The O’Hara Affair (19 page)

‘You tell me your day, first,’ said Christian.

Dervla gave him a wry look. ‘Well, you already know about my eventful morning.’

‘Mum’s bid for freedom?’

‘Uh-huh. The next thing you know she’ll start digging secret tunnels like Tim Robbins in
The Shawshank Redemption
.’ ‘Or take off on a motorbike like Steve McQueen in
The Great Escape
.’

‘Escape,’ mused Dervla. ‘It’s such a wonderful word, isn’t it? The very thought of it lifts your spirits. I heard a good joke today, incidentally.’

Christian and Dervla had taken to searching for jokes on the internet as – how had she described it earlier to Corban O’Hara? – as a kind of survival mechanism. Most of them were rather un-PC.

‘Shoot,’ said Christian, and Dervla launched into the story of the chicken and the egg, rather well, she thought. Dervla had never been very good at telling jokes, and she was pleased when Christian gave a gratifying laugh.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Corban O’Hara.’

‘Corban O’Hara? Fleur’s bloke?’

‘Yes. We met him for a drink in O’Toole’s after our walk.’

‘I thought you didn’t like him?’

‘Correction. I mistrusted him. Erroneously, as it turns out. He’s actually really sound. Although he is a little over-partial to flirting with young wans. I spotted him chatting up a German backpacker.’

Christian shrugged. ‘You can’t deny a man his midlife crisis. I love a good opportunity to flirt. It’s when people stop flirting back that it’s time to get worried.’

‘I suppose you’re right. Gather ye rosebuds, and all that.’

‘If he enjoys a good joke maybe we could entertain him in our kitchen after all
,
’ suggested Christian.

‘Maybe we should. It would be nice to have company.’

‘It would make a change from having my mother to dinner.’

They shared another smile, and then Dervla said: ‘Your turn.’

Christian heaved a sigh. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Here goes. The wine-tasting
tour de France
can’t be cancelled, Dervla. There are too many people already booked, and if we pull out at this stage we’ll create an awful lot of ill will, and an awful lot of problems.’

Dervla reached for his hand across the table. ‘I’m glad, for your sake,’ she said. ‘It means the business can’t go under just yet.’

‘There’s more.’

‘Yes?’

‘I did as you suggested,’ Christian told her, ‘and bookmarked a couple of old people’s homes to investigate on the way back this evening.’

‘And?’

‘And…’ he broke off. ‘Look, Dervla, just let me tell you about them before you come to any conclusions.’

‘Fair enough. Go on.’

‘I did some trawling on the internet, this afternoon, like you did. I found out that the two homes I visited would be cheaper options than getting the professionals in.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘But – oh, Dervla, all I can say is that if your mother were still alive, you wouldn’t ever, ever want her to end up in a place like the two I saw today. You’d sooner she died than be – be incarcerated in one of those homes from hell.’

‘They’re that bad?’

‘What can I tell you? They smell of cabbage and wee and chemical air freshener. The inmates – I mean, the
residents
– all sit around the four walls of one room, strapped into their chairs, and there’s a television high up on the wall, blaring
Sky News
– all war and earthquakes and bickering politicians. And in the other place I visited, it was
Deal or No Deal
, and nobody was watching it.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘I had a look at the bedrooms, too.’

‘What were they like?’

Christian shrugged. ‘There were a few singles, but they’re all occupied, and there’s a waiting list. The only option for Mum would be to share, and can you imagine how hard that would be for her?’

And for the other inmate, Dervla thought, but did not say.

‘Most of the rooms are poky and dark,’ continued Christian, ‘with no space for visitors, so you’d have to go to the day room any time you called in. They’re awful places, Dervla. Just awful. I’m sorry. I know it’s expensive, but there’s no way around it. We’ll just have to get the health care pros in.’

Dervla laced her fingers through his, and took a deep breath. ‘It’s OK, darling. You don’t have to worry about this any more. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I may have come up with a solution.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘You’ll do what?’

‘I’ll take over Daphne’s care while Nemia’s away.’

The expression on Christian’s face said it all. He was swamped with relief, and Dervla felt a fresh, fierce, pull of love for him.

‘Dear Jesus, Dervla – would you? That would be the solution to everything! Oh, God – this is like a gift from heaven!’
He raised her hand and pressed his lips to the palm. ‘But tell me,’ he said, when he released her hand. ‘You’ve really and truly thought this through?’

‘Yes. It makes perfect sense. I’ll move into Nemia’s room and live with Daphne in the cottage for the two weeks you’re away. If I need anything, sure I’m right next door to my own home. And once Daphne’s settled for the day, I can work on my book.’

‘Have you run this by Nemia yet?’ asked Christian.

‘No. But I suspect she’ll be thrilled. It means that if she needs to take a break in future, I can step in and hold the fort.’

‘You’ll have to be paid for your trouble, from my mother’s funds.’

‘I agree. That’s only fair – and we could certainly do with the money. Hell, darling – maybe we should even encourage Nemia to take more time off!’

Dervla kept her tone light, watching Christian with an encouraging smile as he refilled her glass, but in the cavity of her chest, her heart was pounding with anxiety. What if something went wrong? What if Daphne fell and broke a bone? What if her false teeth went missing and she couldn’t eat? What if Daphne missed Nemia and Christian so much she pined away? What if she died in her sleep, and Dervla went into her bedroom in the morning to try and wake a corpse? What if…what if…

Dervla
was
doing the right thing, wasn’t she? Yes, she was! Could she stick fourteen days with Daphne? Come on, Dervla. Fourteen days was just two weeks. She could do it, she
would
do it, for Christian.

Bethany was flying high, high over Shakespeare Island, searching for signs of life below. There were none. She was bang on time for Hero. They’d been meeting up, same time, same place, for over a week now. They’d checked out all kinds of landmarks on Second Life: they’d visited a rainforest and a book shop and a music store and a Hollywood backlot and a tropical island, where they’d even been able to explore underwater, and where they’d seen a whale and been threatened by a shark! They’d spent hours chatting and laughing together, and making private observations about all the strange-looking, taciturn (a word she’d learned from Hero) loners who tended to hang out in the overly populated locations, looking lost.

Hero was exactly the kind of guy that Bethany would love to meet in real life. He was a maverick, a free spirit who wouldn’t think twice about breaking a few rules. He enjoyed the same music as she did, read the same books, loved the same films. He’d told her about the theatre he’d seen in Dublin recently: a fantastic production of Chekhov’s
Three Sisters
, a lousy adaptation of
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
. He was intelligent, he had a GSOH. The only problem was that he was an avatar, not a living, breathing boy.

She was excited about seeing him again. Last night Hero
had teleported her to a club called Sweethearts, where they’d danced together. They hadn’t talked, just danced. And Bethany had loved it. It sounded mad, but it had been romantic – something had definitely been shimmering in the air between them. And then Hero had told her that he had to take a phone call in real life, and had left her forlornly sitting alone, refusing dance invitations from other singletons. The last thing he’d said to her was
Same time, same place tomorrow?
And she’d replied – very uncoolly, she realized in retrospect:
Yes! Can’t wait!

And now she
was
waiting, because a glance at the bottom right-hand corner of her screen told her that Hero was late. Dropping down next to the great door of the high-raftered library, she passed through. The fire in the hearth was the only animated thing there.

Pah. She’d have a better view from upstairs, on the mezzanine. As she negotiated the stairs, she thought how weird it was that somebody had gone to all the trouble to create this entire virtual village of Tudor buildings, and furnish them – and even light fires in them! – and nobody ever seemed to come to visit. She took a seat, then decided to amuse herself by activating some expressions. She yawned. She laughed. She cried. She shrugged. She waved to nobody. She beckoned to nobody. She blew a kiss – to nobody. She fidgeted.

In real life, Bethany was feeling fidgety, too. Hero was usually early for her. So far in their encounters she had not once had to hang around waiting for him. She felt horribly lonely, sitting there on the divan in the Elizabethan library. Or was she sitting on her bed in her cottage in Díseart, Lissamore? Was she Bethany or Poppet? Was she a real girl or a virtual being? Flesh and blood or ether? She would have laughed if she hadn’t been feeling so unsettled.

But hang on – what had Hero said to her last night?
Same time, same place tomorrow…
Maybe he had meant that club, Sweethearts – not Shakespeare Island! Maybe he was there now, waiting for her…

Oh! She was an idiot! With clumsy fingers, Bethany clicked on ‘Landmarks’, scrolling down until she found Sweethearts. Another click or two, and she was teleporting to the dance club. The rushing sound in her earphones as she was transported through time and space made her feel heady – and a little sick. What if Hero wasn’t there? What if something awful had happened to him in real life?

The club was more crowded than it had been last night when Hero had held her in his arms and swooped with her across the dance floor. There were women in beautiful ball gowns preening themselves, and men in tuxedos checking them out. Couples were smooching, gazing into each other’s eyes, moving in time to the cool jazzy music that played non-stop in Sweethearts.

Poppet set off on her quest to find her date. There were lots of other heroes in here tonight. There was Theseus, Rambo, Byron and Shrek. But of the real hero –
her
hero, she could see no sign. As she manoeuvred her way around the club, several male avatars hit on her, but she ignored them. Bethany felt her heart rate quicken. Her progress was being impeded by a couple locked in an embrace, and she found herself careering into them.
‘Sorry’,
she managed, before moving on: left, right, forward, back. Oh, this was hopeless, hopeless! He wasn’t here. Should she teleport back to Shakespeare Island? Or should she sit down at a table by the dance floor and wait a little longer? But then, if Hero
was
on Shakespeare Island, he might give up and go away…

Take it easy
, a Beyoncé lookalike told her, as Bethany’s avatar collided into her.

Sorry,
said Poppet again. And then she realized that the Beyoncé lookalike, whose name was Candy, had been in here yesterday.
Can you help me?
she asked.
I was in here last night with a guy called Hero. Have you seen him?

Yeah. He was here earlier, looking lost.

How long ago?

Ten minutes or so. You want to be careful. A lot of gals were hitting on him.

Oh! Oh, God. She had to get out of here, get back to Shakespeare Island.

Thanks, Candy. Excuse me.

As she brushed her touchpad, Bethany realized that her palms were sweaty. Shakespeare Island, Shakespeare Island, quick, quick, quick. That swooshing noise in her cans told her she was on her way.

As usual, the place was deserted: a town peopled by ghosts, echoing with the sound of virtual applause and the dialogue of non-existent actors.

On the divan in the library, Poppet sat down, looking bereft. And on her bed in the cottage in Díseart, near Lissamore on the west coast of Ireland, Bethany began to cry.

Fleur put the cork back in the bottle, and rinsed the wineglasses. She was tired, now. Walking the three miles of the bog road always took more out of her than she expected, and while dinner in O’Toole’s had been a treat – she’d made sure that they ordered lobster, to keep Seamus Moynihan happy – she and Corban had been joined by an accountant friend of his, which meant that the entire evening had been hijacked by talk of profit margins and tax breaks and investments. It had cost Fleur
an effort to keep an interested expression pinned to her face.

She yawned, and turned towards the spiral staircase that would take her to the bedroom. From the en suite bathroom, she could hear Corban singing the toreadors’ chorus from Carmen. He was singing lustily, clearly still full of energy, and Fleur’s heart sank a little. It sank further when she saw the outfit he had laid out on the bed for her to wear. Red satin garter belt. Peephole bra. Those panties she hated. He clearly expected her to be a whore tonight. Maybe she could plead tiredness? But they had so few nights together – it was unfair to ask him to abstain just because she wasn’t in the mood. Besides, it had been established from day one that when it came to sex Corban called the shots, and Fleur sensed that their relationship was still too – what was that word again? – too
nascent
to challenge the status quo.

She peeled off her fine cashmere sweater, unzipped her pencil skirt, and stepped out of her heels. Then she strapped herself into the bra and garter belt, pulled on the panties, and went to her lingerie drawer to find a pair of black stockings. As she slid the sheer nylons up her legs and hooked them onto the belt, she gazed yearningly at her collection of La Perla and Chantelle brassieres, and her neat piles of French lace and Swiss cotton panties. Why did men find red such a turn-on? She’d lost count of the number of men who’d come into her shop, handed over a perfectly beautiful balconette bra in pale blue or pink, and said: ‘Do you have this in red, please?’ She was just stepping into a pair of even more vertiginous heels, when Corban’s voice made her turn.