Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  No joy. As she fought her way through the throng in the central concourse, she dialled his direct line at the office.

  'Macmillan Burke, Andrew de Courcey's phone. How may I help you?'

  'Glenda?' Portia had left so many messages with her over the past few weeks, she could recognize the voice instantly.

  'Hey, Portia honey! I just love that lilt so much! How are you? Enjoying the life of leisure in the Hamptons?'

  'Well, as a matter of fact—'

  'Gee, I sure envy you and Jennifer Courtney. Why can't I have married a rich husband too?'

  'Speaking of my husband, I was just wondering—'

  'Instead of that lousy, no-good guy I ended up with. The closest he ever took me to a beach house in the Hamptons was a wind-blown shack in South Carolina. Which cost him like twelve dollars a night. No kidding, honey, it was just like Dorothy's house in The Wizard of Oz. Right after the twister.'

  A burly black guy roughly knocked into Portia just as she was going through the ticket turnstile, making her feel ratty and impatient and fed up with being polite to this woman she'd never even met.

  'Glenda, I hate to interrupt, but I have to know where Andrew is. I've been trying to call his cell phone for the last few hours, but it's switched off.'

  'Well, mystery solved. His cell is right here beside me, honey. Guess he must have forgotten it.'

  'OK. This is a grade A emergency. I need to know where Andrew is. Now. And I'm not getting off this phone until you tell me.'

  There was a pause. Glenda wasn't used to Portia putting her foot down quite this firmly. 'Well, he's in a meeting, sweetie, said he wasn't to be disturbed under any circumstances. Like that's gonna surprise you.'

  'In a meeting where?'

  The central concourse was noisy and packed and Portia was practically shouting, which made Glenda sound even more intimidated. Andrew's wife was usually so chatty and gentle, you could almost hear her wondering what harridan from hell was this on the other end of the phone?

  'A lunch. With Dick Feinberg from Globex. Honey, all you gotta do is relax. I got the message and the second your husband walks back into his office, I'll have him call you. Where's the fire?'

  If only you knew, Portia thought.

  'At lunch where?' she persisted, sounding a million miles away from her usual pleasant self.

  'You really don't wanna interrupt them, sweetie. You have no idea how pressured those guys are, they're due in court Monday morning . . .'

  'Please answer my question, you've no idea how important this is. They're at lunch where?'

  There was a pause while poor Glenda weighed up her loyalty towards her boss against the steely determination in Portia's voice. What the hell, you could almost hear her thinking. I don't get paid enough to deal with hysterical corporate wives. 'Balthazar, in the Village. It's on West Fourteenth and Eighth.'

  'Thanks.' Portia curtly ended the call, ran outside the building and immediately jumped into a cab.

  'That was mine!' screeched a guy in a pinstripe suit who had been about to grab the taxi at the same time.

  'Emergency!' Portia called back at him, slamming the door firmly shut and barking the address at the bewildered Puerto Rican driver. It was so completely out of character for her to be this rude that she did flush a bit, but quickly put it out of her mind. This was such life-altering, overwhelmingly BIG news that nothing else seemed to matter. Absolutely nothing else . . .

  'Anything else, sir? Madam?'

  Dick Feinberg had just said his goodbyes, leaving Andrew and Lynn to pay the bill.

  'Oh Christ, did he have to order that second bottle of fizz? My head is throbbing,' Andrew was groaning as he fished his credit card out of his wallet. 'And I have an afternoon of it ahead of me. I'm going to have to burn the midnight oil to get that deposition ready for the court hearing on Monday.'

  'Listen to you. So grouchy,' Lynn purred. 'Safe to assume you're still missing wifey?'

  Andrew smiled. 'Yeah. I'm going to have to prise her out of the Hamptons at this stage. God, my head hurts . . . What were we drinking? Methylated spirits? Nail varnish?'

  'Someone could use a coffee,' she replied, smiling suggestively. She'd waited a long time for this and knew she'd have to pick her moment carefully.

  'Great, let's pick one up on the way back to the office.'

  'Or you could take a couple of hours off. There's no point in trying to work now, you'll crash out. Look, your place is only a few blocks away, whaddya say we go back there, I'll fix you a strong coffee and you can sleep it off a little.'

  'Lynn, I really should get back.'

  'What, are you afraid I'm gonna jump your bones? Relax. Let me take care of you.' If she'd added, 'And I won't go running off to the Hamptons once the going gets tough,' her intention couldn't have been any more marked.

  The traffic was bumper-to-bumper all along Park, so, unable to contain herself, Portia paid the driver, left him an embarrassingly huge tip, hopped out and walked the rest of the way. Eventually she spotted Balthazar, across the street, neatly tucked in between two high-rise apartment blocks. She was too impatient to walk the twenty or so metres to the traffic lights, so she just ran out in front of the traffic, ignoring the cacophony of car horns and shouts of 'Get off the road, crazy lady!'

  She burst through the door, panting and out of breath, flustered, agitated and anxiously looking around for Andrew's familiar, tall, fair-haired silhouette. But it was well after three o'clock by now and, apart from a few stragglers lingering over dessert wines, the restaurant was empty. In a flash, the maître d', a small, round, Italian man, had oiled his way over to her.

  'May I help you?'

  Portia ignored him and moved inside to the dining area proper. No. Definitely no Andrew.

  'Ma'am? How may I help you?' The maître d' sounded a little more insistent, having followed this slightly panicked-looking woman into the restaurant proper, probably wondering if she was about to set fire to the place.

  'Oh, I'm sorry,' said Portia, flustered and suddenly aware of the picture she cut. 'I was looking for Andrew de Courcey, actually. He would have been with a table from Macmillan Burke?'

  'Excuse me?'

  'A tall fair-haired man, Irish accent?'

  'Oh, sure, now I got you. Yeah, he was here for lunch all right. Table sixteen.'

  'Oh, how long since he left?' Doing a quick mental calculation, Portia figured that he and this Dick Feinberg, or whatever his name was, would be on their way back to the office and that she could nab him there.

  'They left like an hour ago. He asked me to call a taxi for him and his date, cos they had both had a little too much of the sauce over lunch, you know what I mean?'

  'I'm sorry, did you say his date?'

  'Sure. He left with a lady friend.'

  'I really miss her, you know. Place seems empty without her. Hate coming home here now. Hate it.'

  Ordinarily, Andrew was a man who could hold his drink, but not today. Exhaustion and loneliness were proving to be a lethal combination, or at least, so Lynn calculated. They stood side by side in the tiny galley kitchen as he drunkenly attempted to pour some coffee for them both.

  'Black for me, I don't do dairy,' she purred, moving in on him and sounding surprisingly sober.

  'Jesus, sorry, I didn't . . . know you were behind me.' He had turned around to find her almost pressing herself up to him and spilt the freshly brewed coffee all over her white linen trouser suit. 'Sorry, sorry . . . oh God, I'm such a dork.'

  'Hey, relax, Andrew. I think someone has had enough to drink. Why don't you have a little lie-down and I'll go soak this suit out in your bathroom. Don't want my underwear to get ruined.'

  He was in no fit state to argue. Ten seconds later he was crashed on the bed, out for the count.

  It's funny how the memory works, Portia thought. How something as simple and inconsequential as a song played on the radio has the power to pull you back to a specific date, time and place in your life. And with
the subconscious mind being what it is, all the emotions you experienced, no matter how long ago, come flooding back as fresh as if you had experienced them only yesterday.

  In the long months that followed, as her pregnancy advanced and she had time to think, it was Ella Fitzgerald singing 'They Can't Take That Away From Me' that would instantly bring her back to that taxi journey, on that warm, sunny, New York afternoon.

  She had run out of Balthazar, hopped into a yellow cab and told the driver to take her to Macmillan Burke's head office on East Forty-third Street. But the rush-hour traffic had already begun to build, and as they turned on to Park Avenue her nausea came back with swift and sudden vengeance. The maître d' at Balthazar had to be wrong, simple as that. There was no way; absolutely no way that Andrew could have left there with a date . . . It was a simple mistake, she thought. Maybe it was some colleague or co-worker that had joined them on business, that was all. What else could be the case?

  Her tummy churned over and she had that terrifying feeling that either she'd have to be sick in the back of the cab or else on a loo within thirty seconds. Thinking fast, she decided against braving the traffic jam to get to the office and made a detour. They were only about two blocks from the apartment so in a flash her decision was made.

  She told the driver to pull over, just as Ella Fitzgerald was coming on the radio. I won't last, she thought. I'll get sick in the privacy of my own home, clean myself up, then grab another cab and catch Andrew back at his office . . .

  'Oh no, they can't take that away from me . . .' Ella Fitzgerald's soulful voice was ringing out as she paid the driver and ran into the building.

  She sprang out of the lift and let herself into the apartment, praying she'd make it to the bathroom in time. She ran down the hall and threw open the bedroom door. There were two half-drunk cups of coffee on the bedside table and the first thought that struck her was how odd that was. Consuela would surely have tidied them away. It was a few seconds later before her brain fully registered what she was seeing.

  There was Andrew, stretched out on the bed, shirt unbuttoned, shoes kicked off and wearing a pair of Manchester United socks she'd given him the previous Christmas. 'Mum?' he said groggily when he heard the door.

  Then Lynn came through from the en-suite bathroom, hair all ruffled, looking like a lingerie model in a very fetching grey silk bra and G-string.

  Andrew sat up immediately as soon as he registered who it was. For a split second no one spoke, they just looked at each other in shock.

  In an instant, he was on his feet, frantically trying to button up his shirt and getting the buttons in all the wrong holes. 'Jesus Christ,' he stammered. 'Portia . . . this . . . this really isn't what it looks like. You have to believe me.'

  'You're not even supposed to be here,' said Lynn, immediately on the defensive.

  Portia stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to reply and yet wanting to fill the awful silence.

  'Oh, I'm so sorry,' was all that came out, shakily but trying her very best to sound strong. 'Did I interrupt something? Please! Continue!'

  'Hey, lady, where's the fire?' said the doorman standing at the canopied entrance to the apartment. Portia ignored him and was about to hail down the first yellow cab she saw when nausea swept over her again.

  Oh please no, she thought, frantically looking around her; please, please don't let me be sick all over the sidewalk . . .

  There was a neat, orderly row of flowerpots on a window ledge just outside the entrance door and she barely had time to think before finding herself hurling up into one of them.

  'Jeez, lady,' snapped the concierge, 'those plants are plastic! They don't need to be fertilized!'

  'I'm so sorry,' she panted, trying to catch her breath and fervently hoping Andrew wouldn't follow her outside.

  By a miracle, a yellow cab pulled up right beside her and an elderly lady got out. Without pausing for breath, Portia leapt in.

  'Will you be leaving that there, ma'am?' the concierge shouted at her furiously. 'I'm not paid to clean that up, you know!'

  She had barely slammed the car door shut when Andrew came bolting out through the revolving door, looking utterly ludicrous, she thought bizarrely, barefoot, with his shirt flapping behind him, frantically looking for any sign of her. Thank God, she thought, thank God he didn't see me throwing up into a flowerpot . . .

  Even from inside the car, his cry of 'Portia!' was deafening.

  'Drive!' she whispered hoarsely to the driver.

  'Where to, lady?'

  'Oh, will you just drive the car!'

  The driver sensed the tone, did what he was told, and moved off, heading south.

  Portia looked out of the window and for a second their eyes locked as her taxi sped off.

  Lucasta always used to say that at times of great crisis, small mercies go a long way and, sitting in the back of the car, Portia knew what she meant. There was very little traffic and within minutes, she was Midtown, away, gone, safe from him catching up with her and forcing her to listen to explanations and excuses and all that that would entail . . . She was in deep, dull shock and not one part of her brain could make a decision.

  'Lady, I sure hope you're enjoying the tour but if you could give me some kinda destination here, that would be real useful. Or you wanna just keep heading south?'

  'Yes,' she said dully. 'Just keep heading south.'

  The first raw wave of shock was starting to give way to a slow, sickening feeling and she instinctively knew that a dam-burst of hot tears was on the way, when her cell phone rang insistently.

  The number came up in bright blue caller-ID Day-Glo. 'Andrew'.

  She clicked it off.

  Two minutes later, he called again. She switched it off again but this time listened in to his message.

  'Oh Jesus, darling, you have to let me explain. This looks awful, I know, but I had a few drinks at lunchtime and we just stumbled back to the apartment and . . . Oh God. I know how it must have looked to you, but you have to believe me . . . nothing happened with Lynn, I swear to you . . .'

  Click. The voicemail on her phone cut him off mid-sentence. Seconds later her phone rang again. And again, she immediately clicked it off so all he got was her messaging service.

  'Sweetheart, you have got to take my calls. You have to let me explain. Please don't jump to conclusions . . .'

  She deleted the message, unable to listen to any more. Don't jump to conclusions? What was she supposed to think? That they were in his apartment in the middle of the day with him in bed and Lynn almost naked so that . . . what? So he could give her a mole check? Then the sickening feeling came back, and with it questions that she knew would drive her insane . . . Was this a one-off or had it been going on all along? Was he in love with Lynn? Her mind flashed forward to a grotesque image of him and her, years down the line, living together, loving each other, remembering Portia as some boring interlude from the past that they'd had to get through before finding lifelong happiness with each other . . . Then she thought about the baby, and how happy she had been only an hour ago and how all she wanted now was to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge . . .

  Her phone rang again. But this time when the caller's ID flashed up on screen, she answered immediately.

  'Portia? It's Daisy.'

  'Hi,' she said in a tiny, wobbly voice, thrilled to hear someone from home. Someone in her corner. Who'd rip Andrew's head off, with a bit of luck.

  But Daisy didn't ask her how she was or what was up. 'I'm really sorry to be ringing you in New York, when you're probably having such a great time . . .' she said.

  You think? Portia thought.

  'And I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you, but, well . . . there've been a few developments this end.'

  'What? Tell me, what!' A thought flashed through Portia's head. How can things get worse?

  'Now I'm sure everything will work out, but . . .'

  'Is it to do with the wedding?'

  'Who said ther
e's going to be a wedding?'

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Gotcha Magazine

  Requests the pleasure of your company

  At the wedding of

  Miss Eleanor Armstrong

  To

  Mr Mark Lloyd

  The Davenport Country House Hotel,

  20 March 2004

  Joshua Byron-Smyth was absolutely thrilled with his efforts. 'To the naked eye, it might look as though I'm just lying in bed recovering from a ghastly hangover, darling,' he croaked hoarsely down the phone to his editor Fifi Hamilton on the morning of the wedding. 'But in actual fact, I've composed the entire first page of the, emm . . . you know, baby, the page with the typewriting on it . . . Oh bugger, what's the word I'm looking for?'

  'Copy.'

  'Copy, thank you, my love. It's far too early for me to be expected to think.'

  'Joshua, I hate to break it to you, but it's ten a.m.,' Fifi snapped from the comfort of her leather swing-back chair on Fleet Street, well used to dealing with his total and utter lack of professionalism. 'The photographer just called me to say she's been thumping on your bedroom door since eight this morning. And you know we need this piece within twenty-four hours if it's to make the shelves next week, so sorry to rush you and all that . . .' The unspoken part of the sentence was: 'But could you please get your lazy arse out of bed and do a bit of work for a change.' Joshua took the hint. Hauling himself up on to one elbow, he peeled off the collagen eye mask he was wearing and grimaced as the daylight hit his bloodshot, puffy eyes.

  'Fifi, my love, what you must understand is that this is Ireland. It's practically considered bad form to leave a party before three a.m. Last night was a work night for me, albeit a boozy one. I've made wonderful contacts with all the Oldcastle guys and their wives and partners and I've even thought of a fabulous format for the whole day.'