The O’Hara Affair

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

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.