Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  Portia had to bite her lip hard. Very bloody hard. She took a deep breath and changed the subject. 'As you quite rightly say, Susan, we'd better go if we want to make dinner reservations.' It was the same tone of voice mental health professionals use to coax psychiatric patients in from skyscraper ledges. 'And I see you've got some bags with you. Shouldn't we grab a taxi and go via the Roosevelt Hotel, so you can drop them off?'

  The silence alone should have alerted Portia.

  'The Roosevelt? Oh no. I've checked out, dear. My usual suite wasn't available and they put me in this ghastly room beside a lift. Well, you know how rattling noises set off my migraines, so I moved out immediately. Far more sensible for me to take the spare room here anyway. Otherwise it was just going to waste.'

  Chapter Eighteen

  'And where the hell is Eleanor, might I ask?'

  With just days to go, Julia could be forgiven for being even tetchier that usual. She, Daisy, Joshua and Lucy his wedding photographer were all patiently waiting for the bride-to-be in the Library, for the day's briefing session.

  'Probably in her room,' said Daisy, instantly hopping to it. 'I'll give her a shout.'

  'If you would, thanks.' Julia nodded appreciatively. 'I'm afraid my patience is wearing very thin today. She's losing so much weight; she's starting to look like a heroin addict. I've had to reschedule an extra dress fitting just to make allowances; the designer nearly had one of his tantrums. Here we all are, waiting patiently on her, busting a gut to make sure her big day is perfect and do you think I've had as much as a smile all morning?'

  'On my way,' Daisy replied, amazed that Julia could be so sweet and smarmy to Eleanor's face and as caustic as a tin of baking soda once her back was turned.

  Five minutes later, she was racing down the corridor to the Edward VII Suite, which was Eleanor's for the duration, when she bumped into Simon, gingerly closing her door behind him.

  'Hello there,' he said as soon as he'd seen her.

  'I'm looking for Eleanor. She's late for a meeting.'

  'I'm afraid you'll be a wee while waiting on her to join you. Meetings are probably the last thing on her mind right now. Give her a bit of time, will you?'

  'What's up? Is she OK?'

  He said nothing, just looked, if possible, even more worn out than when he had arrived.

  Daisy was about to ask if this was just a case of pre-wedding jitters when the beep beep of her pager went. It was Amber at reception. 'MARK LLOYD ON LINE THREE FOR YOU, LUCKY BITCH,' flashed the message.

  'Oh, sorry, will you excuse me?' she said, making her way back downstairs. 'That's Mark, wanting a progress report.'

  'Mark Lloyd is phoning you?' Simon began to look a bit more awake.

  'Yeah.' She began to get defensive. 'Why wouldn't he? He wants to be kept posted on all the preparations. Like any normal groom would.'

  'You think?'

  'And all together now . . .

  On top of spaghetti [to the tune of 'Old Smokey']

  All covered in cheese,

  I lost my poor meatball

  When somebody sneezed.

  It rolled up the garden

  And under a bush

  And now my poor meatball

  Is covered in mush . . .'

  Lucasta was absolutely delighted with herself. She had single-handedly organized a fundraising concert in aid of her 'Ban the Ban' pro-smoking campaign and she herself was headlining. It wasn't exactly what you might call a stellar line-up; apart from herself, she had so far only managed to inveigle a few locals like Jimmy Joe Doherty who agreed to bash out a couple of tunes on his tin whistle and Lottie O'Loughlin's ten-year-old son who said he'd bring along his magic kit and try and do a few tricks. But as far as Lucasta was concerned, she might as well have been organizing the Glastonbury festival.

  She was busy rehearsing, or rather, screeching out a few of her own compositions at the grand piano in the family room, with blatant disregard for any unfortunate guests who might still be in bed, when Mrs Flanagan interrupted. 'Jaysus, Elton John will shit himself when he hears you.'

  'Bugger off, I'm rehearsing.'

  'I was wondering what the racket was. You'd want to watch it or some of the guests will start asking for a reduction in their bills.'

  'Has the post come yet?'

  'Yeah. No joy though.'

  Lucasta had personally written to a number of famous people, not so much politely enquiring whether they'd be available to perform at her fundraiser, as demanding it of them, claiming it was no less than their duty as Irish citizens. The tone of the letter was bossy, bordering on threatening, and the final paragraph invoked the curse of the Davenports on anyone who failed to give their services gratis. Needless to say, Bono, the rest of U2, Van Morrison, Westlife and the Corrs had all, so far, unanimously failed to reply.

  'What a ghastly shower of un-civic-minded bastards. I want you to personally set fire to any of their albums lying around the house and I'll think up a spell to keep all of them out of the hit parade for decades to come.'

  'Right so,' sighed Mrs Flanagan, lighting a fag at the piano. 'Terrible shame the Corrs can't make it. I would have enjoyed trying to fatten the three sisters up a bit. Skin and bone is all they are. They should be modelling for the Concern ads.'

  'Listen to this, I've been working on it all morning.' Lucasta coughed and flexed her fingers as though she were performing at the Royal Albert Hall.

  'Like a rat in a drainpipe

  Or a vampire in a bloodbank,

  You must have been something God-awful in a past life

  Cos, baby, look at you now.'

  'Oh, move over Liber-fecking-race. What happened to all yer songs about vegetables anyway?'

  'Because if you were in any way musical or had a note in your philistine head, you would appreciate that I'm bored stupid with that as a running theme of mine this year. A bit like Picasso went through a blue period, and then went completely off it. Same thing.'

  'Ah right, yeah, you went through a Brussels sprout period, I get it.'

  'Will that be all? I really do need to practise, you know.'

  'Yer telling me. I only came to tell ya that yer wanted on the phone.'

  Lucasta banged down the piano lid impatiently. 'Right, I'm coming. Christ Almighty, I bet John Lennon never had to put up with interruptions like this.'

  'Probably not. Mind you, I never heard him singing a song called "Give Peas a Chance" either.'

  'Smartarse. Any luck with the cash call yet?' she asked as they walked towards the phone at reception.

  'Don't talk to me. You know yer one Bridget Mulcahy from Sallins?'

  'The one who gave up being a nun to become an air hostess?'

  'That's her. Anyway, she won it in the last hour. A seven-night break for two in a beach hut in the Maldives.'

  'Wasted on her. That bitch could probably have got the flights for free.'

  This put Lucasta into a really narky humour and she almost snapped the face off the person who had been patiently waiting for her at the other end of the line.

  'Yes, who is this then?'

  'Lady Davenport? This is Lieutenant Colonel Frank Jefferson calling you from Phoenix Park House. I'm President Armstrong's aide-de-camp.'

  'Oh bloody hell,' Lucasta groaned, clearly audible down the other end of the phone.

  'Who is it?' asked Mrs Flanagan. 'He sounded posh, whoever he was.'

  'I think it's that mental case who was phoning here claiming to be the President of Ireland,' said Lucasta, covering the mouthpiece. 'If only I didn't owe money to that nice psychiatrist in Kildare, I'd get him to sort this poor delusional idiot out. It's awfully sad, really, what havoc mental illness can wreak. Hello?'

  'Yes, I'm still here, your ladyship. His Excellency President Armstrong has asked me to call you with the arrangements for the Ireland versus England match tomorrow. Naturally, we will send a car for you so if you could—'

  Lucasta sighed. 'Yes, yes, yes. Tell you what. The minute
I see the space shuttle sitting in my front driveway I'll come running out and you can whisk me off to whatever planet you think you live on. All right?'

  FROM: daisydavenport@davenporthall.ie

  TO: portiadavenport@aol.com

  SUBJECT: I know all brides are supposed to get ants in their pants before the big day but, Jesus Christ, Eleanor really takes the biscuit.

  Hiya Sis,

  Hope all's good with you and that Susan's not driving you completely spare. Eleanor is acting like a right prima donna in the run-up to the final furlong. She missed all the briefing sessions today and now Julia's having a shit fit because she doesn't have a final decision on the entrance music. And she's taking it out on me. What is wrong with everyone???? Eleanor Armstrong should be on cloud nine, marrying a big hunk of sex like Mark Lloyd. He rings me every night wanting to know what's going on, right down to the teeniest detail . . . wouldn't any girl be thrilled to be marrying a bloke that attentive and devoted and ROMANTIC? (Quite apart from the fact that he's a big ride and a multi-zillionaire???)

  Some awful friend of hers arrived too, Simon somebody, the guy who introduced the jammy cow to Mark in the first place. In fact, now that I think of it, she's been acting like a moody adolescent ever since he arrived . . . Maybe he fancies her and is trying to talk her out of the whole thing???? They certainly spend an awful lot of time in her room together . . . Hmmmm, the plot thickens.

  Much love, from the hub of intrigue that the Hall has become . . .

  Daisyxxx

  PS. Forgot. Robert Armstrong has asked us all to some boring old football match tomorrow. I'm only going to get a glimpse of Mark in tight shorts and, before you email back . . . I KNOW!!! HE'S GETTING MARRIED IN 3 DAYS' TIME!! But I'm allowed to look, aren't I . . . ????? PPS. How are you??

  FROM: portiadavenport®aol.com

  TO: daisydavenport@davenporthall.ie

  SUBJECT: Sound advice

  Poor girl. You go to that soccer match tomorrow and try and find someone single. You're wasting your time ogling a man that's as good as married.

  Things not great here. Susan has moved in. My stress levels are through the ceiling. I'm not kidding. Counting the days till she decides to go home, but there's no sign of that happening yet. Love, Portia

  FROM: daisydavenport@davenporthall.ie

  TO: portiadavenport@aol.com

  SUBJECT: OK. You win the 'which of us had the shittiest day' contest.

  Hear you loud and clear. Will behave at the match tomorrow. Will only have one drink. Promise.

  Dxxx

  The wintry sun was just setting that evening when Jasper found himself striding outside, heading in the direction of Loch Moluag, on the edge of the estate.

  Five minutes later, he had caught up with Eleanor, who was walking round the perimeter of the lake, bundled up in a huge heavy tweed coat which made her look tiny and, if possible, even more frail. She jumped involuntarily when she heard his footsteps marching towards her.

  'I'm sorry,' said Jasper gently, 'I didn't mean to startle you.'

  'It's OK,' she said, gazing wanly out on to the lake. 'I didn't think anyone had seen me slip out here.'

  'Kind of my job,' he said, keeping at a respectful distance from her, 'to be aware of all the comings and goings around here.'

  She looked at him, as though wondering if he could be trusted. 'I just needed a bit of time out. I need to think.'

  'You're grand,' he said, stepping back, as if not wanting to intrude any further on her privacy. 'I just wanted to make sure you were OK. Not going to throw yourself into the lake or anything dramatic.'

  She had just turned to smile at him, glad that he hadn't quizzed her any further, when he noticed that she'd been crying.

  'Ahh, don't be upsetting yourself. Nothing can be that bad.'

  'Maybe not,' she replied. 'Thanks.'

  'You're welcome. Just know that if there's anything I can do, Miss Armstrong?'

  'You could start by calling me Eleanor.'

  Chapter Nineteen

  'how lie the fields of Lansdowne Road [to the tune of 'The Fields of Athenry']

  Where once we watched the King Keano play

  With Duffer on the wing.

  We had dreams and songs to sing

  About the glory round

  The fields of Lansdowne Road.'

  A cheer erupted the like of which Daisy had never heard before in her life. She and Jasper had just arrived in the Players' Box at Dublin's magnificent Lansdowne Road stadium, having bickered the whole way from Ballyroan.

  The first row was over Eleanor, who had sent a message downstairs, via Simon, to say that she wasn't coming. A car had been sent from Phoenix Park House to bring Lucasta, Daisy, Jasper and Simon to the match, but there was no budging Eleanor.

  'She's exhausted, very stressed,' was all Simon said, coming down the stairs to where they were all gathered, patiently waiting on her.

  'Won't she want to see Mark play?' Daisy blurted out. 'I'm sure he'll be really disappointed if she just doesn't turn up.'

  'Do you think?' Even through his lilting Scots accent, Simon's tone cut.

  'Fine, then,' Daisy snapped, steering Lucasta out of the door and into the waiting limo. 'If that's what she wants.'

  'Frankly, I don't think any of this is what she wants.'

  Daisy's temper, never far from the surface, began to simmer. 'Look, I don't know what your problem is, but I've been aware of a vibe from you ever since you got here. For God's sake, what have I done?'

  'Why don't we just get into the car?' he answered, not taking the bait. 'Or at this rate, we'll miss the kick-off.'

  'Simon, why don't you take Lucasta in the limo and Daisy and I will follow in our own car?' said Jasper, intervening. 'I want to stop off on the way there. Get kitted out, like. We won't be long behind you.'

  'Suits me,' said Daisy, delighted a) that she wouldn't have to endure Simon's company on the long drive to Dublin and, even better, b) that he'd be left alone with Lucasta, who was in a foul humour and hadn't stopped moaning since she got out of bed that morning. 'I mean, a soccer match?' she was whingeing. 'What interest do I have in bloody football? If I want blood and guts and torture and senseless violence, I don't need to go all the way to Lansdowne Road. I can get that at home, for free.'

  When they finally arrived, barely in time for kick-off, Simon, who'd been watching out for them, came over to where they were standing.

  'I'm so sorry we're late,' said Jasper. 'If it's any consolation, it's all my fault.'

  'Yeah,' said Daisy. 'Gobshite made us stop off at a sports shop just so we could both end up looking like this.'

  If they'd been on their way to audition for the part of Mr and Mrs Mad Demented Fan, neither of them could have looked any better. Jasper had gone to all the bother of painting his face with the green, white and orange of the Irish tricolour and was fully kitted out in the team strip, completing the look with a giant-sized plastic inflatable hammer, with 'God Help the Queen' scrawled across it. Just in case there was the slightest shadow of doubt as to which side he was supporting, he'd also draped a full-sized Irish flag like a cloak around his shoulders.

  'Might as well have a bit of crack,' he'd said to Daisy in Olahan's sport shop in Naas. 'When you're out, you're out. When I was doing solitary, I used to dream about seeing Ireland play at Lansdowne Road. I never thought I'd see the day.'

  'You were in solitary?'

  'Ah, long story. You know me for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You see, a terrible row broke out in the recreation room over whose turn it was to have the remote control and, well, I tried to sort it out but I ended up being labelled the ringleader. So the Governor, who was my pal, said he'd have to make an example of me. Sure, the poor man couldn't be showing me preferential treatment all the time, could he? I'll tell you though, solitary really sorts out the men from the boys. Longest twenty minutes of my life.'

  Meanwhile Daisy, a tad more subtly, had limited herself to a tight trico
lour T-shirt with 'The Referee's a Wanker' written across it, and tied her hair into two big bunches held in place by tricolour ribbons.

  'Very nice.' Simon couldn't help smiling appreciatively at her. 'Very Pippi Longstocking.'

  She ignored him.

  'Where's Lucasta?' Jasper asked him without taking his eyes off the pitch, even though the match hadn't even started.

  'I couldn't get her any further than the bar in the Players' Lounge,' he answered.

  'Sorry again for keeping you waiting,' Jasper went on, as if trying to make up for Daisy's rudeness in blanking him. 'Only for the fact that your one here handles a car like a getaway driver, we'd still be on the M50.'

  'Game's just about to start, you're in the nick of time,' said Simon, ushering them down to their front-row seats. 'I hope you enjoy it now. Shame to have got all dressed up for nothing.' He just caught a flash of blue fury from Daisy's eyes. 'Oh come on, let's put our differences behind us.'

  'I have no differences with you, Simon. I'm just not used to guests at the Hall treating me like something they stood on.'

  'Do you think we could just enjoy the game? What do you say, shall we let the bugles sing truce for the next two hours? Then I'm very happy to revert back to slagging each other off like Kerry and Brian McFadden.'

  She found herself smirking. There was something about the Scots lilt that made everything sound funny. A bit like Billy Connolly telling one of his 'we were so poor as kids' yarns, the accent alone could have you howling at the phone directory.

  'We're in the front row?' said Jasper, starting to hyperventilate, 'Oh lads, pinch me, I think I've died and gone to heaven.'