Last of the Great Romantics (20 page)

SUBJECT: Oh yeah, the Hall, sorry.

Hi again Sis,

Am in a mad rush as am late for one of Julia's bloody power meetings, so here is the news in point form.

1. Miss Plastic Fantastic has finally-settled on a name for her beauty salon: 'The Retreat' . Ironic, don't you think? Given that the only retreat she'll be beating is when I kick her lardy arse out of here the morning after this wedding? Bring it on . . . This has one big advantage though. It's keeping her well out of my way, for the time being at least.

2. Mrs Flanagan had been roped in to helping her. I wanted to get our own builders in to renovate the old nursery but Shelley-Marie just smiled and simpered and took matters entirely into her own hands. Herself and Mrs Flanagan headed off to Atlantic Homecare in Dublin and the next thing, a truckload of furniture arrived, mostly chairs and tables and God knows what else. To be honest with you, apart from having about ten thousand million other things to be getting on with, I'm half afraid to go up there to see what's going on for myself. I think I'll just hold off until she hands me another invoice and then I'll rant and rave and demand to know where our money's going.

3. There is no third point. Did I mention Mark Lloyd gave me his PERSONAL mobile number???!!!

Love to Andrew. Hope all the sex and shopping isn't completely wearing you down, you jammy bloody bitch.

Dxxxxx

It turned out Daisy didn't have to wait long to discover what Shelley-Marie had been up to. The following morning, just as she was tucking into one of Tim's divine full Irish breakfasts ('a health-conscious fry-up' she'd call it, or else 'a heart attack on a plate'), Shelley-Marie galumphed up to where she was happily ensconced in the Dining Room.

'Well, good mornin' to you,' she stage-whispered in her breathy, baby-doll voice.

Christ, Daisy found herself thinking, that little-girl-lost act is going to wear so thin by the time you hit forty.

'I do declare you are the easiest person in the whole house to find. Come mealtimes, you're always gonna be in the Dining Room, aren't you?'

Daisy, who was starving and had been really looking forward to the mouth-watering confection of rashers, fried eggs and sausages she'd just helped herself to from the buffet, felt her appetite instantly evaporate.

'So what can I do for you?' she asked curtly, pushing her uneaten plate away and feeling a flush of irritation at Shelley-Marie for ruining her breakfast, the one meal of the day she could enjoy in peace without Julia barking up her bum.

'Why, nothin', except to settle up a couple of accounts I seem to have run up. Furniture mostly, but the hair-dressin' sinks are arrivin' any day now and I think you better prepare yourself for a shock. They're mighty expensive, and that's before you even get goin' on all the products I'm gonna be needin'. Now, I've gone and ordered some, but I'm gonna need a heck of a lot more.'

Daisy impatiently began to leaf through the three-inch-deep pile of invoices in front of her and almost fell off her chair in shock. 'Ninety-five euro for a jar of moisturizer? You've got to be kidding me. Who in their right minds is going to fork out that much for a pot of bloody face cream?'

'Why, that's just cost price. I intend to retail with a fifty per cent mark-up, which makes it one hundred and forty-two euros and fifty cents to the consumer, I think you'll find.'

Not for the first time, Daisy got a brief glimpse of a shrewd, hard-headed business brain under the meringue-head image Shelley-Marie normally presented to the world. Busy and all as I am, she silently vowed, I'll make it a priority to watch you like a hawk until the happy day you're sent packing.

'I'm very sorry, but I absolutely cannot permit our guests to be overcharged in that shameless manner,' she said, putting on a very posh accent as though this would intimidate Shelley-Marie further. 'You'll have to explore other product ranges which are more, shall we say, realistically priced.' Now I'm starting to sound like the Duchess of Devonshire, she thought, resisting the temptation to grab a Danish pastry from the freshly baked pile on the buffet table and opting instead to try and make a dignified exit without stuffing her face.

'Crème de l'océan was formulated by scientists workin' at NASA, you know,' said Shelley-Marie, hot on her heels. 'Each and every gram of it is extracted from royal jelly and its results are truly miraculous; you oughta try it. Why, I believe it could take the desperation lines off your face and, who knows, maybe even get you a boyfriend.'

Daisy did a lightning quick scan of the Dining Room to double-check that no one could hear. Apart from Molly furiously scrubbing the sideboard with what looked like a wire brush and a youngish, honeymooning couple from Galway who were sitting in the bay window giggling at some shared joke, the room was empty. 'Shelley-Marie, let me explain in words of one syllable just so you're absolutely clear. I don't care if your overpriced bloody face cream is personally hand squeezed by the Pope from the liver of a Grand National winner, under no circumstances will our guests be ripped off. Got it? Good.'

She felt fantastic as she tripped down the long corridor leaving an open-mouthed Shelley-Marie in her wake. Well whaddya know, she thought, enjoying the unfamiliar spring in her step. Maybe I'm finally learning managerial skills after all.

'D-Day minus seventeen days,' trilled Julia, 'and so far, none of you are pissing me off, which must be some kind of record. I'm still only on three milligrams of Valium a day, so well done, all of you.'

'Is that a lot?' Daisy piped up innocently.

'It is, when washed down with a bottle of ninety-five Talbot and a half a pack of beta-blockers, believe me. Anyway, our next power breakfast will be at exactly seven a.m. tomorrow and until then, keep up the good work, everyone!'

The meeting broken up, everyone sitting around the long table in the Library duly scattered to the four winds, half afraid of incurring the wrath of Julia for failing to hop to it. They were a motley crew that morning, Daisy thought as they all set about working on their allocated tasks. Apart from herself, Mrs Flanagan was there in her capacity as housekeeping supervisor, although her sole contribution was to ask about Alessandro Dumas, Oldcastle's legendary midfielder, and to make sure that the bedroom he was allocated was on the first floor, as close as possible to her own, coincidentally.

'Each of his legs is insured for about a hundred grand, ya know,' she had said by way of explanation. 'Yis can't expect him to be able for too many flights of stairs.'

Tim was there too, of course, having really outclassed himself with the menu he had devised for the twelve-course wedding banquet. It would truly be a historic meal, Daisy knew, delighted at the reflected glory that the Hall could look forward to basking in.

There were a few people from
Gotcha
magazine there too, including the editor-in-chief and 'It' boy-about-town Joshua Byron-Smyth, the first time he'd bothered turning up. Ostensibly, he was there to decide which photographs should be taken where and to begin interviewing the bride-to-be with just over two weeks to go. However, he arrived at the meeting late, swaggering into the Library with his sunglasses on and offering no other explanation than a thumping hangover from a launch party he'd been at the previous night.

'You're looking as fresh as a daisy, Joshua darling,' Julia chirped, keenly aware of which side her bread was buttered on and not daring to tear strips off the person who was actually paying for the wedding.

Smooth liar, Daisy thought, consciously having to suck in her cheeks to stop herself from giggling at the sight of him. He looked more like a pineapple that was a good two weeks past its sell-by date, with bleached blond hair gelled into a 1950s vertical quiff and ridiculously dark fake tan plastered (patchily) all over his face and hands. Daft as a brush.

'Tell me, Josh darling, what was the launch for?' Julia trilled over to where he was standing at a hunting table, plonking two Solpadeine into a tumbler of sparkling water.

'Aromatherapy toilet roll,' he replied in a surprisingly deep, gravelly voice. 'Sorry if I sound like the Exorcist, must have smoked about forty cigarettes last night.' Then he just plonked himself down on one of the Library's comfy armchairs and spent the rest of the meeting dozing peacefully in front of the fire. Surprisingly, Julia let him be; all she did was shrug her shoulders at everyone else as though to say: well, he is paying the piper.

'Believe it or not, he is the best in the business,' Julia hissed over to Eleanor as soon as the snoring started. 'I'm sure he'll begin interviewing you the minute he starts to feel . . . well, a little more like himself, shall we say. I know he's planning a big feature on the beautiful bride, blissfully happy in the lead-up to her big day.'

Eleanor didn't answer, just nodded and sipped on a hot lemon tea she was cradling between her hands. If ever anyone looked stressed in the lead-up to her big day, it was her, or so Daisy thought, glancing across the table at her. Nerves, most likely, she decided, and who could blame the poor girl with all this fuss and commotion going on all around her?

'And how is Mark getting on?' Julia asked her. 'Training going well?'

'Yes, I think so,' she replied softly. 'Although I haven't spoken to him properly in a few days. He's up to his eyes with this big match coming up.'

They were interrupted by Amber, who stuck her head around the Library door. 'I'm really sorry to interrupt,' she said, terrified to venture any further into the room with Julia in full flow. 'I know you told me not to put any calls through to the Library, but it's just . . .'

'Just what?' Julia snapped irritably.

'It's just that Mark Lloyd is on the phone at reception.'

'Oh, thank you,' replied Eleanor, visibly brightening as she rose to take the call.

'Emm, well, actually, he asked to speak to Daisy.'

'He probably just wants a progress report,' said Daisy, aware that Eleanor's big soulful eyes were following her all the way out of the room. Two minutes later, her trembling hands picked up the phone at reception, her nerves not helped by Amber flapping in her ear. 'Hi, Mark! It's Daisy here. Sorry to have kept you waiting.'

'All right, no worries. How are you?'

'Well, the wedding plans are coming on really well, we're in great shape for the rehearsal . . .'

'Great, great, fab. Look, I know this might seem a bit odd, but how do you fancy coming over to Oldcastle this weekend to give me a progress report? There's a great hotel here that me and all the lads stay in, you'd really like it.
And
you could fill me in on what's happening.'

'What?' Daisy almost dropped the phone. Was she hearing things?

'It's just – I know how stressed Ellie is about the whole thing and it would really be great for me to be kept in the loop, so to speak. I feel so out of touch over here.'

Daisy took a very deep breath. 'That's very sweet of you, Mark, but I'm afraid I can't possibly take off for a weekend like that. We're all working flat out this side of the wedding, it wouldn't be fair for me to leave everyone high and dry.' I deserve the Victoria Cross for saying no to him, she thought.

Mark was charm itself. 'No worries, I totally understand. Guess I'll just have to keep calling you then, won't I?'

Gotcha
magazine's security team had arrived that day too. A big van with 'A1 Security' on it pulled up in front of the Hall and two beefy, burly men, all dressed in black, immediately began scanning the Hall and grounds. They looked and acted just like a SWAT team as they paraded down the driveway communicating with each other via walkie-talkie even though they were only a few feet apart. They had an odd way of talking too; from what Daisy could hear, it sounded as though they were just shouting song titles at each other.

'Ten four, ten four, looks like we got us a convoy,' one bellowed on seeing the postman cycling up the driveway followed by Tom in his taxi.

'Roger that,' replied the other, waving at them to bring them to a halt. 'Yeah, looks like the boys are back in town.'

Within minutes of their arrival, Lucasta had christened them Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

'Is security really necessary?' Daisy had asked Julia, in total exasperation. 'You're in Ballyroan you know, not Baghdad.'

'Abso-fucking-lutely,' replied Julia, 'and this is only the start of it. All of the hotel staff will have to be issued with ID tags to authorize them to gain access to the Hall and then they'll each have to be interviewed individually.'

'Interviewed?' Daisy had a mental picture of the security team tying people to chairs and then shining lights in their faces, like the KGB did in Bond movies.

'Oh, calm down, it's perfectly standard procedure before an event like this. It's just in case someone is got at by a rival magazine and bribed to take candid photos, which they'd publish ahead of
Gotcha's
wedding spread. Spoilers, we call them. Or else stupid asshole bastards, entirely depending on my mood.'