The O’Hara Affair

…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

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.