'And, let's face it, it's hardly nuclear physics, is it?' Andrew was still in full flow. 'Tim's running the kitchen like a dream and Molly and the rest of the staff have the place looking spotless. Bookings for the Hall are beginning to come in thick and fast. For God's sake, all Daisy has to do is answer phones politely, meet and greet guests and try and keep your mother as far out of sight as possible.'
'Honey, I know exactly what you're saying and I agree with you. Daisy hasn't exactly been a model career girl so far and under normal circumstances, I'd have no difficulty encouraging her to take a bit of responsibility for a few months. But no matter what way you look at this, these are not normal circumstances.'
'Portia, you are getting on that flight with me tomorrow and I won't take no for an answer.' Andrew was grinning, but his tone was deadly serious. 'We've worked our asses off getting the Hall up and running and we both need the change of scene. I want you in New York with me, simple as that.'
She could tell he was getting tetchy with her because he took the sharp left turn which led to the main gates of the Hall at breakneck speed, jolting her roughly against her seatbelt. 'Do you think I don't want to go? Do you think for one minute that I would choose to be apart from you?' She deliberately kept her voice cool and calm. 'But my point is that we have both worked too hard and invested far too much money for this not to work. The first few months that the Hall is open for business are critical. If I go away with you, the way things are at the moment, when we come back either Daisy will have stabbed Shelley-Marie or the other way around or one or other of them will have set fire to the Hall. A bloodbath or a massacre is the only outcome to this situation, and somehow I don't think that's the kind of publicity for the hotel that either of us wants.'
They drove on in silence for a bit, both of them at deadlock. They'd got as far as the tennis courts before, eventually, Andrew spoke. 'OK. OK. Say I talk to Miss Southern Fried brass neck as soon as we go in. If I can persuade her to leave quickly and quietly, as soon as possible, then will you come with me? Do we have a deal?'
He'd pulled the car up outside the main entrance by now and switched off the engine, turning to face her. He looked at her with that boyish, adorable, turn-me-down-if-you-dare glint in his eye which made her smile. Impulsively, she leaned forward across the passenger seat to kiss him. 'Then we've a deal,' she murmured, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. Playfully, he caught her hand and was moving in to kiss her when there was a loud thud on the roof of their car. Another one followed immediately and then there was a deafening crash right beside where they had parked.
'Jesus Christ!' said Andrew as they both leapt out of the jeep and looked up to see what the commotion was. From a third-floor window above, which looked down directly on to the forecourt, Daisy was unceremoniously hurling bulging black bin liners like missiles and not caring where they landed.
'Bitch!' she screamed, flinging yet another one out of the window, which only missed the windscreen of Andrew's car by inches. 'Do you see wheels on the side of this Hall? Do you?' She was screeching like a demented banshee by now, Portia could only guess for Shelley-Marie's benefit. 'Well, let me tell you something! There ARE no wheels on the side of this house, therefore it is not a bloody trailer so you can take all your tarty rubber mini-skirts and the rest of your slapper-wear collection and you can BUGGER OFF!'
In a flash, Shelley-Marie came running out of the Hall door, totally ignoring Portia and throwing herself helplessly into Andrew's arms. 'I'm detectin' so much hostility from your sister-in-law; I'm beggin' you to help me. Her papa died in my lovin' arms callin' my name—'
'That's a tiny bit of an exaggeration, actually,' Portia interrupted; annoyed with Daisy for physically throwing Shelley-Marie's stuff out of the window like this, but well able to see where she was coming from. 'My understanding is he died alone at a card table.'
'Oh, who are you, his biographer?' wailed Shelley-Marie, for once letting her guard down. 'I brought love and comfort to him in the twilight of his life and this is how his daughters thank me!' She could really turn on the tears at will; they were flowing freely down her cheeks now, making her thickly applied mascara run and giving her panda-bear eyes. Then came the trump card she'd been waiting to play for days. She hugged Andrew even tighter so that her make-up was now dribbling on to his jacket. 'After all, I am family now and there's no place else I can go.'
'Oh, good luck,' Portia called over her shoulder to him as she tripped up the steps and into the Hall, leaving Andrew to deal with it. She couldn't, she just couldn't. Any more of Shelley-Marie and she thought she'd physically be sick.
Hours later, Andrew still hadn't returned to the gate lodge but every time Portia started to worry, she'd brush it aside just as quickly. This is where he excelled himself, she'd reason. If anyone could talk Shelley-Marie into going quickly and quietly, it was him. With a bit of luck, Andrew's legendary persuasiveness would have worked like a charm and Miss Plastic Fantastic would be leaving tomorrow too, or so Portia fervently hoped. It did strike her as a bit odd that it all seemed to be taking so long, but then he was probably tying up other loose ends at the Hall before leaving in the morning, she reasoned.
She was upstairs in the bedroom, frantically stuffing clothes into a suitcase when she heard his car scrunch up outside. Immediately throwing the case off the bed, she hotfooted it down the stairs to meet him. God love him, she thought, he's probably thinking that New York will be an oasis of peace and tranquillity compared with all the recent goings-on at the Hall . . .
'Well?' she said, hugging him as he stooped to come through the barn door. He smelt a bit boozy, she noticed, but let it go. 'So when is the she-devil leaving?'
Andrew released her grip and ran his fingers through his hair. Never a good sign. 'She's not. She's staying. Now, don't overreact, OK?'
'What?' Whenever anyone told Portia not to overreact, it immediately made her want to fling the nearest cat against a wall.
'The thing is . . . well, you see . . . I've hired her.'
Chapter Seven
Bookings for the Davenport Country House Hotel were really starting to come in thick and fast but nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared any of the family for what was to come. It was first light the following morning and, as usual, Molly was the first out of bed and hard at work. Breakfast didn't begin until seven but that didn't stop her from rising a good hour before that so she could arrange all the morning papers neatly on the green baize side table in the Dining Room and also give the kitchen a final once-over before she deemed it hygienic enough for a master chef like Tim to work in. 'If you can't perform an operation on it, then it's not really clean,' was her constant mantra.
She was one of those fastidious people who took great pride in their job, the sort of person who permanently wore Marigolds and won 'employee of the month' awards. Naturally, this was a great bone of contention with Mrs Flanagan, who was rarely out of bed before ten and only ever began work after she'd channel-surfed her way through each and every one of the breakfast TV shows in the family living room.
'If that bleedin' Molly one thinks she's going to show me up, she can feck off,' she'd griped. 'I swear to Jaysus she'll be out polishing the gravel next. She opens doors with her elbows, for Jaysus' sake.'
Given that Mrs Flanagan's standards of hygiene once involved a famous occasion when she wiped wet cutlery against her bum to dry, no one was ever going to challenge her about her attitude to poor hard-working Molly.
'Do you know she's getting through six industrial-sized cases of Domestos a week?' she'd asked Tim incredulously on one of the rare occasions when they were speaking. 'When I had the run of the place, the one normal-sized bottle used to last months.'
'And you think that's something to brag about?' sniffed Tim in response. He was wise enough not to take the argument any further with her, though. All he asked was that Mrs Flanagan stay as far away from his pristine kitchen as possible and just let the professionals get on with it,
an arrangement which suited everyone.
The first wintry rays of light were just breaking over the Hall and, true to form, Molly was up and about, painstakingly polishing the brass door knob on the main door until it gleamed. Suddenly she looked up, hearing the unexpected sound of a car thundering down the driveway at speed. It was too early for a delivery van, she thought, and although they were expecting guests that day, they weren't due to arrive until well after breakfast. With a screeching handbrake turn which sent gravel hailstoning every which way, the car scrunched to a halt. Both doors opened and Molly immediately recognized Eleanor Armstrong, the President's daughter, stepping out of the passenger seat, accompanied by an older woman who looked vaguely familiar but whom she couldn't quite place.
Eleanor was dressed casually in jeans and a cream cashmere sweater with her long dark hair loose around her shoulders, looking as effortlessly stunning as she always did. Her companion, on the other hand, was wearing a bright lime-green trouser suit and clearly had absolutely nothing on under the jacket, except maybe two expertly positioned pieces of toupee tape to hold her in place. She looked as though she'd come straight from a nightclub as she strode imperiously towards Molly, whipping her sunglasses up into her chic blonde bob.
'I told you there'd be somebody up at this hour, Eleanor,' she said. 'It's the country, for God's sake, they're probably all out milking cows. Good morning!' she trilled at Molly as she tottered up the stone steps in her high heels, shivering against the early morning mist. 'We're here to see the bookings manager or, failing that, one of the Davenports will do. Well, except the mother, obviously.' Then, barging past Molly with an embarrassed-looking Eleanor trailing behind her, she added, 'Just tell them Julia Belshaw is here.'
The penny dropped as Molly realized this was the same ghastly woman who had organized the opening party and had had the cheek to hand her a cleaning schedule, as if she needed one. However, she said nothing, just nodded and showed them into the Library, wondering what on earth they wanted and whom she could possibly get to speak to them. Portia and Andrew were the obvious choice, but she knew they were both travelling to New York that day and that this would be the last thing they'd need. In their absence, her instructions were clear: Daisy was acting manager until they got back. Without hesitating any further, Molly scuttled up the four flights of stairs to the family bedrooms and knocked discreetly on Daisy's door.
'Come in,' said a muffled, half-asleep voice. Daisy and early mornings did not mix.
'I'm very sorry to disturb you,' said Molly, addressing the mound of tossed bedsheets under the huge counterpane, 'but Eleanor Armstrong is waiting to see you in the Library.' Then, as though describing something disgusting, she added, 'With Julia Belshaw.'
Daisy sat up, suddenly awake. 'Oh shit. What do they want?'
Although Molly strongly disapproved of bad language, she let this pass. After all, this was something of an emergency. 'I've absolutely no idea what brings them here,' she replied, 'but you should just see the mud on the soles of their feet. I don't care if she is the President's daughter, you're going to have to ask them to take their shoes off. Otherwise I'll have to disinfect the entire Library floor the minute they're gone.'
Five minutes later, Daisy had shoehorned herself into the hotel's new uniform, a neat black woollen jacket and skirt with a crisp white shirt underneath. She hated wearing it, naturally, but as both Portia and Andrew had resolutely insisted that it was compulsory for all staff, she had no choice. As an act of rebellion, she left her huge tousled mane of curls to tumble loose but did at least remember to clip on the nametag she'd been issued with: 'Daisy Davenport. Acting Manager'.
She legged it down all four flights of stairs two at a time before pausing for a brief moment to catch her breath beside the huge gilt mirror on the lower landing. An unaccustomed surge of pride filled her as she took a lightning-quick glance at her reflection. In a million years she wouldn't be caught dead in a two-piece suit. Like her mother she hated formal clothes and was infinitely more comfortable in her jodhpurs, but now that she saw herself in all her glory, she had to admit she didn't look half bad. Ivana Trump eat your heart out, she thought to herself with a giggle. She knew exactly how much Portia and Andrew were trusting her with to keep the place going in their absence and, although she was nervous, she was determined to do them proud. I can cope, she whispered to herself before going into the Library. I've never had a job in my life, but I can cope. I'm a wonderful manager and I can cope . . .
Eleanor Armstrong, a natural diplomat like her father, immediately rose to greet Daisy as she burst confidently through the door. 'We've already met, actually,' she said in her soft quiet voice, shaking Daisy warmly by the hand. 'At your wonderful opening-night party, in fact. I remember thinking how brave you were to be there at all, considering you'd just heard the awful news about Lord Davenport.'
'Thanks, that's so nice of you,' replied Daisy, genuinely touched and instantly liking her.
'So you're some sort of manager now?' said Julia incredulously, not even bothering to greet Daisy. 'Where's Andrew? I was really hoping we could have a word with him.' Then as an afterthought, she added, 'Or with Portia, of course.'
'Off to New York, today as it happens,' replied Daisy, doing her best to sound authoritative. 'I'll be in charge till they get back.'
Julia rolled her eyes to heaven as if to say that didn't quite suit her, then imperiously beckoned for Daisy to come and sit down on the sofa beside her, as though she owned the place and Daisy worked for her. She eyed Daisy up and down, apparently weighing up whether or not she could be trusted and then, realizing she had no choice but to deal with this inexperienced-looking slip of a girl, took the plunge. 'Can you keep a secret?' she snapped, briskly whipping a leather Filofax and a newspaper clipping from the depths of her Kelly bag.
'Emm, yes, of course,' replied Daisy, lying through her teeth. She knew perfectly well that you'd have to go a long way to come across a less discreet person than her. In fact, Portia used to tease her that she was nothing more than a gossipy aul' one with curlers in her hair trapped inside a beautiful young girl's body. If you wanted a rumour spread far and wide, all you had to do was tell Daisy, sit back and relax. Even labelling something highly confidential didn't work, that meant she'd only tell one person at a time.
Eleanor blushed and smiled as she took off a pair of leather gloves to reveal the most stunning engagement ring Daisy had ever seen.
'Wow! What a knuckleduster!' she couldn't help exclaiming before reminding herself that acting managers like her should try and behave with a bit more decorum.
'I know, my father says you can't even see where the Titanic scraped it,' laughed Eleanor. 'I've lost count of the number of times I've scratched my nose on it, it's so big. The ring, that is.'
'Can I do the thing where you twist it round your finger three times and make a wish?' asked Daisy. Eleanor nodded happily and slipped the ring off her finger and on to Daisy's. It was a perfect fit and Daisy couldn't stop herself squealing like a schoolgirl in excitement. 'Look at me, I'm Liz Taylor! I have twenty-five husbands and thirteen chins! Say, look what Richard Burton just bought to celebrate me getting out of the Betty Ford Center!' she said, putting on a bad American accent and jokingly waving the rock under Eleanor's nose.
'Now you turn it three times towards your heart,' said Eleanor, delighted with her reaction, 'but you can't wish for either a man or money.'
'Oh bugger,' replied Daisy, 'there was me hoping I could ask for a fella.'
'You are single?' Eleanor said in total disbelief. 'You're joking, right? Don't tell me someone as stunning as you doesn't have guys queuing up for you?'
'This is Ballyroan you're in now, not exactly the nightclub capital of Europe. If a single, eligible man rode into town we'd have him stuffed and mounted. So, tell me everything, who's the lucky guy?' Although this was the first time she'd spoken to Eleanor, Daisy found herself instantly bonding with her, she was so lovely and easy to chat to, one of
those people it was impossible not to like.
'Well, it's been a bit of a whirlwind, actually,' began Eleanor before Julia gently but firmly cut across her.
'Eleanor darling, there's plenty of time for all that later. We're under such time pressure that perhaps we should get down to business?' Julia's tone when speaking to Eleanor was sugary-sweet and just a shade sycophantic, a woman who knew only too well which side her bread was buttered on.
'Oh sorry, yes, of course,' said Eleanor politely. 'Right then, to work. No doubt you're wondering what brings us here at this ungodly hour of the morning. Well, there's your answer,' she said, thrusting the newspaper clipping at Daisy who eagerly snatched it up. It was a headline article from a tabloid paper, dated that day, which read: 'EXCLUSIVE! TOP TOTTIE TO WED! ASHFORD CASTLE TO HOST SOCIETY WEDDING OF THE YEAR AS ELEANOR ARMSTRONG SAYS "I DO" TO HUNKY OLDCASTLE UNITED STRIKER MARK LLOYD.'
'Oh my God, you're marrying Mark Lloyd!' squealed Daisy in an ultrasonic voice, so high-pitched that Julia visibly winced and covered her ears. 'Oh my God, oh sweet Jesus, I think I have to have a lie-down! You are the luckiest girl alive!'
Eleanor beamed and blushed very prettily as would any bride-to-be at a reaction like this. 'Oh, so do you support Oldcastle United then?' she asked politely as soon as Daisy let her get a word in.
'Emm, not exactly . . . No, I mean, I know of them, that they're a team and that they play in matches and wear tight shorts and things but I know exactly who Mark Lloyd is,' replied Daisy enthusiastically.
Last of the Great Romantics Page 8