Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  He had a way of spitting out her work title that was starting to wear a bit thin with Mrs Flanagan. 'So what do ya want me to do about it? Buy ya more fruit? Go out the back yard and pick some yerself, ya lazy fart, I have telly to watch,' she growled.

  'The only organic fruit that I would consider worthy of working with comes from Smithfield market in Dublin, so no, picking a few mouldy cooking apples from the kitchen garden isn't an option. What I require you to do—' He broke off for a moment, having caught sight of Mrs Flanagan's impression of him reflected in the TV. 'Your job is twofold. Firstly, to find out precisely what's happening and who is thieving from the kitchen and secondly, for the sake of all concerned, to prevent it from ever occurring again.'

  'Who in the name of Jaysus do ya think I am, Sherlock Holmes?' she snarled, lighting up another cigarette to try to keep her blood pressure down. 'Am I being followed by a Mr Watson?'

  'No, but then you are of a Miss Marple vintage,' sneered Tim, delighted that he could throw back a witty rejoinder. 'But I'll give you your first clue. Whoever is pilfering from me hasn't once gone near the pheasant or game or any of the cold meats that are hanging up in the walk-in freezer. I think you just might be looking for a vegetarian.'

  Chapter Ten

  In the end, it was Julia of all people who gave Shelley-Marie the stamp of approval and ensured her survival at Davenport Hall, at least temporarily.

  'Fabulous idea,' she decreed to Daisy. 'The only thing missing at the Hall is a good beauty salon. I was absolutely dreading the thought of having to bus the wedding guests to some sawdust-on-the-floor hick beauty parlour on the morning of the wedding. My God, have you seen some of the women going around Kildare? I know that the eighties revival is back, but these people are pure first-hand 1980s, big gelled hair and New Romantic heavy eye make-up. No, this'll have a fantastic trickle-down effect.'

  'Which is?' Daisy asked, tentatively.

  'It solves a big problem for me, which makes me happy, which in turn makes me less abusive to you. Fabulous suggestion, don't even think about changing your mind. I presume Andrew thought of it?'

  Daisy was also to discover that Shelley-Marie's talent for ingratiating herself had won her other powerful allies in the battle to allow her to take up permanent residence at the Hall. Her principal supporters in the red corner for letting her stay on after the wedding were Lucasta and Mrs Flanagan, both of whom vocally protested to Daisy about what an asset she was to the hotel, what a pleasure it was to have her around and, not least, the fact that she had nowhere else to go.

  'Your bollocks of a father left her virtually penniless, you know,' Lucasta had said. 'All that poor girl has to her name are the leather mini-skirts and all that interesting rubber underwear she arrived with, and you want to turn her out of the Hall as soon as this bloody wedding is over? I wouldn't allow one of my kitties to be treated with such disdain.'

  Mrs Flanagan's tack was slightly different, though no less persuasive. 'If ya let that poor unfortunate young one go, I'm handing in me resignation here and now. After the hard life she's had? Do you know that she was in foster homes for the first ten years of her life cos her aul' fella was in prison and her ma was in and out of mental homes her whole childhood? And then she was put in an orphanage or children's home or whatever the hell they call them now and the carers there never stopped harassing her, she was telling me, cos they were all mad jealous of her. But she made something of her life, she hauled herself out of the shite and got all her beauty therapy qualifications and everything was finally going great for her

  Her voice was starting to wobble a bit now so that she sounded like a voiceover on one of those 'watch our heroine pluck triumph from out of the mouth of adversity' biopics. The type of movie that Miramax would sweep the board with at Oscar time.

  'Then she met yer da, talked him into marrying her, God knows how, and just when her life had turned a corner' – she sniffed, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her housecoat – 'just as a little bit of luck was finally going her way and her dreams were finally becoming reality, what happens? The selfish bastard goes and drops dead. Honest to Jaysus, it's like something ya'd see on Oprah!

  Daisy knew better than to contradict her, but in fact it was something she had seen on Oprah while she was going through some accounts in the family room only the day before, and she felt pretty certain that Shelley-Marie had too. Something else had also struck her: that each and every time Shelley-Marie related her back history to whoever would listen, it changed. Only slightly, but enough to raise the hackles of suspicion on the back of Daisy's neck. One day she'd breathlessly whisper the foster home story; another, she'd have grown up in the projects with nothing but a Miss Fantasia's in her local town . . . stuff that wouldn't sound out of place in a Celine Dion tearjerker. Words her father used to say kept coming back to haunt her. 'To be a good liar,' he used to pontificate, 'you need the memory of an elephant.'

  In all fairness to Daisy, though, she was really trying her best to make a decent fist of her new job as acting manager. Without even knowing it, she'd genuinely impressed Julia not only with her enthusiasm for all the hard work that was involved but also with the way she'd thrown herself headfirst into helping with preparations for the big wedding. They had only had one significant argument and that was over Julia's irrevocable decision to hire a marquee for the reception.

  'But the Dining Room seats eighty!' Daisy had protested during one of their early morning power breakfasts. 'Not to mention the fact that the Hall has eight lovely great big reception rooms. I don't understand why on earth you'd want to squish all the wedding guests into some freezing, smelly old tent.'

  Julia smiled condescendingly at her, as if she were addressing a very slow-witted five-year-old. 'What you need to realize, Daisy, is that these "wedding guests" as you choose to call them are not ordinary people like you and me. They are celebrities. I think you'd do very well to bear that distinction in mind. They're as different from you and me as low-fat butter is from the real thing and the marquee I'll be hiring, believe you me, is no stinking wigwam. Take a look at this,' she said, thrusting over a thick colour brochure with her long scarlet talons. 'Is that what you'd describe as a poky little tent? It comfortably seats two hundred, which makes it almost three times the size of the Dining Room here, it has a dance floor the size of your Ballroom, it even comes with its own fake grass, for Christ's sake.'

  'Fake grass?' asked Daisy innocently. 'Why would you want fake grass in the middle of the country?'

  'Because fake grass is more grass-like than actual grass,' she replied in such a rude tone of voice that she may as well have added, 'you thick hick.' She went on, by way of explanation, 'It has the decided advantage that your heels don't sink into it and that you don't spend your time dodging sheep droppings. Just think of it as a big green carpet cunningly disguised as grass, without the revolting country garden smell. Honestly, when I was organizing the opening party for the Hall, I must have destroyed about six pairs of Jimmy Choos. I should have waived my fee and just presented you with my shoe bill instead.'

  Daisy eagerly seized the glossy brochure to have a look. The marquee did indeed look astonishing in the photos, utterly opulent and absolutely vast. It even had crystal chandeliers embedded in a star cloth hanging like a huge canopy from above which gave the glittering effect that you were partying under a clear night sky.

  'OK then,' she had said, well and truly won over, after she'd finished oohing and ahhing. 'So tell me where you think the best place would be to put it and I'll start talking to the gardeners.'

  'You really are working out very well, you know,' Julia said to her later as they walked across the forecourt to where her sports car was parked. 'Three weeks to go and I'm only on four milligrams of Valium a day. Well done you. Keep it up.'

  Daisy could only presume that this was meant as a compliment.

  FROM: daisydavenport@davenporthall.ie

  TO: aportiadavenport@aol.com

  SUBJECT: Jus
t to let you know that the Hall hasn't burnt down and I haven't stabbed our wicked stepmother yet and Julia and I are actually getting on OK, sort of, ish . . .

  Hi Portia!!!!

  I sat down to write you this email but then realized I've said everything I want to say in the subject box at top.

  Basically, all's well so far. This wedding is going to be unbelievable and you never know, I might even meet a fella at it. All the Oldcastle team are invited and most of them have confirmed. Yummy, yummy!!!!

  How's the Big Apple??? Done any serious shopping??? Which is a heavy hint for . . . have you bought me a really fab Donna Karan yet??? Love to Andrew, Dai syxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  FROM: portiadavenport@aol.com

  TO: daisydavenport@davenporthall.ie

  SUBJECT: Well, thank God for that!

  So glad everything's OK at home, you're a sweetie to put my mind at rest. We arrived safely and (you'd have been in seventh heaven!) were met by the longest stretch limo you ever saw, tinted windows, a mini-bar inside . . . the whole works . . . I love being a corporate wife! As soon as the driver heard this was my first time to New York, he insisted on giving us the full guided tour . . . Oh Daisy! I can't tell you how amazing it was seeing the Manhattan skyline for the first time! It's everything you imagine and more. Breath-taking, awe-inspiring, I've run out of superlatives to describe how astonishing it looks. (Tell me if this is driving you mad?) We drove by loads of the big landmarks, the Chrysler, the Flat Iron and, would you believe, I can actually see the Empire State from our bedroom window! The apartment is lovely, if a bit on the bachelor pad side for me, but A adores it and can't believe he's back living here with wifey in tow.

  Got to dash . . . big dinner coming up with some of A's colleagues (in Cipriani's at the Rainbow Room, if you don't mind) and I need to buy something New Yorky to wear . . . don't want to let the side down! Much love to my baby sis. Portiaxxx

  FROM: daisydavenport@davenporthall.ie

  TO: portiadavenport®aol.com

  SUBJECT: Well, don't let me keep you!!!

  Have to admit I got a bit confused at your last email. Thought I'd somehow got wires crossed with Carrie Bradshaw . . . Bitch!! So jealous!! Enjoy!! Would LOVE to hear more about your flashy, glam lifestyle but the outside drains are blocked again and I'd swear the septic tank has a leak in it . . . the difference in our lives . . . ! Dxxx

  Chapter Eleven

  By Christ, Daisy thought to herself, it's not often you see the cool, calm, über-efficient Julia Belshaw in a flap.

  It was mid-morning the following day and the Hall was in its usual state of organized chaos. Daisy was rushing off to a meeting with a hotel supplier in Dublin and both Molly and Tim were in the kitchens, clearing up after breakfast and preparing for lunch respectively. Lucasta had completely vanished; she was never anywhere to be seen these days, not even for her usual tipple during happy hour in the bar. She would appear back at the Hall very late at night, smelling even worse than she normally did and explaining her absence with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  'Get bent,' was all she said to Gorgeous George when he had the temerity to ask her if she was all right as she swished into the Long Gallery well after eleven p.m. one night. 'I'll have you know I'm on the brink of announcing a very exciting discovery to the world so until then, you'll just have to leave me be,' she said, stuffing the pockets of her wax jacket with as many airline-sized bottles of gin and miniature tins of tonic as she could, before stomping off to bed. Given that her last 'exciting discovery' had been a cure for ingrown hairs involving the use of rose quartz crystals, no one paid too much heed to her.

  Mrs Flanagan too had disappeared, but into the family sitting room; a toasted sandwich in one hand, a box of twenty cigarettes in the other and the TV guide tucked under her arm, leaving strict instructions that under no circumstances was she to be disturbed. 'I'm working on a top-secret project,' was all she gave away, 'and I need to do a bit of research first. So in the meantime, youse can all feck off.'

  'Honestly,' Daisy had grumbled to Amber, the very young and very pretty day receptionist, before she left for her meeting, 'some people in this house wouldn't last a wet day in the workplace.' (It was hard not to laugh aloud at this coming from Daisy of all people, of whom, up to a week ago, it could have reasonably been said that she had never done an honest day's work in her whole life.)

  They were both standing at the elegant Louis XVI reception desk in the main entrance hall when two guests, an elderly French couple, came tottering down the staircase, Louis Vuitton bags in hand, all set to check out. Daisy immediately snapped into action, beaming angelically at them and asking if they had enjoyed their stay as she expertly tapped the computer and printed off their bill. 'I'll handle this,' she said with great confidence to Amber, delighted to have a chance to show off her new-found professionalism.

  'Ehh . . . my Engleesh is not so good as it used to be,' said the woman, smiling and nodding, 'but we have many times been staying at the Ritz, Paris and, may I say, the dining here is incommensurable.'

  Daisy and Amber glanced at each other; neither one's French was good enough to give a sophisticated, bilingual reply, but they thanked them effusively for the lovely compliment and, judging by their guests' big, happy smiles and by the warmth of the handshakes they exchanged, it could safely be said that their stay was a success and that they might even be back.

  Both Daisy and Amber walked them to the top of the steps outside and gamely waved them off like old friends.

  'Nothing like a satisfied customer,' Amber remarked, shivering a bit against the biting cold.

  'You know what we could really do with around here?' Daisy asked, only half listening to her. 'Now don't laugh, but I feel I wouldn't be doing my job as acting manager unless I gave these things proper consideration.'

  'What's that?'

  'A hotel porter. We badly need one, I almost broke my back helping those guests from Dublin carry luggage to their car the other day. Honest to God, they were only here for two nights and they had five suitcases between them. They must have changed clothes about eight times a bloody day.'

  'They did. One of them was aghast that we didn't have a strict dress code for dinner. Apparently she'd brought three possible evening gowns to choose from and by gowns I really mean gowns, with ridiculous trains and everything. I think they confused this place with the Kodak Theatre on Oscar night.'

  'I'm being serious,' replied Daisy. 'We could really do with the extra help and you know what else? We could hire a big, beefy, sexy-looking guy and then give him a bell-hop uniform to wear with a little pill-box hat – you know, like in 1930s movies?'

  Amber giggled. 'Now that would make my early morning shifts all the more bearable. Can we get one that looks like Colin Farrell? Please?'

  'Let me talk to Portia about it,' Daisy laughed, really savouring her new responsibilities. 'Bight, I've got to dash,' she said, suddenly remembering the time. 'Probably not a good idea to keep someone we owe money to waiting.'

  She was just about to trip down the stone steps to her car as Julia's distinctive red two-seater came whooshing up the driveway, doing one of her trademark gravel-scattering handbrake turns. The woman herself then dumped the car at right angles to the bottom of the steps and came running up, barely taking the time to bang the car door behind her. 'Code red emergency!' she was shrieking at the top of her voice, taking the steps two at a time, no mean feat in five-inch stilettos.

  'Oh Christ, what fresh hell is this?' Daisy muttered when right on Julia's heels came a brand-new, showroom-condition Porsche.

  'OK, OK, I need you both to remain calm,' said Julia breathlessly, sounding anything other than calm herself. 'It's them. Eleanor and Mark Lloyd in person. He had a day free in his schedule and wants to see the Hall for himself. OK, OK, OK . . .' she continued, thinking aloud. 'Here's what I need you both to do. Evacuate the Hall, tell all the nobodies staying here there's a fire or something, I don't care, just get rid of them. Mark can't
have plebs bothering him when his time is at such a premium.'

  Keep cool, Daisy kept saying to herself, keep nice and cool and remember you're a manager. She took a deep breath and was about to point out calmly that under no circumstances could she subject guests to that kind of appalling treatment when Eleanor herself called out from the passenger window of the Porsche.

  'Good morning, everyone! Please, please excuse us for landing on top of you like this and promise me you won't make a fuss? We'd hate to think that we were putting anyone out.' A lady to her fingertips, Daisy thought as they all went down the steps to meet and greet.

  Eleanor looked as naturally beautiful as she always did, dressed down in jeans and a simple white shirt under a black leather jacket. She shook hands with Julia warmly and gave Daisy a big bear hug, like an old pal she hadn't seen in years.

  'Mark was supposed to be training all day,' she blushed, 'but it was unexpectedly cancelled so he called me from Oldcastle this morning and flew all the way to Dublin by helicopter just so he could see the Hall. I hope that's all right?' she asked, addressing Daisy. 'If it's not a good time for you, we could easily come back again.'

  Touched by her politeness and humility, Daisy was about to reply that there was no problem at all, they were only delighted to see them, when the man himself appeared from the driver's side of the car.