gorgeous as ever, was Andrew.
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘DADDY!’ SQUEALED DAISY, jumping into his arms like a ten-year-old. ‘I knew you’d come back to us!’
‘My darling girl, did you honestly think that I’d allow Davenport Hall to be sold to strangers? This home that we all love so much?’ Somehow, Blackjack always managed to sound about as sincere as
a daytime chat-show host. His voice was oily and deep, and his eyes were dancing at the sight of his favourite child.
‘Well, yes actually, that’s exactly what we thought,’ said Portia, unwilling to play along with the charade of a happy family reunion. She could feel Andrew’s eyes on her and was determined not to look at him first, although in a million years she couldn’t guess what he was doing there. Bugger it, she thought, I’ll have my say if it kills me. ‘You’ll forgive me for not joining in the hero’s welcome,’ she said in a wobbly voice, ‘but can I remind you that you sold us out? You gambled our home without even bothering to tell us.’
‘Portia my dear,’ he replied, ‘a straight flush to the ace is not a gamble. You look so serious, darling, so grave and pale. Can’t you at least be happy that you’ve got your home back?’
Portia looked at him disgustedly. As far back as she could remember, this was what her father always did, smooth talk his way out of everything. The man was possessed of Olympic-sized quantities of charm, which he knew only too well how to use to maximum effect. As Mrs Flanagan used to say, ‘That fella would charm his way out of a bucket of shite.’ And here he was, at it again. Same old pattern repeating itself.
‘Yes, I took Shamie Nolan’s money,’ he went on in his deep cigars-and-cognac voice, ‘but I only ever looked on it as a short-term loan. I knew I’d win it all back and more when the stakes were right, and I did. Eight million dollars to be exact. Trust in Providence, what have I always said?’
‘Daddy!’ shrieked Daisy almost knocking him over. ‘The first time in your life that you’ve actually won!’
‘And how about your girlfriend?’ Portia was really going for broke now. ‘Is she with you? Because I’m sure Mummy would love a word.’
‘You have every reason to be angry with me,’ he replied calmly. ‘But please understand that I really have tried to make amends. I don’t expect you to forgive me, Portia, but you might at least thank this young man.’ He indicated Andrew, who was standing a few feet behind him.
For the first time, Portia met Andrew’s gaze. A moment passed where each of them wondered who’d speak first. After what felt like an age, eventually Portia cracked. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ she said feebly.
‘Well, I’m glad you spoke first,’ he said dryly, ‘because for a second there, I thought this was going to be awkward.’
‘Must have been the shortest honeymoon in history,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t know, I’m not married.’
Suddenly, she felt flushed and weak at the same time.
‘Could you use some air?’ said Andrew.
All she could do was nod in reply as he gently guided her through the crowd and out of the door.
Meanwhile, ably nursed by Serge, Lucasta had come round.
‘Mummy, isn’t it wonderful?’ gushed Daisy with tears of joy running down her cheeks. ‘He’s come back!’
‘Oh bollocks,’ groaned his lady wife, ‘I thought I was dreaming. You know that spell I did to make myself irresistible to men? Big fucking mistake.’
It was a magnificent day and almost as soon as she stepped outside into the fresh, gentle breeze, Portia felt her wits coming back to her. Andrew walked beside her, steering them away from the crowds dispersing in the forecourt and down the wooded dirt track behind the Hall, which led to Loch Moluag.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked, darting a sideways glance at her.
‘Mmm,’ she answered, still a bit unsteady and shaking like a leaf.
‘Here, sit down,’ he said, indicating a wooden bench which faced out on to the lake, ‘you’re still as white as a ghost.’ She obediently did what she was told, trying her best to breathe deeply and calm down.
The view helped. When the sun was shining, Loch Moluag really was a sight to behold. The way the light dappled on the water was something no artist could capture and as they sat side by side under the shade of a cool willow tree, Portia gradually began to feel her composure flooding back.
Andrew took a box of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one up. He seemed a bit nervous too, jumpy and stressed-looking.
‘The wedding was on TV, you know,’ she began, deliberately not looking at him but focusing on the view ahead. ‘I saw a tiny clip of it on the late news last night.’
‘Well,’ he answered, taking a deep pull of the cigarette, ‘I wish Edwina every happiness, she certainly got her man.’
Portia looked at him, completely at a loss.
‘I have the most wonderful alibi to prove that I was nowhere near a church getting married yesterday, you know. I was flying home from Las Vegas with your father.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Portia, did you honestly think it was just a total coincidence that he showed up today of all days like some deus ex machina? How do you think he knew about the auction? Who do you think talked him into buying the Hall back for his family? If all my years in corporate law have taught me anything, they’ve taught me how to be persuasive. As soon as my father filled me in on the Tribunal he’s chairing, we both decided there was nothing else for it. Someone had to physically travel to the States to get Lord Davenport home, and I was the obvious person. If that gobshite Shamie Nolan could get to him then so could I. Blackjack is going to be one of my father’s star witnesses, you know.’
‘But what about Edwina? Your mother told me you were back together with her.’
‘Well, that’s certainly news to me.’
Portia looked at him in utter astonishment.
‘You know, in spite of everything, I do think that you are a good person,’ he said, pulling on a cigarette and staring out over the lake. ‘You’re straightforward and totally lacking in guile, I’ll give you that much. I think it would be near impossible for you even to comprehend the deviousness of some women, with my mother leading the field. That woman’s talents are utterly wasted baking scones and doing meals on wheels for the Irish Countrywomen’s Association, she should be writing soap operas for a living. She has by far the most devious, manipulative, twisted, inventive imagination I’ve ever come across – and I’m a lawyer.’
‘Do you mean she was lying?’ Portia’s head was starting to swim. ‘But why would anyone do that? Why would she go to such lengths?’
‘At the risk of sounding conceited, she wanted Edwina and me back together and this was one sure-fire way of marking your card. No doubt the pictures and stories about you and me in the National Intruder spurred her resolve a bit.’
‘So who did Edwina marry?’
‘You know, I forget about the isolated existence you lead here, my lady,’ he said teasingly. ‘Hasn’t today’s carrier pigeon arrived yet with the news? It’s been splashed all over the papers.’
She grinned back at him, surprised that they’d slipped back so easily into their old banter. ‘Andrew, in case you hadn’t noticed, I was sort of otherwise occupied all morning.’
‘Well then, have I got news for you. Do you remember the first night I took you out and we bumped into her in that awful pretentious restaurant?’
Portia second-guessed him. ‘No! Don’t tell me she married Trevor Morrissey? But he must be at least forty years older than her! And he’s got skin the colour of a Jaffa Cake. And his last album was brutal, even Mummy’s a better singer than him.’
‘He’s also a multi-millionaire, which would help a lot, in her eyes.’
Portia sat back for a moment, scarcely able to believe it.
‘So why didn’t you tell me? About going to the States and Blackjack and everything, I mean. You never even called. I was going off my head and you never even called.’
Andrew bent down to stub out his cigarette. ‘Oh, I called all right. It’s like trying to get through to Stalinist Russia, ringing this house. I left messages with your mother and Mrs Flanagan, both of whom told me you weren’t in. I think Mrs Flanagan’s exact words were: “She says to tell you she’s not in, luv.” Then Daisy practically banged the phone down on me; it seemed
you were too busy with Steve even to take my call. Message received, loud and clear. I kept trying right up until I boarded the flight for the States, but your phone seemed to be disconnected. When I met you that night in the Four Seasons in Dublin, I knew you’d instantly jumped to the wrong conclusion when you saw me with Edwina, even though I only went with her because we’d arranged it months before. And you wouldn’t even give me a chance to explain.’
Portia didn’t answer. He had her there, she had point blank refused to take his call.
‘I’ve played fair with you, Portia. I was furious with you for what you’d done and furious with myself for having misjudged you so badly, but I did at least try to explain where I was coming from.’
An alarm bell was beginning to ring at the back of her head. For what you’d done? Her mind raced as he kept talking, well on to his third cigarette by now.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget that awful Midsummer party as long as I live. There I was racing back to the Hall like a complete idiot, straight from a meeting with Paul O’Driscoll—’
‘Who?’ she interrupted.
‘A senior Kildare County Councillor whom I’d just persuaded to go on the record about the rezoning of the Davenport land. I’d spent the entire night talking him round, busting a gut for you, working my ass off on your behalf, and when I came here, dying to tell you about it, Mrs Flanagan casually tells me you’ve gone to bed with someone else.’
‘What!’ Portia couldn’t believe her ears.
‘My reaction exactly. So I hoofed it up to your room and saw for myself. I don’t think I ever would have thought it of you, only I saw with my own two eyes. And seeing is believing. Then I see pictures of you with him in the papers and I thought: Well done, de Courcey, you sure know how to pick them.’
Portia’s mind was reeling. ‘Oh Jesus,’ she stammered, the penny dropping. ‘Yes, Steve did mention that there was some awful photo of him and me taken that night that appeared in some rag, but, oh God, I think you’re talking about Paddy. Bloody Paddy. I’d choke him if he was here now.’
He Loves Me Not...He Loves Me Page 31