Last of the Great Romantics

Table of Contents

• About the Author
  
• By the Same Author
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Acknowledgements
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Epilogue
  
• REMIND ME AGAIN WHY I NEED A MAN?
  
• HE LOVES ME NOT . . . HE LOVES ME
  
• THE WWW CLUB
  

Claudia Carroll is a young Irish actress. She currently stars in
Fair City,
as Nicola Prendergast, one of the most popular characters.
The Last of the Great Romantics,
is her second novel, her first,
He loves me not . . . he loves me
is also published by Bantam Books. Her new novel,
Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man,
will be published later this year.

www.booksattransworld.co.uk

Also by Claudia Carroll

HE LOVES ME NOT . . . HE LOVES ME

and published by Bantam Books

The Last of the
Great Romantics

Claudia Carroll

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781409046059

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

THE LAST OF THE GREAT ROMANTICS
A BANTAM BOOK:

ISBN: 9781409046059

Version 1.0

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,
a division of Transworld Publishers

PRINTING HISTORY

Bantam Press edition published 2005
Bantam edition published 2006

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4

Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2005

The right of Claudia Carroll to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Condition of Sale

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Set in 12.25/15.5pt Bembo by
Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd.

Bantam Books are published by Transworld Publishers,
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,
a division of The Random House Group Ltd,
in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia,
in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd,
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd, Isle of Houghton,
Corner of Boundary Road & Carse O'Gowrie, Houghton 2198, South Africa.

For all the hopeless romantics out there.
You are not alone.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to Marianne Gunn O'Connor, for her calm wisdom and for everything she's done for me in the last year. I really couldn't be happier, luckier or more grateful.

Thanks to Pat Lynch, for his patience and encouragement (not to mention all the great nights out on the town).

Thanks to everyone at Transworld, especially Francesca Liversidge for her brilliant editing (and shopping tips!), Nicky Jeanes and Laura Sherlock. Roll on your next trip to Dublin!

Thanks to Declan Heeney for organizing such an amazing launch party for
He loves me not . .
.
he loves me.
(I swear, this man could run the country, with one hand tied behind his back. Easy.)

Thanks to Gill and Simon Hess for all their hard work.

Thanks to Vicki Satlow for everything she's done.

Thanks to Anne and Claude, my wonderful parents, and all the family, especially my aunt Mai in Scotland, a great mentor and a great friend.

Thanks to Patricia Scanlan, Kate Thompson, Maureen McGlynn and Eleanor Minihan for all their support.

On a personal note, thanks to all my amazing friends for all the encouragement you gave me in the last year. Special thanks to Clelia Murphy (for coming with me on the book signings and generally putting up with me), Anita Notaro, wonderful neighbour and friend (or the Champagne Sheilas, as we're in danger of becoming known!), Susan McHugh, Sean Murphy, Karen Nolan, Larry Finnegan, Madge MacLaverty, Lise-Ann McLaughlin, Marion O'Dwyer, Pat Kinevane, Alison McKenna, Frank Mackey, Sharon Hogan, Karen Hastings, Kevin Reynolds, the Gunn family, Kevin Murnane, Ailsa Doyle, Hilary Reynolds and Fiona Lalor.

Special thanks to Maeve McGrath for all her help when I was researching this (otherwise I'd never have known what it's like inside the players' box at a soccer match!).

Thanks to everyone at RTE, especially all in
Fair City.

Finally, thanks to everyone who gave me such support and said such kind words about
He loves me not . . . he loves me.
It really meant the world to me.

Prologue

Portlaoise Prison, Maximum Security Wing

' "A HANDBAG?"'

' "Yes, Lady Bracknell, I was in a handbag – a somewhat large, black leather handbag, with handles to it – an ordinary handbag in fact."'

' "In what locality did this Mr James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary handbag?" '

' "In the cloakroom at Victoria station. It was given to him in mistake for his own."'

' "The cloakroom at Victoria station?"'

' "Yes. The Brighton line."'

'CUT!' snarled a voice from the bowels of the pitch-black auditorium.

'Oh bugger,' Lady Bracknell whispered. 'We're for it.'

'Just out of curiosity,' came the voice from the shadows, dripping with dry sarcasm, 'have either of you talentless travesties bothered doing even the slightest bit of work on your English accents? Bonecrusher Barnes, with a performance like that, if you're not careful you'll end up in a soap opera. Jordan or, God help us, even Jade Goody could do a more upper-class accent than you any day. And you're a thundering disgrace in that corset; you're walking like a drag queen. Lady Bracknell is one of the greatest parts ever written for a woman and you should be honoured to be playing it. Even if you're a man.'

Lady Bracknell hung his shaved head in shame and muttered an apology under his breath.

'He's very tough, isn't he?' whispered one prison warder to another from the back of the auditorium.

'Shhh!' urged his colleague, panicking like a schoolboy afraid of the headmaster's wrath. 'No talking during rehearsals. Mad Jasper nearly killed a warder last year for chatting in the middle of the
West Side Story
dress rehearsal. Said he was putting the cast off. He'll separate us in a minute if we're not careful.'

They were interrupted by the door to the rear of the auditorium opening and another officer joined them, panting and out of breath.

'Howaya, Mick,' the second warder mouthed silently at him, indicating for him to sit down and shut up.

'Lads, I've awful news. You won't believe what the Governor just told me. What's the mood like this morning?'

'Quiet at the back of the hall!'
roared Mad Jasper. 'Or I will personally rip your philistine heads off. You're a waste of organs, the lot of you.'

'Judge for yourself,' whispered the first prison officer. 'And stop talking or you'll get us all into trouble.'

Mad Jasper then turned the full force of his venom back to his trembling cast.

'Now, I have directed three prison drama shows and I have had three nervous breakdowns. That's the level of commitment I'm bringing to this play so excuse the hell out of me for expecting no less from you lazy shower of artistically challenged gobshites. Back to Lady Bracknell and Gwendolen's first entrance and this time I want to see a bit of respect for Oscar Wilde and the majesty of the text, if that's not asking too much.'

Unseen by Mad Jasper, there was a flurried, whispered conversation going on at the back, all three prison officers taking advantage of his attention being momentarily elsewhere.

'You're joking, Mick,' said one, his face suddenly ashen with shock.

'Not a word of a lie. The Governor is in bits. God love the poor man, he's the one who's going to have to break it to him.'

'I don't bloody believe it,' said the other, stunned. 'Mad Jasper finally makes parole in the middle of production week, with three days to the opening night? Jesus Christ, we'll be lucky if he doesn't kill us.'

Chapter One

Portia yawned, stretched and wondered why the bed beside her felt so cold. In her half-asleep state, she'd instinctively reached out to snuggle up against her husband and was startled not to feel his warm, naked body beside her. Odd. She strained to listen for a moment, just in case he was moving around their tiny kitchen downstairs, making steaming mugs of tea for them both and slathering wedges of butter on to fresh toast, just the way she liked it. Serving his wife breakfast in bed was a ritual which Andrew religiously observed, no matter how late they'd been out the previous night. And boy had last night been a late one, Portia thought, pulling the duvet over her head in a futile attempt to try and keep warm.

Yesterday had been Valentine's Day and even though they could ill afford it, Andrew had insisted on whisking her off to dinner in the Lemon Tree, Kildare's newest, trendiest and most expensive restaurant. 'I know tomorrow's a big day,' he'd said, not brooking no for an answer, 'but we've both worked like Trojans and we bloody well deserve a night off. Besides, the world and its sick dog are going to be at the grand opening tomorrow night, how will I even get a chance to talk to my sexy, gorgeous wife?'

So, smiling, Portia had shoehorned herself into the only weight-minimizing little black dress she possessed and happily allowed her husband to escort her to dinner.

The Lemon Tree was clearly the hippest place to be that night, she thought as the maître d' led them to their table, weaving his way through the roomful of well-dressed diners who thronged the restaurant, filling it to capacity. Although it was mainly lovey-dovey couples eating out that night, Portia was still aware of every female eye in the room silently clocking her husband as they were escorted to their window table which overlooked the minimalist, Japanese-style gardens beneath. A tiny, familiar, momentary pang of insecurity struck her, which she immediately brushed aside. For God's sake, look at him, she thought as the maître d' held out her chair for her; how could you blame any normal heterosexual woman in her right mind for staring at him? And with a flood of love which brought a flush to her cheeks she looked across the table to her husband of almost eighteen months.