Last of the Great Romantics (13 page)

He sounded so buzzy and excited, so full of enthusiasm for what lay ahead, that she dreaded having to burst his bubble. Get it over with quickly, her instinct told her. 'OK, I have news. Big news.'

'Give me the last sentence first.' He was looking at himself in the tiny bathroom mirror now, liberally splashing on Burberry aftershave.

'Remember us wondering why Eleanor Armstrong was so anxious to have a full guided tour of the Hall, the night of the opening?'

'I surely do. Far more important question. Do you think we should eat at Sardi's or at the Rockefeller Center tonight? Or maybe we should stay local? I know this great seafood place just around the block from the apartment, you'd love it . . .'

'You're not listening.'

'I am. Eleanor Armstrong and the grand tour. And there was me thinking she was just trying to get me alone.'

'She's getting married to Mark Lloyd and she wants to have her wedding at the Hall. Exclusivity deals with a magazine who are paying for the whole shebang, the works.'

'Wow!' Andrew turned to face her, gobsmacked. 'She's marrying Mark Lloyd?
The
Mark Lloyd?'

'In about four weeks' time, yeah. But, darling, don't you see what this means?'

'I certainly do. It means, my sexy one, we are RICH! We're home and dry, baby!' He had pulled her up to her feet and was now waltzing her round in circles. 'What did I tell you, oh ye of little faith? The Davenport Hotel is going to be the biggest success story of the decade! YIPPEEEEEE! So how does it feel to be married to a multi-millionaire, you lucky girl?'

'Be serious. You know what this means.'

'No I don't.' He was looking at her, genuinely puzzled, and then the penny dropped. 'Portia, if you think for a minute that I'm going to let you stay behind to work on this wedding, you're very wrong.' His eyes were twinkling at her, but he sounded deadly serious.

'Andrew, listen. One of us, and by one of us I mean me, will have to stay. How can we leave Daisy in charge of this? I haven't even broken it to her yet about Shelley-Marie, and you can guess the reaction that'll get. I've just put down the phone to her and she was practically hyperventilating. Julia Belshaw has just landed this on her—'

'Julia's organizing the wedding?'

'Yeah, but—'

'No buts. Problem solved. Julia could run the country with one hand tied behind her back. Best wedding planner in the business. You know, you're going to have to learn to delegate here, what will your staying on achieve? The two of us apart, you slaving away behind a reception desk here, me missing you in New York . . . No, no way. We're going away together as planned and that's all there is to it. I want you there with me, simple as that.'

God, he could be so stubborn when he really wanted something, Portia thought. And he really, really wanted them both to go to New York . . .

'Sweetheart,' he said, perching on the edge of the bath beside her and really giving her his full attention, 'quite apart from anything else, you need the break. We both do. You worked so hard for the opening, over my dead body am I letting you stay on here to worry about bridesmaids and ushers and bloody flower arrangements and all that jazz.'

He was playing with her hair now, and Portia let him. The thought of being a continent away from Julia and her bossiness was sorely tempting . . . although she did feel a sharp stab of guilt at dumping this on Daisy's inexperienced shoulders. Talk about feeling torn between the two people she loved most . . .

She blushed prettily as he coiled a long strand of her hair round his finger. After all, he had given up so much for her, and now it was payback time.

'I'm sorry to force you into an A or B situation, babe,' said Andrew in his most persuasive I-could-sell-sand-to-the-Arabs tones, 'but don't I come before the Hall?'

'Of course you do. I'm just worried about landing all this on poor Daisy, that's all.'

'That's what email is for. That's what phones are for. Worst-case scenario: something awful goes wrong. You can fly back in a matter of hours, so where's the problem? This is where Julia excels herself and at the end of the day, what do either of us know about planning big fancy weddings?'

Chapter Eight

Saying that Lucasta was a teeny bit eccentric was a bit like saying that the Leaning Tower of Pisa was ever so slightly off-centre. Before the Davenport Country House Hotel had ever opened for business, it was a great source of worry to all concerned exactly how she'd behave in the company of guests who were paying a fortune for the privilege of staying there. In the hectic days leading up to the opening, both Portia and Andrew had drilled it into her long and hard as to what was and, more importantly, what wasn't acceptable behaviour whenever there were visitors around. Poor Portia had even suggested at one point that they go shopping to buy Lucasta a new wardrobe, in the hope that it might lure her out of her customary nightie and wellies worn under a smelly oilskin jacket.

'You don't need to dress like that any more, Mummy,' she'd gently pleaded. 'The central heating inside the Hall is state of the art now, not like in the old days when we all had to wear six layers of clothes each so as not to get frostbite. It's boiling now, all the time, so what about getting rid of the wax jacket and letting me buy you something, well, you know, a bit more suitable?'

'But this is my look, darling, why should I change what Works? Are you suggesting there's something wrong with me as I am?' Lucasta replied, fishing in her pockets for the remains of a battered pack of cigarettes. 'Yes! Two left!' she said, jubilantly stuffing a fag into her mouth and lighting it. 'You see? My outfit is functional as well as flattering. I can fit five packs of ciggies in the pockets as well as little treats for my kitties. You know, darling, if you're going to insist on smartening us all up you really should invest in a full-length mirror for yourself, you know. I don't give a tuppenny shite what Andrew says, the happiness fat most definitely does not suit you.'

And so, looking like an extra from
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest,
she tripped down the stone steps at the front of the Hall just in time to see Eleanor about to clamber into the passenger seat of Julia's nippy sports car. 'Good morning, Lady Davenport!' she called up the steps to her. 'My father said if I saw you I was to be sure to pass on his very best!'

'Who the hell are you now, I wonder?' muttered Lucasta, blowing cigarette smoke into the early morning mist and squinting suspiciously at her. Fortunately, Eleanor couldn't hear as Julia was revving up the engine, impatient to move on to the next appointment she'd carefully scheduled for the bride-to-be.

'I think he's quite taken with you actually!' Eleanor added before hopping nimbly into the tiny two-seater and zooming down the driveway.

'Well, your father's only human, whoever he is,' Lucasta shouted back, oblivious to the fact that two more guests were coming down the steps behind her, out for a stroll to work off their enormous breakfast. They were a youngish couple, city types by the look of their brand-new 'his and her' matching tweed jackets and spotless walking shoes.

'I mean, like, I can handle the quiet of the countryside OK,' the girl was saying in a whiny, nasal, south Dublin accent, 'but it's the smell that drives me, like, totally nuts, you know?'

'Exactly, babe,' replied her boyfriend in an equally irritating accent. 'It smells like, I dunno, like raw sewage or unemptied bins or something, like, really putrid, you know?'

'It's only horse manure from the stables, you idiots,' said Lucasta as they walked by her. 'This is the country, for Christ's sake, what do you expect? That the horse shit smells meadow fresh? What do you want me to do? Go down there and spray them with air freshener? Arseholes.'

She was in a foul humour that morning and not without good reason. Lucasta was the proud owner of at least two dozen cats, including an army of strays she fed and who frequently slept in bed beside her. However, since the Hall had reopened, her absolute favourite cat, Martini, had vanished. She'd searched for him high and low and had even sneaked into guests' bedrooms, half the time not caring whether they were there or not, but no sign. She placed the blame for poor Martini's disappearance firmly and squarely at Portia's door; if she and Andrew hadn't insisted on all her cats being confined to the family rooms once the hotel was open, then this wouldn't have happened.

'They've been used to having the run of the Hall and now the poor angels are completely disorientated since you've so cruelly banished them from their natural habitat. What in God's name is wrong with them anyway, I'd like to know?' she'd screeched at Andrew on one of the rare occasions when he'd firmly put his foot down with her. 'These animals have a damn sight more pedigree in them than the bloody middle-class snobs you want to come and stay here. I've a good mind to report you to the ISPCA, you unfeeling bollocks.'

Martini, however, had proved himself to be something of a daredevil in the past. When the builders were in, he'd vanished for a full day before one of the workmen discovered him stuck at the bottom of a cement mixer. But by now a whole week had passed without any sign of him, which led Lucasta to conclude the very worst. With her chin up and her head held high, she decided that if Martini had indeed passed over to the other side, then she should try to make contact with him to make sure he was being fed and minded properly in the spirit world. It was the least a loving pet owner could do and far more than she would have done for her ex-husband (who often used to goad Lucasta by saying that the only good cat was a dead one squashed on the side of the road).

And so, armed with a tatty book she'd fished out of the Library entitled
The Amateurs' Guide to Conducting a Séance,
she made a beeline for the old cowshed at the bottom of the kitchen garden. It was just about the only spot on the estate which hadn't been renovated and she felt that Martini's spirit would feel at home with the leaky corrugated roof, the bales of hay strewn around and the overriding stench of dung, away from the pristine cleanliness of the house proper. This was a process which demanded absolute privacy and quiet and it was nigh on impossible to get either at the Hall these days. It was barely nine in the morning and already she could hear the whine of Molly's hoovering wafting through an open window, not at all conducive to getting in touch with the spirit world, she sighed, flicking her long grey mane over her shoulders and going inside the shed.

It was almost pitch black as Lucasta shut the door behind her and groped her way inside, plonking down on her hands and knees and spewing out the contents of her pockets. A moment later, she had successfully lit four tiny tea lights and had expertly sprinkled some sage and marjoram in a circle connecting them. 'Now, before we get started, spirit guides, I need you to pay very close attention,' she ordered, as though the other side were no further off than a long-distance phone call. 'It says in this book that I need to sprinkle the droppings from a virgin unicorn on the ground for the spell to work. Well, I'm awfully sorry but I couldn't get any so Oxo granules will just have to do instead.' Squinting in the candlelight at the tiny print in her book, she began to chant, 'Feline Goddess of the North, I salute you. Feline Goddess of the South—' She broke off suddenly and strained to listen. There it was, a very faint, weak meowing noise and close by too, by the sound of it.

'Oh Christ,' sighed Lucasta in exasperation. 'I'm inclined to forget how talented I am. One line of a spell is all I need utter successfully to break through to the other side.' Then, raising her voice, she called out, 'Martini, my little cherub, it's Mummy. Can't you hear me, sweetheart? Are you at peace, darling? Are there any messages you want to give me from beyond the grave? Racing tips, lottery numbers, that sort of thing? Meow once for yes and twice for no.'

There was a rustle of hay which caught her attention and, as she turned sharply around, there was Martini, limping towards his mistress.

'Oh my little darling, you've come back to Mummy,' she twittered, delighted, scooping him up in her arms and kissing him full on the lips. 'What on earth happened to your paw, my angel?' she cooed, noticing the tiny splint that had been carefully bandaged to Martini's hind paw.

'I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid it could be broken,' came a man's voice, speaking very politely from the gloom. 'I've done my best with the paw, but I really think he should see a vet.'

Lucasta knelt in silence, still as a statue for a moment, before the realization finally dawned on her. 'Do you know, Martini,' she whispered, cradling him close, 'I've always suspected that there was a vortex on the estate where spirits from the other side could port through. Well, there must be because how else do you explain the way all my ciggies keep disappearing? But never, never, never even in my wildest dreams did I imagine I'd stumble on it at the back of the old cowshed.' Then, raising her voice and trying her best to conceal her excitement at this rare find, she shouted up to the roof, 'Now, I'm quite sure you're a very benign spirit and I'm so pleased that Martini's brought a little friend with him from the other side. Are you some sort of spirit guide? Or perhaps you're a poor lost soul who's found his way through the vortex by accident? A sort of spiritual tourist or day-tripper, that sort of thing, you know?'