Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  (Translation: You are an extraordinarily good-looking young man and I found myself attracted to you the moment you stepped out on to the . . . unfortunately, my memory fails to inform me of the correct word. Jasper? Can you assist my failing powers of recollection, please?)

  Jasper, however, was out of earshot. He was sitting at the bar, hit on from both sides by Shakira and Falcon, neither of whose husbands seemed to be in the least bit bothered that their wives were almost competing for a man who appeared to have virtually no interest in either of them.

  'I believe the word you're looking for is pitch,' Simon called over to Daisy. He was fairly close by, closer than she realized, watching her intently from the bottom of a staircase made entirely of glass brick. He had that look of someone who was politely trying to make an escape, but couldn't. Shane Donohue had effectively collared him, demanding to know why it had taken him a full ten months before he was officially granted a clean bill of health.

  'I ain't played more than two bleeding matches for Oldcastle this whole season and I'm not blaming you nor nothing, mate, but it is all your fault.'

  'Shane, you broke your foot. Be thankful I got your X-ray results in time for you to play today. And if you hadn't badgered the physio, I would have recommended waiting at least till the end of the season before you played. It can take up to six months to fully recover from a greenstick fracture.'

  'You're not very well, are you, love?' Mark said to the swaying Daisy. 'I think you could do with a bit of a he-down. Why don't I take you upstairs?'

  She needed no further persuasion. She only wished she hadn't belched quite so loudly as he took her by the hand and led her to the lift.

  Jasper, unlike anyone else whose surname was Davenport, had been blessed with the great gift of being able to drink those around him under the table while managing to retain a fairly clear, cool head himself. Lucasta was bossily insisting that he top up her drink while Falcon was in full flow, drunkenly droning on about the time she was coated in honey and placed in a glass cage full of wasps on We Are Famous, Try and Shame Us.

  'Oh, they bleeding stung like hell, like you wouldn't believe, but that weren't the worst fing that happened to me on that show at all. Wanna know what the really worst was then?'

  'When you said live on telly that you thought Colombo discovered America?' sniped Shakira. 'You was nuffing but a laughing stock for weeks after that.'

  'Piss off, I weren't asking you.'

  'The fact that you ended up snogging that sweaty old rock singer, whatshisname?' Shakira went on.

  'Oh shut up, you dirty old slag bag, pour us another one, will ya, love?'

  Jasper just kept quietly topping up their drinks, having voluntarily slipped into the role of barman.

  'Stop putting that Red Bull crap into my drinkie, Jasper,' said Lucasta, 'it only makes me fart. Now do go on with your story, dear. Most entertaining.'

  'I wish I could remember it now,' said Falcon waving an empty glass in front of her. 'No, I don't want no champers, just gimme another cosmo, love . . . Oh . . . sorry . . . I can't remember your name.'

  'Jasper Davenport.'

  'In't he just so cute?' giggled Falcon. 'If my Shane weren't here, you'd be in right trouble, so you would.'

  'I discovered him, you know,' said Lucasta proudly. 'All by myself. Never think to look at him now that he'd spent most of his life in prison, would you?'

  'Life in prison?' said Falcon, enthralled.

  'No, life on a tropical island,' snapped Shakira. 'What did you fink?'

  Just then, Buffy, who had been trying to lure Alessandro out on the balcony (with no success), joined them.

  ' 'Ere, did you say your name was Davenport, then?'

  Jasper nodded and Lucasta belched in response while Falcon attempted to get to the end of her story, which was easier said than done, considering how far gone she was. 'No. Definitely, the worst thing for me about being stuck in the bleeding rainforest was the lack of make-up. You're not even allowed mascara, you know. I tried to smuggle in some and that old bitch what reads the nine o'clock news on the telly told on me, so we all lost two days' food rations, just cos of that lippy old cow. And then my fake tan started to fade in the second week cos I never thought I'd even last that long, did I, and then the two presenters slagged me off somefing rotten so they did . . .'

  'You're not anything to do with the Davenports of Davenport Castle in the country here, are you?' Buffy asked Jasper, waving an empty wine glass in front of him.

  'I certainly am,' said Jasper, obediently topping up her glass. 'Except it's a Hall not a castle.'

  'Shut up, Jasper, you retard!' Lucasta hissed. 'How do you know she's not from the social welfare office? Or the Inland Revenue?' Then, turning imperiously back to Buffy, she said, as tight-lipped as a Mafiosi wife, 'We might be.'

  'That is such a coincidence!' replied Buffy, delighted. 'Do you ever come across an old mate of mine? We used to be actresses together in the States, years ago, you know. I often wondered what became of her.'

  Jasper looked at her intently. 'I might have. What was your friend's name?'

  'Well, she had a lot of names, but the last I heard of her, she'd gone and married some Irish lord by the name of Davenport. I nearly pissed myself when I heard that, I can tell you. We done lots of movies together, of an adult nature, mostly, but she was really good, she even won an award once. She played the lead in Shaving Ryan's Privates and she got the "best breasts" gong. Good old Shelley-Marie, I'd love to see her again, have a decent catch-up, you know.'

  'Jaysus, it's after getting fierce warm in here altogether,' said Jasper, stepping out from behind the bar. 'Why don't you and me step out on to the balcony for a minute and get a bit of air?'

  * * *

  The lift ride to the top floor of the penthouse was smooth and seamless and the doors had barely closed over when Mark started kissing Daisy. She tried to pull back, but given the state she was in, this was easier said than done.

  'Mark!! Shhoppt it!! Whatt the fuuck are you doing? You're getting marrhhied in a few shays . . .'

  (Translation: Mark! Kindly refrain! You are on the brink of matrimony!)

  He chose to ignore her. She was like a lead weight, but somehow he managed to take off her T-shirt and was unloosening the zip of her tight denim jeans when the lift glided to a halt. The doors opened and they were immediately in the bedroom, a room so enormous that a family of fourteen could have happily lived there, but there was only one ultra-modern circular bed on a dais, right in the middle of the room, which Mark expertly steered her towards.

  'Markk! Gettoff me . . . I just need a little lie-shown. Shhat's all . . . I'll be grandshh in a bit . . .'

  (Translation: Desist from pawing me. All I require is to he in a horizontal position, wherein I will endeavour to regain my composure.)

  She didn't so much slip gracefully between the Egyptian cotton sheets as collapse in a drunken stupor with a loud thud, walloping her head on the wooden side of the dais as she fell.

  'Ow, owww! What in the shname of FUUUCKING hell was shat? My brain is shurting now, Shark . . . I mean . . . Mark . . . oh whatever your shname is!' she yelled.

  (Translation: Oh dear. I appear to have had a mild contusion in my cranial area and am now suffering some considerable pain. I'm awfully sorry, but as a result of this mishap, I appear to have momentarily forgotten your name.)

  She slumped down on to the bed, nursing her head, but lying down only seemed to make her feel worse. The helicopter sensation that had given her such a buzz downstairs was now a hundred times increased and a slow, sickening nauseous feeling was starting to come over her. None of this was helped by Mark who by now was completely naked beside her and was attempting to pull her jeans down.

  The one per cent of her that had a vague idea of what was happening kept saying: No, no, no. Dear God no, don't let this be happening and please Jesus don't let me puke over him.

  'Ohhhh, shtoooop it, pleeease, Marrkk . . . whatt doo you shink
shu're at? Get your hand out of my knickers . . . shhhittt . . . I donn't feeeel well. Feel ill; shwill you getttme water. Need water. Shanks.'

  (Translation: Could you refrain from touching me in such an intimate manner, please? I feel most dreadfully unwell and would appreciate it if you could kindly procure some water for me. Thanks.)

  'Come on, love,' was all he said, sounding remarkably sober and in control, 'you know you're up for it.'

  He paid absolutely no attention whatsoever to her cries and continued to fumble at the stubborn zip on her jeans. She was down to her bra by now and was suddenly aware of him grabbing her breasts roughly when the sober part of her said, 'No . . . pleassshhhe . . . can you shop? I want sho be shhhcik . . .'

  He was lying on top of her by now, thrashing at her jeans and cursing when she slowly became aware that she was simultaneously being rolled on to her side.

  'Mark! I fucking shhaid shop!'

  But now it appeared there was another pair of hands feeling her boobs, another pair of hands undoing her bra . . .

  Drunk as she was, she somehow managed to manoeuvre herself into a sitting position . . . Mark had successfully pulled her jeans down and was kissing her bare tummy while another man with a tattoo on his arm was pulling her head back, biting her neck so much it made her cry out . . .

  'You must relax . . . calme, repose-toi . . .' she heard in a Frenchman's voice. 'This will be . . . très drole . . . fun . . .'

  A split second later, the overhead light snapped on and she heard an accent she recognized. 'Get away from her this minute or by God I'll not be responsible.'

  She didn't know what happened next, just that there were mutterings, curses and then the feeling that she was on her own again. She lay back, holding on to her throbbing head when she heard the disembodied voice again, except this time the Scots accent registered. 'Bastards. Tell me if they've hurt you and I'll kill them. TELL ME.'

  She tried her best to shake her head but ended up bursting into tears instead.

  'Shhh, shh . . . It's OK, they're gone, Daisy. You don't have to worry one wee bit. I saw you disappear with that scumbag Lloyd and then when that low-life Alessandro Dumas trailed behind, I figured I'd better keep an eye on you. Just in case you needed rescuing.'

  She tried to raise her head from the pillow but couldn't. 'Ales . . . Alesshhhhandro was sheeehere too? With . . . Mark?'

  'Aye. No better than pigs, the pair of them. You, my poor drunken lassie, had a lucky escape from what they call a roasting, which loosely translates from scumbagese to a three-in-the-bed session.'

  'I shjust wanted a lie-down . . . He . . . told me I could ushhee his bed to shleep it off . . . and then . . . Oh God, whatsh kind of an eeeejit am I—' She broke off, really starting to feel sick. She managed to raise herself up a little and whispered, 'Shhhanks, Simon,' but that was all she could say.

  Just as he answered, 'All in the line of duty,' she bent over his feet and puked her guts up.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  For the first time since she set foot on American soil, Portia was finally starting to relax and enjoy herself. Jennifer was a perfect hostess, her two little girls, Amelia and Lucy, were utterly adorable to be around and the colonial-style beach house in West Hampton was like something straight out of the pages of a glossy interior design magazine. From the moment they arrived, Portia instinctively felt that getting out of the city had been without question the right thing to do. Andrew had been bitterly disappointed when she called him from Jennifer's to tell him she was staying. Disappointed and a bit confused.

  'I don't get it,' he had said. 'I thought you liked New York, I really did. I know it hasn't been easy, with me putting in all these hours, but I promise, it's not going to be for very much longer. Couldn't you just visit Jennifer another time?'

  Portia had to bite her lip to restrain herself from telling him the real reason she had absconded. Rightly or wrongly, she had decided not to relay back to him the conversation she'd overheard in the restaurant on the grounds that a) it would only upset her to have to repeat what Susan had said and b) at the end of the day, she was Andrew's mother and he was her only child. If Susan had started a massacre at the table that awful night, nothing would alter that fact. And she was pretty certain Susan wouldn't report the row back to him either. She was probably playing the 'I'm only a fluffy, defenceless old lady all alone in the big city and my errant daughter-in-law has abandoned me and now the lions in Central Park Zoo will probably eat me alive' card for all it was worth. And let her, Portia thought, just let her.

  After all, it wasn't for very much longer.

  'Cheers, welcome to the Hamptons,' said Jennifer, topping up Portia's long-stemmed crystal wine glass, filling it to the brim with a delicious, crisp Sancerre. 'Boy, it is sure good to have you here.'

  'Here's to our absent husbands,' said Portia, raising her glass, 'who are probably, let's see now . . . it's ten at night . . . hmm, this is really tricky . . . where on earth could they be?'

  'STILL IN THE OFFICE,' they chanted together in a tipsy sing-song, before collapsing into fits of giggles.

  'Mummy, I can't sleep.' It was Amelia, who had appeared at the door of the veranda in her Barbie pyjamas clutching a tatty-looking moth-eared teddy. 'You're very noisy and I'm afraid you'll scare away the tooth fairy.'

  Amelia had finally lost her first tooth earlier that day, amid great hysteria, and only Auntie Portia's gentle promise that the tooth fairy would make it all worthwhile calmed her down a bit.

  'Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry, here, come sit on my knee,' said Jennifer, holding out her arms.

  'No, I wanna go back to bed. Just keep it down, will you? I don't wanna have to tell Daddy that I lost out on fairy money because of you.'

  They waited till she'd gone back upstairs before dissolving into more fits of laughing.

  'She is her father all over,' said Jennifer. 'For her next birthday, I asked her if she wanted a Barbie dream home and you know what she said? Thanks, Mommy, but if I'm gonna be seven years old, don't you think it's time I had my own investment portfolio?'

  'She's the cutest, funniest child,' laughed Portia. 'At this rate, she'll be running her own corporation by the time she's ten.'

  'She misses Ken a lot. Lucy is too small really to notice him not being around, but every day Amelia says to me, "How many more sleeps till Daddy gets here?" It would break a heart of stone.'

  Portia sank back into the soft cushions, took a sip of wine and gazed out at the sea. It was pitch dark and inky black; the flickering, rose-scented candles on the porch were twinkling like fairy lights and the only sound you could hear was the distant lapping of waves . . . It was the most blissed-out, relaxed, beautiful place you could ever imagine and for the life of her she couldn't understand why Ken would stay away from this perfect life, the statement home, this wonderful wife and two dotie little princesses like Amelia and Lucy.

  Then she remembered. It probably suited Ken down to the ground only to appear at weekends or whenever he'd nothing else on. She glanced over at Jennifer, who was sipping her wine and staring out to sea, and she found herself wondering. Jennifer was a smart woman; did she have any idea about Ken's extra-marital dalliances? The models, the actresses, the single women he met in bars and whom he paraded around the town for a few weeks until he invariably tired of them and moved on to the next one. Or maybe there was some truth in the old saying that the wife is always the last to know . . .

  It made her feel guilty and uncomfortable though, knowing something that poor Jennifer didn't.

  Should she tell her?

  Jesus, no. The thought alone made her shudder.

  Would I want to know, if I were in her shoes?

  Well, yes, I suppose I would want to . . .

  Wouldn't a friend tell, even though it was being cruel to be kind? Didn't someone as lovely as Jennifer deserve the truth?

  Right there and then she made the decision. She wouldn't say anything, for now. But if Jennifer asked the question,
straight out, she wouldn't lie to her either. She couldn't, she simply couldn't.

  'You thinking about Andrew?' Jennifer asked, sensing Portia's eyes on her.

  'Honestly?'

  'Yes, honestly.'

  'It's so amazingly perfect here; I was just thinking that I could never leave if it was mine.' Only a half-He.

  'You're probably wondering how Ken manages to stay away as long as he does.'

  Portia smiled and took another sip of wine.

  'I think the same when I look at you. I think: what, is Andrew crazy? Married to this beautiful Irish lady and what does he do? Works day and night and leaves her all alone. But you wanna know what, honey? This is our lot, this is what we married into and, like it or not, this is the pattern for the next ten, fifteen years. They're corporate lawyers, they're at the top of their game right now so they've gotta cream off as much cash as they can before the inevitable burn-out.'

  'Oh no. You see, Andrew's only here for this one contract. Once the case is finished, he's coming back to Ireland. That was the deal we made. This job is just to pay off some of the debts we ran up renovating the Hall.'

  'Portia, sweetie, you gotta get real. Andrew loves New York, he loves the pressure, the stress, the hundred-hour weeks, it's like he's addicted. Like an adrenalin junkie. How else could he neglect you the way he does? You take it from me. This contract is just the thin end of the wedge. I know Ken is already planning to strong arm him into working on another case this summer. And there'll be another job after that and another and another and Macmillan Burke will keep adding zeros on to his salary to get him to stay. And you love him so you'll stay with him and then sooner or later you'll wake up and find yourself in my shoes. Alone, staring out to sea and not knowing when I'll see my husband again.'

  Portia had sat up now and was about to contradict her, but Jennifer went on.

  'And a word to the wise, honey. Lynn Fairweather? Don't trust her as far as you could spit her.'