The O’Hara Affair (46 page)

‘“The Selfish Giant”,’ said Dervla, opening the book.

‘The what giant?’

‘The
selfish
giant. It’s the one about the giant who wouldn’t let the children play in his garden.’

‘Oh. All right. Go on.’

Oh, God. Dervla hoped that Daphne wasn’t going to ask her to repeat herself every few words. She made sure to keep her decibel level up and her enunciation crisp, so that there could be no complaints.

By the end of the story, Daphne had tears in her eyes, and so did Dervla.

‘“And the child smiled on the Giant”,’ said Dervla, ‘“and said to him, ‘You let me play once in your garden, today you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.’ And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.”’

‘Oh!’ cried Daphne. ‘That’s very sad.’

‘Yes,’ said Dervla, closing the book and setting it on the table. ‘It is a sad story. But it’s a very beautiful one. A nice way to go, come to think of it, in a garden covered in blossom.’

She pulled the covers up around Daphne’s neck, and kissed her on the forehead. At the door, she turned and said, as she always did, ‘Good night, Daphne. Sleep tight and sweet dreams.’

And then she went into the kitchen and topped up her glass. She’d take one of Christian’s sleeping pills tonight, she decided. She deserved to sleep like a log.

Fleur had arrived home after her aborted walk in Díseart with Dervla to find both her landline and her mobile phone full of messages. They were all from Corban. ‘Hey, beautiful. I’ve been thinking of you for two weeks now. I’ll call around later with your present. Can’t wait to see you, gorgeous.’ Click. ‘Hi, sweetheart. Do you know what the story is with your cleaning person? She doesn’t seem to have come in.’ Click. ‘Fleur? Are you there? I wish you’d pick up. I think your cleaning person may have helped herself to some of my personal effects.’ Click. ‘Fleur. This is deeply serious. I think your cleaning person has been fiddling around with my computer. I wish you’d pick up. Fleur?
Fleur?
’ Click.

Your cleaning person
. He hadn’t even bothered to remember Audrey’s name. But then, that’s what people were to Corban. Commodities, not sentient beings.
Merde!
Let him stew. She never wanted to see him again. The man with whom she had believed herself to be in love was a construct, not the real thing.

She started up her laptop, then went upstairs to change. Once upon a time she’d have got into something slinky for Corban and spent the entire evening trying to hold her tummy in. Tonight she got into baggy sweat pants and a T-shirt, scraped her hair back from her face, secured it with
a scrunchy, then scrubbed her face with an exfoliating cleanser. She slathered on a vitamin E face mask, tucked her feet into gel-lined moisturizing socks, went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of cocoa. Then she lit a scented candle, sat down at her computer, and thought about logging on to Second Life. Her lip curled. She didn’t think so.

Instead, she logged on to Facebook. She’d chosen as her latest Facebook avatar an image of the young Audrey Hepburn circa
Roman Holiday
.
Merde!
What was she doing, masquerading as a twenty-something cutie with her finger on the pulse? She should do herself a favour, and ’fess up. She should enter her real birthdate into Facebook, her real profession, her real worries and concerns, and communicate with the real world without hiding behind a twenty-one-year-old alias called Flirty, or avatars disguised as glamour queens and
gamines
. It was time for Fleur to grow up. Youth was the preserve of – well – the young, and she should leave them to it.

But, hell – she suspected that growing up took energy, and she was too tired to do it tonight. Scrolling down through her list of friends, she found herself looking at the image of her bright and beautiful niece. She entered Daisy’s password and clicked. Daisy had hundreds of friends, but they were not all bright and beautiful. They were an eclectic bunch. Daisy had old friends and young, friends who were members of MENSA, and friends who had special needs. She had friends of all creeds and colours, all shapes and sizes, and all sexual persuasions. Daisy embraced the world.

Fleur went to her own home page, opened a box, and started to type in a message. She didn’t know when Daisy would be visiting the next hill station in KwaZulu Natal where she could pick it up, but she had an overwhelming impulse to reach out to the niece who was the daughter she’d never had.

However, she hadn’t got beyond
Daisy-Belle! I miss you!
when the doorbell rang. She barely needed to check the security cam to know that it was Corban. He rang again. And again. And again. He kept his finger on the doorbell until Fleur wanted to scream at him to shut up and go away. But she wasn’t going to let him win this time. She went back to her laptop, put on headphones and played ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend’ very loudly. Marilyn Monroe had never sung a truer word.

In Díseart, Jake had walked Bethany to her front door, kissed her on the cheek, and said good night. They’d had a fine time in O’Toole’s. They hadn’t been able to talk much because there’d been a music session on, but after a couple of drinks they’d left with that feeling of exhilaration that live Irish music always stirs in the soul.

Bethany felt like dancing still: she was restless, wide awake. She wished she’d invited Jake in for coffee, but she didn’t want to look too keen on a first date. Was that what it had been? A date? Maybe not, exactly. But it seemed he had sought her out. What else could have brought him to Díseart? Oh – stupid, stupid girl!
What else could have brought him to Díseart?
she parroted in a parody of her own voice. Only the view, the sea air, the fact that it was a perfect evening for a stroll along one of the loveliest strands in all of Coolnamara? Of all the attractions in Díseart, Bethany O’Brien would rate well low on the list.

She had a quick shower to wash the sea salt from her skin, got into the T-shirt and boxers she always wore to bed, made herself a cup of green tea, then sat down in front of her laptop. Second Life? No. No vicarious living for her. Bethany had had a flavour of real life today, and it had tasted good.

She went to ‘Favourites’, and clicked on Facebook. Hey!
She had four more requests for friendship, and Elena Sweetman had added her! There was lots of YouTube stuff to check out, and a status update from…Jake!

‘What’s on my mind? “Erin Shore”…’

‘Erin Shore’ had been the last piece of music played in the pub this evening! Bethany hugged herself. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a time, itching to type in a comment, but since she could think of no suitable riposte, she went instead to Windows Live Messenger to see who else was online. Yay! Flirty was signed in. Bethany clicked.

Hey, Flirty!
she said.
How are you? I’ve had such a fab evening!

Glad to hear it! came the response. What did you get up to?

I went for a swim and then I went for a drink with the cute AD on the film. There was a session on in O’Toole’s.

I know. I could hear it from my deck.

What the—? Had Bethany read this right?

What do you mean?
she typed.

There was a pause, and then an ‘embarrassed face’ icon appeared in the chat box.

I have a confession to make, Bethany. I am not 21 and my name is not Flirty. My real name is Fleur, and I own the shop just down the road from O’Toole’s in Lissamore.

You mean you’re Fleur of Fleurissima?
If Bethany had been speaking rather than typing, she’d have stammered.

Yes. Another blushing emoticon appeared. I feel very embarrassed about this.

No worries!
replied Bethany, feeling the need to say something –
anything –
while she got her head around this.
But why don’t you want people to know who you are really? I would have thought that you’d be proud to be you.

I like to keep up with the younger demographic, and I’ve found Facebook and MSN a great place to do it. I didn’t think any young people would want to talk to me if I gave my real age.

Bethany hesitated, then smiled and typed,
What’s to be sorry for? Sure, don’t loads of people hide behind different identities online. Some of them might be weirdos –
and she’d learned
that
to her cost this evening –
but you’ve always been so kind and nice to me and full of good advice.

You really mean that?

Yes. I think it’s quite a clever thing to do, actually. In your line of work you need to know what’s going on and there’s no better way of keeping up to spin than Facebook.
Bethany sniggered. How weird it felt to be giving Flirty advice, instead of it being the other way round!
Apparently Anastasia Harris goes on all the time under an alias to find out what people are saying about her.
Bethany pressed ‘Send’, then drained her cup of tea. What a weird, weird, small, small world it was! And as she waited for her new friend Fleur to respond, she heard a car draw up outside the gate of her cottage.

Apparently Anastasia Harris goes on all the time under an alias to find out what people are saying about her,
Fleur read, and smiled. If that pornographic home movie ever made it on to YouTube, she bet Anastasia Harris would have another think about wanting to know what people were saying about her.

I hope she hasn’t found out what her nickname is, Fleur typed, in response to Bethany’s last comment.

There was no response.

Bethany? Fleur took another sip of cocoa. Hello, Bethany – are you there?

Her phone rang. She ignored it. It would be that bastard bastarding Corban again. He’d given up ringing her doorbell at last, and Fleur had watched through the kitchen window as he’d lumbered away and got into his car. That man should not be driving, she’d thought, as he’d taken off at speed. He was quite clearly drunk – which was most unlike Corban. Fleur had never seen him drunk before – he was always far too focused on staying in control. The disappeared DVD must have rattled him badly. Or else he was missing her so desperately already that he was drowning his sorrows and preparing to drive off the pier – ha ha ha. Knocking back the rest of the cocoa in her mug, Fleur rinsed it, stacked it in the dishwasher, then went upstairs to fetch her toothbrush. When she came back to the kitchen, the following was waiting for her in her inbox.

I NEED TO TALK URGENT CAN U FONE PLS

Fleur picked up her phone. The number of the missed call displayed on her screen told her that it had not been from Corban. It had been from Bethany. Without hesitation, she pressed ‘Reply’.

It rang for some moments before Bethany picked up. ‘Hello?’ she said, in a very small voice.

‘Bethany? It’s Fleur.’

‘Oh – thank God! I thought it might have been him.’

‘Who?’

‘The producer of the film – Corban O’Hara.’

‘
What?
Why?’

‘He’s outside my house,’ she whispered.

Fleur put a hand on the table for support. ‘Bethany! What’s going on?’

‘I – I heard a car stop, and then someone came up the path and rang the doorbell. I looked out the top window and it was him. And then he rang again a couple of times, but I didn’t want to let him in. I mean, maybe there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for it, but I’d feel uncomfortable answering the door in my night clothes, and it’s late, and I’m awful scared, Flirty.’

‘Is he still at the door?’

‘No. He’s down on the beach. He’s walking around in circles like a – like a bear or something. Oh, please, Flirty – can you help? I don’t want to phone the guards because I don’t want to make a fuss—’

‘Why not?’

‘He – he’s an important guy and it might harm my acting career if I get him into trouble. Maybe he’ll think I’m asleep or something, and go away.’

‘Is there a light on in the cottage?’

‘Yes. I didn’t want to turn it off because that would mean he’d know there was definitely someone at home.’

‘Bethany – sit tight. Do not move. Do not go to the door. I’ll be there in five minutes. Wait for me.’

Fleur grabbed her car keys, snuffed out the candle and let herself out, incandescent with rage. What did that bastard think he was playing at, harassing girls young enough to be his daughter? He’d truly overstepped the mark this time – all that power he wielded had made him lose the plot. How many women did Mr O’Hara need to seduce and manipulate before he was satisfied?
She
– Fleur Thérèse Odette de Saint-Euverte, compliant mistress and elegant arm candy – was no longer one of his harem, that was for sure. And
maybe, she thought – just maybe – that was what was maddening him most? That – by refusing to take his calls nor allowing him access all areas as she normally did – she had gained the upper hand?

Her car was parked opposite O’Toole’s. As she inserted the key, Shane and Finn came rollicking through the door, laughing, clearly having enjoyed a few pints. Fleur suddenly realized that it could be a massive act of folly to go down to Díseart alone. Someone had once told her that Díseart was the Irish for ‘desert or isolated place’. And – oh! Bethany was alone and in danger there.

‘You two!’ said Fleur, in her most commanding voice. ‘Come with me!’

Shane and Finn turned astonished eyes on her. Fleur knew she must look like a madwoman, in her gel socks and with her face gooey with vitamin E cream, but she didn’t care.

‘What’s up?’ asked Finn, cautiously.

‘Get in the car and I’ll tell you.’ Her tone brooked no dissent.

Shane and Finn exchanged looks, and got meekly into the car, Finn having to practically fold himself double on the narrow back seat.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Díseart.’

‘Díseart? Why Díseart?’ asked Shane.

‘Because there’s a girl there who is under threat from Corban bastard O’Hara.’

Fleur put the car into gear with an aggression that made Shane wince. As she drove, she filled her passengers in on exactly what Corban had done. They knew already about his duplicity – about his affair with Anastasia Harris – but the fresh details of his debauchery shocked them to the core.