Last of the Great Romantics

by Claudia Carroll

  'Careful, darling, or you'll ruin me bleeding hair with that cockatoo on your head.'

  Falcon shot him a dagger look as she carefully rearranged the feathers on the Philip Treacy confection she was wearing on her head. On the terraces, Shane's nickname was 'The Mulleted Messiah' and every hardcore Oldcastle fan knew how precious his hairdo was to him. 'But, Shane darling,' she continued whingeing, 'all of these old houses are totally lacking in home comforts. There's no mini-bar in our room, the TV isn't even flat screen and I had to ask the chambermaid what that ugly fing in the corner was for. She called it an armoire or somefing and it turns out you're supposed to put your clothes in it. I thought it was for DVDs, didn't I?'

  Shakira and her husband, Ryan, had just taken their seats on the opposite side of the pew and were, not surprisingly, having a very similar conversation. 'It's not that I'm nitpicking or anything, love,' she said, glancing across at Falcon to check that her outfit wasn't classier then her own low-cut, clinging sheath so short in the leg that the entire congregation could have been her gynaecologist. She was delighted to see that it wasn't. Falcon had gone for a skin-tight white satin trouser suit and the only bit of flesh on show were her boobs, which rumour had it had recently gone from a size 34B to a 38DD overnight, courtesy of a certain Harley Street magician much frequented by the Oldcastle set. 'I mean I do like staying here,' Shakira went on, 'but I'll be ever so glad to get back to London, so I will. When the bloody maid brought us breakfast in bed this morning, there was only a copy of the bleeding Irish Times for me to read. How am I supposed to see my photo in some up-its-own-arse Irish paper? I asked her to bring us the Sunday Sport tomorrow and she gave me the dirtiest look, so she did. Snobby old cow.'

  Just then, the string quartet, all dressed tastefully in black and elegantly perched on a dais by the huge bay window, began to strike up 'Air on a G String'.

  'I remember they tried to get me to have that played at our wedding, darling,' said Falcon, fondly reminiscing. 'When I was coming down the aisle. But I put my foot down, so I did. "Air on a G String", I said? You must be off your bleeding bickies. I don't want no smut at my wedding.'

  Wedding planner to the stars, Julia Belshaw takes a final look around the stunning Ballroom and beams with pride. How pleased this lovely lady must be, seeing all her hard work in the run-up to the wedding coming to fruition! With just minutes to go, she must be breathing deep sighs of relief, no doubt delighted to think that nothing can possibly go wrong now. We caught her chatting excitedly with Father Patrick Finnegan, a local priest who will perform the service.

  'You must be the famous Julia Belshaw I've heard so much about,' said Father Finnegan, looking resplendent in his shiny new golden soutane as he shook Julia warmly by the hand. 'Well, aren't you and Daisy Davenport two great young ones altogether?' he went on, jovially shaking her hand. 'I wouldn't have known the old Ballroom at all, the place only looks fantastic, so it does. A credit to you both.'

  'I only wish Daisy could hear you, Father,' she hissed, not wanting her voice to carry over the string quartet. 'But I'm afraid she's completely disappeared. Hasn't been seen all morning. I've totally given up on her. Useless, utterly useless,' she went on, bending down to pick up some imaginary piece of fluff from the red carpet.

  'Well, I've done my fair share of weddings in my time, but none in surroundings as grand as this!' Father Finnegan enthused, almost itching to get the proceedings under way.

  The Ballroom did indeed look spectacular; Julia's team of florists had surpassed themselves. Huge, stunning arrangements of white lilies dominated every corner of the room, while each row had an elegant posy at the end, all in white, at the bride's specific request. Nothing as vulgar as toning colours for Eleanor Armstrong, it was pure white all the way. Even the gold-backed chairs which had been carted down from the Long Gallery were covered in plain white silk covers for the ceremony.

  Although it was only three p.m., the evenings were still quite short and, given the storm that was brewing up outside, Julia's idea of having the entire ceremony candlelit was an out-and-out winner. Just about every candelabra from each corner of the Hall had been carted down to the Ballroom for the occasion so that now the entire room twinkled and glittered with sparkling candlelight. It looked like the most romantic place on earth to be married, a teenage girl's fantasy wedding come true.

  'It was good of you to allow the service to go ahead at the Hall, Father,' said Julia. 'We haven't exactly been very lucky with the weather and it would have been a nightmare for me to transport everyone from Ballyroan church back to the Hall in the lashing rain. You saved me several milligrams of Valium.'

  'Not a bother, it's only a pleasure to have the service here,' replied Father Finnegan. 'Once a couple have special dispensation from the Bishop, sure I could marry them on the grass verge of the M50 if that's what they wanted. I married a bachelor from Dublin there a few weeks ago on Sandymount Strand. Lovely girl he married too. Malaysian. Met her off the internet. And sure, just as long as Lucasta Davenport stays well out of harm's way, I'm sure everything will go like clockwork.' Poor Father Finnegan shuddered involuntarily, as if she was about to appear over his shoulder at any minute and set up a pagan altar, littered with human bones.

  The soprano, specially flown in from London for the occasion, had just stood up to sing an aria from La Traviata when the first sign came that something was amiss.

  Mrs Flanagan and Shelley-Marie both came galumphing into the Ballroom, looking like they were on their way to a world's worst-dressed awards ceremony, where they'd subsequently be battling it out for first prize. Mrs Flanagan was in a brown shift dress with the belt somewhere up at her collarbone, revealing her bare, wobbly, wrinkly, dinner lady white arms, whereas Shelley-Marie looked like a transvestite entrant in an 'ugly men, uglier women' contest, dressed in a Barbie-pink rubber boob tube, with matching pink plastic orchids in her hair.

  'Oh my,' she cooed to anyone who'd listen, 'I just love that song she's singin'! Don't she just sound like an angel from on high? Blackjack insisted on having it played at our weddin' too, you know.' Then, turning to flash her kilowatt smile at Mrs Flanagan, she added, 'It's from, like, this really, really famous opera, my darlin' Jackie told me. La Travolta.'

  Julia spotted the pair of them, excused herself from Father Finnegan, and moved briskly towards them, smiling confidently at a bunch of very attractive Oldcastle players, who looked a bit uncomfortable in evening dress and who had yet to take their seats. She was possessed of that rare gift of being able to walk faster in Dolce & Gabbana high heels than in a pair of well-broken-in trainers.

  'Well, I'm very glad to see you both had time to get yourselves ready,' she said dryly, checking her watch. 'Shelley-Marie, at this precise moment you're supposed to be in the bridal suite, applying last-minute make-up retouches to Eleanor. You'd better get straight back up there, it's D minus two minutes, you know, or didn't you read your schedule?' Then, turning exasperatedly to Mrs Flanagan, she said, 'You see? This is what happens when people don't stick to the schedule. One simple thing, that's all I asked you to do, one idiot-proof, simple thing . . .'

  'I sure hate to interrupt you right in the middle of your hot flush,' simpered Shelley-Marie, 'but Eleanor called us in the Salon at about one o'clock, I think, wasn't it, Mrs Flanagan?'

  'Eleanor WHAT?' This was the first time all day that Julia had raised her voice and it wasn't a pretty sound.

  'Yeah, yer dead right, luv,' said Mrs Flanagan. 'It was on the dot of one o'clock that she rang. I distinctly remember, cos the Harry Hegarty hit list golden oldies show was coming on the radio—'

  'What did Eleanor say!' Julia hissed, a purple vein beginning to bulge out of her left temple.

  'And I'd written in with a special request for Eleanor,' Mrs Flanagan prattled on.' "As Time Goes By", by Louis Armstrong, cos my aul' fella and I danced to that at our wedding and it brought us many happy years with nothing but good luck. Apart from him dropping dead of a heart attack at the ag
e of thirty-seven, that is.'

  'Give me the last sentence first. WHAT DID SHE SAY?' Julia was talking to Mrs Flanagan as though she were a slow-witted five-year-old.

  'Ah, nothin' much. Just that she was cancelling all her appointments, that's all.'

  'And it didn't occur to you that this is something you might have TOLD ME?' The bulge on Julia's temple was starting to look scary now.

  'Ah relax, luv, Eleanor'll be grand. Sure all that young one needs is an aul' bit of mascara and some lip gloss and she'll look a million dollars.' Mrs Flanagan could see Julia's nervous breakdown fast approaching and had decided to enjoy herself.

  'And it is her wedding and all,' Shelley-Marie chimed in. 'I mean to say, it's not like she's not gonna be the focus of attention all day.'

  'And to be honest with ya, luv, sure we were so run off our feet all morning washing heads and doing tans, we were only delighted with the extra bit of time to get ourselves ready. There's a lot of very cute-looking footballers wandering round the place, I wanted to be looking me best.'

  'If there's anything wrong with that girl, I will hold both of you PERSONALLY responsible,' Julia hissed, turning on her heel and hoofing out the double doors so quickly she almost left a cloud of smoke in her wake.

  'I wish to God that one would ever feck off,' said Mrs Flanagan to Shelley-Marie as they made their way to their seats. 'Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, does she have to be told about every gnat that farts within ten miles of the Hall? Who's supposed to be organizing this wedding anyway, that skinny bitch or me?'

  The guests have now all taken their places and are eagerly awaiting the arrival of the bride. Mark Lloyd and his best man, Alessandro Dumas, have just taken their places at the altar. As the soloist's magnificent aria swells to fill the room, we see that Mark is looking a little nervous, twiddling with the cuffs of his simple black tuxedo, impeccably cut and designed especially for the occasion by Ireland's very own Peter O'Brien. He's probably thinking that facing a World Cup final in the Stadium of Light is a piece of cake compared with waiting for his bride to arrive! Alessandro moves over to whisper something to the groom, not looking in the least perturbed that the lovely Eleanor is a little behind time. Perhaps he's reminding Mark that, after all, isn't it a bride's prerogative to be late?

  Moving at the speed of light, Julia hared up the oak staircase and down the second-floor corridor to Eleanor's room. One of the chambermaids was standing outside the door, carrying a tea tray and looking ashen-faced. The poor inexperienced girl almost leapt out of her skin when she saw Julia thundering towards her.

  'She's in there with her father and Daisy and that Scottish guy,' she stammered nervously by way of explanation. 'I don't know exactly what's going on, all I know is that they asked me for some nice camomile tea for Miss Armstrong and now no one will answer the door.'

  'This is nobody's fault,' replied Julia, breathing deeply and forcing herself to speak in the calm, measured tones of one who's well used to dealing with nervous brides. 'I'm quite sure it's simply a case of pre-nuptial jitters and that her family will talk some sense into her. And if they don't, I will.'

  She pushed the chambermaid aside and rapped firmly on the door, a don't-mess-me-around-any-more-than-you-already-have-done knock. 'Eleanor?' she asked in a surprisingly soft tone, almost coaxing her to come out. 'Sweetie, it's me, Julia. May I come in?'

  Silence.

  'Will I send for Jasper?' whispered the maid. Even amongst the household staff, he had a reputation for being something of a Mr Fixit.

  'Shhh.' Julia glared at her, as though they were trying to coax a nervous thoroughbred out of a stable and the slightest noise might send her scurrying back to safety again. 'Eleanor darling?' she tried again. 'I wouldn't rush you for the world, you come out when you're good and ready, sweetheart, but it's just that everyone's downstairs waiting for you and Mark's already at the altar . . .'

  There was a tiny, discreet click as the door opened. Julia needed no further encouragement and was in like hot snot, leaving the poor chambermaid awkwardly loitering in the doorway, not having the first clue what to do.

  There was Eleanor, lying on the huge, canopied four-poster bed, still in her dressing gown, surrounded by an ocean of crumpled tissues and looking like she'd been up all night, howling to the four walls. The wedding dress remained wrapped in its plastic cover, swinging innocently from a hanger on the bedpost. Daisy was over at the window and visibly straightened up when she saw who it was. Robert was sitting on the dressing-table chair beside her but immediately rose when he saw that a lady had entered the room. Even at times of crisis, his manners were exemplary. Simon held the door open as Julia barged past him in her rush to get to Eleanor's side, as though she were suffering from a terminal illness and had only moments to live.

  'I was just coming to find you,' said Daisy calmly. 'I'm sorry about the delay, but we've all been trying to decide what the best thing is to do.'

  The atmosphere here in the Ballroom of Davenport Hall is electric as there's still no sign of the bride. Mark Lloyd is now slumped on the steps of the makeshift altar, looking beside himself with nervous tension. Even the string quartet seem to have thoroughly exhausted their repertoire. But just in the nick of time, here comes the Irish President, Robert Armstrong himself, striding confidently up the aisle and towards the podium where it looks like he's about to address the congregation. Put us out of our misery, Mr President and tell us what's keeping your daughter!

  Robert, flanked by Simon, made his way up to the altar and cleared his throat before he spoke. He was cool, clear and, as ever, in command. Even Shakira and Falcon stopped twittering to listen to what he had to say.

  'Ladies and gentlemen, firstly, let me apologize wholeheartedly for keeping you all waiting such an interminably long time. That was inexcusable of us.'

  He looked down and saw Mark glaring back up at him, defying him to go on. It was a surreal moment, as both men eyeballed each other with the flash of camera lights going off in their faces.

  Eventually, Robert calmly returned his focus to the crowd and continued: 'I've had to make many public speeches in my time, but none as difficult as this. The fact is, my daughter has given the matter a great deal of thought and has asked me to make a brief statement on her behalf. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid there isn't going to be a wedding today.'

  There was a stunned silence. You could have heard a pin drop as every eye in the place slowly turned to focus on Mark.

  From the back of the room, Lucasta piped up, unaware that her voice was carrying. 'I don't fucking believe this,' she said. 'Does this mean that we won't get paid?'

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  'I know this will sound funny coming from me, but I really feel I owe you a huge thank you,' said Eleanor, looking a million miles from the wretched, puffy-eyed waif of only a few hours ago.

  'I destroyed your wedding day and now you're thanking me?' said Daisy incredulously. 'I just think you're amazing, the way you're taking all this. If it was me . . . well, I'd probably be in the nuthouse by now. And Mark Lloyd would definitely be dead.'

  Eleanor crossed the bedroom to where Daisy was standing by the window, gave her a tight hug and launched into yet another litany of apologies for all the trouble she'd caused. 'It breaks my heart, you know, when I think of all the hard work you put in so that the wedding would be a success, I just . . . well, put it this way, it'll be a long time before I hold my head up high in public again.'

  'Eleanor, let's get one thing straight. I'm the one who should be apologizing to you. I can't tell you how rotten I felt about what happened, but then I figured, if I were in your shoes, I'd want to know.'

  'You did the right thing. It wasn't easy for you or Simon, I know that. But, Daisy, please believe me, you've both done me the biggest favour in the long run.'

  'It takes guts to do what you're doing,' said Daisy, in complete awe at Eleanor's cool resolve, and not for the first time that day either. 'Plenty of people would have gone
through with the wedding because it was the easier thing to do and then spent the rest of their lives bitterly regretting it. You get ten gold stars for courage and that's for sure.'

  Eleanor smiled warmly. 'Do you fancy a coffee?' she asked, making her way over to a linen-covered breakfast trolley parked elegantly by the huge bay window.

  'Lovely, thanks,' replied Daisy.

  'Do you know that this morning was the first time in weeks I've actually sat down and eaten properly? My father says I've gone to skin and bone.'

  'You see? Yet another reason to call the whole thing off. The dress would have made you look like Calista Flockhart,' said Daisy, nabbing the opportunity to crack a joke and lighten things a bit.

  Eleanor laughed as she poured coffee from a heavy silver pot into two china cups and passed one over to Daisy. 'You know, I have another apology to make to you.'

  Daisy looked at her, unsure whether she should interrupt or just let Eleanor talk. Let her talk, she decided. This is probably the first time she's really been able to get it off her chest.

  'When I first met you, I was so jealous of you. I'm completely ashamed of myself now, but when I saw how Mark flirted with you and the way he'd call you up all the time . . . well, all I can say is, if I was ever rude to you or unpleasant, you know where I was coming from.'

  'Eleanor, you're incapable of being rude,' Daisy replied, ashamed of herself for ever thinking that she was a moody cow.

  'Mark denied the whole thing, you know,' she went on, sipping on her coffee and looking out at the marquee flapping in the wind below. 'But, as Simon drummed into me, that's what men do. Deny, deny, deny, and then only when you confront them with incontrovertible evidence will they say something like: Oh well, I never meant for you to find out. And that's exactly what Mark did.'

  Eleanor was too much of a lady to go into gory details about her eleventh-hour talk with the groom, leaving Daisy to draw her own conclusions.