The O’Hara Affair (10 page)

‘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.