Last of the Great Romantics (17 page)

FROM: [email protected]

TO: portiadavenport®aol.com

SUBJECT: Well, don't let me keep you!!!

Have to admit I got a bit confused at your last email. Thought I'd somehow got wires crossed with Carrie Bradshaw . . . Bitch!! So jealous!! Enjoy!! Would LOVE to hear more about your flashy, glam lifestyle but the outside drains are blocked again and I'd swear the septic tank has a leak in it . . . the difference in our lives . . . ! Dxxx

Chapter Eleven

By Christ, Daisy thought to herself, it's not often you see the cool, calm, über-efficient Julia Belshaw in a flap.

It was mid-morning the following day and the Hall was in its usual state of organized chaos. Daisy was rushing off to a meeting with a hotel supplier in Dublin and both Molly and Tim were in the kitchens, clearing up after breakfast and preparing for lunch respectively. Lucasta had completely vanished; she was never anywhere to be seen these days, not even for her usual tipple during happy hour in the bar. She would appear back at the Hall very late at night, smelling even worse than she normally did and explaining her absence with a dismissive wave of her hand.

'Get bent,' was all she said to Gorgeous George when he had the temerity to ask her if she was all right as she swished into the Long Gallery well after eleven p.m. one night. 'I'll have you know I'm on the brink of announcing a very exciting discovery to the world so until then, you'll just have to leave me be,' she said, stuffing the pockets of her wax jacket with as many airline-sized bottles of gin and miniature tins of tonic as she could, before stomping off to bed. Given that her last 'exciting discovery' had been a cure for ingrown hairs involving the use of rose quartz crystals, no one paid too much heed to her.

Mrs Flanagan too had disappeared, but into the family sitting room; a toasted sandwich in one hand, a box of twenty cigarettes in the other and the TV guide tucked under her arm, leaving strict instructions that under no circumstances was she to be disturbed. 'I'm working on a top-secret project,' was all she gave away, 'and I need to do a bit of research first. So in the meantime, youse can all feck off.'

'Honestly,' Daisy had grumbled to Amber, the very young and very pretty day receptionist, before she left for her meeting, 'some people in this house wouldn't last a wet day in the workplace.' (It was hard not to laugh aloud at this coming from Daisy of all people, of whom, up to a week ago, it could have reasonably been said that she had never done an honest day's work in her whole life.)

They were both standing at the elegant Louis XVI reception desk in the main entrance hall when two guests, an elderly French couple, came tottering down the staircase, Louis Vuitton bags in hand, all set to check out. Daisy immediately snapped into action, beaming angelically at them and asking if they had enjoyed their stay as she expertly tapped the computer and printed off their bill. 'I'll handle this,' she said with great confidence to Amber, delighted to have a chance to show off her new-found professionalism.

'Ehh . . . my Engleesh is not so good as it used to be,' said the woman, smiling and nodding, 'but we have many times been staying at the Ritz, Paris and, may I say, the dining here is incommensurable.'

Daisy and Amber glanced at each other; neither one's French was good enough to give a sophisticated, bilingual reply, but they thanked them effusively for the lovely compliment and, judging by their guests' big, happy smiles and by the warmth of the handshakes they exchanged, it could safely be said that their stay was a success and that they might even be back.

Both Daisy and Amber walked them to the top of the steps outside and gamely waved them off like old friends.

'Nothing like a satisfied customer,' Amber remarked, shivering a bit against the biting cold.

'You know what we could really do with around here?' Daisy asked, only half listening to her. 'Now don't laugh, but I feel I wouldn't be doing my job as acting manager unless I gave these things proper consideration.'

'What's that?'

'A hotel porter. We badly need one, I almost broke my back helping those guests from Dublin carry luggage to their car the other day. Honest to God, they were only here for two nights and they had five suitcases between them. They must have changed clothes about eight times a bloody day.'

'They did. One of them was aghast that we didn't have a strict dress code for dinner. Apparently she'd brought three possible evening gowns to choose from and by gowns I really mean gowns, with ridiculous trains and everything. I think they confused this place with the Kodak Theatre on Oscar night.'

'I'm being serious,' replied Daisy. 'We could really do with the extra help and you know what else? We could hire a big, beefy, sexy-looking guy and then give him a bell-hop uniform to wear with a little pill-box hat – you know, like in 1930s movies?'

Amber giggled. 'Now that would make my early morning shifts all the more bearable. Can we get one that looks like Colin Farrell? Please?'

'Let me talk to Portia about it,' Daisy laughed, really savouring her new responsibilities. 'Bight, I've got to dash,' she said, suddenly remembering the time. 'Probably not a good idea to keep someone we owe money to waiting.'

She was just about to trip down the stone steps to her car as Julia's distinctive red two-seater came whooshing up the driveway, doing one of her trademark gravel-scattering handbrake turns. The woman herself then dumped the car at right angles to the bottom of the steps and came running up, barely taking the time to bang the car door behind her. 'Code red emergency!' she was shrieking at the top of her voice, taking the steps two at a time, no mean feat in five-inch stilettos.

'Oh Christ, what fresh hell is this?' Daisy muttered when right on Julia's heels came a brand-new, showroom-condition Porsche.

'OK, OK, I need you both to remain calm,' said Julia breathlessly, sounding anything other than calm herself. 'It's them. Eleanor and Mark Lloyd in person. He had a day free in his schedule and wants to see the Hall for himself. OK, OK, OK . . .' she continued, thinking aloud. 'Here's what I need you both to do. Evacuate the Hall, tell all the nobodies staying here there's a fire or something, I don't care, just get rid of them. Mark can't have plebs bothering him when his time is at such a premium.'

Keep cool, Daisy kept saying to herself, keep nice and cool and remember you're a manager. She took a deep breath and was about to point out calmly that under no circumstances could she subject guests to that kind of appalling treatment when Eleanor herself called out from the passenger window of the Porsche.

'Good morning, everyone! Please, please excuse us for landing on top of you like this and promise me you won't make a fuss? We'd hate to think that we were putting anyone out.' A lady to her fingertips, Daisy thought as they all went down the steps to meet and greet.

Eleanor looked as naturally beautiful as she always did, dressed down in jeans and a simple white shirt under a black leather jacket. She shook hands with Julia warmly and gave Daisy a big bear hug, like an old pal she hadn't seen in years.

'Mark was supposed to be training all day,' she blushed, 'but it was unexpectedly cancelled so he called me from Oldcastle this morning and flew all the way to Dublin by helicopter just so he could see the Hall. I hope that's all right?' she asked, addressing Daisy. 'If it's not a good time for you, we could easily come back again.'

Touched by her politeness and humility, Daisy was about to reply that there was no problem at all, they were only delighted to see them, when the man himself appeared from the driver's side of the car.

Eleanor beamed at him, linking his arm. 'Come and meet everyone and you can apologize for landing on top of the poor Davenports without warning like this.'

Daisy could feel Amber's hand gripping her arm tightly as the man himself stepped elegantly out from the driver's side. Eleanor graciously made the introductions, singling out Daisy as the Hall's acting manager.

'Great to meet you,' said Mark in an unmistakable south London accent, dark eyes glinting at her. 'What a great pile of bricks you got here.' He took his gaze off her for a moment to survey the front façade of the Hall then turned his full attention back to her. 'I just love it,' he said, really impressed. 'Yeah, I'm lovin' it. I'm a big fan of neo-classical architecture. Doric columns, yeah, great, cool, man, I really dig. Fantastic choice, Ellie, my mum's really gonna love this.'

As they all made their way inside, Daisy found herself struck by the twin illusion of familiarity and estrangement with Mark. Celebrities must experience this all the time, she thought, total strangers feeling as though they know you intimately, because you're a household name and your face is so well known. They all stood com-panionably in the Hall chatting, or babbling like the village idiot in Amber's case, the way people do when they meet really famous people in the flesh. Daisy excused herself for a moment and slipped off to the reception desk to see if she could hastily reschedule her appointment with Portia's particularly snotty hotel supplier. As she stood with the phone in her hand, interminably on hold, she had a good chance to observe the famous Mark Lloyd close up.

He wasn't particularly tall, but was lean, lithe and athletic with that golden glow about him which super-fit people always seem to have. He was dark-skinned and tanned with deep, dark brown eyes which didn't so much dance when they looked at you as do a wild Latin American salsa. Although it was a chilly March morning, wild and windy, he was only wearing a light, Lycra T-shirt which clung to his powerful muscles as though designed for no other purpose, with a pair of army-fatigue-style combat trousers slung low at the hips which clearly showed his knicker elastic. (Calvin Klein: what else?) Instead of this seeming like a major fashion
faux pas,
however, he carried the look off as though he'd just happened to step off a catwalk during London fashion week. In a nutshell, he looked every inch the off-duty superstar, Daisy thought, although she was half expecting him to turn around and start plugging men's aftershave at any second. He was parading around the entrance hall as though he was surveying it and would soon put in an offer when the hotel supplies manager butted in on her thoughts, telling her crisply and in no uncertain terms that she'd reschedule the appointment to facilitate her just this once, but under no circumstances could this be allowed to happen again.

'Thank you so much,' said Daisy, feeling that she at least owed her an explanation. 'My sister would kill me if she knew I'd cancelled on you, but, you see, can you keep a secret? Mark Lloyd has just arrived and wants to see the Hall—'

'MARK LLOYD?' came the astonished reply. 'Oh my God, tell him I love him SOOOO much! Will you tell him that my boyfriend and I got the DVD of
Mark Lloyd's Greatest Goals
for Christmas and that we've watched it about a thousand times between us? And will you be sure to tell him that his equalizer at Stuttgart in the European Championships was the MOST AMAZING piece of ball control I have ever seen?'

'Ehh, yeah, I'll be sure to pass that on,' Daisy said, marvelling that just the magic of his name could transform even the snottiest old battleaxe into a gushing, star-struck teenager. Even Julia had abandoned her usual bossy, narky persona and was smiling sweetly at the happy couple as though she had nothing better to do all day than stand around making small talk. Clocking that Daisy was finally off the phone, she snapped into action.

'Mark, Eleanor, I know how little time you both have, so I suggest that we start at the top of the Hall and work our way down. That way, you can see all the best bedrooms for yourselves and allocate them accordingly. I remember one particular wedding I planned where the groom insisted on the bride's family having the bedrooms in an old coach house about five miles away from anyone else.'

'Actually, Julia,' Eleanor gently interrupted, on catching a look of raw panic flitter across Daisy's face, 'I'm not so sure that's really necessary. The last thing we'd want to do is bother the other guests. Maybe if we could just take a peek at the reception rooms and then we could show Mark the spot we've chosen for the marquee in the garden? We can easily leave the bedrooms for a more convenient time.'

Really impressed by her thoughtfulness, Daisy led the way, beginning with the Yellow Drawing Room to the left of the reception on the ground floor. Mark was the only one who had never seen it before, and his reaction was all that his bride-to-be could have hoped for and more.

'Oh wow, now you're talkin'! This reminds me a bit of Buckingham Palace, 'cept it's miles nicer. Classier. And it don't have the disadvantage of corgi hair all over the furniture.'

Eleanor grinned and blushed and glowed behind the silk curtain of her long, straight hair.

'I was there, you know, last year,' Mark went on as Daisy shepherded them on through to the Red Dining Room, 'when the Queen gave me my OBE. In fact, this place reminds me of there a lot, actually. 'Cept I think your taste in art is a lot better. They've just got pictures of horses and foxhunts and that, which wouldn't be my scene at all. Wow! Come here, Ellie, look! They got a Graham Knuttel! That is so fantastic!'