Книга - The O’Hara Affair

The O’Hara Affair
Kate Thompson


If only real life was like the movies…In the idyllic village of Lissamore on the West Coast of Ireland, flirty Fleur O'Farrell has what seems to be a perfect life. She has the savoir-faire, the wardrobe, and her very own Mr. Big. But Fleur also has a big heart, which leads to big trouble.When she meets a young girl whose love-life is a mess, Fleur finds herself proffering advice anonymously, via the internet. And there Fleur uncovers a dark side to her bright life upon which she'd really rather not turn the spotlight…Meanwhile, Dervla Vaughn (nee Kinsella) also appears to be living the dream. However, with her husband working away more often than he's at home, life suddenly doesn't seem so rosy: especially when compared with the upwardly mobile career of Dervla's sister Río, who has access all areas on The O'Hara Affair - a movie based on the life of Scarlett O'Hara's Irish family, currently being filmed in Lissamore.Left to take care of a mother-in-law suffering from dementia, and with her once-enviable life now a thing of shreds and patches, Dervla soldiers on, but realises that things have spiralled out of control when her thoughts begin to turn murderous…Join The Kinsella Sisters once again, along with a host of new characters, as they prove that sometimes even the most perfect of lives can be anything but easy…









The O’Hara Affair

Kate Thompson












In loving memory of my belle-mère, Hazel




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#uf5e6bac4-64c2-527d-bdde-2d29205810f2)

Title Page (#u52041ab2-55ed-54c1-9594-ca2ca0acb05b)

Dedication (#u6f4551be-6861-5823-b62a-3ef195504f8d)

Chapter One (#ueac3c311-5b94-5259-ba68-6f50ca8ae3bd)

Chapter Two (#u79232780-1810-594a-815a-205a8ca54344)

Chapter Three (#u6e69dd99-d428-5e44-98f3-e780e5313941)

Chapter Four (#u7f8003a4-e1f8-5c44-9ab3-67f1be6ec020)

Chapter Five (#u0b22ac04-d606-5da3-9ee5-af3dca3749ac)

Chapter Six (#u7919a322-9699-5c3e-a74a-4d022ee6a887)

Chapter Seven (#u33d806be-7fe1-5c7c-a497-15977893f8c9)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Points for Discussion on The O’Hara Affair (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgement (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

By the same author: (#litres_trial_promo)

Praise (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#ulink_a1642856-bf3e-54a9-b44d-6d29ef9b52e8)


Fleur O’Farrell felt foolish. She was standing in front of the wardrobe in her bedroom, regarding her reflection in the mirror. Fleur normally took real pride in her appearance – but this afternoon she was wearing a floral print skirt over flouncy petticoats, a cherry-red cummerbund, and a low-cut blouse. Her feet were bare, a silk shawl was slung around her shoulders, and great gilt hoops dangled from her earlobes. The crowning glory was the wig – an Esmeralda-style confection of synthetic black curls. She looked like a chorus member from a second-rate production of Carmen.

Her friend, Río Kinsella, had talked her in to playing the fortune-teller at the annual Lissamore village festival. Río usually took on the role herself, but this summer she was up to her tonsils in work, and had not a moment to spare. So Río had furnished Fleur with the gypsy costume, as well as a crystal ball, a chenille tablecloth and a manual called Six Lessons in Crystal Gazing. The flyleaf told Fleur that these words of wisdom had been published in 1928.

Turning away from the mirror, Fleur reached for the dog-eared booklet. The cover featured a bug-eyed gal transfixed by a crystal ball, and the blurb went: ‘Are you lacking in selfconfidence, unemployed or discouraged? Are you prepared for the future, or blindly groping in the darkness? Do you wish for health, happiness and success?’

Evidently not a lot had changed in the world since 1928. People were still asking the same questions, and still entertaining the same hopes and ambitions. Nowadays, however, instead of using crystal gazing as a means of self-help, people were unrolling yoga mats and sticking Hopi candles in their ears to assist them in their navel gazing. Much the same thing, Fleur supposed. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose…

A blast of hip hop drew her to the open window. A youth was lazily patrolling the main street of the village, posing behind the steering wheel of his soft-top and checking out the talent. Being high season, there was a lot on display. Girls decked out in Roxy, Miss Sixty, and Diesel promenaded the pavements and lounged against the sea wall, hooked up to their iPods, gossiping on their phones or browsing on their BlackBerries. Beautiful girls with gym-toned figures and sprayed-on tans and GHD hair, sporting must-have designer eyewear and designer bags to match. High-maintenance girls, whose daddies footed the department-store bills and whose mummies stole their style. Girls who did not know what the word ‘recession’ meant.

Lissamore was not usually host to such quantities of de luxe jeunesse dorée. The village was, rather, a playground for their parents, a place where those jaded denizens of Dublin 4 came to unwind for a month in the summer and a week at Christmas. Once the yearned-for eighteenth birthdays arrived, the princelings and princesses tended to migrate to hipper locations in Europe or America.

But this summer, because a major motion picture was being made in the countryside surrounding Lissamore, the village had become a must-visit zone. Wannabe film stars had descended in their droves after an article in a national newspaper had mentioned that extras were being recruited for The O’Hara Affair – a movie based on the back story of Gerard O’Hara, father to Scarlett of Gone with the Wind. An additional allure was the fact that the movie starred Shane Byrne, a local hero and Ireland’s answer to Johnny Depp.

The film was good news for the village during such a time of blanket economic gloom. Locals who had been made redundant since the collapse of the construction industry were being employed as carpenters and sparks and painters, hitherto jobless youngsters had been taken on as runners, and an ailing catering company had been given a new lease of life. Fleur’s shop had been honoured with several visits by the film’s leading lady, Río had charmed herself into being offered a gig as a set-dresser, and even Fleur’s lover, Corban, was involved – albeit it at a remove. He was an executive producer on The O’Hara Affair, and, while his artistic contribution to the film was negligible, his money talked. Because he had part financed the production, he, too, was due a credit.

‘Did he text back yet?’ It was a girl’s voice – a typical princess, to judge by the accent.

‘No,’ came the morose reply.

Craning her neck a little, Fleur looked down to see two girls sitting on the windowsill of her shop, Fleurissima, below. The girl with the D4 drawl she recognized – she had been in and out of the shop half a dozen times in the past fortnight, helping herself to pricey little wisps of silk and tulle paid for by Daddy’s gold Amex.

‘Did you put a question mark at the end of your last message?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit. That means you can’t text him again, Emily. Like, the ball’s in his court now.’

‘I know. I should never have put the stupid question mark. He’s ignoring me, the bastard.’

‘How many Xs did you put?’

‘Three. But two of them were lower case.’

‘Ow. Three’s a bit heavy. I’d only put two lower case ones next time.’

‘If there is a next time. There was a comment from that Australian girl on his Facebook this morning.’

‘Uh-oh…’

Fleur felt like leaning out of the window and calling down: ‘Just pick up the phone and talk to him!’ But she knew that the rules laid down by mobile phone etiquette meant that picking up a phone was not an option. Fleur couldn’t understand how kids nowadays coped with the uncertainty, the insecurity, the emotional turbulence generated by the text messaging phenomenon. It must be a kind of enforced purgatory, sending texts toing and froing through the ether – like playing ping-pong in slow motion.

But Fleur was as in thrall to her phone as the girls on the street below, she realized, because when her text alert sounded she automatically reached for her nifty little Nokia. Accessing the message, she saw that it was from her niece, Daisy. The text read: Hey, Flirty! On my way now with cake & wine XXX

Because Fleur’s middle initial was T for Thérèse, Daisy had come up with the nickname ‘Flirty’ for her. Fleur loved it: it sounded so much more youthful and fun than ‘Aunt Fleur’, which was what her nephew called her.

Cake & wine sounds good, she texted back, adding


for good measure.

Cake and wine did sound good. Especially wine. It had been busy in the shop today: Fleur’s jaw was aching from all the smiling she’d been doing, and her feet were killing her. Her boutique specialized in non-mainstream labels sourced from all over Europe: from evening chic to skinny jeans, from beachwear to accessories, all Fleur’s stock was hand-picked and exclusive to her – and none of it was cheap. From October, when the tourist trade dropped off and the summer residences were boarded up, Fleur hibernated, opening the shop only at weekends. After today, when two overdue deliveries had arrived at the same time, Fleur was looking forward to hibernating already. She reached up a hand to pull off her gypsy wig, then decided against it. It would give Daisy something to laugh at, and she loved to hear her niece laugh.

Tossing her shawl on the bed, Fleur negotiated the spiral staircase that led down to her living area. Since the demise of her little dog Babette, Fleur had taken the brave step of redecorating. She had painted the walls in Farrow & Ball Wimborne White, had the floorboards sanded and lime washed, and her furniture reupholstered in pale damask. Cobwebby lace was draped around the windows, a pair of alabaster angels stood sentinel on either side of the fireplace, and a chandelier scintillated overhead. All eight of her dining chairs were overlaid with nubbly linen slip covers, and her chaise longue was piled with tasselled white cushions. Fleur’s room was all white for a reason. She had sworn that she would never get another dog, because the pain she felt when Babette had died had been so unendurable she never wanted to go through anything like it again. And what better way to resist the allure of that puppy in the pet shop window or the sad eyes of a rescue dog in an ISPCA ad than by creating a pristine environment – one that would not welcome muddy paws or moulting hairs.

The only splashes of colour in the living space were courtesy of the artwork on the walls – much of which was by Río. Most of Río’s paintings were seascapes in vibrant oils, but the one that stood out was a portrait that had been painted some twenty years earlier. It depicted Fleur sitting back in her chair at the end of her long dining table, a glass of Bordeaux in front of her, a Gauloise between elegant fingers (she had stopped smoking two years later, and still missed it sometimes). Her hair was twisted into a loose chignon, and she was toying idly with a tendril that had escaped. Her attention was focused on someone to her right, someone with whom she was clearly rather coquettishly engaged. In truth, the painting depicted Fleur in full-on flirtatious mode, one eyebrow raised like a circumflex, mouth in a provocative pout, eyes agleam with intention. Fleur loved it.

Moving into the kitchen – where the aroma of last night’s ragout still lingered – Fleur set a tray with plates, napkins, glasses and a wine cooler. She was just about to carry it through to the deck, when the door bell rang. ‘Come on up, Daisy-Belle,’ she purred into the intercom. ‘I’m on the deck.’

Fleur’s deck overlooked the Lissamore marina, and was perfect for spying on the comings and goings of boats and boatmen. Corban had a pleasure craft berthed there, but so far this summer he’d had few opportunities to use it, as he’d been stuck in Dublin on business. When Río had asked Fleur to describe her lover, Fleur had laughingly called him her very own Mr Big.

Corban was the latest in a fairly long line of amours: Fleur was most certainly not the marrying kind. She’d tried it once when, aged nineteen, she had fallen in love with a beautiful Irish boy who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris. Fleur remembered that epoch only dimly, as one might remember scenes from an art house movie viewed long ago through rose-tinted glasses: picnic lunches by the Seine, reading the poems of Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath in translation; strolls through the narrow winding streets of the Latin Quarter; rough wine and rougher cigarettes in cheap café bars; stolen hours in his bed when the concierge was napping; visit after visit to museums and galleries, and hour after hour of gazing into each other’s eyes, slack with desire and limp with adoration. And when Tom asked her to come with him to Ireland, she had said – breathless as Molly Bloom – ‘Yes, yes! I will, yes!’

They had married in the registry office in Dublin, and for a year she was pleased to receive letters as Mrs Thomas O’Farrell. Thereafter, following her separation and subsequent divorce, she trashed any correspondence addressed to ‘Mrs Thomas’, ‘Mrs Tom’ or ‘Mrs T. O’Farrell’. She would never be ‘Mrs Tom, Dick or Harry’ for any man. She was Fleur – Fleur Thérèse Odette O’Farrell (she’d retained the ‘O’Farrell’ because no one in Ireland could pronounce her real surname, which was de Saint-Euverte). And Tom? Tom had gone off to Canada with a Mountie. She hadn’t seen him since.

‘Hello! What in God’s name are you wearing?’ Fleur turned to see Daisy framed in the French windows, regarding her with a curious expression.

‘It’s my outfit for the village festival. Ta-ra!’ Fleur held her skirts out and attempted a Flamenco-style twirl. ‘I am the fortune-teller. What do you think? Smoking, ain’t it?’

‘Mystic Meg, eat your heart out,’ replied Daisy, strolling across to the table and dumping a carrier bag on it. ‘Let me take a photograph.’ Holding up her iPhone, she adopted the exaggerated stance of a pro photographer, and segued into the usual clichéd directive: Lovely! Chin a little higher! Drop your shoulder!

Click, click, click went Daisy’s camera, while Fleur twirled some more and hummed a little Bizet, and then Daisy slid her phone back into her bag and kissed her aunt on both cheeks. ‘How did you get roped into being the fortune-teller?’ she asked. ‘I thought that was normally Río’s gig.’

‘I’ll tell you later. I want to hear all your news first. Sit down and give me the wine and the cake.’ Daisy took a bottle of wine and a cake-box from the carrier bag, and Fleur reached for the corkscrew. ‘Have you seen sense and ditched that bad boy?’ she asked, stripping foil from the neck of the bottle.

‘Yes. You’ll be glad to know the bad boy’s ancient history, Flirty. But I’ve got some even better news.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘Guess.’

‘You have landed a new contract?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve been asked to be a judge on Ireland’s Next Top Model?’

‘Yes, I have actually. But that’s not the good news.’

‘You have a photo-shoot with Testino.’

‘In my dreams.’

Fleur poured wine into the glasses and handed one to Daisy. ‘A Vogue cover?’

‘Get real!’

‘OK. I give up,’ said Fleur.

‘That’s it! That’s exactly what I’ve done!’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’ve given up modelling.’

Fleur set her glass down. ‘I am guessing this isn’t a joke.’

‘No joke. This is real, I promise.’

‘But why, Daisy?’

‘I’ve fallen out of love with it. It’s that simple. I’m going to Africa to do voluntary work.’

Fleur took a sip of wine, and gave her niece a look of assessment. It was clear from Daisy’s expression that she was resolute. Daisy was a Capricorn, and once a Capricorn decides upon a course of action, Fleur knew, there was no turning back.

‘Well. Good for you. Was it a tough decision?’

Daisy shook her head. ‘No. My agent asked if I needed twenty-four hours to think about it, and I said “Yes…” and then “No!” practically simultaneously. I really didn’t need to think twice. I’ve been miserable in this job for a long time.’

‘You’ve only been modelling for two years,’ Fleur pointed out.

‘Well, I’ve been miserable for a whole year of those two, and that’s a long time to be miserable. I was never cut out to be a model.’

‘You are a brave girl.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m just doing what I’ve always wanted to do, and that’s make a difference. You’ve no idea what it’s like to be surrounded by size zero girlies moaning about putting on half a kilo when there are people all over the world starving.’ ‘Won’t you miss your celebrity status, beauty?’

‘Nope. I’d rather be famous for having a real talent like singing or writing or painting. Being famous for being a model is just embarrassing.’ Daisy cut two slabs of choc olate sponge and plonked them on to plates. ‘Ha! Bye bye, stupid diet. Bring on the calories.’

‘What made you decide on Africa?’ asked Fleur.

‘A friend who’s over there told me I had to come out. She’s recruited a whole bunch of people via Facebook.’

‘How resourceful!’

‘Yep. I’ve been in touch with everyone else who’s going, and they’re all really sound. Facebook’s brilliant for networking. Have you joined up yet, Flirty?’

‘I keep meaning to, but I’ve been so busy lately. Perhaps I will get around to it in the winter, when things have calmed down.’

‘Things will be hotting up for me this winter. I’ll be working in a township in Kwazulu-Natal, building a school.’ ‘Actually physically building?’

‘Yeah. My mate says that she’s completely knackered at the end of every day, but that she’s never felt better in her life.’

‘Well. I am full of admiration – and not a little jealous. I would have loved to have had an opportunity to do something like that when I was your age. When are you off?’

‘Next week.’

‘No! So soon?’

‘Someone dropped out, so I got in like Flynn. If I hadn’t got a place on this trip, I’d be waiting another six months.’

‘Well, bon voyage!’ Fleur raised her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to Africa!’

‘And here’s to you, Mystic Meg!’ Daisy took a sip of wine, then gave Fleur a look of appraisal. ‘One question. How are you going to do it?’

‘The fortune-telling?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Río lent me a crystal ball.’

Daisy raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘A crystal ball? Does it work?’

‘But of course! I looked into it earlier and it told me that at half-past seven this evening I would be drinking Sancerre and feasting on gâteaux with my niece. And presto! How uncanny is that? It is now seven-thirty and that is exactly what I’m doing.’

‘So presumably you’re just going to gaze into the ball and come out with mumbo-jumbo stuff about travelling over water and meeting tall dark strangers?’

‘I guess so. I haven’t really thought about it. Río gave me an instruction manual, but it’s pretty useless.’

‘How does Río usually do it?’

‘She improvises – she’s brilliant at it. She has such in-tuitive flair.’

‘I hate to say this, Flirty, but you’re not very good at improvising.’

Fleur shrugged. ‘I’ll just have to try. Río says she raised nearly four hundred euros last year, and Corban has agreed to double the sum I take in. And all the money raised is going to the Hospice Foundation.’

‘But if word gets out that you’re rubbish, no one will want to know.’

Fleur looked put out. ‘It’s only five euros a go, Daisy. And it’s for charity.’

‘Flirty – if you’re not worth it, people are going to spend their five euros on the tombola instead. If you want to double your money, you’re going to have to dream up some way of impressing the punters.’

‘But I can’t be expected to read people’s fortunes, Daisy! That is madness!’

‘Of course it’s madness. But…’ Daisy narrowed her eyes and gave Fleur the benefit of her best sphinx-like smile ‘…but I’m having quite a good idea. Where’s your crystal ball?’

‘Upstairs.’

‘Show me.’

‘OK.’ Fleur got to her feet and eased into a stretch. ‘Ow. I’ll get out of this costume while I’m up there. If I don’t take off the cummerbund I’ll have no room for your cake.’

‘Why did you lace it so tight?’

‘Vanity, of course, chérie.’

Upstairs, Fleur doffed her fancy dress and got into lounging pyjamas. On reflection, she decided she was glad that Daisy had decided to quit her modelling career. She knew that her elder brother, François, was uncomfortable with the notion of his daughter being caught up in such a superficial milieu. Being the father of an only daughter, François was a staunch protector of his pride and joy, and had reared her quite strictly, as is the manner of French fathers. Fleur remembered how François had been sent by her own father to rescue her when she had run off to Dublin. The ironic thing was that her brother, too, had fallen in love with Ireland – more specifically, with a Galway girl – and both siblings had stayed, building businesses on the west coast. Fleur had her boutique in Lissamore, and François had his – a fishing tackle shop – in nearby Galway. Fleur was glad she had family so close: although she and her brother were chalk and cheese (François was into hunting, shooting and fishing in a big way), she was mad about her beautiful niece, whom she treated as her surrogate daughter.

Her phone alerted her to a message: Daisy had forwarded the picture she had taken earlier. Ooh la la – it was quite fun! Her gypsy skirts were all a-twirl around her thighs, the cinched-in waist enhanced her curves, and she was smiling directly to camera. She’d forward it to Corban, for a joke. She composed the caption: Gypsy Rose Lee will tell your fortune for a modest remuneration, then pressed Send. By the time she’d got back downstairs with the crystal ball and Six Lessons in Crystal Gazing, Daisy was checking something out on her iPhone.

‘My idea is inspired, Flirty. Have a look at this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s my Facebook profile.’

‘Wow. You have so many friends,’ said Fleur, looking over Daisy’s shoulder. ‘But what has this to do with your inspired idea?’

‘Aha! Behold.’

Aiming the cursor at ‘Status’ on the top of her profile page, Daisy typed in, ‘Anyone in the Coolnamara region this weekend? Check out the fortune-teller at the festival in Lissamore. She rocks!’

Fleur gave her niece a sceptical look. ‘Daisy – that’s just inviting disaster!’

‘No, it’s not. Because this is what you are going to do. Watch this.’

Daisy clicked on a name, and another profile appeared on the screen. The person in question was a pretty girl called Sofia. As Daisy scrolled down, Fleur learned that Sofia’s birthday was on the second of October: she was a Libra. Her relationship status was single, she was interested in men. A click told Fleur that Sofia’s favourite movies included Mamma Mia and Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, her favourite book was The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, she had a brown belt in karate, and she made excellent pasta because her mother was Italian. Her photo album included shots of herself standing against a variety of landmarks: the Sydney Opera House, the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum. Remarks that had been posted on her wall read: ‘See you when you get back from Coolnamara – Club M, Friday week?’ ‘Hmm…I hear you met a cutie in Paris!’ ‘You saw Cheryl Cole in Top Shop? Awesome!’

‘This is most illuminating, my dear,’ said Fleur. ‘But why should you want to share with me the information that one of your friends met a cutie in Paris and has a brown belt in karate?’

‘I know for a fact that she’s in Lissamore this weekend.’

‘So?’

‘So, picture this. She’s messing about on Facebook. She learns that there’s a shit-hot fortune-teller at the festival, and decides to investigate. Put yourself in her shoes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Pretend you’re Sofia.’

Fleur gave Daisy a bemused look, then shrugged and said: ‘OK. I’m Sofia.’

‘Welcome, Sofia!’ said Daisy, doing a kind of salaam and adopting a mysterious expression. Gazing into the crystal ball that Fleur had set on the table, she added in a dodgy Eastern European accent: ‘I think you might be a Libra, Sofia, yes? Hmm. What else can I tell you about yourself? I see – I think I see you in a suit of trousers – white trousers, with bare feet. You are dancing – no, no! You are kicking! I guess perhaps you might have a talent for karate, Sofia? And there is more – you have travelled, travelled far and wide. I see many foreign countries in the crystal – Sydney, Paris, Rome…And what is this? You are in a club, now, and this time you are dancing. But dancing in the future. Next Friday, perhaps? Next Friday I think you are going dancing with a friend, to a place called the – could it be Club N?’

‘No,’ said Fleur with a smile, as the penny dropped. ‘It’s Club M.’

‘There!’ Daisy flopped back in her seat with a triumphant smile. ‘You see! It’s ingenious! Word spreads like lightning through the Facebook community, and anybody who’s spending the bank holiday weekend in Coolnamara will come flocking to see – what’s your fortune-teller name?’

‘Haven’t an idea.’

‘Tsk-tsk. How about Tiresia?’

‘From Thérèse?’

‘No. Tiresias was a famous soothsayer in ancient Greece.’

Fleur sighed in admiration. ‘My niece has brains as well as beauty!’

‘Sounds good, doesn’t it? The famous Madame Tiresia, who knows all!’

‘Daisy – how exactly do you propose that I do this?’

‘Simple! You check out profiles on your iPhone, which you will have cunningly concealed under the table.’

‘But I don’t do Facebook.’

‘Aha! But you log on as me – popular minor celebrity and model, Daisy de Saint-Euverte. You saw how many friends I have. And those friends have friends, and I have influence. Sometimes being a C-lister can be useful.’

‘You’ve clearly had too much wine. This can’t possibly work.’

‘Don’t be so negative, Flirty!’ Daisy reached for Six Lessons in Crystal Gazing and started leafing through it. ‘Just think of all the moolah you can raise for the Hospice Foundation.’

‘But we have got to anticipate the worst. Lots and lots of things could go wrong. What if Mister Norman No-Friends from Nenagh enters the booth. What do I say to him?’

‘You tell Norman that there is no hope of telling his fortune because…because he doesn’t have one!’

‘I couldn’t say that! Poor Norman will think he’s going to die.’

‘Um. OK. Tell him you can’t see his aura. Listen to this: “It is quite possible for the gazer to be able to see things in the crystal at one time and not at another. In fact, many of the best crystal gazers have lost the power for weeks together. This being so, you should not be discouraged if such images fail to appear at your command.” There’s your disclaimer. Print it out and display it by the entrance to your booth.’ Daisy checked out the cover of the booklet. ‘It’s by Dr R A Mayne. There you go! Your spiritual mentor has impressive credentials.’

‘But that book was published in 1928.’

‘Your punters don’t need to know that. Come on – let’s have another go. This time you can tell my fortune. My name is…Jana.’ Daisy’s fingers twinkled over her iPhone, then she handed it to Fleur.

‘Jana!’ said Fleur, peering at the display as if she were reading Ancient Egyptian. ‘Um, welcome.’

‘Pretend to be gazing into the ball,’ instructed Daisy.

‘I can’t look at the ball and Jana’s profile at the same time!’

‘Then we’ll get you a veil. Try this.’ Daisy unwound the chiffon scarf she was wearing and dropped it over her aunt’s head. ‘Perfect! Go again.’

‘Jana,’ repeated Fleur. ‘I think you might be a Pisces, yes? I see – um – a book with the title The Time Traveler’s Wife and I see Meryl Streep wearing dungarees – holy moly, is Mamma Mia everyone’s favourite film on Facebook?’

‘Tut-tut! You’re stepping out of character, Madame Tiresia. Here, have some more wine.’

‘Thank you, Jana. Now – where were we? I see you singing – singing in front of Simon Cowell. Perhaps you have auditioned for the X Factor?’

Some forty minutes later, Fleur had told half-a-dozen more fortunes, and was really beginning to have fun.

‘Not bad for a Facebook virgin,’ remarked Daisy, upending the wine bottle. ‘You’ll get hooked, Flirty, mark my words. Now, let’s do one more. This time I’m going to be Paris Hilton.’ ‘Paris Hilton is one of your Facebook friends?’

‘No, she’s not. But we all know everything there is to know about Paris. You should have no problem uncovering her secrets.’

‘Welcome!’ enthused Fleur, waving her hands over the crystal ball. But just as she was deliberating over questions for Paris, the phone in the kitchen sounded. Reaching for her wineglass, she excused herself and shimmied inside to pick up. It was Corban.

‘Hello, chéri!’ she crooned into the mouthpiece. When Fleur had a little too much to drink, or when she was enraged – which was seldom – her French accent became marginally more pronounced.

‘I just got your message,’ he told her, ‘and I have to say, you look pretty damned hot as Gypsy Rose Lee. But you made a mistake.’

‘I did?’

‘Yeah. Gypsy Rose Lee was a burlesque artist, not a fortune-teller.’

‘Oops.’

‘And she was a very sexy lady. The original Dita Von Teese.’

‘What are you getting at, Mister O’Hara?’ Fleur started toying with a strand of hair. She couldn’t help flirting with Corban, even on the telephone.

‘You know I said I’d double your take, Fleur? I’m prepared to quadruple it. On one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘When I call in to you on Friday evening, I want to see you wearing those gypsy threads.’

Fleur’s mouth curved in a provocative smile. ‘So that you can take them off?’

‘No. So that you can take them off. While I watch.’

Fleur’s smile grew even more provocative. She pretended to buy time while taking a sip from her wineglass. Then she laughed out loud. ‘Done deal,’ she said.




Chapter Two (#ulink_4f683082-3455-507f-afa4-7733ac465a63)


Dervla Vaughan (née Kinsella) stepped through the front door of her new home and set her bags down on the hall floor. The sun filtering through the mosaic glass of the fanlight cast a jewel-like pattern onto the stone flags, and when she slipped off her sandals the patch of spangled sunlight warmed the soles of her feet. The air was redolent of fresh paint, with here and there a trace of linseed oil. If you added base notes of baking bread, then bottled it, the scent could rival any room candle dreamed up by Jo Malone. It was perfectly quiet in the house: the only sound that of birdsong, and the distant baaing of sheep from the fields beyond the garden.

Her dream house! Moving into the centre of the hall, Dervla executed a slow turn, taking in each and every one of the three hundred and sixty delectable degrees that surrounded her. Off the hallway, to left and to right were two spacious, high-ceilinged reception rooms. In her mind’s eye they were washed in soothing shades of buttery yellow and eau-de-nil, furnished with understated antiques and carpeted in faded Aubusson; but right now the rooms were works in progress, with tools of the decorator’s trade heaped in a corner and undercoat spattered on dust sheets.

Her eyes followed the graceful line of the cantilevered staircase. On the floor above her, bedrooms and bathrooms had unparalleled views over the countryside, with sea shimmering and mountains slumbering on the horizon. The views were as yet unframed by curtains, but Dervla had improvised with yards of unbleached muslin in the master bedroom, to soften the magisterial appearance of the high casements. More muslin was draped from the tester over the king-sized bed, each side of which was flanked by a pale rug: not the Aubusson carpets of Dervla’s fantasy, but pretty in their own way. A chest at the foot of the bed contained bed linen, but aside from that, and the cushions piled on the window seat, the room was unfurnished.

Only one room in the house had been finished – finished to pretty high spec, at that. Christian – Dervla’s husband of less than a year – had surprised her one day by taking her hand and leading her up the staircase that accessed the turret room at the very top of the house. Unlocking the door, he’d thrown it open to reveal a dedicated office space with units to house computer, printer and scanner. There was an ergonomic chair cushioned in leather, and shelves just waiting to be filled with books and stationery. ‘This is where you’ll finish that book!’ he’d announced. ‘What do you think? Isn’t this a dream space for a writer?’

It was a dream space for a writer – her very own ivory tower. The only snag was that Dervla wasn’t a writer: she was – like thousands of other professionals recently made redundant – an aspiring writer. Having been a successful auctioneer in a former life and in a former economy, Dervla had been commissioned to write a beginner’s guide to selling property. She knew she had lucked out: other estate agents had sunk without trace since recession had struck. But even though she had a publishing deal and a deadline to work to, Dervla felt like a complete fraud every time she sat down in front of her keyboard and opened the file entitled How to Sell Your House – What Every First-Timer Needs to Know. Her contract specified eighty thousand words, and as the deadline inched closer, Dervla was feeling less and less confident that she’d be able to deliver.

It wasn’t entirely her fault – for the past few months she’d been inundated with the kind of stress that might floor a less resilient individual. Closing down her business, putting her Galway penthouse on the rental market and moving into the Old Rectory had all taken its toll on her energy, and she’d had little spare time in which to get any writing done. But now that she had a room of her own – a room with a view and an ergonomic chair, to boot – perhaps inspiration would come to her.

Crossing back to the front door where she’d dumped her bags, Dervla picked up her computer case, then made for the staircase that curved up to the first floor. A narrower spiral staircase took her to the turret room. Switching on her computer, she strolled over to one of the three double-glazed windows while she waited for the screen to shimmer into life.

When they’d bought the Old Rectory, the turret had been windowless – blocked up since the introduction of the window tax in the eighteenth century. Dervla and Christian had gleefully reinstated windows to east, west and south, thereby ensuring that the room was filled with light. From this vantage point the steeple of the little church on the outskirts of Lissamore village was just discernible, and you could hear the bells chime, too, when the wind was coming from the right direction. Sheep baaing! Birdsong! Church bells chiming! The kind of pastorale that accompanied Thomas Hardy adaptations on television, now made up the soundtrack to her life.

Chimes of another kind were coming from her bag. On honeymoon in Mexico, Dervla had fallen in love with the sound of the wind chimes on the veranda where she and Christian had slept. She’d made a recording to use as her phone tone, and every time her phone rang now, she picked it up with a pang of nostalgia.

Her sister’s name was lit up on the display.

‘Hey, Dervla,’ said Río, breezily. ‘Have you moved in yet?’

‘Yes. I’m in my turret.’

‘Wow! Like a princess in a fairy tale. Any sign of your prince?’

‘He’s on his way from the airport.’

‘With the wicked stepmother?’

‘She’s not my stepmother, Río. She’s my mother-in-law.’

‘Mother-in-law! The scariest words in the world.’

‘According to Fleur, the French call them belles-mères – beautiful mothers.’

Over the phone, Dervla heard her sister suppress a snort. ‘What are you going to call her? I mean, call her to her face? “Daphne”, or “Mrs Vaughan”?’

‘According to the carer it depends on what kind of a mood she’s in. If she’s in a snit she insists on being called Mrs Vaughan, but when she’s in good form she doesn’t mind Daphne.’

‘You could always call her Daffy.’

‘That would be very politically incorrect, Río.’

Dervla moved to the window that overlooked the stable yard. It had been spread with golden gravel, and terracotta planters had been arranged around the water feature – a raised pond complete with underlighting. A gleaming new thatch roofed the outbuildings that had been converted into a cottage-style dwelling for her mother-in-law, and – to complete the rustic look – shutters painted duck-egg blue flanked a half-door crafted by a local carpenter. The exterior was deceptive: inside, the cottage had been modernized, and now boasted a state-of-the-art kitchen, a big, comfortable sitting room with an HD plasma screen and a tropical fish tank, and underfloor heating. There was also adjoining accommodation for Mrs Vaughan’s carer, Nemia.

‘Are you all set for her arrival?’ Río asked.

‘Yep. There’s a shepherd’s pie ready to go, and a bottle of vintage Moët in the fridge.’

‘Posh!’

‘One of the pluses of being married to a wine importer. We got a case from Christian’s partner as a wedding present.’

‘Is Mrs Vaughan senior allowed a drink?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t imagine a person with her complaint would have much tolerance for alcohol.’

‘Oh. I see what you mean. Yikes. I never thought of that.’

Christian’s eighty-four-year-old mother suffered from dementia. Because she had been born and reared near Lissamore, it was Christian’s wish that she should spend her final days in the place she still called home. She and her carer had left London earlier that day on what was to be Daphne’s final journey to her native Coolnamara.

‘You could always just pour her a glass of fizzy water and pass it off as champagne,’ suggested Río.

‘I don’t think she’s that confused.’

‘When did you last talk to her?’

‘A couple of days ago. She hadn’t a clue who I was, of course, but Christian thought it was a good idea to give her a gentle reminder of my voice from time to time, to get her used to it.’

‘Does she even know who he is?’

‘He claims she does. But then, he constantly refers to himself as “Christian, your son”, when he talks to her on the phone.’

‘Jesus. It’s a bitch of a disease, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. It is.’ Dervla realized that she didn’t want to talk about her mother-in-law any more. She sat down at her desk and started to doodle squares on a Post-It pad. The shapes evolved into a house like one a child might draw, with four windows and a door. ‘So what’s new, Río?’

‘I’m bored.’

‘You’re on the set of a blockbuster movie surrounded by Hollywood luminaries and you’re bored?’

‘Well, I guess I’m more pissed off than bored. One of the actors complained today that his snuffbox was too gay, and that horrible little child star has a million riders written into her contract.’

‘There’s a child star in the movie?’

‘Well, she’s twenty-something, but she behaves like a child. Her name is Nasty – short for Anastasia – Harris.’

‘Oh – I’ve heard about her. Didn’t she get married recently, to some film star old enough to be her daddy?’

‘Yeah. She married Jay David.’

‘Of course! Hollywood royalty.’

‘And she’s living up to it. She’s every bit her sugar daddy’s little princess.’

‘Have you met him?’

‘No. He can’t take time off his schedule to visit Ireland. Rumour has it he’ll be flying in on his Gulfstream for the wrap party, though.’

‘Is she any good as an actress?’

‘According to her husband – who is, of course, completely non-partisan – Nasty is the new Julia Roberts. Her talent will blaze forth into the world like a supernova. And boy, does she believe it. The problem with princesses like her is that the more their demands are met, the more outrageous they become.’

‘Like J. Lo insisting on her coffee being stirred counterclockwise?’

‘You got it. Nasty insists on having rose petals scattered in the loo bowl—’

‘No!’

‘Yes. And the bed sheets in her trailer – Egyptian cotton, of course – have to be changed every day. And this morning she decided that her character should have a parasol, even though parasols were unheard of in nineteenth-century Coolnamara.’

‘Shouldn’t that be wardrobe’s problem? I thought your job was strictly set-dressing?’

‘The line between the two gets blurred, sometimes. I spotted a lovely découpage screen in the transport van this morning, by the way. I thought I’d nab it for you as a housewarming present when we’re wrapped.’

‘You’re not going to steal it?’

‘No – I’ll get it at cost. And it’s genuine Victorian, not repro.’

‘Thanks. That’s sweet of you.’

‘Hang on two seconds, Dervla.’ There came the mumbling of a man’s voice in the background, and Río said: ‘No, no, you great lummox – not you, Dervla – a dudeen is a clay pipe. Yeah – and be careful – they break easily.’

A Victorian screen would look great in the drawing room, Dervla decided, as she doodled a chimney on to her house. They could set it in front of the door of a winter’s evening to stop draughts – although of course, with double-glazed windows and underfloor heating and a blazing turf fire, there wouldn’t be any draughts. Scribbling a plume of smoke puffing from her chimneypot, Dervla pictured herself and her husband sitting on either side of the fireplace reading their books in companionable silence, Christian’s trusty Dalmatian at his feet. She’d definitely start reading Dickens – preferably in leather-bound editions. Or maybe she’d take up knitting? Knitting had a certain cachet: all the actresses on The O’Hara Affair were busy with five-ply Guernsey wool and number twelve needles, according to Río.

‘Sorry about that.’ Río was back on the phone. ‘The feckin’ eejit hadn’t a clue what a dudeen was. Probably thought it meant a hot girl. So. Tell me more of your news. How’s your gaff shaping up?’

‘Well, the bathroom’s nearly finished, and the kitchen.’

‘Utility, too?’

‘Yes. But we’re just glorified campers at the moment. The only real piece of furniture we have is the bed.’

‘Sure, isn’t that all you loved-up pair need?’

Dervla smiled. ‘I have to confess I miss my fix of Corrie.’

‘You mean you don’t have a TV?’

‘No. They delivered the big screen we ordered for Daphne, but forgot ours. Oops. That reminds me –I’d better run down and set up the channels before she arrives. And double oops – I forgot to turn her heating on.’

‘But it’s not cold.’

‘She’s a fragile little old lady, Río. She feels the cold, especially in the evenings.’

‘Be off with you, so. Call me tomorrow and let me know how the welcome committee went, won’t you?’

‘Will do. Bye, Río.’

Dervla put the phone down, added a tail to the spotty dog sitting on the doorstep of her two-dimensional house, then scampered downstairs, the sound of her feet on the bare boards echoing around the empty space.

In the hallway, she retrieved her shoes, and made for the back door. As she crossed the stable yard, the crunching of gravel startled a cat that had been snoozing in a patch of sun. As it skedaddled, Dervla wondered if she should try and encourage it by leaving food out, but then realized that the Old Rectory would be no place for a cat once Kitty the Dalmatian moved in.

In Daphne’s cottage, Dervla’s feet made no sound. Footsteps here were muffled by the pure wool deep-pile carpet that had been laid just days ago. The colour matched the curtains, made to measure in a rose-coloured brocade, which was echoed in the loose covers on sofas and armchairs. Much of Daphne’s furniture had been shipped from her house in London, so that her new surroundings would have a reassuring familiarity to them. The furniture included a very elegant walnut escritoire, a Regency rosewood bookcase, and a nineteenth-century beech day bed; her exquisite collection of japonaiserie was displayed in a bevelled glass case that ran the length of an entire wall. Christian had told her that a pair of porcelain vases dating from the K’ang-hsi period (whenever that was) were worth in the region of 20,000 euros, and Dervla thanked Christ that she would not be responsible for dusting them.

She flicked the main switch that controlled the heat, then wandered through Daphne’s new home to make final checks. The conversion of the old outbuildings had cost Christian a lot of money – more than had been spent so far on the refurbishment of the Old Rectory. But they had looked upon it as an investment. Once the old lady died or had to be moved into proper residential care, the cottage could still generate income as an up-market artist’s retreat. Dervla had already worded the ad that she’d place in such select publications as The Author magazine:

Coolnamara, West of Ireland. Comfortable, well-equipped, single-storey house, sympathetically converted from period mews buildings adjoining eighteenth-century manor. Lissamore village with shops, pubs and seafood restaurant just 10 mins; fabulous beach and mountain walks nearby. Perfectly lovely, undisturbed surroundings: ideal for writer/artist.

Dervla didn’t much like herself for contemplating the death of Christian’s mother, but she was a pragmatist, and – like all estate agents – was unsentimental when property was involved. Naturally, it behoved Christian to take care of Daphne in her declining years, and Dervla respected his decision to bring her home to Coolnamara. While her mother-in-law lived here, Dervla would do all she could to make her welcome and comfortable. She’d spent all weekend getting the place ready, with the help of a local girl, Bronagh. Between them, they had arranged Daphne’s furniture and displayed her paintings and photographs to advantage; they’d filled vases with flowers (Christian had specified that yellow lilies were her favourite on account of the vibrancy of the colour and the headiness of their scent) and made beds and stocked fridge and freezer. Dervla had even unpacked her mother-in-law’s clothes, marvelling at the vintage labels on many of the garments as she’d hung them in the wardrobe: Balenciaga, Givenchy, Lanvin. Daphne Vaughan had been a classy dame. A model, Christian had told her, whose career could have taken her to Paris if she hadn’t decided to get married.

The wedding of Daphne to the honourable Jeremy Vaughan had been recorded in all the society pages as the event of the year 1945. Christian had showed her the cuttings in the scrapbooks that had arrived, along with all his mother’s other effects. They showed the couple on their wedding day, on honeymoon, and at the christening of their first child, Josephine. There were articles on what Daphne had worn to Cheltenham; to the Proms and to Henley, and a picture of them smiling lovingly at each other at the Queen’s garden party. Daphne was described as a model wife and hostess, and doting mother. When Jeremy died – leaving her very comfortably off with a trust fund and investment portfolio – the widow had been inconsolable. The photograph of the funeral – cut from the Daily Telegraph – showed her standing at the graveside swathed in Blackglama fur, holding the hands of her two young children. Christian had been just twelve.

Moving back into the sitting room, Dervla activated the digital box. While waiting for it to boot up, she wandered over to the glass-fronted bookcase. Since Bronagh had unpacked the books, she was curious to inspect Daphne’s library. What might her taste in literature be? Eclectic, by the look of it. On the shelves, volumes of poetry sat next to obscurely-titled novels, many of them French. There were books on gardening, books on history, and books on art and artists. As well as being sophisticated, Christian’s mother was clearly cultured. There were lots of complete works, too, many of which were beautifully bound in leather, and Dervla was delighted to see that a set of Dickens was displayed. Nice! She could realize her dream of sitting by the fire, turning the pages of Little Dorrit or Great Expectations! Reaching for a volume, Dervla realized too late that the ‘book’ was actually a box with a hinged lid. The lid fell open as she slid it off the shelf, and a second volume, bound in vellum, fell to the floor. Dervla stooped to pick it up. It was a diary, and on the cover, in black italics, were the words Daphne Beaufoy Vaughan, 1968.

She wouldn’t open it. She shouldn’t open it. But of course, Dervla couldn’t help herself.

The pages of the journal were covered in sprawling, energetic writing – as if the hand of the author could not keep up with the torrent of thoughts splashed over the creamy paper. Dervla’s eyes scanned the script, lighting randomly on a paragraph here, a sentence there. ‘The most far-fetched vow I ever made,’ she read, ‘was when, as a child, I swore that if I ever had children I would love them unreservedly: a promise I have been utterly powerless to keep.’ ‘As well as being non-conformist, I happen to be very proud, and that, of course, makes one aloof.’ ‘We have been married for over two decades now, and still have nothing to say to one another.’ ‘Spent the weekend with L. in the Royal Albion in Brighton. We fought like tigers, as usual.’ ‘Have decided to send C. & J. to boarding school. Children are not conducive to conducting an amour.’ ‘R. presented me with a diamond so paltry I promptly hurled it into the lavatory. Much to my amusement, he retrieved it.’

Dervla sank to her knees on Daphne’s thick-pile carpet. It took her a scant ten minutes of riffling through the journal to learn that Daphne had had a string of lovers; that she despised the wives of those lovers, and that she especially despised her husband. On the last page, she declared that she was going to relate the story of her life so far in the form of a novel.

Oh. Oh God! Was there more? Again, Dervla couldn’t stop herself from reaching for another of the faux volumes. Inside was an identical vellum-bound journal with the owner’s name writ large in her distinctive script. The date was 1969. Systematically, Dervla worked her way through the hollow Collected Works of Charles Dickens. There were thirteen volumes, and each contained a journal. By Dervla’s calculations, the diaries spanned the years 1960 to 1973. The final volume contained a splenetic attack on the literary agents who had repeatedly declined to represent Mrs Vaughan on the basis that her novel appeared, in fact, to be a work of thinly disguised autobiography too slanderous ever to find a publishing house.

Dervla sat motionless on the floor, gazing at script so jagged it looked as if it had been penned by a razor dipped in ink. Did Christian know about these diaries? Did his sister, Josephine? Dervla knew that Christian had attended boarding school from a young age, but he had told her it was the Vaughan family policy: his father had attended Eton, and his grandfather before him. Dervla privately thought it shocking that children be shunted off to boarding school on account of some antediluvian tradition: now that she knew that the real reason was to facilitate his mother’s amours, she found it infinitely more shocking. Her quandary now was: should she tell Christian about the diaries? She thought not. Sleeping dogs were best left to lie, and Dervla knew what power past secrets had to inflict damage.

The sound of wheels on gravel made her turn. Through the window, she could see Christian’s car rounding the corner of the big house into the courtyard. Quickly, Dervla shoved the last journal into its leather-bound casing, noticing ruefully that the title of the volume in question was – ironically – Hard Times. How hard would it be to defer to her mother-in-law, knowing what she now knew?

She watched as the Saab pulled up outside the front door of the cottage. Christian got out, rounded the bonnet and opened the passenger door, leaning in to offer his mother support as she struggled to her feet. Meanwhile, a pretty, almond-eyed girl emerged from the rear and started hefting bags out of the boot.

‘We’re here now, Mum!’ Dervla heard Christian say.

‘Where, exactly, are we?’

‘We’re at your new home.’

‘I’ve never been here before in my life,’ came the autocratic reply.

‘I know that, Mum. It’s your new home.’

Daphne was wearing a navy blue trouser suit with a turquoise silk blouse. A string of pearls was looped around her neck, a Kelly bag dangled from the crook of her right arm, and on her feet were blue canvas pixie boots. She looked around, and as she did, her gaze travelled to the open window in which Dervla stood framed. Mother and daughter-in-law locked eyes, and then: ‘There’s someone in there,’ pronounced Daphne. ‘You said this was my house.’

Dervla moved out into the hall, took a deep breath and shook back her hair. Then she counted to three and opened the door, estate agent’s smile perfectly in place. ‘Hello, all!’ she called brightly. ‘Welcome!’

‘Hello, love,’ said Christian. ‘Come and say hello to Mum, and Nemia!’

Dervla stepped onto the gravel and advanced, willing her smile not to falter as she reached out and took Daphne’s free hand in both her of own. ‘Did you have a good journey, Daphne?’

‘What kind of a stupid question’s that?’ said Daphne, withdrawing her hand.

‘This is Dervla, Mum,’ said Christian. ‘Remember her? She’s my wife.’

‘I’ve never seen her before in my life.’

‘Well, it’s been some time since you met. Let’s go inside, shall we, and have a cup of tea? And if we’re lucky, there might be biccies.’

‘There are biccies,’ said Dervla. ‘Choccie biccies.’

‘Choccie biccies! Yum yum,’ said Christian.

He offered Daphne his arm as they began to move towards the cottage, then looked back at Dervla and gave her a tired smile. Her heart went out to her husband. He didn’t need tea and biccies as much as a huge Scotch. Dervla remembered the champagne that she’d stashed in the fridge, and, as she saw Daphne stumble over the threshold, decided against producing it.

‘Hello. I’m Nemia,’ came a voice from behind her, and Dervla turned.

‘Oh – I am sorry! How rude of me not to have introduced myself. I’m Dervla.’

‘Nice to meet you, Dervla.’

‘Likewise. Hey. Let me help you with those.’

‘Thanks,’ said Nemia. ‘There’s nothing very heavy.’

Dervla swung a carrier bag out of the boot, noticing that it bore the logo of a pharmacy in Galway.

‘Did you have to stop off somewhere on your way here?’

‘Yes. We just needed to stock up on some basics.’

‘How was your journey?’

‘Fairly uneventful. There were no delays, which helped.’ Nemia reached into the boot, and produced another carrier. ‘Oh, crap. There’s a split in this bag. Can I just transfer the breakable stuff to yours?’

‘Sure.’

Nemia delved into the bag, then handed over a couple of distinctive Côté Bastide bottles. Sliding them into her bulky carrier, Dervla was about to observe that Côté Bastide just happened to make her favourite bath oil – but the words never made it out of her mouth. Instead, as she took in the contents of the bag, a single word emerged from between her lips.

‘Nappies?’

Nemia turned to her and smiled. ‘Just in case,’ she said.




Chapter Three (#ulink_edd5fd5e-2e44-55b2-9a9e-0c4b13669d29)


Sliding an arm out from under the duvet, Fleur reached for her watch. Eight-thirty. Corban had left an hour ago. She’d smiled as he’d kissed her goodbye, her eyelids fluttering open briefly before she’d tumbled back into dreamland. She’d hoped to have a leisurely breakfast à deux this morning, with freshly juiced oranges and croissants on the deck, but Corban had had other plans. He’d scheduled an early meeting with the director of The O’Hara Affair.

As she set her watch back on the bedside table, Fleur’s eyes fell on the flamboyant gypsy threads that she’d discarded the previous night with Corban’s help. Undressing her – or watching her undress – was one of Corban’s peccadilloes, and because it made him happy, she was glad to oblige. Fleur indulged her lovers – to a point. Once they showed signs of complacency, or became overfamiliar, she showed her displeasure. By saying ‘no’, by being unavailable, by being a little less free with her favours, she kept her men on their toes. It was a highly skilled game, and one at which she was very good.

Or had been, until she met Corban. Corban was proving a lot less malleable than the lovers she’d had to date – all of whom had been considerably younger than she. Río had used to joke about Fleur’s penchant for toyboys, declaring that her love life would make a great biopic. But since Corban had taken centre stage, she wasn’t sure whether the story of her life was a rom com or a melodrama. Aspects of it fitted both categories, she supposed, but whichever genre it belonged to, it was certainly X-rated.

Sinking back against her pile of goosedown pillows, Fleur allowed her mind to meander back to the first time she and Corban had met, six months ago. It could make a stand-out scene in a movie…

INT. UPMARKET HOTEL.

BALLROOM. NIGHT.

A charity ball in Dublin. The theme: the Tudors. The ballroom billowing with society dames dolled up as Elizabeth, bejewelled frocks and coppery-coloured curls everywhere. The men all emulating Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Henry (or trying to); everyone in masks.

Fleur had struck lucky with her frock. Joan Bergin, the costume designer of the Tudors TV series was a friend, and Joan had wangled a divine outfit for Fleur. It included an elaborate wig, a gold mask, and a magnificent gown, the bodice of which was embroidered with droplets of lapis lazuli and tiny seed pearls. The mask, too, was trimmed with pearls. It concealed most of Fleur’s face, but stopped short at the jaw line, leaving mouth and chin exposed. Exposed, too, was most of her bosom: her breasts pushed so high by the boned corset that she felt practically naked. The effect was one of rather sexy regality, of come-on combined with ‘look, but don’t touch’. The get-up, however, was bloody uncomfortable, and after a couple of hours of small talk in the crowded ballroom (during which much champagne was poured by overzealous waiters, and baroque music was played to deaf ears), Fleur yearned to escape.

‘Ladies and gentlemen—’

Oh, no! The speeches were about to begin. She had to get out of there. Murmuring excuses, she threaded her way through the throng of Walter Raleighs and Mary Stuarts, troubadours and serving wenches.

French windows took her onto a terrace. Here it was balmy, the air sweet with night-scented stock. The sound of the string quartet came faintly, and she could hear a fountain splashing at the far end. As she moved towards it, the silk lining of her underskirt moved against Fleur’s legs like a caress. She longed to dance, but because no one was versed in the arcane steps of the gavotte, no one was dancing this evening; and now everyone would be sitting listening to speeches for the next hour.

Dipping a hand into the bubbling water, Fleur laid the palm first on her forehead, then her breasts. The coolness was so sensual that it made her want to slip off her shoes, gather up her skirts and get wet, like Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita. As she went to lean over the pool again, she became aware of a man lounging against a pillar, watching her. He was unmasked. A predatory half-smile curved his mouth, and he was eyeing her cleavage as if he wanted to dive straight in.

The insolence! Fleur dismissed him with a toss of her head and a curl of her lip; but her hauteur was wasted. He responded with a low laugh, peeled himself away from the pillar and sauntered towards her. The next thing she knew, her arms were pinioned and she was being kissed more forcefully than she’d ever been kissed in her life.

Her initial impulse was to pull away, but the greater her resistance, the more insistent the kiss, until Fleur’s champagne-muzzy mind thought Pourquoi pas? Who cares? His kiss was so expert, so masterful, so goddamned sexy, that it would have been too selfless an act not to kiss him back. As he pulled her harder against him she was aware of his erection, aware of the subtle scent of spice, the subtler one of sweat, aware of his breath on her cheek as he released her mouth and trailed a kiss along the line of her jaw.

‘I think you’d better stop now,’ she managed finally, sounding as if she’d been inhaling helium.

‘Really? I think the lady doth protest too much.’ His voice in her ear contrived to sound both sceptical and amused. A finger skimmed the curve of her throat, pausing briefly to trace the scoop made by her collarbone, and then the stranger allowed his hand to travel further, sliding it beneath her bodice and cupping her breast. ‘Something tells me you don’t want me to stop. Something tells me you’re more trollop than sovereign, Rachel. Perhaps you should have thought about attending the ball as the whore Boleyn, rather than the virgin Queen.’

Rachel? Rachel! Oh, horror, horror! This was clearly an egregious case of mistaken identity. What to do? What to say? Fleur knew she should disabuse him at once, but the sensations being triggered in her by the touch of this man were so unexpectedly, so wickedly erotic that she didn’t want to come clean, didn’t want to explain that she wasn’t who he thought she was, didn’t want him to back off with an awkward apology. She heard her breath coming faster, felt her nipple rise under his fingers, and – as he thrust a knee between her legs – recognized the surge of lust that made her want to grind herself against him…Oh! She was shameless! She wanted to be a whore, a hussy, a harlot!

‘Slow down, sweetheart,’ he murmured, disengaging his hand, dislodging his knee, and leaving her weak as water. ‘Let me go check if there’s a room available.’

And the tall, dark stranger – who, before the night was out would be a stranger no longer – had bestowed a smile upon her before dropping a brusque kiss on her mouth and strolling back into the ballroom…

The strains of Edith Piaf’s La Vie en Rose interrupted Fleur’s sentimental journey. Corban’s name was displayed on the screen of her iPhone.

‘Hello! I was just thinking about you,’ she told him with a smile.

‘I’m glad to hear it. What were you thinking, exactly?’

‘I was thinking about the first time we met.’

‘Soppy girl.’

‘It would make a great short story.’

‘Or a Mills & Boon.’

‘Now there’s a thought! I read somewhere that sales of romantic fiction have gone through the roof recently. Everyone’s trying to escape into fantasy land.’

‘Might be too raunchy for Mills & Boon. You’d have to shut the door on the bedroom activity.’

‘Au contraire. They publish really sexy stuff these days.’ Fleur stretched languorously. ‘Let’s see – how would our story go? “‘I’m not who you think I am,’ confessed our heroine, as the masterful stranger took her hand. ‘I don’t care who you are, any more than you care who I am,’ he growled, leading her into the bedroom of the magnificent, luxury penthouse.”’

‘It wasn’t a penthouse,’ Corban corrected her.

‘In my Mills & Boon version it is. “She set her champagne flute down on the marble-topped bedside table and turned to him. His gaze was fierce. ‘I must have you,’ he told her. Her bosom heaving, she sank upon the fourposter, looking up at him through the slits of her golden mask. ‘Now?’ she breathed. ‘Now!’ he insisted. Without further ado, he reached for his manhood. She gasped when she saw—”’

‘OK. Enough’s enough. Time to shut the door. Incidentally, did I really growl, and did you really gasp?’ asked Corban.

‘Of course. Gasping was mandatory. It was the raunchiest thing I’ve ever done. Until last night, that is. It’s a pity I’ll have to give Río back her gypsy costume.’

‘I’m sure we can think of some other suitably titillating attire. I rather fancy you as a schoolgirl.’

‘No! Schoolgirl’s too pervy, Corban. And I’m far too old. French maid is more my line, don’t you think? Il y a quelque chose d’autre que je peux faire pour Monsieur?’

‘Translate.’

‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’

‘Well, yes, actually, there is. I scribbled a number on yesterday’s Financial Times, and forgot to enter it into my phone. Could you text it to me?’

‘Sure.’ Fleur swung her legs out of bed, and reached for her peignoir. ‘Whose phone number is it?’ she asked, as she padded downstairs.

‘Shane Byrne’s. I want to arrange lunch with him.’

‘Lucky you. Where are you taking him?’

‘There’s a new place that’s opened not far from where they’re shooting today. I thought I’d try that.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘Chez Jules.’

‘Oh! How brave of Jules to open when all around him restaurants are closing. I hope it works out for him.’

The Financial Times was on the breakfast bar, open at some arcane article on investments. A number was scrawled in the margin, with the initials S. B. beside it. How many people in the world had access to Shane Byrne’s private phone number? Fleur wondered. Maybe she should auction it at the charity gig this afternoon, to raise more money for the hospice. Reaching for her mobile with her free hand, she started texting Corban. ‘Shall we eat out tonight?’ she asked, as she keyed the numbers in.

‘No. I’ll pick something up on the way back. Fillet or sirloin?’

Fleur’s heart sank a little. Corban adored red meat, while she favoured chicken or fish. However, since she didn’t have many opportunities to cook for her man, she might as well serve up what he was partial to. ‘Why not bring me some good quality braising steak, and I’ll do Carbonade de Boeuf?’

‘Excellent. I’ll get us a Bordeaux to go with it.’ There came a blip over the line. ‘Ah – incoming call. I gotta go, lover. Did you find that number?’

‘Yes.’ Fleur pressed ‘Send’. ‘It’s on its way to you now. A plus tard, chéri.’

Setting the phone down, Fleur tied the sash on her robe, broke off a hunk of baguette, spread it with butter and thick comb honey and moseyed out onto her deck. The first time she’d appeared on the deck in her peignoir, the village had been mildly scandalized; now, no one turned a hair.

It was a shame that she’d be breakfasting alone, she thought. It was a perfect morning for perusing the papers over café au lait and shooting the breeze with her lover. They managed so seldom to spend quality time together, as demands on Corban to spend precious weekends in his Dublin office were ever more pressing. Even though he had a boat moored in the marina, Lolita spent most of her life at anchor. There had only been one excursion so far this summer, and the curtains of Corban’s holiday apartment on the harbour were constantly drawn. No wonder really – any time Corban O’Hara could afford to spend in Lissamore was spent chez Fleur.

‘Hey, gorgeous!’

Looking down, Fleur saw Seamus Moynihan unwinding the hawser of his boat from a bollard.

‘Hello, Seamus! Off to inspect your lobster pots?’

‘I am. But sure I don’t know why I’m bothering. There’s no demand for lobster since that outcry on the radio.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Some gobshite complained on a talk show about lobsters being killed inhumanely, and the politically-correct brigade have decided to boycott them.’

Fleur felt a pang of guilt. She should have talked Corban into going for lobster this evening, in O’Toole’s seafood bar, with Guinness instead of Bordeaux. It made sense to support the local community now that times were hard. She knew well that the only reason her shop was doing such brisk business was because word had got out on the street that Elena Sweetman, the star of The O’Hara Affair, had taken to dropping in to Fleurissima. Once the movie was wrapped she – and all the workers employed on the film – would be back to leaner times.

‘Maybe you’ll have luck tonight,’ she told Seamus. ‘There’ll be lots of people looking for restaurant tables now that the festival’s in full swing. And I’m sure they are not all politically correct.’

Seamus shrugged. ‘Even the festival’s down-sized this year. There’s no fun fair, and no ceilidh. And I heard that Río’s too busy on the film to do her fortune-telling gig.’

‘Oh – but she’s enlisted a replacement.’

‘Who might that be?’

Fleur bit her lip. ‘I don’t know,’ she lied. She didn’t want to confess that she would be ensconced in the fortune-telling booth today. If word got around, people might not bother forking out money to see the local boutique owner do a bad imitation of Río, who always bluffed a blinder. ‘But I hear she’s very good,’ she added, lamely.

‘Maybe I should pay her a visit, so,’ remarked Seamus. ‘She might see something in my future to give me a glimmer of hope. Nets brimming with fish, for instance.’ Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he squinted at the horizon. ‘God be with the good old days when you actually caught something out there.’

Fleur gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Well, bonne chance today!’

‘Bonne chance?’

‘It means “good luck”, darling!’

‘I’ll need it.’ Seamus pulled at the throttle of his outboard and chugged away from his mooring. ‘If I do have bonne chance,’ he threw back over his shoulder, ‘I’ll drop a couple of mackerel in to you later.’

‘Thank you, Seamus! Salut!’

Resting her forearms on the railing, Fleur watched as the boat made its way out of the marina, foam churning in its wake. Gulls looped the loop lazily in the sky blue above, and a tern plummeted headlong into the marine blue below, breaking the surface with barely a splash. She could see the submerged shape of a seal over by the breakwater; and a couple of beat-up-looking cats on the sea wall were laughing at Seamus’s lurcher, who was lolloping along the pier in pursuit of the post mistress’s Airedale.

There was a shrine to Fleur’s little doggie, Babette, on the deck. It comprised a photograph of Babette that Daisy had taken, and had framed as a present for Fleur. Fleur had surrounded the photograph with flowers and candles and some of Babette’s toys. She had buried her best friend six months ago, on the beach at Díseart, where the dog had loved to romp. Fleur still missed the Bichon Frisé with the laughing eyes and the perma-smile.

From the hill above, the church bell chimed nine. Fleur had promised Río that she’d be in the fortune-telling booth ready to go at midday. For the past week, she had practised her crystal ball skills every evening, using Daisy’s password to gain entry to her Facebook page for research purposes. Some of the comments on Daisy’s wall had expressed a genuine interest in going to see Madame Tiresia. ‘If she got your future sorted, Daisy-Belle, then I’m deffo gonna go!’ one girl had written. ‘She might make me lucky 2


’

Fleur had felt a twinge of guilt when she’d read that one. She guessed that some people really did believe in tarot and horoscopes and all that jazz: you just had to look at the number of fortune-tellers advertising in the back pages of gossip magazines, who charged rip-off rates for their services. But then, Fleur wasn’t ripping anybody off. All the money she took today was going to charity – and then some. Corban had been true to his word. After she’d donned her gypsy outfit for him last night, he’d made out a cheque to the Irish Hospice Foundation, signed it, and left the amount blank.

‘You’ve just quadrupled your donation,’ he told her. And then he’d taken her by the hand and led her upstairs to her bedroom.

It was funny, Fleur thought, that dressing up for Corban didn’t embarrass her. If any of her former lovers had suggested that she dress up to have sex, she’d have told them where to get off. But then, in all her previous relationships, Fleur had been the more experienced partner: her lovers had deferred to her. In her current relationship, Corban called the shots; and it hadn’t taken long for Fleur to find what a relief – and what a turn-on! – it was to be told what to do rather than doing the telling.

The mini Mills & Boon scenario she’d dreamed up earlier had rehashed much of what had actually happened on the night she and Corban had first met. Having gone off to book a hotel room, her tall dark stranger had returned to find Fleur sitting on the edge of the fountain in an attitude of bewilderment. ‘What’s wrong?’ he’d asked. ‘I’m not who you think I am,’ she’d told him. And his response – as per the stupefying response of her Mills & Boon hero – had been: ‘I don’t care who you are, any more than you care who I am.’ And then Corban had escorted her upstairs to the room and – with a passion that compensated for the deficiency of ceremony – had baisé’d her.

Smiling, Fleur leaned her chin on her forearms. Why was there no equivalent word for the sex act in English? ‘Fuck’ was too rough. ‘Shag’ too casual. ‘Making love’ was far too fey. The only verb that accurately conveyed the deliciousness, the pleasure, the sheer je ne sais quoi of coitus was the French one: baiser.

She remembered how, afterwards, he’d unmasked her and laughed and said: ‘You’re Fleur O’Farrell!’

He’d seen her in Lissamore, he’d told her, going about her business, and thought how quintessentially French she was, and how very lovely. He’d Googled her and viewed her website, but he had never found an opportunity to woo her. And now that he had her in his bed, he told her, he didn’t intend to let her go.

‘What about Rachel?’ she’d asked.

‘Ancient history,’ came the response. ‘Let’s not talk about her.’

So they’d talked about him for a while instead. Over a glass of champagne, Fleur learned that Corban O’Hara was a successful entrepreneur who had taken to financing films. The O’Hara Affair was his most ambitious project to date. He was divorced, he told her, sans children. A pleasure craft, recently acquired, was moored in the marina at Lissamore, where he owned a holiday apartment – also recently acquired. He supported numerous charities, including her favourite, the Hospice Foundation. And when he let a hint drop as to his age, Fleur realized that – at nearly a decade older than her – he was the most grown-up lover she’d ever had. It made her feel deliciously, absurdly youthful.

And then they’d had some more champagne, and she’d told him a little about herself, and they’d discovered that they each had a penchant for Paris and piquet and the Monsieur Hulot films, and they’d laughed and larked a little and then baisé’d some more.

But Rachel – whoever she might be – preyed on Fleur’s mind. Corban had booked the room for Rachel, and the champagne and the flowers that had been brought to that room had been intended for Rachel, not for her. Fleur felt bad about the fact that she’d muscled in on another woman’s man, and it unsettled her to know that Corban had cheated on this Rachel with such insouciance. But any time she questioned him about her, he just said those two words: ‘Ancient history’. So finally, she made herself stop thinking about Rachel altogether.

‘Flirty! Good morning! Isn’t it a gorgeous day?’

Daisy was hailing her from the sea wall that skirted the main street of the village. She was wearing frayed cut-offs that revealed an astonishing length of golden leg, and a man’s hoodie. Despite the dressed-down ensemble, she still looked as if she’d stepped out of the pages of Vogue. Fleur felt a great surge of love for her niece. She was so beautiful, so full of joie de vivre, so young!

‘Good morning, Daisy-Belle!’

‘But bad, bad Flirty, to be lazing in the sun when she should be hard at work!’ Daisy scolded her. ‘Why aren’t you doing your homework?’

‘Homework?’

‘Livre de visage!’

Oh. Facebook. Daisy was right. Fleur should be practising her fortune-telling skills, not lounging around on her deck, coasting on a nostalgia trip.

‘OK, OK. Do you fancy joining me for coffee?’

‘No, thank you kindly. I’m off for a swim. Catch you later!’ And Daisy swung a leg over the pillion of the motorcycle that was waiting for her, a helmeted youth revving the engine. He handed her a lid, and they were off, buzzing up the village street like a hornet.

Fleur wandered back into her kitchen and booted up her laptop before fixing herself coffee. Sitting down, she entered Daisy’s password, and perused the new postings on her wall. A lot of messages that meant nothing to Fleur, some photographs, a couple of links to YouTube videos.

Fleur now knew how engrossing Facebook could be. Over the past few days she had been distracted from her ‘homework’ on numerous occasions: once you got sucked in to YouTube it was difficult to pull yourself away. She found herself checking out all the silly Bichon Frisé footage, and even contemplated putting up some of the sequences she’d compiled of Babette. And, of course, it was impossible to resist all the clips from old movies – Rita Hayworth singing ‘Put the Blame on Mame’, Marilyn crooning ‘I Wanna be Loved by You’, Ava Gardner rhapsodizing over her man in Showboat.

She had also followed links to numerous blogs, many of which made her want to weep for the young people out there who seemed so lonely, despite the myriad methods of communication available to them:

I’ve finally hit triple digits with Facebook friends – altho the females outnumber the males. Why? Now, topping out at a hundred, I have more Facebook friends than real life ones. Sad, or what?

It’s scary to see pictures and details of former friends/enemies. Revisiting the past is no fun. Some ‘friendships’ should never be resurrected, not even in a virtual sense.

I say to myself, aww fuck. Even tho I hate this person, I guess I’d better add them as my friend…I’ll take ANYONE now.

Have you noticed the weird thing is that girls seem to be way more flirtatious on Facebook than in real life. Why is that?

Scrolling through Daisy’s Facebook friends, Fleur found crazy girls, dreamy girls, beauty queens, nymphs. Princesses, preppie girls, Barbie dolls, tramps. Wannabes and It girls, Latinas and Goths. Goddesses and nerdy girls and cheerleaders and vamps. Girls with names like Tinkerbell, L’il Monkeypaws and Puss. Or plain Emily and Martha and Jennifer and Luce. The pages of Facebook were adorned with girls galore.

‘Hi, Miriam,’ Fleur murmured, clicking on a link. ‘Welcome. You had a birthday recently, didn’t you?…Come on in, Rosa. Don’t be sad about your boy breaking up with you. You have a holiday to look forward to…Hi, there, Nelly. You’ve got to get those red shoes you’ve been hankering after. If you shimmy down to Fleurissima this afternoon, maybe you’ll find they’ve been reduced by fifteen per cent…Hi, Kitten; hi, Angel; hi, Naomi; hi, Paige…’

Glancing at the time, Fleur saw that it was nearly half-past ten. Time to jump into a shower, pull on her disguise, and get her ass down to the community centre. But a new notification on Daisy’s wall made her click one last time.

Oh! Bethany had the most candid eyes she had ever seen. Her birth date told Fleur she was eighteen, but she looked younger. She had the other-worldly appearance of one of Cicely Mary Barker’s flower fairies – tousled hair, delicate bone structure, translucent skin. She was Pisces, a Friday’s child, an incurable dreamer. She loved cats and cuddles and jacaranda-scented candles. She played piano, loved to paint, and was no good at games. She adored Harry Potter and the music of A Camp and Muse. She haunted art galleries. She was partial to Dolly Mixtures. She hated polystyrene cups. She was going to be in Lissamore this weekend. She was looking forward to visiting Madame Tiresia.

And Madame Tiresia was looking forward to meeting her.




Chapter Four (#ulink_f8643773-feef-57aa-93a7-ebf2d63f5ee6)


‘It is quite possible for the gazer to be able to see things in the crystal at one time and not at another. This being so, you should not be discouraged if such images fail to appear at the gazer’s command.’ Dr R A Mayne

If Madame Tiresia fails to detect your aura, there will be no charge for your consultation.

Bethany regarded the disclaimer on the placard outside the fortune-teller’s booth. It was a bit like that terms-and-conditions-apply-share-prices-may-go-down-as-well-as-up stuff that voice-overs rattled off at the end of bank ads on the radio. In other words: let the buyer beware. Still, it was worth a try. Her horoscope had told her to heed the advice of a wise woman this week, and since Daisy de Saint-Euverte had been raving about Madame Tiresia on Facebook, Bethany had to assume that this was the wise woman in question. Bethany believed in horoscopes, even though she pretended to be cynical about them.

Although they had never met in real life, she had been thrilled when Daisy had accepted her as a friend on Facebook. It didn’t matter that Daisy had thousands of friends, it still felt kinda cool. Bethany’s friends numbered just over a hundred now, but she had to admit that she was a bit indiscriminate about the friendships she’d acquired. What must it be like to be as popular as Daisy de Saint-Euverte? Bethany had never been popular at school: she hadn’t been bullied as such – just ignored. She had been in awe of those girls who seemed so effortlessly confident, whose hair swished like something out of a shampoo commercial, and who spoke in loud D4 accents. She’d never been part of a crowd that screamed and hugged whenever they met, and who threw pink pyjama parties where they necked vodkatinis and watched the singalong version of Mamma Mia while texting their boyfriends. She’d been invited to one of those dos by a cousin, and she had screamed and giggled and sung along on cue, but she had felt like a complete impostor. She had been glad the next day to return to the fantasy realms that lay beyond the portal of her Xbox.

The other reason for Bethany’s low self-esteem was the fact that she had never had a boyfriend. She reckoned it was because her boobs were too small. She’d been going to ask her parents if she could have a boob job for her eighteenth birthday, but she knew they would have pooh-poohed the idea. They’d tell her not to be so stupid, that she was beautiful as she was. They didn’t understand what it was like to be a teenager. They didn’t know that it was horrible.

A gang of girls was coming along the promenade now, a phalanx of linked arms and GHD hair and blinging teeth. Bethany knew that if they saw her vacillating outside the fortune-teller’s, she’d be subjected to their derision. And there was nothing more lacerating than the derision of teenage girls. She’d never forgotten the snorts of mirth that had erupted in the classroom when the careers guidance teacher had announced that Bethany wanted to be an actress (‘Sure after all, girls,’ the teacher had chortled, fanning the flames of her peers’ ridicule, ‘isn’t Bethany O’Brien a fine name for a thespian? With a grand alliterative name like that, you wouldn’t be after needing any talent at all, so you wouldn’t.’) At least today she had somewhere to hide: there’d been nowhere to hide in the classroom that day. Pulling aside the curtain, she ducked into the booth.

It took a moment or two for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The tented space was lit by a single, crimson-shaded lamp. At a table covered in a star-spangled chenille cloth, a veiled woman was sitting gazing into a crystal ball in which Bethany could see herself reflected in miniature.

‘Erm, hello, Madame Tiresia,’ she said, feeling awkward. ‘My name—’

‘Sit down, Bethany,’ said the woman.

‘Oh! How did—’

‘I know your name? I saw it in the crystal. I’ve been waiting for you.’

Well, so far, so impressive. What clever trick had Madame used to get her name right? She’d try to work it out later, the way she and her parents did after watching Derren Brown on the telly. Moving towards the table, she sat down opposite Madame Tiresia.

‘Before we start, I must ask you to cross my palm with five euros.’

‘Oh – of course.’ Bethany pulled out her purse and handed over a five euro note, which Madam Tiresia slid into a manila envelope. The envelope was bulging: business must have been brisk. Bethany wondered how many of Daisy’s Facebook friends had taken her advice and sought a consultation with the fortune-teller. She’d check Facebook out later, and see what the consensus was.

‘Let me see what else the crystal has to show,’ said Madame Tiresia. ‘You sat exams recently, Bethany. You think you did quite well, but you’re scared that you may not have done well enough.’

‘You’re right.’

Hmm. Bethany guessed that that could apply to virtually every girl her age who came into the booth, since most teenagers this summer would have taken exams, and most would be feeling insecure about results.

‘What else do I see in the crystal?’ continued Madame Tiresia. ‘I see…a fish. Two fishes. What does that signify?’

‘Um. I don’t know. Maybe my mum’s going to do some kind of fish for supper.’

Madame Tiresia gave a low laugh. ‘No. The crystal is telling me that you were born under the sign of Pisces. Is that so?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are a talented young lady, Bethany. Artistic.’

Bethany shrugged. ‘I – I suppose I am.’

‘I see a keyboard. Do you play the piano?’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘And you love to act. It is your dream career. Have you applied to theatre school?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Isn’t it about time you did?’

‘I guess so. They’ve actually extended the deadline to the school I want to go to, but I keep putting it off.’

‘I see. You’re putting it off because you’re scared of rejection?’

Bethany nodded.

‘The crystal ball is telling me that you shouldn’t procrastinate any longer,’ said Madame Tiresia. ‘If you want this thing badly enough, you must take action now.’

‘Oh.’ Bethany looked dubious. ‘OK.’

‘The ball is telling me too that you’ve had a reason to be unhappy lately. What is the reason for your unhappiness, Bethany?’

‘I – I guess it’s just…I’m eighteen and I’ve never had a boyfriend.’ Oh! What was she doing, blurting out personal stuff like that! It was a fortune-teller she was talking to, not an agony aunt!

‘You badly want a boyfriend?’

‘Yeah. I know it’s stupid, but I feel like a loser without one.’

‘But you are a special girl, Bethany.’

Bethany shook her head. ‘No way! I’m not special!’

‘You are a special girl, Bethany,’ repeated Madame Tiresia. ‘And special girls have to be particular about the kind of boy they allow into their lives. You must not settle for just any Tom, Dick or Harry.’

Bethany drooped. ‘It’s just that nearly all the other girls I know have boyfriends.’

‘Ah – but they probably have settled for any Tom, Dick and Harry. They think that by surrounding themselves with friends, it proves to the world how popular they are. But they’re indiscriminate. You, Bethany, being special, must wait for that special boy. He is out there somewhere, waiting for you. But you must be patient.’

Funny. That’s what her mother always said to her. Bethany had always pretended to her mum that she didn’t care that she didn’t have a boyfriend, that she was perfectly happy without some punk hanging around, cramping her style. But the real reason she told her mum this was to reassure her, because she didn’t want her to know how badly she was hurting. She’d never told anyone how badly she was hurting. Until now…

‘I know it’s hard, Bethany,’ continued Madame Tiresia. ‘It’s hard to be different. And it’s even harder when you’re beautiful, because beautiful girls are expected to be carefree and fun-loving. You do know that you are beautiful, don’t you?’

‘Me? Are you—’ Bethany had been about to say, ‘Are you mad?’ but, realizing how rude it would sound, stopped herself and changed it to, ‘Are you serious?’ Nobody apart from her parents had ever told her that she was beautiful. At school, she felt so ordinary next to the glossy girls who spent a fortune on their appearance. Plus, she was always being asked for her ID.

‘You’re beautiful, Bethany. You’re a natural beauty. Trust me.’

‘But everybody picks on me and calls me pleb and loser!’

‘You’re neither of those things, Bethany.’

‘Oh – I’ve been a pleb and a loser for as long as I can remember.’ Bethany gave a little laugh, as if she didn’t care that people called her names – even though in reality it hurt like hell. ‘I remember when all the girls in my class were getting confirmed and boasting about the frocks they were going to wear, and I pretended that I had a frock with lace petticoats and pearls sewn on and in fact there wasn’t a frock at all because I wasn’t getting confirmed. My parents are atheists, you see and have no truck with religion. And when the other kids found out I was lying they gave me such a hard time.’

‘I can imagine. Children can be very cruel.’

‘They’re even worse when they grow up. I’ve had so much grief since people found out that I want to be an actress.’

‘But haven’t you always wanted to be an actress?’

‘Yes – since I was a little girl. But I never told anyone. I just used to act out scenes all by myself in my bedroom.’

‘So you’ve never acted in public?’

‘No. I used to help out with the drama group at school, but I didn’t have the nerve to audition. I just used to fetch and carry for the stage manager, and sit on the book in the prompt corner during shows. And then when people found out that I had – well, aspirations – they decided I’d got too big for my boots. They started sniggering and saying things like, “Got yourself an agent yet?” and, “When’s DiCaprio coming to find you?” And I’d have to laugh and pretend I can take a joke. I’ve got pretty good at pretending. Maybe that’s why I identify so much with Laura in The Glass Menagerie. They’re doing it in November, in the Gaiety School. I’d give anything to play Laura. In my dreams!’

‘Dream building is a good starting point. Tell me this. Assuming your application is successful, how are you going to put yourself through school? Will your parents finance you?’

‘I’ll live with them, because I can’t afford to rent anywhere. But I’m going to have to get some kind of a part-time job.’ Bethany gave a mirthless laugh. ‘That’ll be a challenge, the way things are in the employment market.’

‘So you’ll be looking for work when you go back to Dublin?’

‘Yeah. I’d much rather stay here, though, until term starts. I love it here.’

‘Why don’t you try and get a job in Lissamore, then?’

‘I’ve tried. There’s nothing going.’

‘You’re wrong. There are jobs going. Did you look for work on The O’Hara Affair?’

‘As an actress? Are you – serious? I wouldn’t have the nerve.’

‘Not as an actress, no. As an extra.’

‘I’d have loved that, but somebody told me there was no point. Apparently hundreds of wannabes like me applied. Oh – that’s an awful word, isn’t it! Wannabe.’

‘No. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something. Wanting something is proactive. Apathy is far, far worse. That’s why your classmates made jokes at your expense. They don’t have the courage to dream.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said an interesting thing earlier. You said that people decided you’d got too big for your boots. That’s because you have a dream, Bethany, and maybe they don’t. And because they’re jealous of your dream, they want to destroy it. Seeing you fail will make them feel better about themselves. Think about it.’

Bethany thought about it, and as she did, she felt a creeping sense of relief that what she’d always suspected to be true had been put into words by someone so much older and wiser than her. Was that the reason she was confiding all her secrets in Madame Tiresia? ‘That’s horrible, isn’t it?’

‘It’s human nature. But a much easier way of feeling better about yourself is to have a positive mantra. You lost your phone recently, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. How did you – oh. The crystal, of course.’

‘Of course,’ echoed Madame. Was Bethany imagining it, or was there a smile in her voice? ‘And when you lost your phone, what did you say to yourself?’

‘I told myself that I was an idiot.’

‘You see? You told yourself.’ Madame shook her head. ‘If you are telling yourself that you’re an idiot, Bethany, you are simply giving other people a license to do the same. If your self-esteem is rock bottom, you can hardly expect other people to respect you. So next time you lose your phone, don’t tell yourself you’re an idiot. Say, instead: “Oh! I have lost my phone – but hey, that happens to everyone from time to time. Losing my phone doesn’t mean I am an idiot. In fact, I think I’m pretty damned special.”’

Bethany wrinkled her nose. ‘But isn’t that kind of arrogant?’

‘Not at all. I have never understood why people think it is an insult when someone makes the observation, “You think you’re so great.” Tell me – how would you respond if someone said that to you?’

‘I’d tell them no way – I don’t think I’m great.’

‘You see! How negative is that? The correct response is, “That’s because I am great!”’

‘I’d never dream of saying that!’ protested Bethany.

‘You don’t actually have to articulate it. Say it to yourself. Say it now, Bethany. Say, “I think I’m great”.’

‘No. I can’t.’

‘Say it!’

‘I think I’m…great,’ said Bethany, without conviction.

‘There you are! Say it to yourself every time you want to call yourself an idiot. Say it over and over. “I think I’m great, I think I’m great, I think I’m great!” Let it be your mantra. Picture that little girl who pretended she had a confirm ation dress with petticoats, the little girl who could only act a role in the privacy of her bedroom. She’s afraid – she needs reassurance. Get to know her, make her your friend. Give her the respect she deserves, and I can guarantee that people will start to respect you, too.’

Bethany’s mind’s eye saw herself as a child, standing in a circle of little girls all comparing notes on their confirmation dresses. They’d been insecure, too, of course, with their bragging about how much their dress had cost and where it had been purchased. As for those girls she’d seen earlier – the ones with the swingy hair and orthodontic smiles – maybe they too sought help from internet sites or cried hot tears while updating their blogs? Maybe even Daisy de Saint-Euverte suffered from the blues, or the mean reds, like Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

‘The crystal tells me you should try for work on the film.’ Madame Tiresia’s tone was authoritative.

‘What?’

‘The crystal is certain that if you try, you will succeed. Go home now, and send off an email application for work as an extra. You’ll find it on The O’Hara Affair website.’

‘You really think I should?’

‘I do. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

Bethany smiled. ‘That’s what my mum always says.’

‘Mums can be pretty wise women.’ Madame Tiresia passed her hands over the crystal, setting her bangles jingling. ‘Alas, Bethany, your time is up. The crystal’s gone cloudy.’

‘Oh. Well – thank you for your advice, Madame. I’ll send off an application right away. I’ll send off two! One to the movie people, and one to the Gaiety School! My horoscope said I should heed the advice of a wise woman.’

‘Do you believe in horoscopes?’

‘No,’ she lied. ‘But I believe in you.’

‘That’s the spirit, beautiful girl. Shoo.’

Bethany rose to her feet. But before she lifted the flap of the booth she turned back to Madame. ‘D’you know something? I kinda feel more like I’ve been talking to a counsellor or a shrink or something rather than a fortune-teller. You should be an agony aunt – no offence!’ she added hastily. ‘You’re a really good fortune-teller as well.’

‘I know I am,’ said Madame Tiresia. ‘Give your cat Poppet a cuddle from me when you get home.’

‘Wow!’ said Bethany. ‘How did you—?’

‘How do you think?’

Utterly mystified, Bethany shook her head, gave a little smile, then left the booth. Outside, the gaggle of girls was sitting on the sea wall, swinging their legs.

‘I think I’m great,’ she murmured to herself as she plugged herself into her iPod. ‘I think I’m great. I think I’m great!’

She smiled as the Sugababes told her how sweet life could be, how it could change. Nothing ventured, nothing gained – that’s what Madame had told her, that’s what her mother told her, and really, the old clichés were the ones that always made the most sense. She could change her life around, and she was going to do it today because, after all, she was great – wasn’t she?

It was lucky for Bethany that the strains of the Sugababes drowned out the small arms fire of snide remarks that came her way from the sea wall as she headed for the narrow road that would take her home to Díseart.

As soon as Bethany left the booth, Fleur scribbled a ‘Back in five minutes’ sign and stuck it on the tent flap. Then she phoned Corban. ‘Lover?’ she said. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

‘That depends. Run it by me.’

‘There’s a girl who’d love to work as an extra on the film. Do you think you could organize it for her?’

‘That’s not my department, Fleur.’

‘I know. But I told her that it would happen.’

‘You mean, Madame Tiresia told her it would happen?’

‘Same difference. Surely you have some influence in the casting?’

‘I had some say in casting the leads, yes. Extras are a whole different ball game.’

‘Please, Corban. I really like this girl.’

‘What makes her so special?’

‘She’s vulnerable. She’s desperate to be an actress, but she’s not going to make it without a leg-up and some kind of experience.’

‘What age is she?’

‘Eighteen. But she looks younger. She could easily pass for a child. And didn’t you say that most of the extras were too well-fed-looking to be famine victims? This girl’s a skinny little thing. Very pretty, though, in a – um…What’s that word you use for “growing into”?’

‘Nascent?’

‘Nascent! That’s it. You can tell that she’s uncomfortable with the way she looks. I remember going through that stage when I was her age. It’s horrible – really horrible. You don’t realize that you’re turning into a swan. You think you’re going to be the ugly duckling for ever.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Bethany O’Brien.’

‘Easy to remember. OK. Leave it with me. I’ll have a word with the casting assistant and ask her to look out for your Bethany.’

‘Thank you, darling. She’ll be sending through an email application this afternoon. How did your meeting go?’

‘Not great. We’re over budget. It looks as if this is going to be the most expensive movie ever made in Ireland.’

‘Oh. Then what can I say but – enjoy your lunch.’

‘Thanks. How’s your fortune-telling lark going?’

‘It’s fun.’

‘Maybe you should take it up full time. Predicting the future could be a lucrative way to earn a living in these uncertain times.’

‘Only if you get it right. I hope people don’t come looking for their money back.’

‘Well, it’s unlikely that your Bethany will.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The casting assistant’s just come in. I’ll pull some strings and get your girl a job, starting asap.’

‘You star! Oops! I’d better go. Someone’s put their head around the tent flap. Time to have my palm crossed with more euros.’

Fleur stuck her phone in her bag. It wasn’t seemly for a fortune-teller to be caught chatting on a mobile. And as for the device under the tablecloth? Well, nobody need ever know about that. She called to the next girl to come in, then started to scroll through Daisy’s very useful list of Facebook friends.

‘Hello, Madame. I’m Gina.’

‘Gina. Sit down. Might your surname be Lombard?’

‘That’s amazing! How do you—’

‘I don’t know. But the crystal does,’ said Fleur, with a smile.




Chapter Five (#ulink_fa620e2e-369c-590e-bb08-e59dda2944fb)


It was Daphne’s eighty-fifth birthday and as a treat, Christian had booked a table for lunch at a newly opened restaurant, for which he was sourcing the wine. Nemia had dressed Daphne in a shirtwaister with a pie-crust collar, American Tan tights, and faux-suede shoes with elasticated sides. Her hair was coiffed in a bouffant, and she’d been sprayed with her favourite scent, Je Reviens. She sat in the passenger seat of Christian’s Saab, singing random snatches of old musical numbers and reapplying her lipstick, while Dervla zoned out in the back, mulling over the events of the past few days.

Getting her mother-in-law settled into the cottage had been rather a fraught affair, and Dervla wasn’t sure how well she’d handled things. On their first evening, Nemia had opted out of joining them for dinner, claiming that she’d prefer to cook for herself in the cottage and – since Nemia was a vegetarian – this made sense. Dervla had gone to some trouble, setting the kitchen table in the Old Rectory with flowers and candles, and putting Des O’Connor on the iPlayer. She’d downloaded it specially for Daphne, hoping that familiar music from a bygone era might help to make her feel at home. She’d also shifted the table across to the window, so that Daphne would have something to look at. Her eyesight was failing, but she could still make out motion and colour, and the wisteria growing around the window frame was spectacular – a pelmet of purple.

‘Why are we eating in the kitchen?’ Daphne demanded, on being shown into the room.

‘Because we have no dining room yet.’ Setting the serving dish on the table, Dervla started spooning out portions.

‘What do you mean, you have no dining room?’

‘It’s being decorated.’

‘Oh. What’s that noise?’

‘It’s Des O’Connor.’

‘Des O’Connor! Turn him up.’

Dervla did as she was told.

‘Grub’s up, Mum!’ said Christian, rubbing his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm.

‘What are we having?’ asked Daphne, lowering herself into the chair that Christian was holding out for her.

‘Looks like shepherd’s pie to me,’ said Christian.

‘That’s exactly what it is!’ enthused Dervla. ‘Shepherd’s pie! Made by my own fair hands! Except it’s not strictly speaking shepherd’s pie, because it’s made with beef, not lamb. I suppose it should be called cowman’s pie instead.’ ‘Isn’t it known as cottage pie?’ Christian supplied.

‘Oh, yes! I think you’re right.’

Dervla felt as if she were doing a bad audition for a job as a children’s television presenter. Her smile had never felt more fake. Having finished serving, she was about to sit down when Daphne lowered her head and said: ‘For what we are about to receive…’

Yikes! Grace? Dervla gave Christian a look of enquiry. He responded with a nod, and Dervla took her place at the table, murmuring, ‘May the Lord make us truly thankful.’

‘Amen.’ Daphne peered at her plate. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s shepherd’s pie, Daphne,’ Dervla reminded her.

‘Oh, good. I love shepherd’s pie.’

‘We all love shepherd’s pie.’ Christian took up his fork and tried a mouthful. ‘Mmm. It is delicious.’

‘I’m going to eat this now,’ announced Daphne. ‘Shall I eat it?’

‘Yes. Do.’

Dipping her fork into the shepherd’s pie, Daphne scooped some up. But as she brought the food to her mouth, a lump of mashed potato dropped onto her lap.

‘Oops!’ said Dervla. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’

Daphne gave her a cross look. ‘I don’t have a napkin! I should have a napkin.’

‘I’ll get you one now.’ Dervla helped herself to a cloth, and tore some sheets off a roll of kitchen towel. Then she wiped the mashed potato off Daphne’s lap, and distributed the makeshift napkins. ‘Nappies for everyone!’ she carolled. ‘Dear God,’ remarked Christian. ‘I hope not.’

Dervla widened her eyes at him, and he winked. Resuming her seat, she tried hard not to laugh, but it was proving impossible, and then, to make matters worse, Christian started to laugh too.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Daphne.

‘Nothing,’ he told her. ‘I just remembered a joke.’

Daphne looked put out. ‘Well, if it’s so side-splittingly funny, I think you might have the manners to share it.’

‘Um. OK. A grasshopper walks into a bar. The barman looks astonished. “Hey – whaddaya know?” he says. “We have a cocktail named after you.” The grasshopper gives the bartender a bemused look and says: “You have a cocktail called Steve?”’

Dervla started to laugh again. It was one of those awful fits of spasmodic laughter that happens when you are painfully aware that laughing is completely out of order, like laughing in church, or in the doctor’s waiting room.

Daphne gave Dervla a frosty look. ‘I think that is not a joke at all. Or if it is, it’s a very silly joke. You should be ashamed of yourself, Christian, for telling such silly jokes. What age are you now?’

‘I’m forty-five, Mum.’

‘You’re never forty-five!’ exclaimed Daphne.

‘I sure am. And feeling every day of it.’

‘But are you my son?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what age am I?’

‘You’re well over eighty, Mum.’

‘But I don’t want to be that old! That’s dreadful!’

‘Yes. But, sure – you’re as young as you feel.’

There was a pregnant pause as Daphne digested the news that she was eighty-something and Des O’Connor crooned over the speakers about Spanish eyes. ‘I’m carrying on the tradition of my family,’ she pronounced finally. ‘Living to a funny old age. My parents are still alive, you know. Aren’t they?’

Christian set down his fork. ‘What do you think, Mum?’

‘No.’ Daphne drooped a little. ‘It’s terrible when your memory deserts you.’

‘That’s what happens when you reach your age,’ Christian reassured her. ‘It’s OK. It’s not your fault.’

Dervla and Christian exchanged glances. A sudden sobriety had fallen on the dinner table. They continued to eat in silence for a while. Then Daphne looked curiously at Christian and said: ‘Did you marry someone?’

‘Yes. I married Dervla.’

‘Dervla?’ she said, turning to regard her. ‘Is that you?’

‘Yes, Daphne,’ said Dervla. ‘Christian, could you pass me the salt, please?’

‘Certainly,’ said Christian. ‘There you are.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Oh, this was awful, awful! Dervla felt as if she were spouting dialogue from a bad play. She couldn’t be spontan eous. She couldn’t just reach for the salt herself in case it looked unmannerly. She couldn’t burp and then go ‘Oops!’ She couldn’t say, ‘Look at that queer-shaped cloud.’ She couldn’t say, ‘I’m knackered.’ She couldn’t say, ‘How are you getting on with the new Patricia Cornwell?’ Because if she said any of those things, she’d have to explain to Daphne what she had said. She’d have to say, ‘There’s a funny-shaped cloud in the sky, Daphne. I was just pointing it out to Christian.’ She’d have to say, ‘I was just saying to Christian that I’m very tired.’ She’d have to say, ‘Christian is reading a book by an author called Patricia Cornwell, and I was wondering if he was enjoying it.’ And then Daphne would be bound to come out with something like, ‘Christian is not reading a book. He is eating his dinner.’ And then…And then?

Hell. She couldn’t allow this to happen to her. ‘Look at that queer-shaped cloud, Christian,’ she said, in a low voice.

‘Wow! It looks like the UFO from Close Encounters.’

‘That’s just what I was thinking!’

‘Why are you whispering?’ shouted Daphne. ‘You don’t want me to hear!’

‘We’re not whispering, Mum,’ said Christian.

‘Then stop giving each other private looks. It’s rude.’

‘But we’re married. We’re allowed to look at each other.’ He smiled at Dervla, and added in an undertone, ‘And do rude things.’

‘What do you mean, you’re married?’

‘Dervla and I were married last year.’

‘What? Why did nobody tell me? I don’t believe that the pair of you are married! Congratulations and jubilations!’

Christian started to sing along, then stopped abruptly, and slid Dervla an apologetic look.

‘It’s OK,’ she told him. ‘It really is.’ And, taking a deep breath, she joined in the song she had never been able to bring herself to sing before in her life because it was so damned naff.

‘There’s a bird!’ exclaimed Daphne, interrupting the singalong. ‘That was a bird, you know. I saw it land on the windowsill. And then it took off. It was a bird.’

There was another pause, then Dervla rose and started to clear away her plate. She wasn’t hungry any more. And then she tensed, waiting for Daphne to say it was rude to clear away before everyone had finished. But thankfully, Daphne hadn’t seemed to notice. ‘Would you like a bowl of ice cream for pudding, Daphne?’ she asked, in her children’s television presenter’s voice.

‘No. I would not like a great big bowl. I would like a dish of ice cream for pudding. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Well, that was a lovely dinner, wasn’t it?’ said Christian, putting his knife and fork together.

‘What did we have, again?’

‘Shepherd’s pie.’

Oh, God help us, Dervla thought, as she scraped leftover pie into the bin and went to fetch bowls – dishes – from the cupboard. Behind her, she could hear Daphne blowing her nose. When she went back to the table, a sheet of scrunchedup kitchen towel was sitting on her place mat.

That had been the first day. And now, sitting in the back of the car listening to Daphne singing about putting on her top hat and white tie and dancing in her tails, she thought the same thought again. God help us.

In the car park of Chez Jules Christian pulled up outside the door, and came around to the passenger side to assist his mother out of the car. There was nothing much Dervla could do to help: she stood there watching as Daphne was shoe-horned out of the passenger seat and hoisted to her feet.

‘I’ll take over now,’ said Dervla, taking hold of her mother-in-law’s arm. ‘You go and park.’

Daphne staggered a little as she redistributed her weight and clutched onto Dervla for support. Her bouffed-up hair had subsided, her American Tan tights were wrinkled round the ankles, and the lipstick that she’d put on in the car was lopsided, lending her the look of a badly made-up clown. Dervla suddenly felt a flash of pity for the old woman. To think that she had once modelled Balenciaga, conducted illicit affairs, and chucked diamonds down the loo! Had she ever imagined, as she’d stalked down the catwalk, that she’d end up like this?

A small boy was toddling across the car park, holding on to his mother’s hand. He stopped when he saw Daphne, and stared at her, mouth agape. ‘Old hag, Mammy!’ he said. ‘Look, Mammy – old hag!’

‘Shh, Jamie!’ said the woman in a terse undertone. ‘Mind your manners!’

But it was true. Despite Nemia’s attempts to style her hair and dress her up, Daphne did look like the kind of old hag you’d see in a storybook – beauty had turned into a beast.

As Dervla manoeuvred Daphne through the door of the restaurant, the maître d’ came forward, concern on his face.

‘Mr Vaughan’s party,’ said Dervla. ‘He reserved a table for three.’

The maître d’ smiled, and consulted his reservations book. ‘Ah, yes! Follow me, please.’

As he led the way towards a table in an alcove on the far side of the room, Dervla could see diners exchanging glances that said, quite clearly, Oh my God, I hope they’re not going to be seated at the table next to us…The table was set for four, and Dervla knew damned well that the table plan had been deftly rejigged, to ensure that the Vaughan party would be seated in the most inconspicuous part of the restaurant. The maître d’ drew out a chair for Daphne, and she fell into it with an ‘Oof!’ of relief.

At a nearby table, two yummy mummies were looking sideways at them, and talking in undertones. At another table, a middle-aged couple was sending Dervla sympathetic smiles. Was this inevitable when you got old? Dervla wondered. Did hitting a certain level of decrepitude mean that every time you emerged into public you were gawped at like something out of a freak show? She imagined the entrances that Daphne might once have made into restaurants, in her modelling days, when maîtres d’ would bow and scrape, and diners gaze in admiration.

Although – she saw now – one person was regarding her with an engaging smile. It was a man she realized she knew. As Shane Byrne rose from his table and strolled over to her, diners did indeed gaze in admiration, for this was Hollywood royalty incarnate.

‘Dervla! How lovely to see you. It’s been a while.’

‘Shane!’ Dervla stood up and presented her face for a kiss. ‘Río told me you were in town. You look great. How does it feel to be coming back as a hotshot movie star?’

‘Not half bad. Apart from the camera phones. I can’t go anywhere without someone sticking a phone in my face.’

‘Remember your manners,’ came the magisterial tones of her mother-in-law, ‘and introduce me.’

‘I beg your pardon. Shane, this is my mother-in-law, Daphne Vaughan. Daphne, this is Shane Byrne.’

Shane took Daphne’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Enchanté,’ he said, smiling directly into her eyes. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance. And I hope you won’t think it forward of me if I compliment you on the exquisite perfume you are wearing, madame.’

‘Thank you. It’s Je Reviens, you know. That means “I will return”. I’ve worn it since I was a girl.’

‘Not so long ago, then,’ remarked Shane.

Daphne gave him a coquettish look. ‘Ha! I can tell you are a Casanova.’

‘Only around beautiful women,’ said Shane.

‘It’s Daphne’s birthday today, Shane,’ Dervla told him.

‘Twenty-one again?’

Daphne gave a tinkling laugh. ‘You are a Casanova! Would you care to join us for a glass of champagne?’

‘There’s nothing I would enjoy more. I am, alas, otherwise engaged. It was a pleasure to have met you, Madame Vaughan. And may I wish you all the compliments of the day.’

Shane turned back to Dervla, who was regarding him with admiration. What an awesome performance! And then she remembered how adroitly he’d charmed her when they were little more than teenagers, and her sister after her, and – if the tabloids were to be believed – a bevy of beauties in Tinseltown.

‘So you’re playing the lead in The O’Hara Affair?’ Dervla said. ‘That would be Scarlett’s father?’

‘I am not playing Scarlett’s father,’ replied Shane, with some indignation. ‘Gerald O’Hara is short and bow-legged. I’m playing the wicked landlord who practises droit du seigneur and gets to tup all the local totty.’

‘Nice work.’

‘I can’t complain. How’s your line of business, Dervla?’

‘I’ve given up auctioneering. Or rather, it gave me up. And I’m writing a book.’

‘You’re writing a book!’ said Daphne. ‘What nonsense.’

Shane raised an eyebrow at Dervla, and she shrugged. ‘What can I tell you?’ she said. ‘Life’s a little rough around the edges these days. And I am writing a book, actually. On how to sell your house.’

‘Hey! Congratulations.’

Dervla gave a rueful smile. ‘Unlikely to be a bestseller, but it’s keeping me busy.’

‘Congratulations!’ said Daphne. ‘And celebrations. We’re celebrating something, aren’t we? What, exactly, are we celebrating?’

‘We’re celebrating your birthday,’ Dervla told her.

‘I’ll let you get on with it,’ said Shane. ‘Good to see you, Dervla.’

‘Likewise.’

Dervla resumed her seat, and watched Shane move back to his table, where a handsome, rather saturnine man was studying the wine list. She hoped it would impress – Christian had taken such care compiling it. Picking up a menu, she felt her stomach somersault when she saw the prices. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d told Shane that life was a little rough around the edges. The proposed expansion of Christian’s wine importing business had coincided with the recession: people weren’t buying much fine wine these days. He’d taken to stocking more downmarket stuff to supply those customers who’d taken to drinking at home instead of the pub, where a couple of glasses of wine could cost nearly as much as a full bottle from the off-licence. Sales of accessories like electric corkscrews and wine coolers and silver champagne stoppers had plummeted, and sommelier kits remained on the shelf, gathering dust. Christian’s efforts to get night classes in wine appreciation up and running in the community centre had met with a dismally poor response.

Luckily, there was income from the renting out of Dervla’s apartment in Galway, and from the cottage – Christian’s sister had insisted that if Daphne was to live with the newlyweds, it was only fair that they receive rent in return from the income that Daphne’s investments brought in. It wasn’t a whole lot, but it kept things ticking over – just.

Dervla remembered how things had been at the height of the property boom, when she could have afforded to eat out every night if she’d felt like it. She remembered how she’d fantasized about sitting with Christian on the bench by the door of the Old Rectory, sipping chilled Sancerre and sharing with him her dreams of planting fruit trees and keeping chickens and maybe – if they were lucky – having babies. She’d pictured herself drifting around the garden in a wifty-wafty frock, carrying a trug full of vegetables she had grown herself, vegetables that she would whizz up into a delicious purée, to be served later with roast rack of lamb at the dining table around which a dozen friends would have congregated, all laughing and swapping gossip and repartee. The women would be dressed in Cath Kidston florals, the men in Armani casuals. Kitty the Dalmatian would sport a fringed suede collar, and there’d be Mozart on the sound system.

How ironic, she thought, that now she’d made the definite decision to grow her own fruit and veg, it wasn’t for trendy ecological reasons: it was because it was cheaper. Ironic that – now she was actually installed in her dream house – she couldn’t afford to furnish it. Ironic that the only Cath Kidston florals within her current budgetary remit would come second-hand from eBay. But it was terribly, terribly sad that, instead of Mozart, the accompanying soundtrack to her life was Des O’Connor.

‘What does that funny-looking person think he’s doing?’ Daphne was glowering at the maître d’.

‘He’s showing Christian to our table,’ Dervla told her. ‘Now. What’ll we have to eat?’

‘What is there?’

‘I’ll read the menu to you. Potted crab—’

‘Potted what?’

Oh, God. Dervla resisted the temptation to sling the menu on the table and leg it out of the restaurant. Instead, she smiled at Christian as he joined them.

‘Hi, darling,’ she said.

He gave her a brief kiss on the cheek before dropping into his chair. ‘Is that Shane Byrne I see over there?’ he asked. ‘That’s him. I felt very chuffed to be seen hobnobbing with him: he came over to say hello.’

‘This place must be good if it’s frequented by film stars. He’s a bit older in real life than he looks on the screen, isn’t he?’

‘Stop gawking at him. He says he can’t go anywhere these days without someone sticking a phone in his face.’

‘What an idea!’ said Daphne. ‘Why should anyone want to stick a phone in his face?’

‘Shane’s famous,’ explained Dervla. ‘He’s a movie actor.’

‘That doesn’t explain why anyone should want to stick a phone in his face.’

‘Phones can take photographs now, Mum,’ said Christian.

‘What a lot of nonsense you talk,’ said Daphne.

Christian sighed, then opened the menu. ‘Hmm. Potted crab sounds good.’

Daphne regarded him with interest. ‘Potted what?’ she said.

The excruciating lunch dragged on over ninety long minutes. Daphne kept making remarks about the other diners in quite stentorian tones, and every time she did, Dervla died a little death. And she had constantly to remind her mother-in-law that the drink in the tumbler to her right was elderflower pressé, and the food on the plate in front of her was fish pie, and Daphne insisted that she’d ordered meatballs like Christian, not fish pie, and her nose dripped constantly and she chewed on her cuticles, and Dervla found herself chewing on her cuticles – something she hadn’t done since her stressed-out estate agent days.

At one stage, Christian made his excuses: he wanted to combine business with pleasure by having a chat with the owner about some alterations to the wine list. So he upped and left Daphne and Dervla together. After a couple of polite enquiries – would Daphne like some more water? Would she care for a cup of coffee? – Dervla gave up making desultory conversation, and people-watched instead. A woman’s threeseasons-ago Vuitton bag was showing signs of wear and tear, and her roots were an inch long. A man was studying the bill with a furrowed brow, clearly hoping there was some mistake. A young couple had opted for two starters rather than main courses. At least Dervla wasn’t the only person in Coolnamara who was feeling the pinch.

Things were different at Shane’s table, on the other side of the room. There, lobster thermidor and an excellent bottle of Meursault had been served (Christian had recognized the label). Holy moly! It was far from lobster and swanky vintage wine that Shane Byrne had been reared! But, Dervla noticed now, he wasn’t the one footing the bill. His lunch companion was dealing with it, while Shane signed autographs for a couple of awestruck teenage girls. As Shane chatted to his fan club, clearly charming them as much as he’d charmed Daphne earlier, Dervla saw his host finish the business with the chip and pin, smile at the waitress, and produce a business card. The pretty girl accepted it, smiled back, and nodded.

Hmm. What was going on there? Like all estate agents, Dervla was an excellent reader of body language: she’d learned over the course of two decades spent showing houses to know instantly whether or not a potential buyer was interested, whether or not they could afford the property in question, and whether or not they were bluffing. Sitting side-on to the table, this man’s demeanour was relaxed: legs apart – one crooked, one stretched forward; left arm draped across the back of his chair; hair skimming his collar. His tie was loosened, his topmost shirt button undone, his Hugo Boss jacket worn with the casualness another man might wear a chain-store anorak. His watch was a discreet Rolex, and he exuded the easy authority of a Machiavellian prince. ‘Behold!’ both his dress and his body language were saying, ‘Here presides an alpha male.’ Dervla had sparred with many alpha males in the course of her career, and had more often than not emerged victorious. She had enjoyed the cut and thrust, the deploying of guerrilla tactics, the element of espion age. She wondered what kind of an opponent this guy would make, what his fatal flaw might be – if he had one. He certainly had an aura of invincibility.

‘What is that man doing over there?’ demanded Daphne.

Dervla thought at first that her mother-in-law was referring to Rolex man, but then realized that her gaze was trained on Shane, who had finished signing autographs with a flourish.

‘That’s Shane Byrne. He’s signing autographs.’

‘What for?’

‘He’s a film star.’

‘Oh! How exciting. I’d like to meet him.’

There was no point in telling Daphne that she’d met him already. Dervla waved at Shane, and he took his leave of the lovely girls and came over immediately.

Giving him an apologetic look, Dervla launched into introductions once again. Thankfully, Shane copped on immedi ately, and Groundhog Day began anew. After he had told Daphne how enchanté he was, and complimented her for the second time on her perfume, Dervla managed to fish for the information she wanted.

‘Who’s your lunch partner?’ she asked, lowering her voice a little and hoping that Daphne wouldn’t command her to speak up.

‘He’s one of the executive producers on the film.’

‘Executive! I’ve never really understood that word. What do “executive” producers do, exactly?’

‘Nothing much, except inject capital. It’s a vanity credit, really.’

‘So it’s all about ego?’

Shane shrugged. ‘In this case, there’s extra kudos in the fact that Corban’s name is in the film’s title. I suppose having a film named after you is a bit like having a ship named after you, and Mr O’Hara’s a major player on board this one.’

Wow. So Rolex man was Corban O’Hara, Fleur’s current squeeze! ‘What’s he like?’ she asked.

‘He seems nice enough for a rich bloke.’

‘Pot, kettle, Shane Byrne.’

Shane gave her an ‘as if ’ look. ‘O’Hara is seriously rich, Dervla. If he decided to withdraw funding, the film would capsize.’

‘Does he have any creative contribution at all?’

‘He can make a few suggestions; do a little hiring and firing. Being an executive producer is all to do with power. The movie set is his principality.’

‘So it’s like playing at being king?’

This was Daphne’s cue to start humming ‘My Lord and Master’ from The King and I.

‘That’s exactly what it’s like,’ Shane told her.

Dervla looked again at Corban O’Hara, who was eyeing the two autograph hunters. They were now strolling along the terrace of the restaurant, giggling and texting, probably sending word of their close encounter with the film star to every girl they knew.

Dervla narrowed her eyes in speculation. ‘If the movie set is his principality,’ she said, ‘could he practise droit du seigneur? Or has the casting couch become extinct in postfeminist la-la land?’

‘I don’t think la-la land is ready for feminism yet, Dervla, let alone post-feminism. Over there, you’d be known as that quaint contradiction in terms that is “a career girl”.’

‘I had a career once, you know,’ announced Daphne. ‘I was a model.’

‘Well, I’ll be doggone! You should think about taking it up again,’ said Shane, and Daphne gave him a playful slap on the arm.

‘I know all about men like you!’ she scolded.

‘What made you give it up?’ Dervla asked her mother-in-law, genuinely curious to know.

‘What made me give it up? My parents, I think. Yes. My parents wanted me to get married to someone.’

‘And who was the lucky man?’ asked Shane.

‘He was called…lucky. He was much older than I. He was a businessman. We lived in…Belgravia.’

‘Ritzy!’ remarked Shane.

‘Yes. It was ritzy. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to marry Jack. But Jack died.’

‘How sad,’ said Dervla. ‘Was Jack your boyfriend?’

‘Yes. It was very, very sad. He died in a fire. He was a dancer. He was the love of my life.’ Daphne spoke with such emphasis that Dervla sensed she had total recall of this event. She’d read somewhere that people suffering from dementia had stronger memories of yesteryear than yesterday. ‘It was very, very sad,’ she said again. ‘It was tragic.’

Shane and Dervla exchanged glances. Then Shane sat down on Christian’s seat, and took Mrs Vaughan’s hand. There were tears in the old lady’s eyes.

‘I know what it’s like to lose the love of your life,’ Shane said. ‘I lost mine.’

‘Oh. Did she die?’

‘No. But she wouldn’t marry me.’

‘Stupid girl! She should be ashamed of herself. What was her name?’

‘Her name is Río.’

Dervla looked at Shane in amazement. ‘Río, Shane? After all this time?’

‘It’s always been her.’

‘Your bird of paradise,’ she said with a smile.

‘What are you two talking about now?’ demanded Daphne. ‘Are you having an affair?’

‘No, Daphne,’ Dervla told her. ‘We’re just reminiscing about something that happened when we were very, very young.’

‘“The Young Ones”. That’s a song by Cliff Richard, you know.’

Dervla knew what was coming, and sure enough, Daphne turned back to Shane and started to serenade him with ‘The Young Ones’. Dervla was impressed by Shane’s acting prowess. He managed to look as if sitting in a restaurant having a love song sung to him by a superannuated diner was the highlight of his day. And in fact, now that she listened to the song, Dervla realized that the words were peculiarly poignant: she didn’t think she’d ever heard them properly before. No matter about Daphne’s short-term memory, it was highly possible that her recall of greatest hits of the sixties could get her a gig on Mastermind. The lyrics were all about how important it was to live in the present because the transient nature of youth meant that you might never have another chance to find love.

Is that why Daphne had conducted all those affairs after she married? To try to find the love that had been so cruelly snatched from her first time around? Christian had mentioned that his father had been much older than his beautiful wife – that he had, in fact, been a friend of his grandfather – but he appeared as reluctant to talk about his family history as Dervla was to talk about hers. Oh, God! She hoped that the ghosts of Daphne’s amours would never come spilling skeleton-like out of the closet. It was just as well, for Christian’s sake, that the ‘novel’ his mother had been planning to write had never found a publisher.

‘Mum! What are you doing, singing to a film star?’ Christian had returned from his business chat, and was smiling down at his mother.

‘Is this person a film star?’ asked Daphne. ‘Do I know him?’

‘He certainly is a film star.’ Christian extended a hand. ‘Hi. I’m Christian Vaughan, Dervla’s husband. Nice to meet you.’

‘Likewise. You’re the wine importer, yeah?’

‘That’s right.’

And as Christian and Shane got to know each other, Dervla returned her attention to Corban O’Hara, who was still checking out the two teens texting on the terrace. He was distracted from the vision of loveliness by the BlackBerry on the table in front of him. Picking it up, he checked the display. Then he smiled, and looked directly at the cuter of the two girls. She was smiling right back at him.

Frowning, Dervla looked away.




Chapter Six (#ulink_2bf478e1-b242-512e-9300-7280b4f17058)


On the top of the double-decker bus that had been converted into a mobile canteen, the extras were on a tea break. Most of them were locals who had been working on The O’Hara Affair for the past three weeks, and most of them were playing starving peasants. The obesity rate in Coolnamara had plummeted, because as soon as word had got out that The O’Hara Affair was going to be shooting near Lissamore, half the population had gone on diets and taken up exercise classes in the community hall. The downside of playing a starving peasant was the costumes: they were filthy, raggedy old things. Bethany had been lucky: she was meant to be a lady’s maid in the Big House, so she got to wear something rather more stylish: an ankle-length black dress with button boots, starched white pinafore and matching lace-trimmed cap.

On this, her first day, Bethany had been hanging out with a girl called Tara, who had also been cast as a lady’s maid. There was a lot of hanging about on a film set, Bethany had discovered. In fact, she had come to the conclusion that extra work was deadly dull. She hadn’t had a glimpse of a single star so far: all the principals were sequestered in their trailers. Not only that, extras were treated like cattle, with assistant directors herding them about and shouting at them: ADs were the most irritable people she’d ever come across. And a lot of the extras weren’t the pleasantest bunch to work with, either. Because she and Tara had nicer costumes than the other girls, the pair of them were subjected to a lot of resentful looks, like the girls who won the challenge in America’s Next Top Model.

But Bethany didn’t care. She remembered what Madame Tiresia had said about the girls at school – the ones who’d been jealous of her because they hadn’t the courage to dream. And now that she had plucked up the courage to chase that dream, here she was on her way to living it, even though it was proving to be boring.

Tara was a seasoned extra, having worked on the film for a couple of weeks now. She had learned about hitting marks, she had learned not to touch the lasagne at lunchtime, and she had learned to stave off the boredom with the help of her laptop. She had shared all of this arcane information with Bethany earlier that day, and now they were messing around on YouTube, looking at video clips of craziest cats.

‘What’s Shane Byrne like?’ Bethany asked, as Tara clicked on ‘Kittens Dancing to Jingle Bell Rock’.

‘Shane Byrne,’ Tara told her, ‘is a sweetie. He’s real friendly – a gentleman. You might see him later – he sometimes joins us for coffee on the bus.’

‘On the bus? You’re kidding!’

‘It’s true. He’s not up himself, like the other stars, who wouldn’t be caught dead talking to a mere extra.’

‘He’s from around here originally, isn’t he?’

‘Galway. He had a fling years ago with the woman who’s doing the set-dressing, Río Kinsella. They had a son together.’

‘I remember reading about that in some online fanzine. It said something about a “love child” and a “tempestuous” affair. You can tell just by looking at him that he’s a bad boy, a bit like Johnny Depp, except that Johnny Depp—’

‘Shh!’ Tara stiffened suddenly. ‘Let’s change the subject.’

‘What’s – oh.’ Following the direction of Tara’s gaze, Bethany saw that Shane Byrne had just dropped into the seat behind her. He was accompanied by a man who was fingering a BlackBerry.

‘Hey! I’m bored with YouTube,’ said Tara, niftily changing tack. ‘Let’s have a wander around Second Life.’

‘What?’

‘Second Life. It’s another great way of passing the time when you’re hanging around waiting to be called.’

‘Is that the game where you pretend to be somebody else?’

‘Yeah. Except it’s not really a game. It’s more of a virtual world where you can interact with real people who are online at the same time.’

‘How does it work?’

‘You create an avatar who represents you – mine’s called Mitzy.’ Tara clicked on the Second Life icon, and waited for the site to download.

‘Wasn’t there something in the papers about a UK couple who divorced in real life after their avatars were unfaithful to each other on Second Life?’

‘Yes.’

‘Weird!’

‘That’s how seriously some people take it. That couple got married in Second Life before getting married in real life. And then, when she suspected him of having virtual sex with a Second Life lap dancer, she actually hired a virtual private detective to set up a honey trap. The funniest thing was that their avatars bore absolutely no resemblance to the way they looked in real life. In Second Life he was a six-foot-four love god, and she was a six-foot sex siren. Look – here’s Mitzy – isn’t she pretty?’

Bethany peered at the image that shimmered onto the screen of Tara’s notebook. A 3-D beauty with golden Rapunzel locks was standing poised on the step of a pagoda. She was wearing a fairy-tale ball gown, a glittering tiara, and ruby slippers.

‘Wow,’ said Bethany. ‘How did you make her?’

‘I chose a generic avatar, then customized her by changing her body shape and skin tone and hair, and shopping for outfits in the virtual mall. Look.’

Tara clicked a few times, and suddenly Mitzy was in a shopping mall, surrounded by other shoppers. These avatars ranged from the everyday – dressed in jeans and T-shirts – to the outlandish, in preposterous fancy dress. By pressing ←↑→and ↓ on the keyboard, Tara was able to move Mitzy in different directions. She promptly sent her off window-shopping.

‘Can you really buy this stuff?’ asked Bethany.

‘Yes – with virtual money called Linden dollars. You can buy anything you like here, be anyone you want to be.’

It was true. Those virtual Linden dollars could transform Mitzy into a cheer leader, a geisha or a trollop. She could be Scheherazade, Cleopatra, Pocahontas or Pink. The place was a virtual shopaholic’s dream.

‘It’s amazing!’ said Bethany. ‘Look – you can even get tattoos!’

‘And hair extensions. And nail art, if you could be arsed.’

‘Hey – look at that dude! The one with the floppy hair who looks like Johnny Depp.’

‘You really are into Johnny Depp?’ Tara asked her, with a wicked smile.

Bethany smiled back. ‘Big time.’

‘I’m more an Orlando Bloom gal myself.’

Tara walked Mitzy up to the avatar, whose nametag read ‘Silvius’. ‘Do you want to talk to him?’

‘How do you talk?’ asked Bethany.

‘You can use voice chat,’ Tara told her. ‘But I prefer instant messaging. Watch this’: Hello Silvius, she typed. I love your coat. Where did you get it? She pressed Return, and the words appeared on the screen.

Silvius seemed to hesitate, and then, perhaps impressed by Mitzy’s beauty and ruby slippers, the reply came back. Hello Mitzy. Ty. I got it in Kings Plaza Thanks, said Mitzy/Tara. I’ll go there straight away.

A couple more clicks, and suddenly the golden-haired avatar was standing in a department store where glam menswear and even more glamorous womenswear was on display.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Bethany. ‘Who creates these places?’

‘Members of the Second Life community. I find it a great way to chill. Loads of people say they’d rather get a real life than go on Second Life, but I’ve met some really cool people on here. Wait till you see this.’

Within seconds, Mitzy was standing in front of a Tudor building, courtesy of Teleport.

‘Where are we?’

‘It’s the Globe Theatre.’

‘Like – Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre?’

‘Yep. We’re on Shakespeare Island.’

‘I love it!’ said Bethany.

‘You can teleport to loads of places. You can even visit an Irish pub in Temple Bar.’

Abruptly, a real voice dragged them away from their virtual world. One of the ADs was standing at the top of the stairs. ‘There’s been a hitch, boys and girls,’ he announced, ‘and we’ve had to rejig. The interior’s been rescheduled for tomorrow. We’re moving on to the exterior.’

‘Bummer.’

Bethany and Tara drooped. The interior scene involved the staff of the Big House – including the ladies’ maids – while the exterior was all starving peasants begging the evil landlord for food. Since their scene was postponed they could have gone home, but they had no transport, and Lissamore was a six-mile walk away. They’d have to stay on until all the other extras had finished for the day so that they could board the coach together. More bloody hanging around.

The AD made his way past them to where Shane Byrne was sitting with his companion. ‘Mr Byrne, apologies for the inconvenience. I’ll call you as soon as we’re set up. May I get someone to bring you more coffee?’

‘Please,’ said Shane Byrne. Then he turned to his neighbour. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be congenial company for the foreseeable. I’m gonna have to go over my script.’

‘No worries,’ said the dark-haired man. ‘I have some business I can get out of the way.’ He reached for his BlackBerry as Shane reached for his script. ‘Some day soon, you’ll be learning your lines on screen,’ he observed.

‘Nah,’ said Shane. ‘I’ll stick to hard copy. I always auction scripts off when I’m finished with them, and send the proceeds to Cancer Research.’

‘Good idea.’

Behind them, Bethany and Tara were still slumped in their seats. The time on the screen of Tara’s laptop read 3.15. They could be stuck here for another three hours. On the screen, Mitzy sighed and yawned.

‘How did you make her do that?’ asked Bethany.

‘Easy,’ Tara told her, ‘I went to the gestures menu and selected “bored”. I can get her to do all kinds of things.’

‘Can I have a go?’

‘Sure.’

Tara passed over her laptop, and Bethany started playing around with the keys, selecting Page Up to propel Tara’s avatar towards a sign that read SLSC Academy of Performing Arts.

‘What’s SLSC?’ she asked.

‘Second Life Shakespeare Company. They put on plays apparently, but any time I visit there’s hardly anyone here.’

Bethany propelled Mitzy through a door.

‘Hey – look – we’re in some kind of a gallery! This is amazing!’ Around the walls were pictures of Shakespeare’s characters from Hamlet. Bethany guided the avatar past portraits of Hamlet and Ophelia, Gertrude, Claudius and the Player King, before finding herself in the playhouse. She manoeuvred Mitzy up onto the stage, and stood looking around. There was something marvellously out-of-body about this.

‘Where else can we go?’ she asked Tara.

‘How about a beach?’

‘Yes!’

In the shake of a lamb’s tail, Mitzy was standing on a deserted beach. It was night in Second Life, and dark waves were crashing onto the silver sand. Above her, stars pinpricked the sky, and seagulls called.

‘I came here once,’ Tara told Bethany, ‘and there was an avatar of a girl in a bikini, waiting for her boyfriend. She told me she was living in Florida, and he was in the UK, and they used to meet up on the same beach at a prearranged time to go swimming together.’

‘How sweet!’ said Bethany.

‘Hey – how about we set you up an account?’

‘An account?’

‘On Second Life. We may as well do something creative if we’re going to be stuck here for the next couple of hours.’

‘Cool!’ said Bethany. ‘I’d love that.’

Tara reclaimed her laptop. ‘We’ll have to fill in a form. The usual crap. And you’ll need a password. Never divulge your password to anyone you meet on Second Life, by the way, because if you do they can steal your avatar and impersonate you. And there are some dodgy areas you’ll want to stay clear of.’

‘Like what?’

‘Porn, of course. Sometimes you stumble across some pretty icky stuff. Let’s go.’

The next few minutes were spent choosing a generic avatar for Bethany. They hit upon a pretty girl whom they decided to call Poppet, after Bethany’s cat. Then Bethany dictated her email address and her date of birth to Tara, and supplied her with a password.

‘You’re in!’ sang Tara, checking out Bethany’s in-box, and clicking to activate her account. ‘Welcome to Second Life, Poppet! Let’s go and make some friends!’

She passed her laptop back to Bethany, who took her first stumbling steps into Second Life in the guise of pretty little Poppet in a pink-and-white polka-dot frock. Someone called Arabella flounced past her. Someone called Rambo bumped into her. Someone called Samuel invited her to sit beside him. By the end of the afternoon Poppet had learned how to fly, how to shop, and how to blow kisses. She’d visited a pub, a club, and Trinity College Dublin. She had made friends with a girl from Toulouse and a boy from upstate New York. She’d laughed and joked and stuck her tongue out at a clown who’d tried to dance with her. Bethany wasn’t shy here! She had none of the hang-ups that stymied her socially in real life. And just as she was about to approach a haughty-looking diva and ask where she’d got her hair, Tara’s laptop ran out of juice.

‘We’ll meet up tonight, yeah?’ suggested Tara. ‘Mitzy and Poppet could go virtual clubbing together.’

‘Cool! What time?’

‘Ten o’clock on Welcome Island?’

‘It’s a date.’

Tara shut the lid of her notebook and yawned. Then: ‘Sheesh,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I got so caught up in that that I didn’t even see him go.’

‘Who?’

‘Shane Byrne.’

Bethany glanced over her shoulder. The place where Shane Byrne had been was empty, his coffee cup abandoned. But his dark-haired companion was still working away diligently on his BlackBerry.

Later that day, Fleur accessed Bethany O’Brien’s Facebook page. She’d changed her status to ‘Tiresia rocks!’

Tiresia rocks? A bogus fortune-teller with an imperfect understanding of amateur psychology? Fleur gave a mental shrug. Whatever. Maybe she had made a difference to Bethany’s self-esteem, and to the self-esteem of the dozens of other girls who had come to her for consultations. Her mumbo jumbo certainly hadn’t done any harm. She reckoned that, on the whole, she’d provided reasonably good entertainment and had been value for money.

Scrolling down Bethany’s update, Fleur smiled when she read the following: ‘Got myself a job on The O’Hara Affair! Positive thinking works, mes amis!’

Bethany had, Fleur noticed, acquired some new friends today, on Facebook. Lola, Kitten, Carrie and Tara had all sent her messages, thanking her for the add. Hmm. Maybe it was time for her to add another one. Clicking on her web browser, Fleur typed ‘sign up Facebook’. Then she entered the following into the relevant boxes.

First name? Flirty.

Last name? O’Farrell.

Password? Tiresia.

Gender? Female.

Birthday? Here Fleur hesitated. If she put her real birthday, would Bethany bother responding? Probably not. Why would an eighteen-year-old want to befriend a forty-something, after all? She reread Bethany’s post. Positive thinking works, mes amis! The girl was upbeat, happy. What if she started posting updates like the ones Fleur had read when she was researching her role as Madame Tiresia? She remembered the desperation, the fear, the loneliness in those posts:

…topping out at a hundred, I have more Facebook friends than real life ones. Sad, or what?…

some ‘friendships’ should never be resurrected, not even in a virtual sense…

Even tho I hate this person, I guess I’d better add them as my friend. I’ll take ANYONE now…

Fleur had helped Bethany recover a little of her self-esteem. She didn’t want to see that self-esteem plummet. Until Bethany was ready to take wing, Fleur would be there for her. She returned her attention to her Facebook application, typed 23/7/88 into the box marked ‘Birthday’, and pressed Save.

Flirty O’Farrell was just twenty-one, and she was going to make a new friend.

Poppet was flying over Shakespeare Island, wishing that somebody interesting would come out and play. Mitzy hadn’t turned up this evening in their usual meeting place, and when she’d texted Tara, the word back was that her broadband was malfunctioning.

Bethany had been visiting Second Life for a week now. Working on the movie kept her busy every day, and in the evening, living vicariously in front of her laptop was proving to be a good way of winding down.

Although ‘busy’ might be a bit of a misnomer. Hanging around the film set was as dull as ever. It was lucky that she was fed by the caterers, because come seven o’clock when she arrived home to Díseart, the last thing she felt like doing was feeding herself. Her parents had gone back to Dublin, her mother exhorting her not to hold any wild parties in their cottage. As if! Who would she invite?

It was the first time she had stayed in the cottage on her own. She had thought it might feel spooky, but tucked up in bed as she was now with the full moon shining through the window and the wash of waves within yards of the garden gate, she felt peculiarly tranquil. The lullaby lapping of waves had always had this effect on her. She remembered falling asleep to the sound when, on holiday as a child, her mother had finished telling her her bedtime story, before backing out of the room with a ‘Night, night, sleep tight.’ And Bethany had gone to sleep dreaming of princesses and dragons and unicorns and wizards. It was funny that now, in another century, the princesses and dragons and unicorns and wizards still existed for her, not in the fairy stories of her imagination, but in the virtual world on the screen in front of her.

Bethany had always had a vivid imagination. Shortly after her sixth birthday she had terrified her mother by readying herself to jump off an upstairs windowsill because she believed she could fly like Peter Pan. She’d queued with her father outside book shops at midnight, waiting for the new Harry Potter, which she would devour in a single sitting. She’d discovered a computer game called Final Fantasy, in which, for her, the characters lived and breathed. She supposed that her imagination, her facility for transforming herself into different people and transporting herself to different worlds, was responsible for her all-consuming desire to become an actress. But as an extra on The O’Hara Affair, so far the only emotion she’d been required to register had been one of resigned stoicism.

But then, acting – proper acting – bore no relation to extra work, where you were just a piece of furniture, really. A mobile prop. Acting allowed your imagination to soar: an actress could be starry-eyed Juliet one day, tragic Ophelia the next. If she was in belligerent mode, she could be Katherina the shrew; if she was in good form, she could be vivacious Beatrice. All those fabulous heroines who had trodden the boards of the real live Globe Theatre, four hundred years ago! Rosalind, Viola, Portia, Cleopatra…

What would Shakespeare have made of this virtual world, where the theatre in which his plays had been performed was now displayed digitally, on an LCD screen? Would he applaud it, be excited by it? Or would he—

Oh! A green dot told her that someone else had arrived onto the island via Teleport. With a click of the mouse, Bethany sent Poppet off in search of the new arrival.

A youth was standing on a street corner, looking lost. He had floppy hair and Johnny Depp eyes. He was wearing something vaguely piratical: a bandanna, leather jerkin and boots. His name was Hero, and he was a cutie. Poppet moved over to him.

Hi, she said.

Hi, Hero said back. This place is a bit empty.

I know. Shakespeare Island’s always empty. Nobody seems to know about it. Is this your first time here?

Yes.

Bethany decided to be proactive. Shall I show you around? she asked.

I’d like that, he told her.

I’ll show you the Blackfriars Theatre if you like? she said. It’s this way. Or the Globe?

I’d like to see the Globe. I’ve been there in real life. Cool! she said.

Bethany felt a little fizz of excitement in her tummy. None of the other avatars she’d engaged with on Second Life had ever displayed an interest in anything to do with theatre. It was all gross-out movies and soap opera and sex.

I saw a production of Romeo and Juliet there in April, Hero told her. It was awesome.

The one with Ellie Kendrick?

Yes.

Wow. She was impressed.

Bethany walked Poppet around the corner and along a street constructed of Tudor-style, half-timbered buildings, pointing things out and chatting as she went. The entrance to the Globe was across a bridge.

This is awesome, said Hero. They’ve done a great job. It looks just like the real thing.

Wanna sit down? Poppet suggested.

Sure.

The pair of avatars sat themselves down on a wooden bench, and there was a slightly awkward pause as they looked at each other. In Bethany’s experience, conversations on Second Life tended to peter out and residents would often disappear without warning. On numerous occasions Bethany had felt tempted to teleport in the middle of a conversation that was less than riveting, but her good manners always got the better of her.

Have you been a Second Life resident for long? she asked Hero, then cursed herself for sounding so formal.

No. I’m a newbie.

Me too. Met anyone interesting?

Not really. You’re the first person I’ve had a proper conversation with. There are some real weirdos on here.

I know. And some real weird places too. I got stuck in a horrible building last week and had to teleport my way out of it.

What was it like?

Bethany didn’t want to tell Hero that the building had been a gallery, the walls of which had been lined with pornographic photographs. She’d tried to escape, flying past image after disturbing image, urgently searching for a way out, but she had just kept banging into walls. It had unsettled her deeply, and she’d been wary about the locations she visited since.

It was just a spooky old house, she lied.

Were you scared?

A bit.

You should take care of yourself on here.

Don’t worry. I’m a grown-up.

Over eighteen?

Yes. You?

I’m legal.

Hero stood up, and started to move around the theatre. As he explored, Bethany checked on his profile. Hero had created his avatar just two days after Bethany had created Poppet. He was interested in film and theatre, and his favourite actor was Johnny Depp. He lived in Dublin!

Hey, said Poppet. You’re Irish! So am I! No shit! What part? Dublin. But I’m in the west right now, in Coolnamara. My parents have a cottage here.

I know Coolnamara. Aren’t they making a film there?

Yes. The O’Hara Affair. I’m actually in it!

Hey! Are you an actress?

Sadly, no, she confessed. Just an extra. But acting’s what I’d love to do more than anything. I’ve applied to the Gaiety School.

I hear that’s a great course. I have a friend who’s a casting director. She says the Gaiety students get the most work.

He had contacts! This was amazing!

You have a friend in casting? she asked.

Yeah. I even help out sometimes.

How?

She has a small baby. That means she can’t get to all the shows she needs to see. I go on her behalf, and make recommendations.

What a cool job! Being paid to go to the theatre! Bethany was so excited that she was typing too fast.

Beats being on the dole, observed Hero.

Maybe you’ll get to see me in something some day!

Let me know.

How?

A box opened on the top right-hand corner of her screen. Hero is offering friendship, Bethany read.

Accept me as a friend, Hero continued. Then we’ll know any time we’re online simultaneously. We can meet up here and talk. Maybe we’ll meet other actors. That’s why I came to Shakespeare Island in the first place. I thought it would be full of actors all wanting to chat about things thespian.

Me too! You’d better not tell them that you work in casting! Then they’ll all be after you to try and get a job!

Good point. You won’t mention it to anyone, will you?

Not if you don’t want me to.

It’s bad enough having to cope with wannabe actors in real life. I don’t want to have to do it in Second Life too!

LOL!

A silence fell. But Hero didn’t look twitchy. He didn’t tap his foot, or look away, or scratch his head, as if thinking of something banal to say. Bethany knew he was only an avatar, but she could swear that there was something meaningful about the way he was looking at Poppet.

I have to go now, he said, finally. When are you likely to be here again?

I come most evenings. Yikes! Bethany hoped she didn’t sound like too much of a loser. There’s nothing else to do in Lissamore, she added hastily.

Why don’t you come back to Dublin?

Because of The O’Hara Affair. I would have gone back with Mum & Dad, but I want to get as much work as I can before I’m a full-time student and broke again.

Do you live with your parents in Dublin?

Yes. It’s great to have the place here to myself. There’s no one to nag me about the state of the bathroom.

LOL. Aren’t you lonely in Lissamore? No. Not with Second Life. I usually hang out with my mate Mitzy here.

There was another pause, then:

Well, Poppet, here’s to many more conversations, said Hero.

Yeah. Slainte! Hey – there’s an Irish pub here you know.

Cool! Maybe we should visit it together next time?

I’d like that!

It’s a date. Bye for now.

Bye.

Take care.

I will.

Bethany watched as Hero disappeared. She wondered where he was off to next. Back to real life? Or maybe he’d teleported to somewhere more interesting in Second Life. Maybe he’d found her boring, and had just made up an excuse to leave. Maybe he wouldn’t contact her again. But he was special – she knew he was! He had been the first person to offer her friendship on Second Life, and it had been the first time Bethany had had a half decent conversation with anyone apart from Tara. And he loved theatre! The only way to find out that he was genuine, she supposed, would be to come back tomorrow and see if he showed up.

Moving Poppet towards the stage, she wondered what it would be like to have someone watch her from the balcony. If she used her microphone rather than instant messenger, she could perform a soliloquy for her spectator, do a virtual audition! She could recite her favourite speech of Juliet’s:

Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night, Give me my Romeo; and, when I shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars…

Little stars. For some reason the words of the fortune-teller she’d visited last week came back to her. That special boy is out there somewhere, Bethany, waiting for you. But you must be patient…That special boy. Her Romeo! Her Hero!

Oh – don’t be so stupid! she scolded herself. Don’t be such a dreamer! One offer of friendship on Second Life hardly constituted a romance. But if – just if – she and Hero met up again and got on – well, why shouldn’t things develop further? She’d heard loads of stories about people meeting up in cyberspace and then afterwards in real life: she’d even read a magazine article recently that had related the stories of three couples who’d met online and gone on to get married. She’d heard the horror stories, too, of course, about the paedophiles who preyed on young kids and groomed them over the internet, but she was a grown-up. She was, as Hero had said earlier, ‘legal’. And she wasn’t stupid.

Moving her cursor, Bethany selected an action, and Poppet started to dance. She lay back against her pillows, watching her avatar through half-closed eyelids. She’d seen couples dancing together on Second Life, locked in a tender embrace. It would be nice to think that one day she and Hero might dance together like that…

Ten minutes later, a cloud had obscured the face of the moon, the stars were washed out, the waves had worked their lullaby, and Bethany was fast asleep. But Poppet was still in motion, swaying all by herself on the stage of the timberframed, cavernous theatre on Second Life’s Shakespeare Island.




Chapter Seven (#ulink_8027801f-f976-58f4-bd23-a80fc4d0ba43)


Decluttering must be your number one priority. When it comes to decluttering, be ruthless. Declutter, declutter – then declutter some more.

Hell. This was useless. Dervla was bored by her own book, and if she was bored by it, it stood to reason that the reader would be bored by it too. She’d looked at the word ‘declutter’ for so long that it no longer made sense. Was it even a word? Should there be a hyphen between the ‘de’ and the ‘c’? Should she put ‘unclutter’ instead? She was utterly clutterly clueless. She wished she hadn’t accepted the commission to write the damned thing. But the contract was signed and the advance spent, and she could hardly back out now.

She stood up from her desk and moved over to the window, easing herself into a stretch and trying to think positively. Fleur was a great one for positive thinking. Dervla remembered how, way back when she and Fleur had first met, Fleur had shrugged off the break-up of her marriage with the words: ‘What can I say? The Mountie always gets his man. In this case, it just happened to be my husband.’ It had been a fantastic icebreaker, and Dervla and Fleur had kept in touch ever since. Now that Dervla had moved back to Lissamore, she was glad to have Fleur to turn to if she needed guidance. Río couldn’t be relied upon for objective advice, because Río was family.

So. What were Dervla’s alternatives – faute de mieux, as Fleur would say? If Dervla hadn’t accepted the commission, what would she be doing with her life instead? Everybody knew that writing was a solitary occupation, but she’d be even more solitary, rattling around in the Old Rectory with nothing to keep her busy. Christian was at work most of the day, so she had no company apart from the dog, and there was only so much dog-walking a gal could do. The decorators were finished, so there was no home-decorating to be done, and – because there was so little furniture – there wasn’t even much housework to contend with. Because Dervla’s passion for property had been so all-consuming in her auctioneering days, she had few hobbies or pastimes. Her gardening knowledge was rudimentary, and she didn’t enjoy cooking much – Christian had more culinary nous than she. How could she – a woman in her prime – be such a waste of space?

Hello? Wasn’t she supposed to be thinking positively? Maybe she should put in a call to Fleur – Ms Positivity Personified – or better still, meet up with her friend face to face.

Moving back to her desk, she was just about to reach for her phone, when it rang.

‘Christian!’ she said, into the receiver. ‘Thank God! I’m having a horrible day, and I need someone lovely to talk to!’

‘I’m afraid this won’t be a lovey-dovey call, sweetheart. I need to ask you a favour.’

‘What might that be?’

‘Can you come and take over in the shop for an hour or so? Something’s come up that I need to take care of, and I can’t man the till.’

‘Isn’t Lisa there to do that?’

‘Business was slack, so I gave her the afternoon off.’

‘Sure I’ll do it. I’d be delighted to have an excuse to skive off. But you do know that my wine savvy doesn’t extend much beyond The Bluffer’s Guide.’

‘No worries. You’ll be lucky to shift a bottle of house plonk the way things are going today.’

‘So. What’s come up?’

‘Julian’s broken his pelvis, and won’t be able to do the tasting tour.’ Julian was Christian’s partner, who ran the Dublin branch of the business.

‘Oh, shit! How did that happen?’

‘He was in a prang with an SUV.’

‘Oh, how horrible! Poor Julian. I’ve always said those things should be banned. I’m going to write to the Minister for Transport.’

‘Atta girl!’

‘How long’ll he be out of commission?’

‘Fucking forever. There’s no way he’ll be accompanying our oenophile friends to France next month.’

‘Oh, Christian – what a bummer.’

‘I’m going to have to spend the afternoon confirming reservations. If enough people haven’t confirmed, we can refund those who have already paid, and cancel.’

‘But isn’t that wine-tasting tour one of your biggest earners?’

‘Sadly, yes. And we’re going to lose a lot of goodwill as well as money.’

‘Hey – hang on. What’s there to stop you going instead of Julian?’

‘Have you forgotten what else is happening at the end of next month, Dervla?’

‘What?’

‘Nemia’s on two weeks’ leave.’

‘Oh, Christ. I had forgotten.’

‘I’m kicking myself now that I didn’t take Josephine up on her offer.’

Josephine – Christian’s sister – had volunteered to come over from Australia to help out while Nemia was away, but Christian had assured her that it wasn’t necessary, that they’d be bound to find someone to cover. However, their efforts to find a replacement carer had been unsuccessful. The local girl who stood in for Nemia on her weekends off was employed elsewhere during the week, and so far only one person had responded to the ad they’d put up in the local shop. Christian and Dervla had agreed that it would not be appropriate to have a twenty-something youth in a Radiohead T-shirt looking after his mother, and had decided to do the caring themselves, with Christian taking time off work and allowing his assistant Lisa to run the shop.

‘Look – don’t worry about it, Christian,’ Dervla told him. ‘We’ll work something out. I’ll do some homework on the internet – we can always get professionals in for a couple of weeks. Or…’ She allowed a silence to fall.

Christian picked up on his cue. ‘I know what you’re going to say, love. You’re going to say that we could put Mum in a home.’

‘Christian – it’s just for two weeks!’

‘I couldn’t do it to her, Dervla. I just couldn’t.’

‘They say some of them are really nice now—’

‘Dervla. This is my mother we’re talking about.’

‘Oh, Christian, please let’s not row about this. Please let’s just have a look.’

On the other end of the phone, she heard him sigh. ‘OK. Have a look online and if we can’t find someone to move in we’ll pay a couple of them a visit.’

‘I’ll do that. What time do you want me down there?’

‘Around four o’clock?’

‘Four o’clock’s fine. I might head into Lissamore afterwards and persuade Fleur to go for a drink.’

‘Or a walk. It’s a beautiful day.’

‘Good idea. A walk, then a drink. I’ll see you at four, love.’

‘Thanks, Dervla.’

Dervla felt a little shaky as she put the phone down. Maybe she should ask Nemia if she could postpone her holiday? But she had booked a fortnight in Malta with a crowd of girlfriends, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask. And as for cancelling the wine-tasting tour? That would be disastrous. Christian was right: aside from the monetary loss, it would mean that people might decide to take their custom elsewhere. Bacchante Wines had a loyal clientele, many of whom looked on the annual French tour as a kind of pilgrimage. They’d be deeply disappointed if it were cancelled. And, anyway, what if—

Aiiee! Here she was, painting a worst-case scenario. Positive, positive – be positive! Emulate Fleur! They’d be bound to find somebody to take care of Daphne. Dervla took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself. Accessing her internet browser, she typed ‘professional care workers for elderly’ into the Google search bar.

The first few sites she visited extolled the virtues of their care givers, but were coy about their rates. There were, instead, lots of references to ‘dignity’, ‘individuals’, and ‘community’. Finally Dervla found an agency that boasted a tariff page. Sweet Jesus! Twenty-four/seven care started at €1250 per week (dementia and Alzheimer’s sufferers extra: to be negotiated on assessment). Nemia – at €650 – cost just under half that. Oh – this was barking. There had to be a cheaper alternative.

Maybe a home would be cheaper? If so, then surely Christian couldn’t object to his mother spending just two weeks in residential care. Rather than trawl through the internet, Dervla decided that the Golden Pages might be easier to pinpoint the likely-looking ones. She reached for the directory, and went to Nursing Homes.

There were hundreds listed. Some could have been holiday resorts, to go by the descriptions, with ‘Cuisine of High Standard’, ‘En Suite Luxury’, ‘Dedicated Activities Coordinators’, ‘Breathtaking Views’, ‘Hair Salons’, ‘Bespoke Furniture’, ‘Ayurvedic Massage’, ‘Hydrotherapy Pools’ and ‘Sun Lounges’. Dervla wouldn’t mind taking time off somewhere like that! But again, when she visited the relevant websites, price was an issue.

Money, money, money! How expensive it was to grow old. How scary, how stressful, how – Oh! – she couldn’t hack this right now. What she really wanted was a walk by the river, a blast of ozone-enriched air, a bucketload of endorphins, and someone to talk to. She ran down the stairs and called for Kitty.

The Dalmatian came lolloping from the kitchen, knocking into the umbrella stand. For such an ostensibly elegant dog, Kitty was incredibly clumsy. Dervla often wished that she had a videocam handy, so that she could send footage off to You’ve Been Framed – she had once seen the dog bang into a plate-glass window and apologize to her own reflection.

‘Come, Kit!’ she said now. ‘We’re off for a walk.’

They set off down the driveway of the Old Rectory, Kitty running ahead, checking to see that there was nothing sinister around the next bend, then coming back to report that all was well. And all was well – Christian had been right when he’d made the observation earlier that it was a beautiful day. How lucky was Dervla to be alive and well and living in the most beautiful corner of the west of Ireland! She should count her blessings! And yet, and yet…

‘The thing is, Kit,’ she told the dog, ‘that I love your master very, very much, but I don’t love my life right now. And of course I wouldn’t want to go back to my estate-agent days – even though I was a bloody good estate agent – because I’m not the person I used to be. But I’m not the person I thought I might become, living a Cath Kidston lifestyle in the Old Rectory, because let’s face it, nobody lives like that except in catalogues. And I’ve never had money worries before, and I’m frightened. And I wonder if everybody is frightened, or if – oh! Oh my God – Daphne, what are you doing?’

Daphne was sitting on the edge of the lawn, under a rhododendron bush. She had taken off her cardigan and blouse, and her vest was ruched up around her neck.

‘I was too hot,’ she told Dervla. ‘So I’m taking off my vest. Help me, will you?’

‘Oh – of course.’ Dervla went over to Daphne, and helped her pull her vest over her head, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be doing on a sunny June afternoon, with a skylark singing madly overhead, and sheep baaing in the field next door. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she remarked conversationally.

‘Yes,’ said Daphne, from under her vest. ‘And I shouldn’t be wearing a vest on a day like this. I wonder what made me put it on? What a silly old fool I am.’

Dervla tugged, and the vest came free. She rolled it up, and handed Daphne her blouse.

‘Would you mind helping me on with this?’ Daphne asked. ‘I seem to be all fingers and thumbs today.’





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