Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  'You must have had boyfriends though. Who's the last fella you went out with?'

  She put her coffee cup down with a clatter, shuddering involuntarily at the very thought of her last foray into the shark pool of dating.

  If there was one thing Daisy had going in her favour, it was her willingness to put herself out there and really take risks, so when Andrew de Courcey had swanned into all their lives, she wouldn't let up badgering him into matching her up with one of his single friends. 'And it's not like I'm in a position to be fussy or anything,' she'd said, 'I've been single for a full year, so, just as long as they can walk erect, they're in with a chance.'

  Ever the gentleman, Andrew had obliged at first, but even his patience wore pretty thin after one set-up too many, when she lambasted him for only ever arranging blind dates with wrinkly old men, as she put it.

  'They're all in their thirties, same age as me,' he had defended himself. 'Now excuse me while I figure out where I parked my Zimmer frame so I can hobble to the post office and collect my old-age pension.'

  The Last of the Great Romantics

  'You're nearly forty!' she had screeched at him.

  'I'm thirty-seven.'

  'Yeah, that's what I said. Nearly forty.'

  'Thirty-seven is still mid-thirties.'

  Andrew was highly sensitive about his age and, unfortunately, Daisy did herself no favours with him as a matchmaker if she thought this was the way to go. He eventually called an abrupt halt to the whole find-Daisy-a-fella stakes one night a few months back, when he'd gone to a particular amount of trouble to set up a dinner date for her. This time the target was an old school friend of his, a charity aid worker, just back from Belarus and keen to meet Andrew's stunning sister-in-law. The date was to take place in the Lemon Tree restaurant in Kildare and Daisy dutifully trooped off, looking like a goddess in a borrowed little black dress, borrowed jewellery and a purse stuffed with borrowed money. About an hour later, Andrew's chum rang to say that they'd barely finished their starters when Daisy excused herself to go to the loo and never came back, leaving him looking like a right gobshite surrounded by adoring couples eyeing him up sympathetically.

  'For starters, he had red hair,' she had drunkenly explained to a furious Andrew when she did eventually crawl home, pissed and almost falling out of her taxi. 'Red-headed guys hic just don't do it for me. Remind me of Chris Evans. And his name kept making me giggle.

  David Vale? Sounds like a hic housing estate in Swords. Then he bored the arse off me. He kept going on about his charity work, you know, sending kids with cancer to Disneyland and setting them up on hic dates with Britney Spears, that kind of thing. And I felt like such an utter cow for not fancying him that the simplest thing was just to head for the hills. Anyway, a few of my mates were in R.I.P.'s nightclub just beside the restaurant, so you mustn't worry about me, Andrew. I still ended up having a really nice hic night.'

  Not a tale she was particularly proud of.

  'Well?' Jasper was gentle, but probing.

  'Do you know, whoever Mr Right is, I wish to fuck he'd hurry up.'

  'Language.'

  'Sorry. It's just that I'm twenty-two. I'm practically pensionable at this stage.'

  'Of course you'll meet someone. Off the top of my head I can think of at least four pals of mine who are due for release very soon. Course, you might prefer to find a boyfriend from among the law-abiding, and I can understand that.'

  She laughed.

  'You'll be with someone in no time, Daisy'

  'I bloody hope you're right. I keep telling myself – what is that phrase? – for every old sock there's a shoe.'

  'Listen to you,' he replied, 'the last of the great romantics.'

  'I'm too bloody romantic for my own good, that's the trouble.'

  'Right so,' he said, suddenly springing to his feet. 'Lunch break over. Back on the job.'

  Daisy watched in astonishment as he picked up the Villeroy & Boch plate, cup and saucer and marched to the sideboard with them where he tidily brushed off crumbs and stacked the china in a neat pile. 'Jasper, you really don't have to do that. We have staff to clear up for us.'

  He turned to her and smiled. 'You work eight years in a kitchen and, I'm telling you, you'll always appreciate people cleaning up after themselves. Respect for others never does any harm, Daisy. Remember that, in case you ever end up inside.'

  'Unless I stick a machete into Shelley-Marie one of these fine days, that's hardly likely,' she laughed, linking his arm as they made their way down the corridor and back outside into the drizzly day.

  It was so lovely to have him around the house, she thought, glancing sideways at him as they tripped down the stone steps. Not for the first time, she found herself marvelling at what an amazing person he seemed to be. Between foster homes and prison, he's had easily the hardest life of anyone I've ever met, she thought, and I have yet to hear a single moan pass his lips. 'Hope the weather improves for the wedding,' she said, breaking the easy silence which had fallen between them. 'Or else Julia'll have one of her turns.'

  'A very highly strung woman right enough.' He nodded in agreement, bending down to pick up a stray sweet wrapper that was Uttering the driveway.

  'I think she might have an eye in your direction, you know,' said Daisy mischievously. 'So would she be your type then?'

  'I'll tell you, my type is about as far away from a woman like that as you can get— Uh, who's this now?' he broke off, much to Daisy's annoyance. She'd really have loved to continue this fascinating conversation, but a car which had just passed the gate lodge had come zooming up the driveway.

  'Flower delivery?' asked Daisy. 'Or an early arrival maybe?'

  'The first guests aren't scheduled to arrive until six p.m. sharp tomorrow, according to my timetable,' replied Jasper, puzzled. 'I swear to God, the minute all this wedding malarkey is over, I'm going to insist that we install electronic security gates right down the bottom of the drive. It's a disgrace the way any eejit can come up the driveway in an ice-cream van if the mood takes them. Security needs to start right back at the gate lodge if I'm to keep track of all the comings and goings effectively. No messing around.'

  It was a bit of a puzzle though as to who this early arrival could be. Absolutely no one who worked at the Hall was exempt from one of Julia's famous schedules, which came colour-coded this time and which clearly stated that six p.m. the following evening was the earliest they could expect guests.

  In addition to this, Julia had also dispatched Tweedledum and Tweedledee all the way down to the front gates to monitor security, delighted with Jasper's extra muscle and equally delighted that Gotcha magazine didn't have to pay him. Jasper had resolutely refused to accept a single penny from anyone; all he asked for was bed and board in return for an honest day's work. He'd finally been coaxed in from the cowshed but insisted on sleeping down in the basement, in an old disused pantry which had only a tiny window, with bars on it.

  'Those big rooms upstairs freak me out,' he'd explained to Daisy, who was encouraging him to opt for more comfortable quarters. 'This'll do me grand. Sure all it needs is a simple camp bed and a couple of posters up on the walls and it'll feel just like home.'

  He'd been the first up that morning too and was already outside, pacing around the perimeter of the Hall by six a.m. 'I'm just identifying the weak points of entry' he'd explained to Julia when she arrived an hour later. 'It's not exactly Fort Knox here at the minute, is it now? Take a look at that,' he said, indicating the French windows at ground-floor level which led into the Library. 'I know fellas who could break in there in around five seconds. Bars on all doors and windows, that's what's needed here.'

  Given that the wedding was just days away, Julia was so stressed and hassled that, unusually for her, she didn't even pause to flirt. She just shoved a schedule at him and barked that she'd see him later.

  As ever, she had coordinated everything right down to the last, teeniest detail. There was even a coloured map indicating w
here everyone should park, in reverse order, so that the first guests to arrive were left with the longest distance to walk to the Hall. Nor was this a coincidence. Julia wouldn't have been the ruthless PR supremo that she was without first categorizing her guests and arranging their arrival times accordingly. And so the D list were scheduled to turn up first and were to park behind the tennis courts, about half a mile from the hotel reception, whereupon they would be shown to their rooms in either the slightly less salubrious, cold, north-facing part of the Hall (if they were lucky) or else in the converted stable block; entirely depending on their status in Julia's eyes. Those privileged enough to have made it on to her A list, however, had carte blanche to arrive whenever they felt like it and could park in front of the Hall door, if the mood took them, whereupon they would be shown into one of the swishier, more luxurious suites where a welcoming basket of goodies courtesy of Gotcha magazine was awaiting them. It probably would have caused great offence to most of the guests to learn how they were prioritized. For example, a number of the Oldcastle wives and girlfriends, whose careers had begun in the pull-out colour section of the Sunday Sport, were in for a nasty shock when they found themselves allocated lesser rooms in the converted stables.

  By now, the car had pulled to a halt and the driver leapt out. He was a young man, in his late twenties, of medium height and build. He had light brown hair with eyes almost exactly the same colour, trendy designer stubble on his lightly tanned face and, in the normal run of things, might have been considered attractive rather than drop-dead gorgeous. Might have been. As he stepped out of the car and made his way towards them, Daisy noticed that he was as white as a ghost, with a stressed, tired-looking expression in his bloodshot eyes.

  The poor guy had barely got to the bottom of the steps when Jasper lit on him. 'State your name and purpose of visit,' he snarled, towering over the new arrival. 'And produce photo identification instantly.' If he had added: 'Or I'll set fire to your house and your hired car,' he couldn't have been scarier.

  'You know, I've just been through this whole drill with your colleagues at the main gates,' replied the stranger wearily, totally unintimidated by Jasper's sledgehammer, take-no-prisoners approach. He spoke with a soft, lyrical Scottish accent and the more Daisy got to look at him, the sorrier she felt for him. Even under all the stubble, his face looked ashen and drawn, almost as though he'd just been in a car crash.

  'It's Allonby' he went on, as though for the thousandth time. 'Simon Allonby and, yes, I know I am a wee bit early, but you see—'

  'Allonby with an A,' replied Jasper, expertly leafing through the thick wads of paper Julia had presented him with, scanning the guest list for his name. 'Yeah, there ya are now, under the As,' he muttered, adding, 'It says here you're Dr Simon Allonby' as though this was deliberately concealed information which automatically made him a likely member of the Corleone family.

  'Team doctor for Oldcastle, that's right, but if you'd just let me explain. I've decided to come a couple of days early and stay here for the match as well as the wedding on Saturday—'

  'Now you just shut up and pay attention,' Jasper barked with his glowering face only inches from Simon's and practically raining spit down on top of the poor guy. 'For all I know, you could be Saddam Hussein with the beard shaved off. Full identification this instant and then you can go back to the front gates and stay well away till your allocated arrival time. And,' he snarled, his eyes still locked on Simon's but nodding towards his car, 'you can remove that heap of crap from the front drive, that's strictly for limousines and A list only. When your allotted arrival time comes, you can park on the far side of the tennis courts. And let that be a lesson to you for annoying me.'

  'So it's the traditional Irish welcome then?' Simon sounded too exhausted to be remotely offended by Jasper. He just fumbled about in his jeans pocket for a wallet, fished out his driving licence and handed it over with an air of patient resignation. Jasper snatched it from him, ripped it out of its plastic container and held it up to the light.

  'I know fellas who'd knock off a fake driver's licence as quick as look at you,' he muttered, scrutinizing it like a master forger.

  Daisy turned to shrug her shoulders at Simon and an embarrassed silence fell. 'The magazine doesn't want us taking any chances,' she laughed in a vain attempt to make light of the situation.

  'Not even with close friends of the bride?' He sounded far too tired to be annoyed.

  'Oh, you wouldn't believe the measures they expect us to take. We even have to search everyone's luggage, just in case some smartarse tries to smuggle in a camera . . .' Daisy broke off as the penny slowly began to drop. 'I'm sorry, did you say your name was Allonby?' A distant bell was ringing in her head . . . Where had she heard that name before? Then it suddenly came to her: this was the best friend Eleanor had told her about, the one who had introduced her to Mark Lloyd in the first place.

  'Yes, Allonby. A.L.L.O.N.B.Y. Now if you're both quite finished giving me the third degree, I'd very much like to see Eleanor. That's presuming I'm allowed see my best friend without being fingerprinted first.'

  After what felt like an eternity, Jasper eventually handed back the drivers licence and grudgingly admitted it to be genuine.

  'Thank God for that,' replied Simon dryly. 'Well, much as I've enjoyed this wee chat, I'm afraid I really must be getting along.'

  'Car keys', snarled Jasper. 'Your car's a security threat parked there. Give me the keys and I'll move it for you.'

  Simon tossed them over and wearily made his way up the steps.

  'SAY THANK YOU OR I'LL FLING THE KEYS INTO LOCH MOLUAG,' Jasper howled after him.

  'Thank you soooo much,' muttered Simon, not even turning back.

  'That's grand so,' said Jasper calmly, tramping off to shift the car. 'Bit of manners, bit of respect, that's all I'm asking for.'

  Mortified, Daisy raced up the steps to catch up with Simon just inside the hall door. 'You'll have to excuse Jasper,' she said breathlessly. 'He's, emm, been away for a long time and emm . . .' She racked her brains to think of a tactful way to explain.

  'I don't mean to be rude, but I think your brother might need to brush up on his social skills just a wee tad.'

  'We're cousins.' Daisy blushed, although given how alike she and Jasper were, this was a relatively easy mistake to make.

  Simon was standing at the reception desk by now, impatiently tapping his fingers on the visitors' book, waiting to be helped. Daisy jumped to, remembered what was expected of her as acting manager and hopped around to the other side of the desk, nervously leafing through the room allocations which Julia had practically sweated blood over. 'Allonby . . . Allonby . . .' she mumbled, scanning the list for his name. 'Yes, I've found you. You're a day early checking in, but it's OK, your room is ready for you. You're not actually staying in the Hall itself, you've been given a room in the old outhouse . . . I'm sorry, I mean in the newly refurbished part of the hotel which is only a short walk away.' She checked herself just in time, wondering why in God's name this guy was making her so jumpy. Yeah, sure, he was kind of cute, but not in the Mark Lloyd category, not by a long shot. 'So you're the team doctor for Oldcastle then? Wow, I'd say you could tell a few stories.'

  'A few.'

  'So how is Mark? He was here you know, to have a look at the Hall, and he was just so charming and lovely . . . and . . . well, Eleanor's soooo jammy, isn't she?'

  'Speaking of Eleanor, do you think I could see her? If you could tell me where she is, I'll find my own way.' He wasn't even looking at Daisy, just staring intently at the staircase, impatient to be gone.

  'I'll call her room for you and see if she's there,' she replied coolly, picking up the reception phone and checking for the room number. Was this guy rude or what?

  'I'd hate to see you break a sweat or anything, but it is urgent.'

  Daisy stopped dialling to glare at him. 'Excuse me?'

  'Now, I know when you look up the word "urgent" in an Irish dictionary, i
t says: "Ah sure, what's your rush, there's time for another six pints of Guinness yet", but this really, really is a crisis, so if you just give me her room number, I won't detain you from terrorizing more guests on your driveway.'

  'She's in the Edward the Seventh Suite, being interviewed,' replied Daisy, curtly replacing the receiver and deliberately keeping her cool. 'It's on the second floor on the left,' she added, not even bothering to show him the way.

  'Being interviewed?'

  'Yes. For the wedding. About how lucky she is to be marrying Mark Lloyd. Normal bridal stuff, you know.'

  'Lucky is not a word I'd use.'

  'Ignorant git,' she muttered under her breath as soon as he was safely out of sight. 'If he doesn't watch it, I'll introduce him to Shelley-Marie.'

  It was late, well after eleven o'clock that night, before Lucasta and Mrs Flanagan arrived back at the Hall after a long-standing commitment which had occupied the pair of them for the past few days. They were attending a protest rally in Dublin to demonstrate against the smoking ban which the Irish Government proposed to introduce at the end of the month. They'd both sat on the organizing committee and their march was to take them from Parnell Square right to the main gates of Government Buildings. 'We'll bring our campaign right to their doorstep, see how the fascists like it,' Lucasta had snarled. She and Mrs Flanagan had spent many happy hours in the family room designing and making dozens of banners with slogans like: 'Honk if you hate the ban!', 'If you've a problem with smoke, stay home', 'Nicotine Nazis, Out!' and, the pièce de résistance: 'Puff Off!'

  So just after breakfast had finished, the pair of them trundled off, clattering their signs loudly behind them and boasting that this could very well be the first bloodless coup in the history of the state. However, things had not entirely gone according to plan and by the time they wearily trudged back to the Hall, they were both in the depths of depression at the complete and utter failure of their mission. Apart from the fact that only a tiny handful of stragglers had joined in their protest march (some of whom were semi-professional protesters and arrived fully dressed in May-Day riot gear), the publicity generated was little short of dismal.