Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  'You couldn't,' Daisy blurted out. 'The Hall belongs to my sister Portia.'

  'I mean all that guff about titles and that shite. I'm not joking you, but I honestly swear that if anyone called me Lord Davenport, I'd punch their lights out. And I'm a pacifist. So you needn't be worrying about me having a go at any of your guests,' he added, nodding respectfully at her.

  For a split second, she felt as if she were conducting the weirdest job interview in history. 'If you're a pacifist, then how come they put you away for ten years?' asked Daisy. 'What in God's name did you do?'

  She was so innocent and direct, he completely failed to take any offence at his criminal past being dragged up. It was odd, Daisy felt, that she was the one who was embarrassed. He never batted an eyelid, just answered her with that disarming mix he had of honesty and humility.

  'You're dead right to ask me that, Daisy. If I'm going to be giving you a hand about the place, you need to know my back history, so to speak. I'm an animal rights activist and, well, it's a long story and I don't want to bore you, but let's just say I was staging a peaceful protest outside a furrier's shop above in Dublin and it got a bit out of hand.'

  'What happened?' Daisy was intrigued, especially as he seemed like the type who wouldn't harm a fly.

  'Ah, I was unlucky. All I wanted to do was chain myself to the railings, nice and peacefully, and sit there for the day with my placard: "Wear your own pelt". But then a whole load of professional May-Day rioters joined in the protest and turned it into a full-scale demonstration. Total disaster. The police had to be brought in, there was even tear gas used to disperse the mob, windows were smashed, the crowd were baton-charged – God Almighty, it was the lead story on the six o'clock news that night. I was singled out as the ringleader and the judge said he had to make an example of me. Gave me five years in the Joy'

  'So how come you ended up doing ten?'

  'Well, you see, I started a protest inside about how there was no vegetarian option in the canteen, a peaceful demonstration, but there was an awful rough element in the Joy, you wouldn't believe it. And before I knew what was going on, a right crowd of messers had dragged us up on to the roof to demonstrate; Christ, there were helicopters circling around us and everything. So I sort of got labelled as a troublemaker and they extended my sentence. Wrong place, wrong time, you know? Then I got transferred to Portlaoise and the Governor there got me all interested in the drama end of things, so it never really bothered me when I never made parole. I was always in the middle of directing something and I never minded.'

  Daisy just stared at him, open-mouthed. Finally, she began to see why his nickname was Mad Jasper.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bright, late-morning sunshine was streaming through the window by the time Portia finally woke from a sleep deeper than the seabed around the Titanic. For a split second, she had that awful where-am-I feeling you get when you're still not fully used to the time difference and wake up in an unfamiliar bed, but then memories of last night came flooding back to her in one big, blissful deluge. She was here. In New York. In Andrew's fabulous apartment with him beside her. Except that he wasn't exactly beside her.

  No matter, she thought, woozily remembering him muttering something about an early morning meeting. They had weeks and weeks ahead, just the two of them, in New York together.

  Lazily, she dragged herself out of bed, pulled on one of the T-shirts that Andrew had dumped across the back of a chair, and sauntered over to the high sash window. It was a perfect Manhattan morning, bright and cloudless, and for a second she struggled with the heavy clasp on the window before throwing it open and impulsively sticking her head out. 'Oh Jesus!' she gasped, still not used to quite how high up the apartment actually was.

  Way, way down below her were swarms of people, like tiny weenie free samples, all full of hustle and bustle as they went about the business that's demanded of a professional Manhattanite. Park Avenue was jammed with mid-morning traffic, yellow cabs noisily honked horns and everywhere she looked, people seemed to be in a mad, tearing hurry.

  She almost hugged herself, high on life, feeling that this was probably the closest she'd ever come to being in an episode of Sex and the City, and also loving that guilty pleasure you only get when you're on holiday while everyone around you is working their ass off.

  She sighed with pure pleasure, pulled the window shut behind her and sashayed around the apartment, which she was slowly coming to love as much as Andrew seemed to. He'd lived there for years before he'd met Portia and had simply plonked his bags down and gone back to his old office, as if he'd never been away. Old-fashioned in design, it had high, coved ceilings, a walkthrough closet, a wonderful cream-tiled en-suite bathroom with a Victorian pedestal bath, and a tiny galley kitchen, with only a microwave in it, she noted, smilingly. Andrew was a wonderful husband, a supremely talented whiz-kid lawyer and an Olympian lover to boot, but when it came to cooking skills, he was useless bordering on dangerous. Unless you counted tea and toast or ripping open the top of a cereal box, Gordon Ramsay could sleep easy. The one and only time he tried to make her dinner, she ended up with vicious food poisoning for a full week.

  'And I wouldn't mind,' he'd moaned at her, 'but I defrosted that chicken at least three times before I microwaved it, just to be on the safe side.'

  Macmillan Burke had obviously spent a fortune on the place; the breathtaking views of the Park from the living-room windows alone must have added a fair whack on to the rental cost. A luxurious perk such as greenery was utterly wasted on a country-bred girl like Portia though. She spent her life looking at fields, mountains and fabulous views; what was making her heart race were the city sights, sounds and smells; the nervous energy, the buzz; and the feeling that you might turn a corner and bump into Woody Allen at any moment. She couldn't contain herself, she just had to get out there once again, hit the shops, grab some food, buy some clothes, walk the streets and just be a part of all that life.

  She showered and dressed and went to check her emails to see if there was a progress report from Daisy. Nothing. No matter, she thought, figuring that no news was good news. She threw on a warm jacket and bounced over to the hall table to fish out a spare set of keys Andrew had cut for her. She rooted around under a pile of junk mail to see if he'd left her a note, but he hadn't. Which was odd. He was a great Post-it writer, even if it was only to tell her silly stuff like Don't forget to tape The West Wing tonight, or I don't care what you say, those outside drains really need to be looked at. Or even, I love you.

  She thought for a second, hesitated, then picked up the phone and rang his direct line. Bugger it, she figured. Yes, he's up to his armpits in work, but he'll want to know I'm out and about and when we're going to meet up later. As the number rang, she drifted off into a mini-daydream where they were having a cosy, gorgeous, romantic dinner in some chi-chi Italian restaurant that he knew of old, where only real New Yorkers dined, just the two of them this time, holding hands across the table with Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick talking to Tony Soprano at the table next to them, Will and Grace cracking jokes beside them, as Yoko Ono serenaded her from a white grand piano, just like in the 'Imagine' video . . .

  'Mr de Courcey's office, how may I help you?' A woman's voice, crisp and businesslike.

  'Oh, hi,' she said, roused from her meandering little fantasy. 'Can I speak to Andrew please? This is his wife calling.'

  'Oh, you must be the famous Portia we've all heard so much about.' The voice sounded warmer, friendlier. 'I'm Glenda, one of the legal secretaries here. Welcome to the city.'

  'That's very nice of you, thanks. I was just wondering if I could speak—'

  'Oh, I just love your cute little accent! Say something Irish.'

  'Emm, the top of the morning to you?'

  Hysterical laughter followed. 'I love it! I love the lilt, it's a scream! You know I'm one-quarter Irish on my grandmother's side?'

  'Emm . . . really?'

  'Sure, honey.
She came over after the war, hoping for a better life, but got caught up in the Depression. Then she met my grandfather who made all his money from bootlegging but he got drafted into the Second World War and was killed in action in Normandy. I'm welling up just thinking about it. How they've never been on the biography channel, I'll never know.'

  Jesus, Portia thought, will I ever get to talk to Andrew? 'I just wondered if Andrew was around . . .'

  'So what are your first impressions of the Big Apple?'

  'Oh, it's just everything I ever thought it would be. I can't tell you how much I love exploring. I just wanted to have a quick word with my—'

  'Oh well, honey, I just have six words to say to you. All the B's. Bergdorf's, Bloomingdale's and Barneys for your brazilians, Birkins and Bellinis.' 1 m sorry?

  'Shopping tips, sweetheart. If I had a rich husband like Andrew, they'd have to open up a branch of Barneys right in my front room. You take my advice, honey, and go max out his credit card. If he's anything like my guy, he'll pay it just to keep the peace. Say: Ah sure, to be sure, to be sure. Every time I try to get Andrew to do it for me, he leaves the room.'

  'Speaking of Andrew, I was really hoping to talk to—'

  'Wait up, honey, Lynn's right here beside me, wants a quick word.'

  Portia rolled her eyes to heaven as the phone was passed over, clearly hearing Glenda whisper, 'You know what these Irish are like, they'd keep you chatting on the phone all day. You can't ever get a word in.'

  'Hi there, Portia, I hope you're not feeling under the weather after last night?'

  'No, I feel wonderful, thanks. Dying to get out and see the city. Maybe you can help me, Lynn, do you know where Andrew is?'

  'Tied up in meetings all day, I've barely seen him myself.'

  Not to worry, Portia thought, he'd be back at the apartment that evening; she'd see him then for a lovely, romantic evening, just the two of them this time.

  'So how about you let me take you to lunch?'

  'Oh, well, that's very sweet of you, Lynn, thank you.'

  Given the choice, Portia would have preferred to be out and about exploring the sights and sounds of Manhattan by herself, but it was really good of Lynn to offer her lunch. Friendly. And, after all, she had the whole day ahead of her. She could always do touristy stuff afterwards.

  'Great. How about the King's Carriage House at one p.m., that'll give you thirty minutes to get there, which is plenty. I'll book a table now. It's on East Eighty-second Street between Second and Third.'

  'Sorry?'

  'I forgot you're not used to the grid system yet. Just jump in a cab at Park Avenue and give the address. It's only five blocks from you.'

  At exactly one p.m., Portia stepped out of a yellow cab and into the crisp sunshine. 'Have a nice day, ma'am,' the taxi driver called after her, sounding as though he really meant it.

  'Thanks,' she smiled, 'you too.'

  A uniformed concierge gracefully held the door open for her and she stepped inside, squinting a bit till her eyes got used to bright overhead lights. The restaurant was big and bustling, high-ceilinged and elegant, with waiters and bus boys running around. It was obviously very trendy too, as a long queue had already formed at the reception desk.

  'Portia, darling, lovely to see you.' It was Lynn, shoving Versace sunglasses into the breast pocket of her crisp linen jacket as she entered the restaurant doors, a bit breathless from having rushed to get there. 'Hi Paul. God, if you get any more gorgeous I'll make your wife divorce you.' Lynn strode confidently up to the top of the queue and kissed the maître d' warmly, leaving Portia to trail in her wake.

  'May I say how stunning you're looking today,' the maître d' toadied to Lynn as he escorted them to a window table and helped her off with her jacket. She did indeed look a million dollars in a smart black linen trouser suit, with a low-cut sleeveless top which revealed her perfectly tanned, toned, athletic shoulders.

  'I'm really sorry about this but I only have about forty minutes for lunch, so if it's OK with you, can we get straight down to it?'

  'Ehh, yes, of course,' Portia answered, wondering: Get down to what exactly?

  Lynn fished about in her Hermès bag for a very stuffed-looking Filofax and whipped it open in a blinding flash of French-polished nails. 'Firstly, let me emphasize that geography is not any kind of barrier between me and my goal. If you can tell me of any single, eligible guys that you might know of in Ireland, I am so there.'

  OK, Portia thought, we're in for a continuation of last nights discussion. So this lunch wasn't about Lynn being friendly towards her at all. It was just another chance for her to pick Portia's brains. She took a sip of her mineral water and braced herself while Lynn rabbited on.

  'If you think that Ireland is where I need to go, then that's where I'll go. I'm fully prepared to invest time and energy in this project. You gotta speculate to accumulate. And if Andrew is anything to go by, then Irish guys are hot, hot, hot.'

  'Lynn, I need to stop you right there. I am from a tiny village in a backwater of County Kildare. It's hardly Las Vegas.'

  'Think.' Lynn was impatiently rapping a gold pen against her Filofax.

  'OK, let's see. Well, there's Tom O'Donnell, he's definitely single.'

  'Age?'

  'Oh, you know how it is with balding men in their fifties, it's nearly impossible to put a definite age on them, particularly when they start losing their teeth.' What the hell, Portia figured, might as well have a bit of fun with this.

  'Occupation and an estimate of his earnings?'

  'Let's see now.' Portia sat back and deliberately took her time. 'He's our local taxi driver and claims he owns a fleet of taxis, but it's actually just a Nissan Micra that failed the NCT and his mother's second-hand Volvo. In fact, I think that's your main problem with Tom.'

  'What?'

  'He still lives at home with his mother. Very close to her too; he drives her to mass every Sunday'

  'Any special talents or interests I should know about?'

  'Well, I've never seen it myself, but they say he can sink a pint of Guinness in under five seconds. And my mother swears she once heard him burp the national anthem.'

  Lynn's face fell as she angrily put a neat line through his name. 'Who else have you got?'

  'Let me think . . .' Portia took another long sip of mineral water and really started to enjoy herself. 'Oh I know. God, why didn't I think of it before, it's so obvious, it's staring me in the face.'

  'Who, what?'

  'Single, straight and absolutely loaded. He's probably the most eligible bachelor in the county. He's got loads of women running after him.'

  'Other women are not a variable which concerns me. Describe him.'

  'Well, he's what you might call gothic-looking. You know, tall and skinny. Mid forties, I'd think.'

  'I love that look, you mean like that actor Richard E. Grant?'

  'More Herman Munster, really. Quite reserved, always very well dressed. Oh, and he works with his hands. Loads of women want to date him, from as far away as, oh, Carlow. Let me put it this way, I don't think he'd have any problem finding his way around a naked woman's body.'

  'Did he ever come on to you? When you were single, I mean.'

  'I wouldn't really be his type. Well, not yet anyway.'

  'So what does he do?'

  'Oh, didn't I say? He's the local undertaker. Hugely successful too – he did my father's funeral and we were all delighted at how smoothly the whole thing went. Even my mother was forced to admit it was a far better send-off than the old bastard deserved.'

  Lynn sighed deeply and decided to change tack. 'Why don't I leave you to think a little further about suitable guys from the Emerald Isle and in the meantime, here's a list of the Macmillan Burke men I need information on. Basic stuff, really: status, income, which Ivy League school they attended, college grades, general dating history and whether they're leg or breast men.'

  Portia looked at her, wondering if she was messing around. It was on
ly when Lynn tore out a neat list of names from her Filofax and handed it over that she realized she was being deadly serious.

  'Don't look so dumbfounded, Portia, I need your help here. You can't expect me to find all this out for myself, can you? As a married woman, you can get away with asking anything you want and guys will tell you straight out. If I ask, they just smell the agenda and clam right up.'

  Or maybe they just see the shark fin sticking out the back of your neck and that gives them their first clue, Portia thought as lunch was served. A buffalo mozzarella salad with Parma ham and caramelized onion marmalade . . . unbelievably delicious but as far as Portia was concerned it may as well have been boiled tripe on toast. Funny, she thought, how company can sometimes make you completely lose your appetite.

  Precisely forty minutes later, Lynn pecked her once on each cheek and strode back to the office, leaving Portia with the same feeling the Free French resistance fighters must have had after ten minutes of being interrogated by the Gestapo. She felt bulldozed over, bossed around and, worst of all, used. Wait till I tell Andrew, was all she could think as she waved down a yellow cab and said the only words in the English language calculated to make her feel better.

  'Hi there.' She beamed at the driver. 'Can you please take me to the poshest, swishest and trendiest store on the island of Manhattan? The kind of place where nothing costs less than five hundred dollars and no matter what I buy, my husband will fall in love with me all over again?'

  Hours later, she arrived back at the apartment, laden down with shopping bags, all thoughts of loopy Lynn well and truly banished. After the taxi driver had said, '¿Qué?' a couple of times and Portia gesticulated wildly and pointed at her clothes like she was having a small seizure, eventually he'd deposited her in front of every true Manhattanite's raison d'être: the Madison Avenue entrance to Barneys.

  Portia was instantly in girl heaven and raced around the contemporary casuals floor like a high speed Mack Sennet chase scene on speed, never in her life having seen anything quite like this. Ballyroan's sole contribution to world couture was 'Nuala's Valu-Fashions' on Main Street, where eighties originals were still sold. Not as any kind of tongue-in-cheek retro revival, they were the real thing, right down to the fuchsia-pink puffball skirt in the window, white stilettos and boiler suits, all with shoulder-padded jackets to match. It was like comparing a mangy stray dog with a Cruft's champion: everything you picked up here was a work of art, right down to the exquisite-coloured cashmere jumpers beautifully laid out on glass-topped tables. Even the freebies in the ladies' room were all Jo Malone.