Last of the Great Romantics (38 page)

In the long months that followed, as her pregnancy advanced and she had time to think, it was Ella Fitzgerald singing 'They Can't Take That Away From Me' that would instantly bring her back to that taxi journey, on that warm, sunny, New York afternoon.

She had run out of Balthazar, hopped into a yellow cab and told the driver to take her to Macmillan Burke's head office on East Forty-third Street. But the rush-hour traffic had already begun to build, and as they turned on to Park Avenue her nausea came back with swift and sudden vengeance. The maître d' at Balthazar had to be wrong, simple as that. There was no way; absolutely no way that Andrew could have left there with a date . . . It was a simple mistake, she thought. Maybe it was some colleague or co-worker that had joined them on business, that was all. What else could be the case?

Her tummy churned over and she had that terrifying feeling that either she'd have to be sick in the back of the cab or else on a loo within thirty seconds. Thinking fast, she decided against braving the traffic jam to get to the office and made a detour. They were only about two blocks from the apartment so in a flash her decision was made.

She told the driver to pull over, just as Ella Fitzgerald was coming on the radio. I won't last, she thought. I'll get sick in the privacy of my own home, clean myself up, then grab another cab and catch Andrew back at his office . . .

'Oh no, they can't take that away from me . . .' Ella Fitzgerald's soulful voice was ringing out as she paid the driver and ran into the building.

She sprang out of the lift and let herself into the apartment, praying she'd make it to the bathroom in time. She ran down the hall and threw open the bedroom door. There were two half-drunk cups of coffee on the bedside table and the first thought that struck her was how odd that was. Consuela would surely have tidied them away. It was a few seconds later before her brain fully registered what she was seeing.

There was Andrew, stretched out on the bed, shirt unbuttoned, shoes kicked off and wearing a pair of Manchester United socks she'd given him the previous Christmas. 'Mum?' he said groggily when he heard the door.

Then Lynn came through from the en-suite bathroom, hair all ruffled, looking like a lingerie model in a very fetching grey silk bra and G-string.

Andrew sat up immediately as soon as he registered who it was. For a split second no one spoke, they just looked at each other in shock.

In an instant, he was on his feet, frantically trying to button up his shirt and getting the buttons in all the wrong holes. 'Jesus Christ,' he stammered. 'Portia . . . this . . . this really isn't what it looks like. You have to believe me.'

'You're not even supposed to be here,' said Lynn, immediately on the defensive.

Portia stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to reply and yet wanting to fill the awful silence.

'Oh, I'm
so
sorry,' was all that came out, shakily but trying her very best to sound strong. 'Did I interrupt something? Please! Continue!'

'Hey, lady, where's the fire?' said the doorman standing at the canopied entrance to the apartment. Portia ignored him and was about to hail down the first yellow cab she saw when nausea swept over her again.

Oh please no, she thought, frantically looking around her; please, please don't let me be sick all over the sidewalk . . .

There was a neat, orderly row of flowerpots on a window ledge just outside the entrance door and she barely had time to think before finding herself hurling up into one of them.

'Jeez, lady,' snapped the concierge, 'those plants are plastic! They don't need to be fertilized!'

'I'm so sorry,' she panted, trying to catch her breath and fervently hoping Andrew wouldn't follow her outside.

By a miracle, a yellow cab pulled up right beside her and an elderly lady got out. Without pausing for breath, Portia leapt in.

'Will you be leaving that there, ma'am?' the concierge shouted at her furiously. 'I'm not paid to clean that up, you know!'

She had barely slammed the car door shut when Andrew came bolting out through the revolving door, looking utterly ludicrous, she thought bizarrely, barefoot, with his shirt flapping behind him, frantically looking for any sign of her. Thank God, she thought, thank God he didn't see me throwing up into a flowerpot . . .

Even from inside the car, his cry of 'Portia!' was deafening.

'Drive!' she whispered hoarsely to the driver.

'Where to, lady?'

'Oh, will you just drive the car!'

The driver sensed the tone, did what he was told, and moved off, heading south.

Portia looked out of the window and for a second their eyes locked as her taxi sped off.

Lucasta always used to say that at times of great crisis, small mercies go a long way and, sitting in the back of the car, Portia knew what she meant. There was very little traffic and within minutes, she was Midtown, away, gone, safe from him catching up with her and forcing her to listen to explanations and excuses and all that that would entail . . . She was in deep, dull shock and not one part of her brain could make a decision.

'Lady, I sure hope you're enjoying the tour but if you could give me some kinda destination here, that would be real useful. Or you wanna just keep heading south?'

'Yes,' she said dully. 'Just keep heading south.'

The first raw wave of shock was starting to give way to a slow, sickening feeling and she instinctively knew that a dam-burst of hot tears was on the way, when her cell phone rang insistently.

The number came up in bright blue caller-ID Day-Glo. 'Andrew'.

She clicked it off.

Two minutes later, he called again. She switched it off again but this time listened in to his message.

'Oh Jesus, darling, you have to let me explain. This looks awful, I know, but I had a few drinks at lunchtime and we just stumbled back to the apartment and . . . Oh God. I know how it must have looked to you, but you have to believe me . . . nothing happened with Lynn, I swear to you . . .'

Click. The voicemail on her phone cut him off mid-sentence. Seconds later her phone rang again. And again, she immediately clicked it off so all he got was her messaging service.

'Sweetheart, you have got to take my calls. You have to let me explain. Please don't jump to conclusions . . .'

She deleted the message, unable to listen to any more. Don't jump to conclusions? What was she supposed to think? That they were in his apartment in the middle of the day with him in bed and Lynn almost naked so that . . . what? So he could give her a mole check? Then the sickening feeling came back, and with it questions that she knew would drive her insane . . . Was this a one-off or had it been going on all along? Was he in love with Lynn? Her mind flashed forward to a grotesque image of him and her, years down the line, living together, loving each other, remembering Portia as some boring interlude from the past that they'd had to get through before finding lifelong happiness with each other . . . Then she thought about the baby, and how happy she had been only an hour ago and how all she wanted now was to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge . . .

Her phone rang again. But this time when the caller's ID flashed up on screen, she answered immediately.

'Portia? It's Daisy.'

'Hi,' she said in a tiny, wobbly voice, thrilled to hear someone from home. Someone in her corner. Who'd rip Andrew's head off, with a bit of luck.

But Daisy didn't ask her how she was or what was up. 'I'm really sorry to be ringing you in New York, when you're probably having such a great time . . .' she said.

You think? Portia thought.

'And I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you, but, well . . . there've been a few developments this end.'

'What? Tell me, what!' A thought flashed through Portia's head. How can things get worse?

'Now I'm sure everything will work out, but . . .'

'Is it to do with the wedding?'

'Who said there's going to be a wedding?'

Chapter Twenty-Five

Gotcha Magazine
Requests the pleasure of your company
At the wedding of
Miss Eleanor Armstrong
To
Mr Mark Lloyd
The Davenport Country House Hotel,
20 March 2004

Joshua Byron-Smyth was absolutely thrilled with his efforts. 'To the naked eye, it might look as though I'm just lying in bed recovering from a ghastly hangover, darling,' he croaked hoarsely down the phone to his editor Fifi Hamilton on the morning of the wedding. 'But in actual fact, I've composed the entire first page of the, emm . . . you know, baby, the page with the typewriting on it . . . Oh bugger, what's the word I'm looking for?'

'Copy.'

'Copy, thank you, my love. It's far too early for me to be expected to think.'

'Joshua, I hate to break it to you, but it's ten a.m.,' Fifi snapped from the comfort of her leather swing-back chair on Fleet Street, well used to dealing with his total and utter lack of professionalism. 'The photographer just called me to say she's been thumping on your bedroom door since eight this morning. And you know we need this piece within twenty-four hours if it's to make the shelves next week, so sorry to rush you and all that . . .' The unspoken part of the sentence was: 'But could you please get your lazy arse out of bed and do a bit of work for a change.' Joshua took the hint. Hauling himself up on to one elbow, he peeled off the collagen eye mask he was wearing and grimaced as the daylight hit his bloodshot, puffy eyes.

'Fifi, my love, what you must understand is that this is Ireland. It's practically considered bad form to leave a party before three a.m. Last night was a work night for me, albeit a boozy one. I've made wonderful contacts with all the Oldcastle guys and their wives and partners and I've even thought of a fabulous format for the whole day.'

'And that would be?'

Joshua stumbled out of the bed and made his way to the breakfast trolley which Molly had delivered hours earlier, and poured himself some lukewarm coffee. Thinking on his feet, particularly when hung over, was where he excelled. 'It's going to be a diary format, hour by hour. Beginning with the blushing bride having her war paint put on in the salon, the bridesmaid fussing over her, the groom arriving at the Hall, all of that. Then a countdown to the ceremony, with all the guests arriving in their glad rags, the boring religious bit I'll keep to a minimum and then the reception which – it doesn't matter what anyone thinks – is the highlight of the day. Drunk chicks with their tits hanging out doing a conga line, that's what the readers want. That and the bride blubbering at the end of the night with her make-up dribbling all over her Vera Wang. Trust me, darling, it's all under control.'

If Fifi thought she'd catch him on the hop, she'd another think coming.

'Just as well I gave you this alarm call then, wasn't it?'

'Thanks a thousand, darling. I do my best.'

'One more thing. Under no circumstances are you to miss Mark Lloyd's arrival at twelve-thirty sharp. That hot-air balloon is costing the magazine a fortune and, by God, we fully intend to get our money's worth.'

One long, pampering, invigorating shower later, Joshua sauntered up all four flights of stairs to the Salon in no rush whatsoever, with Liz, his very pissed-off photographer, in tow. 'Couple of head shots of the wedding party having mani-pedis with their hair being blow-dried straight and then we're out of here,' he directed the poor girl, who just silently rolled her eyes up to heaven. They were met at the door of the Spa by Julia, dressed up to the nines in a shimmering, figure-hugging, green lace dress, mermaid style, which perfectly accentuated her slim, curvy body. As ever, her hair and make-up were impeccable; she looked as though she'd won best-dressed lady at Ascot and had just stepped out of the parade ring, trophy in hand, without even breaking a sweat. The only accessory which looked slightly out of place was the headset discreetly clipped to the side of her head and the mouthpiece she was dictating into.

'OK, we need the FOB to the bridal suite for a photo call, it's zero hour minus four hours and twenty-seven minutes, we need him right now. Give location, please.'

'The FOB?' Jasper asked, completely audible.

'Father of the bride.'

'Relax; I have him in my sights. I've just seen him chatting to Lucasta beside the marquee.'

Joshua did a double-take, marvelling that he could hear both sides of the conversation so clearly over the headset, then, hearing the clump clump of his heavy footsteps, realized that Jasper was in fact only on the floor beneath them, thudding his way downstairs to the main entrance.

'Holy fuck, if it's not one thing, it's the mother,' snapped Julia. So fraught with nerves that you could string a guitar with her, she was in absolutely no mood for anyone who dared deviate from her watertight schedule on this day of days. She turned her full attention to Joshua, shoved a timetable into his hand and practically drop-kicked him back down the stairs again.