Another thought struck her. Maybe that was why Eleanor's mood had altered so drastically in the last few days. Could it be that she'd heard something about Mark? And maybe now was having second thoughts about the whole thing? All of a sudden, Daisy felt ashamed for bitching about her . . . the poor girl would have to spend the rest of her life married to a lying, two-faced cheater, unless . . . Oh Christ, she thought. No matter what angle she looked at this from, the next twenty-four hours were going to be a disaster for everyone concerned.
She looked over at her alarm clock. Twelve-thirty. Five more minutes and then I'll face them, she thought, snuggling back under the heavy counterpane of her four-poster bed. She had just drifted off when the phone by her bed started to ring yet again.
Bugger it, she'd have to talk to Julia sometime. She'd plead a migraine . . . Maybe that would buy her another few minutes of peace.
'Hello?' Try as she might, she couldn't keep her voice from sounding flat and bored and uninterested.
'Still in your room at this hour? Now that can't be good.'
She smiled, instantly recognizing the Scottish accent. 'Hey, Simon, how are you?'
'More to the point, how are you? I'm asking in an official medical capacity, you understand.'
'Then, in your official medical capacity, I have to tell you that this patient has seen better days.'
There was a long pause which Daisy didn't attempt to fill. She was just too tired, emotionally, physically, every way. Besides, Simon was one of those people who seemed comfortable with silence.
'You know, those guys really are nothing but a pair of aul' bawbags, as we say in Glasgow,' he said eventually. 'I've always said it, and I'll keep saying it to my dying day. Mark Lloyd would have his arse for a perfume factory.'
Daisy found herself giggling.
'Seriously, though,' he went on, 'I'm really going to have to restrain myself from socking them both one when next we meet. You had a lucky escape, but let me tell you, you'd be astonished at the number of women who are willing participants in one of their so-called roasting sessions. Really astonished.'
'Are you being serious?'
'Daisy, my poor wee innocent, think. The likes of Mark Lloyd and Alessandro Dumas earn somewhere in the region of twenty-five thousand quid a week and only spend about four hours a day training. So they're rich and they're pricks and they have a lot of free time on their hands. And this is how they spend it. Women, women, women, all the way.'
Daisy started to get a bit teary again. She was sure Simon meant well, but the thought of being just another notch on a bedpost surprisingly didn't make her feel better.
'Have you thought about maybe talking to someone about this?' he asked gently, after a bit.
'Oh Simon, talk to who? The police? The Sunday papers? I don't think so. And even if I do, what do I say? I was almost sexually assaulted but wasn't? A roomful of people saw me stotious drunk, falling all over the place and then disappearing off with Mark Lloyd to his bedroom. If I took this further, anyone with a brain in their head would say to me: What the hell did you expect? And they'd be right. That's what's making me feel so shit. I was drunk and stupid and I should have known better. If you hadn't come into that room when you did, I'd be telling a very different story now.' She was starting to sob now and fresh fat tears were falling down her face.
'Shhh, come on, wee girl, don't go upsetting yourself any more. You've had quite enough. I'd say getting over that hangover alone was little short of a Herculean task. I recall seeing you trying to knock back Jeyes fluid you found in the bathroom at one point.'
She stopped sobbing for a moment.
'No, what I meant was talk to a counsellor. You did nothing wrong, Daisy, those guys are just utter arseholes. Take it from me.'
'I'll be fine.'
'Sure? You don't sound it.'
'I promise. There's just one thing.'
'What's that?'
She took a deep breath. 'Eleanor. What in God's name am I going to say to her?'
There was a long pause. 'Come downstairs and have a wee drink with me, will you?'
'Simon, I can't. I can't face those people. I'm sorry, I'm just not up to it.'
'Shhh, calm down. I'm not suggesting you do a cancan through the Ballroom. Meet me downstairs. I faithfully promise, the coast is clear. We've a lot to talk about and we've only got twenty-four hours.'
Ten minutes later, still feeling shaky and headachy, Daisy led Simon into the Library, probably the only room in the Hall that was completely deserted, since most of the Oldcastle guests were, thankfully, availing themselves of the free bar in the Long Gallery. Simon wearily slumped into a leather wing-backed armchair and began to rub his tired eyes exhaustedly.
'You know, before I began working for Oldcastle I used to work in the A. and E. department in Edinburgh,' he said. 'Twenty-four-hour shifts sometimes, I kid you not. But nothing, nothing compares with what I'm feeling right this minute. I just want the next few Godawful days to be over like you wouldn't believe. Single malt whisky, if you have it, thanks. Better make it a large one.'
Daisy slipped around to the drinks table and poured him a large glass of Laphraoig, thought about it, then poured one for herself. To hell with it, she thought, if ever I needed a cure . . .
There was a buzzy, electric feeling about the Hall, hardly surprising given that the place was full to the gills, everyone excitedly looking forward to the big day tomorrow. Even though the Gallery was a full floor above them, she could hear the sound of a right pre-wedding hooley in full swing. Lucasta was bashing out one of her compositions at the grand piano, leading a sing-song clearly audible throughout the Hall. It was something she'd been working on for days, entitled 'I never even knew what a banana was till I was sixteen, if you catch my drift'. It was enough to give Daisy a panic attack. The very thought of bumping into anyone who had seen her at the party the previous night was making her nauseous all over again. And yet she'd have to face them, whether she liked it or not.
Simon seemed to be reading her thoughts. 'Don't fret yourself. You're quite safe from anyone even remotely connected with Oldcastle as long as the free bar holds out.'
Slowly, Daisy sat down on the ottoman beside him taking a big gulp of the whisky. It felt warm and burnt its way down, and after a few minutes the colour began to come back to her cheeks. 'Simon, what are we going to do? About Eleanor, I mean. She can't marry him. She just can't. It would be a disaster.'
He smiled wryly. 'No it wouldn't. Poll tax was a disaster. The Titanic and the Lusitania were disasters. But compared with marrying Mark Lloyd, the Hundred Years War could be considered a minor mishap.'
Daisy's head started to spin a bit. Jesus, what was she going to do? Be the sole reason why the wedding of the year was called off? Wilfully ruin what should be the happiest day of the girl's life? Because Eleanor really loved Mark, she was sure of that, and up until yesterday, she would have sworn under oath that Mark loved her too . . . All his phone calls to see how the wedding plans were shaping up, his invitation for her to go and visit him at Oldcastle – yeah, sure, he was a bit flirty with her all right, but she just thought . . . what? That this was the way he communicated with all attractive women? That he was just being attentive to her to make absolutely certain that Eleanor's big day went without a hitch? Oh Christ, how could she have been so bloody thick not to see what was coming?
Simon must have realized how her head was swimming with it all, because he sat forward and spoke to her in a doctor voice. Reassuring. Gentle. 'What you need to understand,' he said softly, 'is that Eleanor happens to be my best friend. Since we met at college, all those years ago. And there's nothing I wouldn't do for her. I've no doubt in my mind that Gotcha magazine will gleefully make you and me out to be members of the Borgia family when this gets out and the best of luck to them if they do. But, Daisy, make no mistake about one thing. We have to tell her what happened last night. The whole story, in glorious Technicolor. It'll be hard on you, I know, but believe me
, it's the right thing to do. Because I will not stand back and watch my best friend make the biggest mistake of her life.'
Daisy just stared ahead. She knew he was right. It was just the thought of actually narrating the whole bloody nightmare to, of all people, Eleanor. And yet what choice did she have?
'I introduced them, you know,' Simon went on, swirling his glass. 'All of, what, two months ago. In a million years I never thought she'd be his type, or indeed, the other way round, but lo and behold, I head off to Cape Town for a four-week break and I come home to find them engaged. If you think the press were shocked at the whirlwind romance, as they labelled it, you should have seen my reaction. As soon as I heard the news, I drove here immediately and told Eleanor straight up that she was far too good for him and that he'd never change his spots. That type never does.'
'What did she say?'
'Not much. You know Eleanor, still waters run very deep. She adores Mark and I suppose she thinks marriage will change him. But surely you noticed she hasn't exactly been leading conga lines around the place since I gave her my honest assessment of her fiancé?'
'Oh God, Simon, this is just so awful. She'll be devastated. What are we going to say to her?'
He took another deep gulp of whisky and looked out of the window. 'I don't see anything wrong with the truth, do you?'
Given that it was D-Day minus one day, Julia's stress levels can only be left to the reader's imagination. It didn't help that Robert Armstrong's personal chauffeur got waylaid into Lucasta's almighty sing-song and, when the time came for him to collect the bride herself from Dublin, could barely see straight, never mind do the forty-mile drive there and back. Jasper, luckily, came to the rescue.
'I'll be there and back in two hours,' he said to Julia as she passed him the keys to the presidential limo.
'Much appreciated,' she purred in a 'you are about to get so lucky tomorrow night when all this shit is over' tone of voice.
Exactly an hour later, he was patiently waiting in the car park of the Four Seasons Hotel in Dublin. Nothing as vulgar as a hen party in Temple Bar, with drunk women in veils and L plates and toilet seats wrapped around the bride's neck for Miss Armstrong. No, she had booked a very quiet, sedate affair: a pampering day in the hotel's fabulous health spa followed by dinner for herself and her close friends, geographically about as far from the Hall as she could get.
It was late, well after two a.m., when she eventually stepped out of the hotel and spotted the limo. She was about to slip into the back seat when she noticed that it was Jasper holding the door open for her and not her regular driver.
'Ehh, bit of a change of plan,' he said, by way of explanation. 'The poor other fella's had one too many, so I'm to take you home. Back to the Hall, that is.'
She smiled and slipped into the passenger seat beside him. 'That's so nice of you.'
'Did you have a good night?'
'Quiet. Restful. What I needed.'
They drove in silence and Jasper left her with her thoughts. They had got as far as the motorway to Kildare before he chanced a quick glance over at her. She was crying, soft silent tears. Instinctively he fished around in his pocket and produced a tissue, which he handed over.
'Thank you.'
'It's none of my business, Miss Armstrong—'
'Eleanor.'
'But I just wanted to say one thing. Any man marrying you tomorrow should think himself the luckiest man alive. If there's something upsetting you – or if there's someone upsetting you, you just give me the word and I'll sort them out for you.'
An image flashed through his head of the state Daisy had been in on their way home after the party. He had asked no questions but knew instinctively that something was up. And he had a fair idea of what or rather who the problem was.
Eleanor said nothing, just continued staring out of the window.
'All I'm saying is that you can count on me. If you asked me to kick someone's head in I'd gladly do it. I swear I'd pulverize them so they'd have to be DNA tested to be properly identified. You only have to say the word.'
Eleanor turned to him and in the light from a passing truck, he could see the wet tears on her cheeks. 'I know,' she said, gently. 'And thank you.'
'Just remember, the offer is there.'
Chapter Twenty-Four
'I gotta tell you, I think you're making a huge mistake.'
Portia stayed resolute.
'Honey, I know exactly how you feel, but you really oughta think this through. You're all excited and emotional right now, and it's understandable that you just wanna hop on a train and tell Andrew the news, but as your friend, the one who gets to say all the shitty things to you, all the stuff you don't wanna hear, I gotta remind you of something: Susan de Courcey La Belle Dame Sans Merci herself. Waiting like a praying mantis for you in that apartment. Like Kathy Bates in Misery. With highlights and slightly better make-up. And two sledgehammers instead of one.'
Portia shifted from one foot to the other, the nauseous feeling she'd had earlier starting to return. Jennifer was quite right, of course. Susan would still be resident in Park Avenue, ripping the heads off dead bodies or whatever it was that she got up to in her spare time.
'And she'll think all her birthdays have come at once when she sees her sad disappointment of a daughter-in-law returning to the spider's web. Means she can get right back to her favourite hobby: bitching about you in the Palm Court with Nan Keane and the rest of her vicious sewing circle.'
'I know. I'm fully expecting her to be twice as awful as she was before I went away. With the added guilt trip that I abandoned Andrew to be here with you.'
'She's gonna have a field day with you, honey. All I'm saying is, you're newly pregnant, do you really need this in your life right now? You should be taking care of yourself, resting up and relaxing for the next while, till you're at twelve weeks and can start talking about it. I know that crone of old; she'll stress you out and wear you down and all for what? At the end of the day, Andrew's still gonna be putting in one-hundred-hour weeks, same as he always does. You're going right back into the frying pan at the one time in your life when your body doesn't need to.'
'Jennifer, I know what you're saying and I really appreciate your advice, but . . .'
'I knew there'd be a but.'
Portia looked her in the eye. Of course Jennifer only had her best interests at heart, she knew that and loved her all the more for it. But this news was just so overwhelming, so unbelievably amazing that the thought of telling Andrew over the phone, the very idea of not being with him when he heard . . . no, she couldn't contemplate it. She was going back to the city, and that was all there was to it. For better or for worse.
Jennifer was still prattling on, undeterred. 'Sure, go tell Andrew your news but then get straight on the first train back here. I know I'm being selfish, cos I so love having you here, and the girls do too, but I really feel that it's much better for you and the baby to stay here, where it's so peaceful and relaxing. I've got a great doctor in the town, Dr York, she took good care of me during my pregnancies and I'm sure she'd be happy to see you—' Jennifer was nothing if not sensitive and broke off as soon as she clocked the look of steely determination on her friend's face. She sighed. 'OK, OK. Gimme five minutes to find my keys and I'll drive you to the station.'
Portia was in luck. There was a midday train which would get her back to town by two, in perfect time, she hoped, for her to catch Andrew at lunchtime. Jennifer, an angel to the last, had let her go with just an overnight bag.
'My insurance policy,' she explained, pulling the car into the drop-off area. 'Means I get to see you when you come back for all your stuff. Sooner rather than later, I hope.'
Both women hopped out of the car and hugged, with Portia's five-foot-ten-inch frame towering over her pint-sized pal. 'You've been such a friend. I really don't know how even to start thanking you,' she said, sincerely meaning it. 'What would I have done without you?'
Jennifer batted it off
, but kept on hugging her. She was teeny weeny but freakishly strong too; eventually she released Portia from her iron-clad grip. 'Can I just give you one parting piece of advice, honey?' she said. 'As one Macmillan Burke widow to another?'
'Of course, fire away.'
'No one is happier for you than I am, you know that. And I'm sure Andrew will be thrilled too. Just don't fall into the same trap that I did, that's all I'm saying to you.'
'How do you mean?'
'Oh, phrases about leopards and spots spring to mind. Don't think that starting a family will magically transform Andrew into husband of the year, because it's not going to. A baby is the best, most wonderful news in the world for you. Just don't think this will change him into a doting, attentive guy who wants to be with his wife twenty-four-seven. Because it just won't.'
A full hour later, just as the train was arriving into Manhattan, Portia was still mulling over what she'd said, raging that she hadn't had time to debate with her any further. Of course, she could fully understand where Jennifer was coming from. She was married to the greatest philanderer in the Northern Hemisphere, who thought turning up at the Hamptons every other weekend made him both husband and father of the year.
Andrew was different. Right to her bone marrow, Portia knew how over the moon he'd be at impending parenthood, that he'd want to put her best interests first, that he'd cut down on his work hours, finish this case, get back to Davenport Hall, anything just to be with her and, in time, the baby . . .
Oh God, that felt weird, she thought. Somehow actually saying 'the baby' didn't make her feel in the remotest way like a mum-to-be. She was thrilled, shocked, ecstatic . . . and nauseous again.
She only barely made it to the toilet on the train and had to elbow an old lady out of the way before throwing up all over again.
In spite of Portia's impelling the train to go faster by sheer force of will, surprise, surprise, it didn't. It glided into Grand Central Station bang on the dot of two p.m. Needless to say, Andrew's phone remained switched off. The outbox on Portia's cell phone was crammed with the text messages she'd been bombarding him with the entire journey, each one more urgent and hysterical than the last, till the final one read: 'DON'T EVEN READ THE END OF THIS MSGE! JUST CALL THE SECOND, THE VERY SECOND U GET THIS!!'
Last of the Great Romantics Page 26