Last of the Great Romantics (16 page)

'Glad to see I'm not interrupting anything,' Tim said in his nasal voice. 'God forbid that I'd actually find you supervising the housekeeping or anything drastic.'

'Piss off, baldy,' she replied automatically, not even bothering to raise her eyes from the TV. She was barely listening to him. 'Now, do ya see them pair sitting on the sofa beside Trisha?' she asked, lighting up yet another cigarette. 'I'm telling ya, they should never have had a baby together. Apart from the fact that they're cousins, they're both minging ugly. Wait, look, watch this. She's going to have to peel that chair off her just so she can stand up.'

Tim sighed and came straight to the point. 'Mrs Flanagan, in your capacity as, ahem, housekeeping supervisor,' he whined, repulsed by even having to articulate her work title, 'I have no choice but to make an official complaint through you. I'm loath to distract you from your work, but things have reached a point where—'

Mrs Flanagan turned to face him, blowing cigarette smoke right at him and not caring. 'Have you a problem with the way I work, sonny?' she growled. 'Is it my fault that I'm able to get through my day's work in half the time it takes you to boil one of yer bleeding Michelin-starred eggs? The nearest you'll get to another Michelin is if you get run over by a truck.'

Tim chose to ignore this jibe and came straight to the point. 'The fact is that my kitchen is my artist's studio and each plate I present a meal on is like an artist's palette to me and each meal I present is like—'

'The statue of David. Go on.'

'Since yesterday, food has started to go missing from the kitchen, Mrs Flanagan,' he said, patting his bald head as though checking the comb-over was still in place. 'Vital, essential ingredients as necessary to me as nicotine and television appear to be to you. Today alone, a fresh delivery of organic fruit has completely vanished from the pantry. What am I supposed to do for my baked cherry sponge pudding with port compote? Not to mention my apple and rosemary tart with Lancashire cheese, which I may as well shake my hat at now. How am I expected to concoct desserts for tonight without the basic staple of fresh fruit?'

'Ahh, just get them pissed and serve them a few tubs of ice-cream,' cackled Mrs Flanagan, not taking him remotely seriously 'Worked for me for forty years.'

'I don't think that you appreciate the gravity of the situation,' he snivelled, although not raising his voice. 'Someone is pilfering from my stockroom, Mrs Flanagan. I've conducted a thorough check of all windows and doors throughout the kitchens and pantry area and there appears to be no sign of a break-in. It would appear to be highly unlikely that any of the guests or staff would steal into the refrigeration room at night in order to make off with a full crème Chantilly fifteen meringues and almost four pounds of Parmesan cheese as happened last night. I have no idea who is doing this or why, but that's your responsibility as, ahem, housekeeping supervisor to find out.'

He had a way of spitting out her work title that was starting to wear a bit thin with Mrs Flanagan. 'So what do ya want me to do about it? Buy ya more fruit? Go out the back yard and pick some yerself, ya lazy fart, I have telly to watch,' she growled.

'The only organic fruit that I would consider worthy of working with comes from Smithfield market in Dublin, so no, picking a few mouldy cooking apples from the kitchen garden isn't an option. What I require you to do—' He broke off for a moment, having caught sight of Mrs Flanagan's impression of him reflected in the TV. 'Your job is twofold. Firstly, to find out precisely what's happening and who is thieving from the kitchen and secondly, for the sake of all concerned, to prevent it from ever occurring again.'

'Who in the name of Jaysus do ya think I am, Sherlock Holmes?' she snarled, lighting up another cigarette to try to keep her blood pressure down. 'Am I being followed by a Mr Watson?'

'No, but then you are of a Miss Marple vintage,' sneered Tim, delighted that he could throw back a witty rejoinder. 'But I'll give you your first clue. Whoever is pilfering from me hasn't once gone near the pheasant or game or any of the cold meats that are hanging up in the walk-in freezer. I think you just might be looking for a vegetarian.'

Chapter Ten

In the end, it was Julia of all people who gave Shelley-Marie the stamp of approval and ensured her survival at Davenport Hall, at least temporarily.

'Fabulous idea,' she decreed to Daisy. 'The only thing missing at the Hall is a good beauty salon. I was absolutely dreading the thought of having to bus the wedding guests to some sawdust-on-the-floor hick beauty parlour on the morning of the wedding. My God, have you seen some of the women going around Kildare? I know that the eighties revival is back, but these people are pure first-hand 1980s, big gelled hair and New Romantic heavy eye make-up. No, this'll have a fantastic trickle-down effect.'

'Which is?' Daisy asked, tentatively.

'It solves a big problem for me, which makes me happy, which in turn makes me less abusive to you. Fabulous suggestion, don't even think about changing your mind. I presume Andrew thought of it?'

Daisy was also to discover that Shelley-Marie's talent for ingratiating herself had won her other powerful allies in the battle to allow her to take up permanent residence at the Hall. Her principal supporters in the red corner for letting her stay on after the wedding were Lucasta and Mrs Flanagan, both of whom vocally protested to Daisy about what an asset she was to the hotel, what a pleasure it was to have her around and, not least, the fact that she had nowhere else to go.

'Your bollocks of a father left her virtually penniless, you know,' Lucasta had said. 'All that poor girl has to her name are the leather mini-skirts and all that interesting rubber underwear she arrived with, and you want to turn her out of the Hall as soon as this bloody wedding is over? I wouldn't allow one of my kitties to be treated with such disdain.'

Mrs Flanagan's tack was slightly different, though no less persuasive. 'If ya let that poor unfortunate young one go, I'm handing in me resignation here and now. After the hard life she's had? Do you know that she was in foster homes for the first ten years of her life cos her aul' fella was in prison and her ma was in and out of mental homes her whole childhood? And then she was put in an orphanage or children's home or whatever the hell they call them now and the carers there never stopped harassing her, she was telling me, cos they were all mad jealous of her. But she made something of her life, she hauled herself out of the shite and got all her beauty therapy qualifications and everything was finally going great for her

Her voice was starting to wobble a bit now so that she sounded like a voiceover on one of those 'watch our heroine pluck triumph from out of the mouth of adversity' biopics. The type of movie that Miramax would sweep the board with at Oscar time.

'Then she met yer da, talked him into marrying her, God knows how, and just when her life had turned a corner' – she sniffed, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her housecoat – 'just as a little bit of luck was finally going her way and her dreams were finally becoming reality, what happens? The selfish bastard goes and drops dead. Honest to Jaysus, it's like something ya'd see on
Oprah!

Daisy knew better than to contradict her, but in fact it was something she had seen on
Oprah
while she was going through some accounts in the family room only the day before, and she felt pretty certain that Shelley-Marie had too. Something else had also struck her: that each and every time Shelley-Marie related her back history to whoever would listen, it changed. Only slightly, but enough to raise the hackles of suspicion on the back of Daisy's neck. One day she'd breathlessly whisper the foster home story; another, she'd have grown up in the projects with nothing but a Miss Fantasia's in her local town . . . stuff that wouldn't sound out of place in a Celine Dion tearjerker. Words her father used to say kept coming back to haunt her. 'To be a good liar,' he used to pontificate, 'you need the memory of an elephant.'

In all fairness to Daisy, though, she was really trying her best to make a decent fist of her new job as acting manager. Without even knowing it, she'd genuinely impressed Julia not only with her enthusiasm for all the hard work that was involved but also with the way she'd thrown herself headfirst into helping with preparations for the big wedding. They had only had one significant argument and that was over Julia's irrevocable decision to hire a marquee for the reception.

'But the Dining Room seats eighty!' Daisy had protested during one of their early morning power breakfasts. 'Not to mention the fact that the Hall has eight lovely great big reception rooms. I don't understand why on earth you'd want to squish all the wedding guests into some freezing, smelly old tent.'

Julia smiled condescendingly at her, as if she were addressing a very slow-witted five-year-old. 'What you need to realize, Daisy, is that these "wedding guests" as you choose to call them are not ordinary people like you and me. They are celebrities. I think you'd do very well to bear that distinction in mind. They're as different from you and me as low-fat butter is from the real thing and the marquee I'll be hiring, believe you me, is no stinking wigwam. Take a look at this,' she said, thrusting over a thick colour brochure with her long scarlet talons. 'Is that what you'd describe as a poky little tent? It comfortably seats two hundred, which makes it almost three times the size of the Dining Room here, it has a dance floor the size of your Ballroom, it even comes with its own fake grass, for Christ's sake.'

'Fake grass?' asked Daisy innocently. 'Why would you want fake grass in the middle of the country?'

'Because fake grass is more grass-like than actual grass,' she replied in such a rude tone of voice that she may as well have added, 'you thick hick.' She went on, by way of explanation, 'It has the decided advantage that your heels don't sink into it and that you don't spend your time dodging sheep droppings. Just think of it as a big green carpet cunningly disguised as grass, without the revolting country garden smell. Honestly, when I was organizing the opening party for the Hall, I must have destroyed about six pairs of Jimmy Choos. I should have waived my fee and just presented you with my shoe bill instead.'

Daisy eagerly seized the glossy brochure to have a look. The marquee did indeed look astonishing in the photos, utterly opulent and absolutely vast. It even had crystal chandeliers embedded in a star cloth hanging like a huge canopy from above which gave the glittering effect that you were partying under a clear night sky.

'OK then,' she had said, well and truly won over, after she'd finished oohing and ahhing. 'So tell me where you think the best place would be to put it and I'll start talking to the gardeners.'

'You really are working out very well, you know,' Julia said to her later as they walked across the forecourt to where her sports car was parked. 'Three weeks to go and I'm only on four milligrams of Valium a day. Well done you. Keep it up.'

Daisy could only presume that this was meant as a compliment.

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

SUBJECT: Just to let you know that the Hall hasn't burnt down and I haven't stabbed our wicked stepmother yet and Julia and I are actually getting on OK, sort of, ish . . .

Hi Portia!!!!

I sat down to write you this email but then realized I've said everything I want to say in the subject box at top.

Basically, all's well so far. This wedding is going to be unbelievable and you never know, I might even meet a fella at it. All the Oldcastle team are invited and most of them have confirmed. Yummy, yummy!!!!

How's the Big Apple??? Done any serious shopping??? Which is a heavy hint for . . . have you bought me a really fab Donna Karan yet??? Love to Andrew, Dai syxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

SUBJECT: Well, thank God for that!

So glad everything's OK at home, you're a sweetie to put my mind at rest. We arrived safely and (you'd have been in seventh heaven!) were met by the longest stretch limo you ever saw, tinted windows, a mini-bar inside . . . the whole works . . . I love being a corporate wife! As soon as the driver heard this was my first time to New York, he insisted on giving us the full guided tour . . . Oh Daisy! I can't tell you how amazing it was seeing the Manhattan skyline for the first time! It's everything you imagine and more. Breath-taking, awe-inspiring, I've run out of superlatives to describe how astonishing it looks. (Tell me if this is driving you mad?) We drove by loads of the big landmarks, the Chrysler, the Flat Iron and, would you believe, I can actually see the Empire State from our bedroom window! The apartment is lovely, if a bit on the bachelor pad side for me, but A adores it and can't believe he's back living here with wifey in tow.

Got to dash . . . big dinner coming up with some of A's colleagues (in Cipriani's at the Rainbow Room, if you don't mind) and I need to buy something New Yorky to wear . . . don't want to let the side down! Much love to my baby sis. Portiaxxx