The O’Hara Affair (4 page)

‘Next week.’

‘No! So soon?’

‘Someone dropped out, so I got in like Flynn. If I hadn’t got a place on this trip, I’d be waiting another six months.’

‘Well,
bon voyage!
’ Fleur raised her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to Africa!’

‘And here’s to you, Mystic Meg!’ Daisy took a sip of wine, then gave Fleur a look of appraisal. ‘One question. How are you going to do it?’

‘The fortune-telling?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Río lent me a crystal ball.’

Daisy raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘A crystal ball? Does it work?’

‘But of course! I looked into it earlier and it told me that at half-past seven this evening I would be drinking Sancerre and feasting on gâteaux with my niece. And presto! How uncanny is that? It is now seven-thirty and that is exactly what I’m doing.’

‘So presumably you’re just going to gaze into the ball and come out with mumbo-jumbo stuff about travelling over water and meeting tall dark strangers?’

‘I guess so. I haven’t really thought about it. Río gave me an instruction manual, but it’s pretty useless.’

‘How does Río usually do it?’

‘She improvises – she’s brilliant at it. She has such in-tuitive flair.’

‘I hate to say this, Flirty, but you’re not very good at improvising.’

Fleur shrugged. ‘I’ll just have to try. Río says she raised nearly four hundred euros last year, and Corban has agreed to double the sum I take in. And all the money raised is going to the Hospice Foundation.’

‘But if word gets out that you’re rubbish, no one will want to know.’

Fleur looked put out. ‘It’s only five euros a go, Daisy. And it’s for charity.’

‘Flirty – if you’re not worth it, people are going to spend their five euros on the tombola instead. If you want to double your money, you’re going to have to dream up some way of impressing the punters.’

‘But I can’t be expected to read people’s fortunes, Daisy! That is madness!’

‘Of course it’s madness. But…’ Daisy narrowed her eyes and gave Fleur the benefit of her best sphinx-like smile ‘…but I’m having quite a good idea. Where’s your crystal ball?’

‘Upstairs.’

‘Show me.’

‘OK.’ Fleur got to her feet and eased into a stretch. ‘Ow. I’ll get out of this costume while I’m up there. If I don’t take off the cummerbund I’ll have no room for your cake.’

‘Why did you lace it so tight?’

‘Vanity, of course,
chérie
.’

Upstairs, Fleur doffed her fancy dress and got into lounging pyjamas. On reflection, she decided she was glad
that Daisy had decided to quit her modelling career. She knew that her elder brother, François, was uncomfortable with the notion of his daughter being caught up in such a superficial milieu. Being the father of an only daughter, François was a staunch protector of his pride and joy, and had reared her quite strictly, as is the manner of French fathers. Fleur remembered how François had been sent by her own father to rescue her when she had run off to Dublin. The ironic thing was that her brother, too, had fallen in love with Ireland – more specifically, with a Galway girl – and both siblings had stayed, building businesses on the west coast. Fleur had her boutique in Lissamore, and François had his – a fishing tackle shop – in nearby Galway. Fleur was glad she had family so close: although she and her brother were chalk and cheese (François was into hunting, shooting and fishing in a big way), she was mad about her beautiful niece, whom she treated as her surrogate daughter.

Her phone alerted her to a message: Daisy had forwarded the picture she had taken earlier. Ooh la la – it was quite fun! Her gypsy skirts were all a-twirl around her thighs, the cinched-in waist enhanced her curves, and she was smiling directly to camera. She’d forward it to Corban, for a joke. She composed the caption: Gypsy Rose Lee will tell your fortune for a modest remuneration, then pressed Send. By the time she’d got back downstairs with the crystal ball and
Six Lessons in Crystal Gazing
, Daisy was checking something out on her iPhone.

‘My idea is
inspired
, Flirty. Have a look at this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s my Facebook profile.’

‘Wow. You have so many friends,’ said Fleur, looking over Daisy’s shoulder. ‘But what has this to do with your inspired idea?’

‘Aha! Behold.’

Aiming the cursor at ‘Status’ on the top of her profile page, Daisy typed in, ‘Anyone in the Coolnamara region this weekend? Check out the fortune-teller at the festival in Lissamore. She rocks!’

Fleur gave her niece a sceptical look. ‘Daisy – that’s just
inviting
disaster!’

‘No, it’s not. Because this is what you are going to do. Watch this.’

Daisy clicked on a name, and another profile appeared on the screen. The person in question was a pretty girl called Sofia. As Daisy scrolled down, Fleur learned that Sofia’s birthday was on the second of October: she was a Libra. Her relationship status was single, she was interested in men. A click told Fleur that Sofia’s favourite movies included
Mamma Mia
and Disney’s
Beauty and the Beast
, her favourite book was
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas
, she had a brown belt in karate, and she made excellent pasta because her mother was Italian. Her photo album included shots of herself standing against a variety of landmarks: the Sydney Opera House, the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum. Remarks that had been posted on her wall read: ‘See you when you get back from Coolnamara – Club M, Friday week?’ ‘Hmm…I hear you met a cutie in Paris!’ ‘You saw Cheryl Cole in Top Shop? Awesome!’

‘This is most illuminating, my dear,’ said Fleur. ‘But why should you want to share with me the information that one of your friends met a cutie in Paris and has a brown belt in karate?’

‘I know for a fact that she’s in Lissamore this weekend.’

‘So?’

‘So, picture this. She’s messing about on Facebook. She learns that there’s a shit-hot fortune-teller at the festival, and decides to investigate. Put yourself in her shoes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Pretend you’re Sofia.’

Fleur gave Daisy a bemused look, then shrugged and said: ‘OK. I’m Sofia.’

‘Welcome, Sofia!’ said Daisy, doing a kind of salaam and adopting a mysterious expression. Gazing into the crystal ball that Fleur had set on the table, she added in a dodgy Eastern European accent: ‘I think you might be a Libra, Sofia, yes? Hmm. What else can I tell you about yourself? I see – I think I see you in a suit of trousers – white trousers, with bare feet. You are dancing – no, no! You are kicking! I guess perhaps you might have a talent for karate, Sofia? And there is more – you have travelled, travelled far and wide. I see many foreign countries in the crystal – Sydney, Paris, Rome…And what is this? You are in a club, now, and this time you
are
dancing. But dancing in the future. Next Friday, perhaps? Next Friday I think you are going dancing with a friend, to a place called the – could it be Club N?’

‘No,’ said Fleur with a smile, as the penny dropped. ‘It’s Club M.’

‘There!’ Daisy flopped back in her seat with a triumphant smile. ‘You see! It’s ingenious! Word spreads like lightning through the Facebook community, and anybody who’s spending the bank holiday weekend in Coolnamara will come flocking to see – what’s your fortune-teller name?’

‘Haven’t an idea.’

‘Tsk-tsk. How about Tiresia?’

‘From Thérèse?’

‘No. Tiresias was a famous soothsayer in ancient Greece.’

Fleur sighed in admiration. ‘My niece has brains as well as beauty!’

‘Sounds good, doesn’t it? The famous Madame Tiresia, who knows all!’

‘Daisy – how exactly do you propose that I do this?’

‘Simple! You check out profiles on your iPhone, which you will have cunningly concealed under the table.’

‘But I don’t do Facebook.’

‘Aha! But you log on as me – popular minor celebrity and model, Daisy de Saint-Euverte. You saw how many friends I have. And those friends have friends, and I have influence. Sometimes being a C-lister can be useful.’

‘You’ve clearly had too much wine. This can’t possibly work.’

‘Don’t be so negative, Flirty!’ Daisy reached for
Six Lessons in Crystal Gazing
and started leafing through it. ‘Just think of all the moolah you can raise for the Hospice Foundation.’

‘But we have got to anticipate the worst. Lots and lots of things could go wrong. What if Mister Norman No-Friends from Nenagh enters the booth. What do I say to him?’

‘You tell Norman that there is no hope of telling his fortune because…because he doesn’t have one!’

‘I couldn’t say that! Poor Norman will think he’s going to die.’

‘Um. OK. Tell him you can’t see his aura. Listen to this: “It is quite possible for the gazer to be able to see things in the crystal at one time and not at another. In fact, many of the best crystal gazers have lost the power for weeks together. This being so, you should not be discouraged if such images fail to appear at your command.” There’s your disclaimer. Print it out and display it by the entrance to your booth.’ Daisy checked out the cover of the booklet. ‘It’s by Dr R A Mayne. There you go! Your spiritual mentor has impressive credentials.’

‘But that book was published in 1928.’

‘Your punters don’t need to know that. Come on – let’s have another go. This time you can tell my fortune. My name
is…Jana.’ Daisy’s fingers twinkled over her iPhone, then she handed it to Fleur.

‘Jana!’ said Fleur, peering at the display as if she were reading Ancient Egyptian. ‘Um, welcome.’

‘Pretend to be gazing into the ball,’ instructed Daisy.

‘I can’t look at the ball and Jana’s profile at the same time!’

‘Then we’ll get you a veil. Try this.’ Daisy unwound the chiffon scarf she was wearing and dropped it over her aunt’s head. ‘Perfect! Go again.’

‘Jana,’ repeated Fleur. ‘I think you might be a Pisces, yes? I see – um – a book with the title
The Time Traveler’s Wife
and I see Meryl Streep wearing dungarees – holy moly, is
Mamma Mia every
one’s favourite film on Facebook?’

‘Tut-tut! You’re stepping out of character, Madame Tiresia. Here, have some more wine.’

‘Thank you, Jana. Now – where were we? I see you singing – singing in front of Simon Cowell. Perhaps you have auditioned for the
X Factor
?’

Some forty minutes later, Fleur had told half-a-dozen more fortunes, and was really beginning to have fun.

‘Not bad for a Facebook virgin,’ remarked Daisy, upending the wine bottle. ‘You’ll get hooked, Flirty, mark my words. Now, let’s do one more. This time I’m going to be Paris Hilton.’ ‘Paris Hilton is one of your Facebook friends?’

‘No, she’s not. But we all know everything there is to know about Paris. You should have no problem uncovering
her
secrets.’

‘Welcome!’ enthused Fleur, waving her hands over the crystal ball. But just as she was deliberating over questions for Paris, the phone in the kitchen sounded. Reaching for her wineglass, she excused herself and shimmied inside to pick up. It was Corban.

‘Hello,
chéri
!’ she crooned into the mouthpiece. When Fleur had a little too much to drink, or when she was enraged – which was seldom – her French accent became marginally more pronounced.

‘I just got your message,’ he told her, ‘and I have to say, you look pretty damned hot as Gypsy Rose Lee. But you made a mistake.’

‘I did?’

‘Yeah. Gypsy Rose Lee was a burlesque artist, not a fortune-teller.’

‘Oops.’

‘And she was a
very
sexy lady. The original Dita Von Teese.’

‘What are you getting at, Mister O’Hara?’ Fleur started toying with a strand of hair. She couldn’t help flirting with Corban, even on the telephone.

‘You know I said I’d double your take, Fleur? I’m prepared to quadruple it. On one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘When I call in to you on Friday evening, I want to see you wearing those gypsy threads.’

Fleur’s mouth curved in a provocative smile. ‘So that you can take them off?’

‘No. So that
you
can take them off. While I watch.’

Fleur’s smile grew even more provocative. She pretended to buy time while taking a sip from her wineglass. Then she laughed out loud. ‘Done deal,’ she said.

Dervla Vaughan (née Kinsella) stepped through the front door of her new home and set her bags down on the hall floor. The sun filtering through the mosaic glass of the fanlight cast a jewel-like pattern onto the stone flags, and when she slipped off her sandals the patch of spangled sunlight warmed the soles of her feet. The air was redolent of fresh paint, with here and there a trace of linseed oil. If you added base notes of baking bread, then bottled it, the scent could rival any room candle dreamed up by Jo Malone. It was perfectly quiet in the house: the only sound that of birdsong, and the distant baaing of sheep from the fields beyond the garden.

Her dream house! Moving into the centre of the hall, Dervla executed a slow turn, taking in each and every one of the three hundred and sixty delectable degrees that surrounded her. Off the hallway, to left and to right were two spacious, high-ceilinged reception rooms. In her mind’s eye they were washed in soothing shades of buttery yellow and eau-de-nil, furnished with understated antiques and carpeted in faded Aubusson; but right now the rooms were works in progress, with tools of the decorator’s trade heaped in a corner and undercoat spattered on dust sheets.

Her eyes followed the graceful line of the cantilevered
staircase. On the floor above her, bedrooms and bathrooms had unparalleled views over the countryside, with sea shimmering and mountains slumbering on the horizon. The views were as yet unframed by curtains, but Dervla had improvised with yards of unbleached muslin in the master bedroom, to soften the magisterial appearance of the high casements. More muslin was draped from the tester over the king-sized bed, each side of which was flanked by a pale rug: not the Aubusson carpets of Dervla’s fantasy, but pretty in their own way. A chest at the foot of the bed contained bed linen, but aside from that, and the cushions piled on the window seat, the room was unfurnished.