The O’Hara Affair (38 page)

‘How do you know?’

‘The curtains are closed.’

‘Oh? Do me a favour, Fleur, and ask your cleaning lady to pay another call tomorrow, will you?’

‘Will do.’ Fleur took up a pen and wrote ‘Phone Audrey’ on a Post-It. ‘I’m taking the day off tomorrow, and going to lunch in Arnoldscourt.’

‘They’re shooting some of the film there. I have to confess I’ve never visited the place.’

‘Oh – it’s beautiful. I must take you there someday, Corban. It’s a big Palladian mansion with the loveliest gardens, open to the public. They do a very good lunch.’

‘Good for you. You deserve to treat yourself.’

‘I’m not sure how much of a treat it’s likely to be. I’m actually taking Dervla’s
belle-mère
along.’

‘
Belle-mère
? Beautiful mother?’

‘In French, it translates as mother-in-law.’

‘How lovely. Talk French to me, Fleur.
Qu’est ce que tu portes, ce soir?
’

So Fleur spent the best part of twenty minutes sweet-talking her sweetheart, and when she put the phone down, her attention was drawn to the reminder on her Post-It pad to phone Audrey on behalf of the amorous duo in Corban’s penthouse.

‘Hello,’ she said into the phone. ‘Is Audrey there?’

‘No. she’s not, Fleur,’ came a man’s voice – Audrey’s husband. ‘She’s gone up to Dublin to visit her mother in hospital.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. When will she be back?’

‘There’s no way of telling. Her ma’s real sick.’

‘Please send my sympathy.’

‘Will do.’

Fleur put the phone down. Should she call Corban and tell him that there was no cleaner available? No. She couldn’t be bothering Mr Big with mundane domestic matters. She’d
overcome her aversion for housework, don her Marigolds and do the job herself.

The next day dawned bright and beautiful. Well, Fleur – being a night bird – didn’t actually see the dawn, but by half-past nine when she took her coffee onto her deck, the sun was climbing steadily towards the zenith. She’d have to lash on SPF 50: the heat would be at its most intense when she picked up Dervla and Daphne at midday.

Before she’d gone to bed last night, she’d had a quick canter around Second Life but there’d been no sign of Bethany, and no sign of Hero. On Facebook, Fleur was glad to see that Bethany had garnered more friends. Maybe, if the girl befriended more people she’d lose interest in her virtual life, and pay more attention to her real one. But were those Facebook people real friends? Or just self-publicists? The same faces seemed to come up again and again, and some of the banalities were – well, truly banal. Did Bethany really need to know that someone called Trixie had visited Boots and knocked down a display of toothbrushes? Was she supposed to be tickled pink by the fact that somebody’s baby’s first word was ‘poo’? Or concerned that the house of a girl called Janet had become infested with ants? Did she really want to look at five hundred and fifty-seven photographs of an up-and-coming DJ and his girlfriend?

Merde!
Fleur was too old for Facebook. She was too old for Second Life. She was too old for toyboys. Maybe she should stop trying to embrace her inner child, and embrace herself, warts and all. Well – she’d draw the line at warts.

Draining her coffee cup, she went upstairs to shower.

Dervla had served Daphne breakfast in bed. She’d washed and dressed her, and done her hair, and now Dervla was
sitting out by the water feature in the courtyard, waiting for Fleur to arrive, Kitty by her side. Thank God she had Kitty to talk to!

‘D’you know something, Kitty?’ she said. ‘I always thought I was a good person. I mean, I know I don’t go to church, but I’ve never hurt anyone intentionally, and I’ve never stolen anything, and I’ve never broken a law apart from trespassing sometimes in my estate agent days. So why am I thinking such bad thoughts? I know I said to Fleur last night that I’m scared I’ll go into a room and find that Daphne’s fallen over, but actually, sometimes I wish she would fall over. Because when old people fall over, they break something, and then very often they get pneumonia, and then they die. And do you know, Kitty, what pneumonia used to be called? It used to be called “the old man’s friend”, because at last the old person was being put out of his or her misery. But now nobody gets pneumonia any more, because of the flu jabs they give out every autumn. And Daphne won’t ever die of an infection because she’ll be prescribed antibiotics that didn’t exist once upon a time.’

Kitty cocked her head sagely.

‘I wonder how many women of my age are doing exactly what I’m doing, Kitty, without even getting paid for it?’ continued Dervla. ‘I wonder how many forty-and fifty-and sixty-and even seventy-year-old women are caring for their parents? Maybe loads of these women have just finished rearing a family, and have been looking forward to their so-called “Golden Years”, and getting to enjoy their grandchildren. Maybe loads of them had babies late in life now that IVF is so commonplace, and are still rearing infant children? And maybe in the not-too-distant future, fifty-something-year-old women will be breastfeeding their babies and spoon-feeding their mammies at the same time.
Do you know, Kitty, I read just recently that a sixty-six-year-old has given birth thanks to IVF.’

She glanced down to see that Kitty was looking aghast.

Dervla laughed, and rubbed her velvet ears. ‘I’m sorry, doggy. That was some polemic. I’m prone to them. If Christian were here, he’d tell me I should go into politics. Cheer up, now, and I’ll give you your grub. Oh! Here’s Fleur.’

As Fleur’s sexy little Karmann Ghia rounded the corner of the driveway, Dervla led Kitty back to the Old Rectory. The dog hadn’t adapted well to living in Daphne’s cottage, sleeping fitfully and growling at imaginary burglars, so Dervla had decided to allow her to sleep in the kitchen of the big house. She was glad of her company during the day, though, because Kitty was such an excellent listener. And, of course, the phone calls with Christian helped, and Río had checked in on her every other evening on her way home from location, and Shane had phoned last night and promised to visit, and now Fleur was ferrying her off to lunch and – all things considered – Dervla was getting there. She had just one more week to go, and then Nemia would be back.

She refilled Kitty’s bowl, checked to see if there were any messages on the landline, then joined Fleur in the stable yard. Fleur was looking fabulous as usual, in a flounced blackand-white polka-dot dress, and when Dervla told her so Fleur said, ‘Well, thank you! Today I am channelling Rita Hayworth in
Lady from Shanghai
. Here are your binoculars.’

‘Thanks. Today I am channelling Dobby the House Elf,’ replied Dervla, taking the binoculars, ‘and Daphne’s channelling the Wicked Witch of the West. She’s in a vile mood. Come and meet her.’

Dervla led the way into the house and through to the sitting room, where Daphne was sitting with her teeth beside her on the occasional table.

Quickly, Dervla grabbed a tissue, seized the teeth and – with a brusque ‘Excuse me!’ to a surprised Fleur – carried them off to the bathroom like a hard won trophy. This was only the third opportunity she’d had to clean Daphne’s dentures and she set about the chore vigorously, donning a disposable glove and scrubbing with a toothbrush, keeping her eyes averted all the while. The teeth could not be considered an object delightful to behold by anyone – with the possible exception of Damien Hirst or Tracey Emin. Come to think of it, Tracey Emin would
love
Daphne’s bed, thought Dervla. Maybe she should take a photograph of it and send it to Charles Saatchi? Daphne’s unmade bed could fetch a fortune at an art auction.

Job done, Dervla returned with the teeth to the sitting room, where Daphne and Fleur were conversing in French. ‘
Elle a la figure d’une bonne congédiée
,’ Daphne was saying, ‘
et un regard très, très mauvais
.’ Well, hell. Dervla didn’t have much French, but it would appear that Daphne’s mastery of
la langue française
was more adroit than her English.

‘
Mais, non, Madame
,’ answered Fleur. ‘
Elle est tout simplement fatiguée
.’

Daphne gave her an autocratic look. ‘
Savez-vous où habitent mes parents?
’

Fleur and Dervla exchanged glances. Daphne was asking Fleur if she knew where her parents lived.

‘
Je regrette que non, Madame
,’ said Fleur.

‘Are we ready for our jaunt, Daphne?’ Dervla interjected, with exaggerated cheeriness.

‘Jaunt?’

‘Yes. We’re going to Arnoldscourt for lunch. Do you need to spend a penny before we go?’

‘No, I do not need to spend a penny.’

Dervla felt insouciant: it didn’t matter either way. Dr
Doorley’s psychological trick had worked a treat: any time Dervla came out with those three magic words ‘
The Doctor says’
, Daphne had become uncharacteristically acquiescent. Last night she had kept her incontinence pants on, and this morning after Dervla had washed her she’d allowed herself to be manoeuvred into a fresh pair. And there was a spare in Dervla’s tote bag, ‘just’ – as Nemia had once so memorably said – ‘in case’.

Dervla discreetly handed Daphne her teeth, and between them, she and Fleur got the old lady out of her chair, through the front door, and into Fleur’s car. Dervla was glad to be allowed to sit in the back, even though the back seat of the Karmann Ghia was as narrow as a shelf. As they bowled down the drive, she let her head fall back against the leather upholstery, listening to Fleur and Daphne sing ‘
Sur le Pont d’Avignon
’ and ‘
La Vie en Rose
’, and soon she was fast asleep.

She was woken by Fleur gently shaking her. ‘We’re here,’ she said. ‘Daphne’s complaining that she’s hungry.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Dervla rubbed her eyes. What was wrong with her? She
never
fell asleep during the day. She knew now that when in the past she’d complained of being exhausted after a hard day’s work, she simply hadn’t known the true meaning of the word. She slid her legs out of the car, feeling as if they were made of lead, and helped Fleur lever Daphne out of the front.

‘What’s the story with the wheelchair?’ she asked Fleur.

‘I reserved one when I booked the table. We can take her around the gardens after lunch.’

Lunch was excellent. Dervla had a plate of tapas and Daphne had lasagne, and Fleur had herb-crusted cod, which she pronounced delicious but wasn’t able to finish because Daphne sneezed on it. And a baby burst into tears when Daphne smiled at it. And Fleur and Dervla got a fit of the
giggles when Daphne peered at the waiter and said, ‘How do you…Long John Silver?’ But aside from that, lunch was uneventful. After cappucinos (Daphne sipped hers from a teaspoon), they went out into the garden where a wheelchair was waiting for them.

The gardens were ablaze with scarlet flame creeper, magenta salvia, and free-flowering rambling rose. Dervla hadn’t had much interest in things floriferous until she’d moved into the Old Rectory, and had looked to Río for her help, because Río knew more about gardens than anyone else in Lissamore. She remembered how she had pictured life in the Old Rectory once, how she’d imagined herself dressed in white linen, drifting around a garden with a basket on her arm, plucking flowers – old-fashioned ones like lupins and dog roses – that she would arrange later in the kitchen with the help of her rosy-cheeked housekeeper. What a joke!

Dervla and Fleur wheeled Daphne between geometrically laid-out flowerbeds and lawns that sloped down a steep incline to a central walk. There were lots of other old people being pushed about in chairs, and Daphne was clearly determined to distance herself from these ambient geriatric types, because she insisted on talking to Fleur very loudly in French. ‘
Qui sont ces vieux gens?
’ ‘
Pourquoi suis-je dans cette chaise roulante?
’ ‘
Regardez cette vieille! Elle a un visage à faire peur!
’ And then she would laugh very loudly, and turn her face up to Fleur and smile. She was clearly entranced by Fleur’s Frenchness, and Dervla felt a rush of gratitude to her friend for taking over all the small talk and letting her off the hook for the afternoon. It felt good to stroll in the sun.

Rounding a corner, they were confronted suddenly with a bizarre spectacle. A courtyard had been cordoned off, where cameras and lights and sound equipment were being set up.
People in sunglasses were contriving to look cool and business-like at the same time, and a posse of horses was surmounted by ladies in riding habits and men in red coats.

‘What’s going on?’ said Dervla.

‘It’s
The O’Hara Affair
,’ said Fleur. ‘And look – there’s Finn!’

‘Finn?’

‘Yes. See? He’s the one on the big black horse.’

Dervla followed the direction in which Fleur was pointing. Her nephew Finn was sitting side-saddle on a stallion. He was wearing a billowy black skirt, a riding coat and a topper with a veil.

‘What’s he doing in women’s clothes?’ Dervla asked.

‘He’s a stunt double,’ Fleur told her. ‘Shane got him the job.’

Dervla laughed. ‘But he looks ridiculous! Finn! Finn!’

Finn turned, and, spotting them, vaulted off the horse’s back, handed the reins to the wrangler, and strode towards them, his veil streaming out behind him.

Dervla ran to him. ‘Hey, honey! I didn’t know you were into cross-dressing!’

Finn wrapped his arms around her and gave her a big bear hug. ‘Hey, auntie,’ he said, looking down at her with his best smile. ‘How’s it going? Good to see you.’

‘Come and say hello to Fleur,’ said Dervla, ‘and allow me to introduce you to my august mother-in-law.’

‘Hi, Fleur,’ said Finn, drawing abreast with Fleur and the wheelchair that contained Daphne. But the minute Daphne caught sight of a man in a black top hat and veil and what looked like an undertaker’s outfit, she shrieked, ‘Death!’, propelled herself backward, and took off down the hill.

Because the slope was terraced, it was like watching something being replayed over and over in slow motion. Daphne
slalomed down one terrace, then skidded to a virtual halt before toppling over the next one.