Last of the Great Romantics (43 page)

At about the same time, a scene of a very different nature was unfolding. Exhausted, numb and still anaesthetized with shock, Portia had wearily driven back to the gate lodge.

Home.

She knew there would be a thousand things for her to do up at the Hall the next day but tonight she didn't care. All she wanted was to run a hot bath and then collapse into bed. She couldn't face seeing her mother or any of the staff or even sticking her head into the hooley that seemed to be in full swing in the Long Gallery as she was leaving the Hall . . . Everything could wait.

She'd deal with it all tomorrow, she thought as she slowly lowered herself out of the jeep. In fact, in a weird way, it was almost good that she was going to be so busy over the next few days. Amazing, she thought, how I can keep going at a time like this. The less time she had to think, the better.

The lodge was freezing cold as she opened the door, pitch dark and unwelcoming with that musty, stale smell that old houses get when they're not lived in. She sighed and hauled herself upstairs, switching on lights as she went. Anything to make the place feel a bit more like home. The winds were almost gale force by now and she was just about to switch on the heating, glad that the tiny lodge heated up quickly, when the lights of a car pulling up at the door outside made her jump.

She looked out the upstairs window and saw that it was a taxi.

Someone looking for directions to the Hall, she figured, probably coming to collect another would-be wedding guest who was anxious to get away from Lucasta and her squalling.

She was halfway down the stairs when the front door opened.

Andrew.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

If Joshua Byron-Smyth thought all his birthdays had come at once, what with the non-wedding being the biggest news story of the year, his luck was just about to go stratospheric. He and Liz had worked their asses off, painstakingly interviewing and photographing just about everyone they could about the sensational events of the past few hours. The only person who hadn't obliged, surprisingly, was Eleanor, who, when approached for an interview in the Long Gallery, only gave a demure 'no comment'. Not even brass-necked Joshua dared push his luck any further, as Jasper was glued to her side like a guardian angel-cum-bouncer and rose threateningly when they approached her as if to say: Ask her one more question and you and me will have to step outside.

So, delighted with the day's work, he and Liz were at reception waiting to be checked out when who should come down the stairs but Mark Lloyd himself. He was wearing wraparound shades, even though it was pitch dark outside, and was just about to walk past them when Joshua, like the kamikaze pro that he was, leapt in.

'Mark? Hi, Mark! Just a very quick word if you don't mind. How are you feeling right now? Is it fair to say that you're absolutely devastated, bordering on suicidal? Do you think you and Eleanor will get back together again?'

Mark deliberately put his hand to his face so that Liz couldn't really get a decent shot. The last thing he needed was photos appearing of him looking dumped and dejected, slinking away from the Hall.
JILTED
GROOM headlines were something he could live without. What would that do for his image?

It was the next question though, which really sealed his destiny.

'Mark? How do you feel about what everyone is saying? That you never really deserved Eleanor Armstrong and that you'll probably end up on your own for a long, long time to come?'

Just then, as fate would have it, who came click-clacking down the oak staircase but a very dejected-looking Shelley-Marie, looking puffy- and red-eyed and dragging two very stuffed-looking suitcases behind her.

It was the 'on your own' comment that did it. How much better would it look to be seen leaving the Hall with a statuesque, busty blonde lady in tow . . . ?

Mark was over to Shelley-Marie like a bullet. 'Here, let me give you a hand with those suitcases, love. They look far too heavy for a pretty lady like you to be carrying.'

'Why, that is mighty kind of you,' said Shelley-Marie, brightening up considerably.

'Where are you headed then?' Mark asked gallantly, fully aware that there was a battery of flashbulbs going off.

'I'm not rightly sure. Dublin, I guess.'

'My car's outside. Let me give you a lift.'

'Why, that is so sweet of you! Are you certain that I won't be inconveniencin' you at all?'

'It would be my pleasure,' said Mark, grinning at the cameras as he slipped his arm around Shelley-Marie's waist and helped her outside. 'Getting all this then?' was all he said as he passed by Joshua and Liz, absolutely delighted with himself.

'Portia, are you OK?' Andrew looked white-faced and red-eyed.

She said nothing.

'I know what you must have been thinking and I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am . . .' He gingerly reached out to touch her hand, but she snapped it back.

'Don't touch me,' she said, feeling as though she'd been electrocuted. 'How did you know to come here?'

'I was like a lunatic trying to figure out where you were, then I phoned the Hall and Daisy told me about the wedding being called off. I figured you'd gone straight to the airport and got a flight home so I followed you. I jumped on the next flight I could. Portia, you have to let me explain—'

'It's a bit late to start acting the caring husband now.'

He looked her straight in the face. 'Nothing happened. You have to believe me. We had a boozy lunch, I had way too much to drink and Lynn suggested we have some strong coffee back at the apartment. Then, like an idiot, I spilt coffee all over her. She suggested I have a he-down and . . . well, you know the rest. That is the God-honest truth, Portia, you have to believe me.'

'Andrew, you've had over twenty-four hours to think up something. Is that honestly the best you can do?'

'Honey, I know how this sounds and I know you're angry and emotional right now—'

'DON'T call me honey.'

'Sorry, sorry. Look, I had too much to drink; I was exhausted and really missing you. And you had
left. Yes,
it was stupid of me to bring her back to the apartment, I shouldn't have got myself into that situation, but I wasn't thinking straight. I wasn't thinking at all.'

'So let me guess: Lynn threw herself at you? Pointed a gun at your head and forced you into bed while she stripped off?' Portia's tummy was starting to heave. 'Supposing I hadn't come back from the Hamptons. Suppose I hadn't walked in when I did. What then? Would you have slept with her? Certainly looked like things were heading that way to me.'

'Let's stick to the facts. I didn't sleep with her. I didn't lay a finger on her. I know how it must have looked to you, but nothing happened between us.'

'Stop being such a corporate lawyer and let me give you a couple of facts. I find my husband in bed with a semi-naked woman prancing around our apartment in her underwear. What do you want me to do? Throw you a party?'

'Portia, I was drunk. I was lonely. I made one stupid – I admit it, one incredibly stupid – mistake in bringing her back there. But that was it. Why won't you just trust me?'

She wearily slumped into a tapestry chair in the tiny hall as Andrew kept pressing his point home, about how much he loved her, how unimportant Lynn was, how guilty he felt for neglecting her the way he had done in New York and how he'd make any sacrifice, absolutely anything, even if it meant giving up Globex and the case and Macmillan Burke just so he could be with her and sort this out and blah blah blah.

You've hit the nail on the head, she thought. It's about trust. In spite of herself, she found herself actually believing Andrew that, most likely, nothing had happened. After all, she knew only too well what a predator Lynn was and even found herself suspecting her of orchestrating the whole thing. And then, how was Andrew to know that Susan wouldn't have walked in on top of them? He was the type of guy who women always flirted with and ninety-nine per cent of the time he never even noticed. The sort who would be utterly blind to the wiles of Lynn and her kind.

But the trust thing wouldn't go away.

She thought about Jennifer. All alone in that beach house while her husband led a bachelor life in the city . . . was that how her life would pan out? Would she end up another lonely, neglected, desperate housewife? The long working hours he put in, she could endure. The separations, she could endure. If she could trust him.

After a time, she found herself concentrating on her other news . . . You don't deserve me, she thought, looking at him dispassionately. And you don't deserve to know about the baby, at least not yet. You're going to have to start all over again if you want me back. You're going to have to earn me and earn my trust, right from scratch. Show you're good enough. Prove yourself.

She found her gaze falling on a small framed photograph on the hall table. It was one of Lucasta, taken on the night of the launch party, standing proudly at the bar looking like she'd built it herself. Well, I know exactly what you'd do, Mum, she thought, smiling and suddenly feeling elevated.

'Andrew,' she said, interrupting him.

'Yes?'

'Would you do one thing for me?'

'Anything. Whatever you want. Name it.'

'Would you just go? Please?'

'What?'

'You heard me. I'm sorry, but I can't be around you right now. Maybe never. I honestly don't know. You've hurt me so badly.'

'I'll do whatever you want, you know that. Whatever it takes to sort this.'

'Andrew, it's not that simple. This isn't something that can be magically put back together again. I just—' She broke off, thinking: I just what? 'I need time.'

'I'll wait.'

Thankfully, back in the Long Gallery, the evening was progressing a little better. Over by the tall sash window, Eleanor was snuggled into the window seat, cradling a hot port while Jasper stood protectively beside her. They were deep in conversation about a production of
The Cherry Orchard
playing in Dublin, which was attracting more than its fair share of controversy as it was set on the Blasket Islands.

'I'd never be bothered going to see a Chekhov play,' Jasper was saying. 'Load of moany women looking out windows and whingeing that they want to go to Moscow? If I was directing
The Cherry Orchard,
now, I'd cut it right down to a one-act play. I'm not joking, I've seen episodes of
Take the High Road
that were far better. First rule of theatre, Eleanor, thou shalt not bore.'

'That's such a shame,' she said.

'Why's that?'

'Just that I have two tickets for the closing-night show and I was wondering if you'd like to come.'

'Are yis watching this or what?' said Mrs Flanagan to Lucasta and Robert as the three of them sat companion-ably around the piano.

Robert just nodded, ever the diplomat.

'Now, you mustn't worry the teensiest bit about our Jasper,' Lucasta said to Robert, cracking her fingers in preparation for another song. 'Just because of his felonious past, I mean. He's a sweet, lovely darling of a man, even if he did do a ten-year stretch. And he was a prisoner of conscience really, you know. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, do you see.'

Robert laughed.

'What's so funny?'

'Just look at her,' said Robert proudly. 'Eleanor is meant to be on her way to Heathrow airport as we speak and then on to Bali. Mrs Mark Lloyd. But I don't think I've ever seen a happier-looking girl who just left a man at the altar, have you? I think this evening she seems to be in exactly the right place at the right time, don't you?'

Eleanor did indeed look glowing. Radiant. You'd almost say carefree.

'Anyway, I have something I must ask you lovely ladies,' he went on. 'I know how shocked you both are about, well, about the departure of your former friend.' Not even Robert's legendary tact could find a discreet way to say, 'who married your ex-husband then shacked up here, ingratiating herself with each of you and subsequently turned out to be a post-op transvestite.'

'Who'd have thought it,' said Mrs Flanagan sadly, staring into space. 'I'll miss her – I mean, him, terrible. We had a great laugh together and . . . AH JAYSUS!'

'What?' said Lucasta. 'Have we run out of drink?'

'No, I just remembered. Shelley-Marie did a bikini-line wax on me the other day . . . fucking hell. I could die with the mortification.'

'Your bikini line? A sight that has driven strong men to distraction,' sneered Lucasta, who was adopting a far more easy-come-easy-go attitude to Shelley-Marie's departure.

'Anyway, ladies,' Robert went on, unused to the way the pair of them could bicker with each other one minute and be the best of friends the next. 'The thing is, you see, I'm hosting an ambassadors' ball at Phoenix Park House next week and I was wondering if you'd both like to come. It's the least I can do after all the bother my family has caused you.'