'So, Portia Davenport has finally got what she wanted. She's frittered away every last penny of Andrew's on that God-awful monstrosity, and now he's as destitute as she ever was. All the Davenports are the very same, you know, never happy till they're bankrupt. Well, she's certainly dragged him into the mire with her and I just hope she's happy, that's all I can say.'
Susan de Courcey was nothing if not a lady, though. She only ever said this behind Portia's back.
As ever, Andrew seemed to be reading her thoughts. Reaching across the table, he lifted the unopened menu from her and gently cupped his hand over hers, his wedding ring glinting under the candlelight. 'Don't spoil tomorrow by worrying, darling. The Davenport Hotel is going to be the biggest success story of the decade, I can feel it. Best investment I ever made. In two years' time, we'll have trebled our money. There'll be a six-month waiting list to get into the restaurant and every A-list celebrity in the world is going to want to have their wedding there. Trust me.'
She looked him square in the eye and smiled, blushing prettily as she always did when it was just the two of them, alone. Andrew was brimming over with confidence and was so full of enthusiasm that it was virtually impossible not to get swept up in the maelstrom of all that positive energy.
'What's so funny, my lady?'
'Nothing. You make me feel like a young girl of thirty-six all over again.'
Portia sat up in the bed, straining to hear sounds of life downstairs. Nothing. Not a peep. She'd half expected Andrew to walk through the bedroom door, breakfast tray in hand and hop back into bed beside her, as he normally would, but there was no sign of him. Hauling herself up on to one elbow she stretched over to the alarm clock on his side of the bed. Jesus Christ, she thought, suddenly wide awake, eleven a.m.! No wonder the lodge is so quiet; he must have let me sleep on and gone up to the Hall by himself. In one movement, she'd leapt out of bed, shivering, and thrown on the first thing that came to hand: a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and an oversized fleece jumper to match. She paused briefly to glance at herself in the gilt mirror on her dressing table and then wished she hadn't. She'd had way too much to drink in the Lemon Tree last night and boy, did it show. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy and her normally pale, white skin now looked grey and saggy.
That was the trouble with being thirty-six, she thought, one night on the tear and I look like I need a blood transfusion. She scraped her light-brown shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail to conceal how greasy it was and hastily pulled on a pair of runners. Plenty of time for glamour later, she thought, seeing the stunning new evening dress Andrew had bought her to wear at the grand opening tonight peeping out from behind the open wardrobe door. It was a snug-fitting cocktail dress, pillar-box red and deeply unforgiving, considering the extra few pounds she'd gained since she'd got married.
Portia had always been one of those lucky, naturally slim people who measured their weight gain in ounces rather than pounds, but ever since she'd met Andrew, her whole metabolism seemed to have drastically slowed down to a snail's pace. She wasn't exactly overweight but certainly had ballooned from a small size ten to a large size fourteen. They ate out a lot, she reasoned, which she'd never done before she got married, and anyhow Andrew always said he liked her the size she was now. 'Happiness fat' he used to tease her. So when it came to the tight red dress, he'd categorically refused to take no for an answer. 'It looks stunning on you,' he'd said as she shyly emerged from the fitting room of Khan, one of Kildare's swankiest and most expensive boutiques. 'And I don't care what it costs. Half the county's going to be at the opening and I want my wife looking the part.'
Personally, the only part she thought it made her look was that of an overweight dancer at the Moulin Rouge, and it seemed like such an unnecessary extravagance when she'd plenty of other more suitable outfits at home, but as long as Andrew was happy . . .
Racing downstairs, she grabbed her car keys and was about to dash out of the front door when a flickering red light on the answering machine by the hall table suddenly halted her in her tracks. She hurriedly pressed the replay button, silently praying that it wasn't some catastrophe which would delay her even more. Between florists arriving and last-minute changes to the guest list, never mind somehow trying to squeeze in a hair appointment for herself, she'd quite enough on her plate without any other hassles. The first message was from her younger sister Daisy, politely enquiring whether she could borrow a particular evening dress for the nights festivities, one she'd had her eye on for ages.
'Hi fat arse, it's me.' Daisy was nothing if not direct. 'Let's face it, unless you have surgery the black Donna Karan ain't never getting over your thunder thighs ever again, so pleeease, pretty pleeease with knobs on, can I have a borrow? I swear I won't sweat into it or puke on it or hand it back to you in a Tesco's bag like the last time . . .'
Portia rolled her eyes to heaven, obediently hoofing back upstairs to get the dress for her. Daisy was one of those people it was just impossible to say no to. Not that her sister needed expensive, designer clothes to make her look well. At just twenty-two, Daisy was unquestionably the beauty of the family, tall like all the Davenports, but rake-thin, with ice-blue eyes and a mane of cascading blonde curls. She was often told that she could make a fortune as a model but Daisy had absolutely no interest in either clothes or fashion, preferring instead to muck around in jodhpurs and woolly jumpers and simply borrow from her big sister when the need arose.
She was to be the Davenport Hotel's new equestrian manager, with sole responsibility for over a dozen stabled horses, a job which didn't exactly call for ball gowns and tiaras. Her voice was still resonating all over the tiny hall-way as Portia rushed back downstairs again. Daisy didn't believe in leaving a message on the answering machine when a three-act radio play would do instead.
'And, by the way, don't bother with brekkie, you wouldn't believe the yummy-licious fry-up Tim's made, totally organic you know, and there's a pile left over so . . .'
Portia pressed the fast forward button on the machine, knowing full well that she'd have driven to the Hall in the time it would take for Daisy to shut up rabbiting.
The second message was from Andrew, sounding crackly and miles away, as though he was calling from a mobile in his car.
'Hey, sleeping beauty, hope you're not feeling too hung over after last night. Perfect way to spend Valentine's night, if you ask me, getting drunk and doing it twice.'
Portia smiled, glad there was no one else around to overhear.
'Look, darling, I've had to come to Dublin for a meeting. It was urgent; I couldn't get out of it. All very last minute, but don't worry, I'll be back at the Hall by three at the latest and I'll explain then.'
She did an involuntary double-take; who on earth could he be meeting in Dublin? And what could be so important that he'd drop everything to drive almost forty miles for it? And today of all days too, when she was up to her eyes and totally reliant on his being there . . . Her train of thought was interrupted, however, by Daisy's voice leaving yet another message. 'Oh, for God's sake, I'm bringing the bloody dress,' Portia shouted in exasperation at the machine, grabbing her house keys and opening the door.
But there was something in the tone of her sister's voice which made her stop dead in her tracks.
'Portia, it's me. Get here at once, will you? It's urgent.'
It was a magnificent, cloudless day as Portia stepped out into the watery winter sunshine and hopped into her car, foot to the floor for the two-mile drive up to the Hall. It's just Daisy being theatrical, as usual, she thought. Her sister was prone to exaggerating somewhat; she'd never have a mild headache, when a brain tumour would do. Probably just another slanging match between Tim and Mrs Flanagan which needed refereeing, as if she didn't have enough to get on with.
Tim Philips was the new head chef at the Hall, headhunted by Andrew from L'Hôtel de Paris, one of only three Michelin-starred restaurants in Dublin.
'If this venture is going to work, then the
Davenport hotel has to become famous for its restaurant,' Andrew had said, justifying the huge salary he was offering Tim to relocate. 'I want it to be easier to win the Nobel Peace Prize than it is to get a table here. That's the way all the top restaurants in New York are run now, honey,' he'd gone on, seeing the worried look on her face. 'The more difficult it's perceived to get a table, the more people will pay. Build it and they will come.'
So Tim had arrived some weeks ago and proceeded to make himself at home in the newly refurbished state-of-the-art kitchen. He was nothing like what Portia had expected: he was in his early forties, small and wiry with an oversized bald head like a scrubbed potato and a comb-over hairstyle which only attracted attention to his shiny, greasy pate. Within days, he'd proved his mettle though, designing a mouth-watering menu and helping Portia whittle down to a manageable few the dozens of applicants who were practically queuing up to work as sous-chefs for him.
There was only one fly in the ointment, though. The Davenports' original housekeeper and old family retainer, Mrs Flanagan.
'She's been here ever since I was in nappies,' Portia had patiently tried to explain to Andrew. 'It's hard for her to be unceremoniously turfed out of the kitchen she's worked in all these years.'
But turfed out she was. Poor Mrs Flanagan was already feeling a bit miffed at having been made redundant by a hotshot like Tim Philips, when, on top of ruthlessly throwing out every knackered kitchen appliance she'd held on to for years, he also removed her TV from the kitchen, along with the tatty armchair she used to sit in for hours watching daytime TV. (Mrs Flanagan's idea of a hard day's work was one where she managed to fit in Ricki Lake and Oprah on top of all her beloved soaps.)
'Bad baldy aul' bastard with yer electronic fucking juicer!' Mrs Flanagan had roared at him. 'Be careful now ya don't juice one of yer testicles by accident, won't ya?' The final straw had been when he put a blanket ban on smoking outside in the kitchen garden.
'It's far too close to the food-preparation area,' he had explained to Portia in his snivelly, nasal voice, 'and it's playing havoc with my sinuses.'
'I'm within me rights to smoke outside!' Mrs Flanagan had ranted. 'Forty years I'm working here and all of a sudden I can't have a fag? I get through sixty a day and no one's ever complained before.'
'That's because they're all too poisoned by her Dublin coddle to speak,' Andrew had remarked to Portia later. 'You've really got to toughen up and stop being so bloody sentimental here. She is without doubt the most useless housekeeper I've ever seen. And anyway, at her age shouldn't she be thinking about retiring?'
In eighteen months, it was the only thing they'd rowed about. Portia had resolutely stuck to her guns though, insisting that Mrs Flanagan was as good as family and that letting her go was out of the question, not to mention the fact that she had nowhere else to go. They eventually reached a compromise of sorts by giving her the job and title of 'Housekeeping Supervisor', with full responsibility for the small army of chambermaids now employed at the Hall. The job came with a smart black uniform and a nametag, which shut Mrs Flanagan up for the time being, although violent flare-ups still regularly broke out between her and Tim.
'Hand on heart, I've honestly never met anyone like her,' Andrew used to gripe. 'She is quite capable of having a feud with someone and carrying it well into the next generation – over a single oven chip.'
Portia had arrived at the main entrance to the Hall by now and, once again, felt her spirits soar at how impressive it looked. Having spent a year and a half looking at filthy scaffolding and the cracks of builders' arses, as Daisy so poetically put it, it never failed to make her soul sing to see the finished result. The outside stone walls had been sandblasted and were now gleaming white in the watery winter sunshine. Some of the sash windows at ground level were thrown open and she could see Molly, one of the new chambermaids, vigorously polishing the insides of them till they shone. The restoration work had extended to the grounds as well and a whole team of landscape gardeners had collectively bust a gut to have the front lawn looking as elegantly manicured as it did now. A huge surge of pride filled her as she took it all in and, for a moment, she felt all Andrew's confidence was completely justified. The Davenport Hotel was going to work, she could feel it. They'd all worked so hard and the place was looking its pristine best, better than it had done since it was built, over two centuries ago. What could go wrong?
Snapping out of her reverie, she noticed that the van of Fitzpatrick's, the local florist, was parked in the forecourt. Brilliant, she needed to talk to them about the centrepiece arrangement in the main hallway. She'd requested a colossal, towering display of white lilies dotted with long-stemmed red roses, like you saw in all the posh magazines. Hopping out of her car, she was purposefully striding across the gravel when the main door was thrown open and Daisy came bolting out, white as a ghost. Something about the expression on her face sent a sharp stab of worry right to Portia's heart.
'Thank God you're here,' she said, out of breath, 'I've been watching out for you . . . Oh Portia, there's been some awful news.'
'Darling, tell me,' said Portia, starting to feel sick.
'We've just had a phone call from the Irish consulate in the States. It's Daddy.' Daisy was starting to sob by now. 'He's dead.'
Chapter Two
'So sad to think that the last words I ever spoke to my husband in this life were: "Is that smell you, you dirty bollocks?"' Lucasta, Lady Davenport, was nothing if not a gifted actress and now slotted into the anguished role of grief-stricken widow with comparative ease. 'And you know, darling, I had a premonition that something awful like this was going to happen. My toenails didn't grow at all yesterday.'
It was past midday, but she was still tucked up in her enormous four-poster bed, wearing a green wax jacket over her nightie and chain-smoking as she cradled Edward and Mrs Simpson, two of her favourite cats, close to her. Daisy was sitting on the edge of the bed beside her, clutching a snotty Kleenex and red-eyed from crying, when Portia finally came back into the bedroom.
'Did you manage to get him?' asked Daisy, dully.
'Mobile's switched off.'
She'd spent the past half-hour trying to contact Andrew to tell him the news, but couldn't get through to him. Suddenly a searing flush of anger came over her. 'I mean, where in God's name is he? What could be more important to him than being here and today of all days? And now, on top of everything else, I get this news and he doesn't even have his bloody phone switched on.' Hot, stinging tears of frustration started to roll down Portia's face.
'Shh, darling, shhh,' said Daisy soothingly, rising to hug her tightly. 'It's very common to feel anger at first when you get news of bereavement. Just let it out. It's OK.'
'There's bugger all about this that's OK if you ask me,' said Lucasta from the bed, lighting one cigarette from another. 'Of all the rotten days for the bastard to die on. Never in all my past lives have I come across anyone as inconsiderate as your gobshite of a father. The word wanker is bandied about so freely these days but, by Christ, it's the only way you can describe Blackjack Davenport. Even from beyond the grave, he's still pissing me off.'
It was one of the rare occasions when Portia actually found herself in agreement with her mother. Lord Davenport, known far and wide as 'Blackjack' because of his addiction to the game, was never going to be eligible for a father of the year award, certainly as far as his elder daughter was concerned. He'd casually walked out on his wife and family a couple of years back, with his nineteen-year-old girlfriend in tow, made it as far as Las Vegas, Nevada, and stayed put. His family had only seen him once since then, but from what Portia could gather, he'd lived out the rest of his days in a suite at the five-star Bellagio Hotel, dating a string of younger women who worked in what's euphemistically known as 'the entertainment industry', boozing heavily by day and gambling by night, almost like a caricature of a lord from days gone by. In short, it was a lifestyle even George Best would have envied. He'd died of a massive heart
attack at his beloved blackjack table, clutching a winning hand close to his chest. The barman had gone looking for him, twigging that something must be amiss when Blackjack went for a whole half-hour without demanding that his whisky and soda be freshened up.
'Not exactly a beautiful death, but at least it's the way he would have wanted to go,' Daisy had said through fresh bouts of tears. Unlike Portia, she had adored her father; helped by the fact that she'd only seen him once in the last couple of years, they only kept in touch by phone, and also by virtue of being a full fourteen years younger than Portia. She had been in nappies when Blackjack's excesses were at their worst and consequently too young to have seen him for what he really was.
The show, however, had to go on. Close to four hundred people had been invited to the grand opening that night so whether the Davenport ladies liked it or not, they had no choice but to put a brave face on things. Lucasta, once she finally got out of bed, was revelling in the role of widowed martyr and anyone who overheard her could easily have been forgiven for thinking that she'd been happily married to a devoted husband. She swanned down the great oak staircase, still in her nightie and wax jacket, with waist-length grey hair streeling down her back, accepting condolences from the staff as though her husband had died in her loving arms a mere ten minutes ago.
'The only proven way to heal the deep grief I'm feeling,' she said to Molly, who was frantically giving the marble floor in the main entrance hall a final going-over, 'is to bathe naked under moonlight in the sweat of ten virgins, so you can see the obvious difficulty involved there.'
Last of the Great Romantics Page 2