“Dahlings, dahlings, you are most welcome. Come along, come along,” said the hostess. She gave a small hiccough swaying on her ultra-high Jimmy Choos.
“Move anti-clockwise around the room and meet everyone. You can’t have nothing in your hand.”
She clicked her fingers and a bow-tied waiter appeared with a tray full of champagne flutes.
“Help yourselves. Bollinger don’t you know. I hate it if I am offered Prosecco. Meet Penny, who has come all the way from Portugal. I love the Douro; don’t you?”
“Oporto is divine and the white port, dynamite!” said Penny.
A tall, angular woman wearing a blue pill-box hat joined them. “Helloh, helloh have you met my husband? He is a Lord you know. Has written a history of the Duhallow Hunt. Have you read it yet?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Oh dear. You should get a copy. Full of frightfully good stuff. Flying off the shelves, I hear. Only in the top outlets such as Harrods of course,” she said, moving on.
“Listen to this. I was on the sixth floor of the Saga Hotel in Bournemouth – wonderful view. After my shower, I went to the window to look across towards the French coast. Suddenly, a man appeared looking in. He was paragliding. I pulled the lace curtain down, wrapped it around me and went to the lobby to complain that my lace curtain had fallen down,” said Penny:
“Well Madame how did it happen?
“I was standing at my window and next thing, there is a man looking in, so I had to grab the curtain.
“What floor are you on Madame?
“The sixth!”
“How did you get here from Portugal?”
“Ryanair.”
“And what sort of a crowd are they?”
“A fly-by-night operation if ever I saw one – they will never catch on.”
“I’m Ned. I farm the land next door. Can’t eat those sausage rolls.”
“Why not?”
“Haven’t got any dentures in.”
“Why not?”
“They disappeared in Medjugorje. I put them by the washbasin when I went out. They don’t have many there. Someone said the cleaners probably threw them in the waste basket, not knowing what they were. Not as bad as me Uncle Packie. Wasn’t he at a wedding in Kinsale. They were waiting for the food and the whiskey was flowing. Didn’t he bite into one of the wedding cake pillars, thinking it was edible. He got a mouthful of splinters! He ran out the door, across the road to the quay wall and vomited into the sea. The worst of it was, he lost his teeth in fifteen feet of water.”
A bandy-legged man with a shock of hair dyed orange-brown joined in.
“Haven’t we met before?”
“I think not.”
“Well then, let me introduce myself. I am Lord Midleton. I have written a book about the Duhallow Hunt. Have you read it?”
“No, but I have heard of it.”
“Jolly good. Are you a horsey man?”
“Yes.”
“Well worth getting it then. Ta ta for now – I need to circulate.”
“Apropos of your story of the encounter with the lace curtain, I always sleep au natural when I am on holiday. I always insist on silk sheets of course.”
“I hear those women who pose nude as painters’ models get poorly paid then, are often expected to pose for an hour and a half. You are a painter – have you any experience of that?”
“When I was last in Mexico City, we stayed with an arty person who asked if we would like to join her live model drawing class. As we waited to get into the apartment block, two of us nipped in to the church across the road, to pray it would be a female, not a male model! Our prayers were answered but it was hard work. The tutor started by making us sketch over short periods of time, starting at a minute and gradually increasing this as she changed poses. At least there was plenty of tinto available.”
“Look, who has just come in. Isn’t she Norwegian? Fabulous horsewoman. Did you know her sister committed suicide in Milan? Dreadful business. The family say it was murder and that the Eytie police screwed up the investigation to protect a politician’s son.”
“How foul!”
“By the way, I have proposed you for the Athenium.”
“I can’t afford to be in that club.”
“You can’t afford NOT to be!”
“Helloh, I am Lady Midleton. Have you read my husband’s book?” said the woman wearing the blue pillbox hat, which was now at an alarming angle on her head.
“Can’t stop now. Need to get a little top up. You should read it. Spiffing good stuff. Flying off the shelves.”
I got a tap on the shoulder.
“Come outside, Doc, I think we have a problem.”
Lord Midleton was sitting in a garden chair. “Boys oh boys,” he kept repeating.
“What’s the problem?”
“Indigestion. Chanced that bally punch bowl. Cheap Vodka I would say. I normally drink malt whisky – Oban by choice. Bally bad pain but it is easing now.”
“Does it go down your left arm?”
“Gee Goddy, no man!”
“Good, I don’t think it is your heart.”
A blue pillbox, now perched more on her left ear than head, appeared beside us.
“Helloh, helloh – what’s this! Mixing the grape and the grain again, I suppose. And me doing my best to promote your book.”
Without another word, she toddled back inside, negotiating the gravel with difficulty.
“Sorry I ever wrote that bally book. The trouble and strife has me tormented about it.”