The O’Hara Affair

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

‘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?