The O’Hara Affair

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

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: