Last of the Great Romantics (28 page)

'I'm very sorry to cut you short, Lynn, but I'm afraid I can't.' Portia spoke slowly, savouring the deliciously new sensation of telling Lynn where to get off.

'I don't understand.'

'My mother-in-law is in town and we're taking her out.'

'Andrew's mother? Well, that's even better! Nothing like an old lady to matchmake . . . this is so matriarchal, it's perfect! Oh, look, my learning-impaired assistant is here, I gotta go. You leave all the dinner arrangements to me and I'll call you back. Love you, mean it!' And she was gone.

Portia had planned on spending a leisurely morning all around Fifth Avenue, maybe climbing the Empire State and then browsing in the famous Barnes & Noble bookstore, her idea of heaven on earth. But she was in too much of a temper after Lynn's phone call to do anything but sit in a Starbuck's café sipping on a latte and trying her best to cool down.

What did she need to do to get a little quality time alone with her husband? She knew how much he adored the buzz and the sense of being on the go twenty-four hours a day, and she loved it because she loved seeing him happy, but she was starting to feel walked on, hemmed in and thwarted at every turn. This she could probably have dealt with; what was really getting her down was the fact that she'd barely even seen him since they arrived. Of course, he was working all the hours God sent, she knew, but it was upsetting her to think that they were turning into two flatmates who shared the same living space and hardly ever saw each other, rather than a husband and wife who should have been ripping the clothes off each other like they were on a second honeymoon . . .

It was a sobering thought. She'd even gone to the bother of buying a fabulously sexy nightie in Barneys the previous day, a beautifully designed creation, all lacy and low-cut, which accentuated her womanly curves beautifully whilst still holding her tummy in nice and tight. Any designer who could achieve that should be working at NASA, she thought, annoyed at what a total waste of money it had turned out to be. She'd gone to so much trouble to make it a special evening too, dotting expensive aromatherapy candles around the apartment and having a good long soak in a hot tub before slathering every inch of herself with the Jo Malone body lotion he loved the smell of.

And then waited. And waited. His direct line clicked through to his voicemail when she eventually rang before she fell into bed herself, exhausted and still not fully used to the time difference. It wasn't a good sleep, though; she woke every hour on the hour until the digital alarm clock on the bedside table read one a.m. and still the bed was empty and cold beside her. Early morning sunlight was streaming through the bedroom curtains when she woke again, realizing that he had come home and was snoring like a tram yard beside her. She instinctively snuggled into him, but woke him up, by accident.

'I'm sorry, sweetheart,' she whispered. 'I was so worried about you. When did you get home?'

'Whattime's it?'

'Six-thirty. Did I wake you?'

'Yes, you woke me.' He was out of bed now, on his way to the bathroom.

'Sorry. I didn't mean to.'

'Jesus, Portia. Ken and I are in court this morning and we had to prepare all night last night. I just could really do with an uninterrupted night's sleep, you know.'

She let it pass, knowing how cranky he got without sleep and that, even at the best of times, he was never what you'd call a morning person. Back home, she had a rule never even to try to engage him in conversation until he'd had at least two cups of coffee, by which time he had reverted to his usual charming, wide-awake self. But God Almighty, she thought, rolling back over to her side of the bed, if ever there was a couple who needed a bit of quality time together, it was them.

'Susan, it's lovely to see you, welcome to New York.' Portia wasn't a natural actress, but she really tried her best to fake sincerity as she kissed her mother-in-law on each cheek. 'You must be exhausted,' she added politely although Susan was one of those women who always looked exactly the same, irrespective of health, time of day or what she was wearing. Probably something to do with the Maggie Thatcher helmet hair-do, always impeccably chiselled into place and lacquered enough to put a sizeable dent in the ozone layer.

'Do you think she sleeps on her back with the hair in one of those long wooden slats, like they did in the eighteenth century, like Marie Antoinette?' Daisy mischievously used to ask – behind her back, of course.

'Nonsense, I'm not in the least bit tired. I'm absolutely dying to hit the shops, in fact,' Susan snapped, briskly handing her mink coat to Portia to arrange on the empty chair beside her. 'One quick pick-me-up and I'll be off.'

They had met in Teddy's Lounge, the cocktail bar in Susan's usual hotel, the Roosevelt. It was an old-fashioned, timelessly elegant building tucked away in a discreet corner of Madison Avenue and East Forty-fifth Street. Sweeping staircases, oak-panelled walls and high ceilings groaning with lead crystal chandeliers: Portia thought it was exactly the kind of place where Susan
should
stay. Even the staff seemed to remember her from her last visit and were suitably fawning towards her.

'What may I get you, Mrs de Courcey?'

'A chilled glass of Sancerre, thank you very much,' she replied, never for a moment thinking that there was another Mrs de Courcey present. Not that this bothered Portia, she hadn't changed her name when she got married, precisely to avoid there ever being any confusion between the two of them.

'Now, here's the plan of action,' she said, not quite as bossily as Lynn, but not far off it. 'I'm having my hair done at Elizabeth Arden's on Fifth as soon as we leave. I can't possibly go to dinner with Andrew with it looking like a bush, which it always does after a long-haul flight.'

Portia said nothing but an image flashed into her head of some poor unfortunate hairdresser with a blow torch, hammer and chisel attacking Susan's scalp, the only conceivable way she could imagine it shifting by even a millimetre.

'And then after dinner, I want to see a show.'

'Won't you be tired? With the time difference and all, I mean? I find it gets to about nine in the evening here and I'm completely wiped.'

'Andrew always takes me to a Broadway show on my first night. I feel I'd be letting him down if I didn't go.'

Susan had a horrible habit of excluding Portia from any of her plans, even though she knew Portia'd have to be there, whether she liked it or not. Like the awful Christmas Day the previous year when Portia and Andrew arrived at the de Courceys' house for dinner to discover that there wasn't even a place set for Portia. It was almost as though Susan regarded her as her son's much disliked live-in girlfriend, one who was unlikely ever to rise to the rank of the new Mrs de Courcey. Ninety per cent of the time, Portia could laugh at it and let her legendary rudeness pass, mainly for Andrew's sake. The remaining ten per cent of the time, though, was tougher. A lot tougher.

'So, I thought you'd go to that ticket place on Times Square and get that out of the way while I'm at the salon,' she barked on. 'Just on no account get seats in the stalls. I suffer dreadfully from claustrophobia.'

Twenty minutes later, having been given careful directions by the hotel concierge, Portia found herself standing at the bottom of the longest snaking queue she'd ever seen. It was already freezing cold and before she'd even inched her way up to the 'YOU ARE ONE HOUR
AWAY!'
from tickets sign, it started to pelt rain – one of those near torrential downpours so peculiar to New York that seem to come out of nowhere. Bugger, bugger, bugger, she thought, whipping out the cell phone to seek advice. 'Hi. You have reached the voicemail of Andrew de Courcey. Sorry I can't take your call right now, leave a message and I'll get back to you.'

Two hours later, not only had he not got back to her, but Portia was drenched to the skin, frozen to the bone and so pissed off she thought she'd kill someone. The only thought keeping her sane was that a nice long hot soak in the bath with a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc was only minutes away.

The first sign that something was amiss was when she let herself back into the apartment only to discover the hallway strewn with suitcases and luggage. Then poor Consuela came out of the kitchen, a bit panicked-looking, to put it mildly.

'Ay, señora,
I so sorry,
lo siento mucho, pero no podía echarla de la casa.
I can do nothing to stop the lady.'

Portia was about to tell her to calm down, that nothing could be that dreadful, when she realized that, yes, unfortunately, there was something that could be.

The kitchen door swung open to reveal Susan, in a pair of Marigolds, scrubbing away at the insides of the microwave. 'Oh, there you are, Portia. I've been trying to explain to that useless maid of yours that a good squirt of lemon juice in boiling water is the only thing really to disinfect the inside of any microwave. I almost fainted when I saw the state of it. And the fridge! Barely enough milk for a decent cup of tea. No food to speak of, just full of booze, if you don't mind. How Andrew can be expected to work the hours he's putting in and then come home to a smelly kitchen and a rubbery old microwaved dinner, I don't know.'

Portia kept her cool and was about to tell her that they ate out most nights, as did most New Yorkers, but she never got the chance.

'Did you get the tickets?'

'Eventually, yes. I had to queue for them for the last few hours, in bucketing rain—'

'Good. What show? We'd better get a move on if we're to have dinner first.'

'Phantom of the Opera.
It was the only thing I could get three seats together for.'

'Oh dear God, you are joking.'

'What?'

'Do you honestly think I've come all the way to New York to sit through an
Andrew Lloyd Webber
musical? Are you mad?'

'Susan, this is all that was available. I've just got soaked to the skin getting them for you at a cost of almost three hundred dollars—'

'Of your hard-earned money, dear? Is that what you were about to say?' She always enjoyed making a point out of the fact that it was Andrew's earnings which Portia lived off and usually managed to get in a dig or two about Davenport Hall, that it would still be the crumbling shithole nature intended had she not had the very good luck to marry into money

Portia had to bite her lip hard. Very bloody hard. She took a deep breath and changed the subject. 'As you quite rightly say, Susan, we'd better go if we want to make dinner reservations.' It was the same tone of voice mental health professionals use to coax psychiatric patients in from skyscraper ledges. 'And I see you've got some bags with you. Shouldn't we grab a taxi and go via the Roosevelt Hotel, so you can drop them off?'

The silence alone should have alerted Portia.

'The Roosevelt? Oh no. I've checked out, dear. My usual suite wasn't available and they put me in this ghastly room beside a lift. Well, you know how rattling noises set off my migraines, so I moved out immediately. Far more sensible for me to take the spare room here anyway. Otherwise it was just going to waste.'

Chapter Eighteen

'And where the hell is Eleanor, might I ask?'

With just days to go, Julia could be forgiven for being even tetchier that usual. She, Daisy, Joshua and Lucy his wedding photographer were all patiently waiting for the bride-to-be in the Library, for the day's briefing session.

'Probably in her room,' said Daisy, instantly hopping to it. 'I'll give her a shout.'

'If you would, thanks.' Julia nodded appreciatively. 'I'm afraid my patience is wearing very thin today. She's losing so much weight; she's starting to look like a heroin addict. I've had to reschedule an extra dress fitting just to make allowances; the designer nearly had one of his tantrums. Here we all are, waiting patiently on her, busting a gut to make sure her big day is perfect and do you think I've had as much as a smile all morning?'

'On my way,' Daisy replied, amazed that Julia could be so sweet and smarmy to Eleanor's face and as caustic as a tin of baking soda once her back was turned.

Five minutes later, she was racing down the corridor to the Edward VII Suite, which was Eleanor's for the duration, when she bumped into Simon, gingerly closing her door behind him.

'Hello there,' he said as soon as he'd seen her.

'I'm looking for Eleanor. She's late for a meeting.'

'I'm afraid you'll be a wee while waiting on her to join you. Meetings are probably the last thing on her mind right now. Give her a bit of time, will you?'

'What's up? Is she OK?'

He said nothing, just looked, if possible, even more worn out than when he had arrived.

Daisy was about to ask if this was just a case of pre-wedding jitters when the beep beep of her pager went. It was Amber at reception.
'MARK LLOYD ON LINE THREE FOR
YOU, LUCKY BITCH,'
flashed the message.

'Oh, sorry, will you excuse me?' she said, making her way back downstairs. 'That's Mark, wanting a progress report.'