The O’Hara Affair (28 page)

‘We’re talking like people in a radio play!’ said Christian.

‘It’s fun! Let us continue to bemoan our lot.’

‘Vent our anguish.’

‘Shake our fists at the heavens.’ Dervla dropped a kiss on his forehead. ‘Have you ever noticed the way we talk when Daphne’s here?’

‘Well, we talk louder, that’s for sure.’

‘It’s not just that. The dialogue’s all stilted. It’s like – “Are you enjoying your supper, Christian?” “Yes, Dervla. It is delicious. Did you happen to hear the weather forecast earlier?” “Yes, I did. It looks like rain tomorrow.” “Oh, dear. I shall have to have the old wellies handy, so.” “Ha ha ha.”’

Christian slumped. ‘Oh, God. I’m sorry, Dervla.’

‘Sorry? What for?’

‘My mother.’

‘Tush, tush, my love. What do you do? It’s the way of the world.’ Dervla reached for the champagne bottle, and topped up the flutes.

‘D’you know, sometimes I envy her,’ said Christian.

Dervla looked at him askance. ‘Why on earth would you envy Daphne?’

‘Because she has no worries. She just expects to be fed and clothed and watered and kept warm. Like a baby. Except babies aren’t imperious.’

Imperious was putting it mildly, Dervla thought, handing Christian his glass.

‘Well, here’s to no worries,’ she said. ‘There will come a time, mark my words, when the gods will smile upon us and things will be more propitious.’

‘Propitious. That’s a good word. May we never forget that the cornucopia of plenty is half full, not half empty.’

‘Amen,’ said Dervla, adding ‘Oh!’ and jumping up. ‘Talking of cornucopias, I nearly forgot. We have salted almonds. Fleur gave me a bag of them as a thank-you present for doing the driving today. She does the best salted almonds in the world.’

Swinging into the utility room, Dervla emptied the ziplock bag of almonds into a bowl, noticing as she did that she’d left the door of the freezer open. Shit! More wasted energy! Their electricity bill had arrived today, and she hadn’t dared to open it.

Back in the kitchen, Christian was leafing through
Essential Interiors
magazine, looking morose.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

‘What are you sorry for now?’

He indicated the glossy magazine. ‘For not having the money to furnish your dream house.’

‘Oh, love! I don’t need any stupid dream house. Haven’t I a dream husband, and isn’t that enough to make any woman happy?’

‘You really are so sweet. Let me kiss your pretty nose.’

But before Christian could kiss Dervla’s pretty nose, a knock came at the kitchen window. It was Nemia.

‘Hi,’ she said, putting her head around the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I need your help, Christian.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Daphne is trying to phone her mother. She’s getting anxious because she can’t get through to somebody she calls the operator.’

‘Unsurprisingly enough,’ said Christian, getting resignedly to his feet, ‘since the operator has been redundant for about twenty years. I’ll come and try and explain things to her.’
He turned to Dervla, and added, ‘In the words of Lawrence Oates, “I am just going outside, and may be some time.”’

As Christian followed Nemia through the door, Dervla heard the carer say, ‘What might she have meant by “the operator”? Who
is
the operator?’

Who is the operator?
The question had a metaphysical ring to it. How weird it must be, to live in Daphne’s world, a world that was probably populated by such antique tradespersons as cobblers and smiths and milliners and milkmen. And estate agents.

Swigging back champagne, Dervla reached for
Essential Interiors
.

The house featured on the page that Christian had been perusing was a beauty – a nineteenth-century Gothic Revival mansion, all bay windows and floor-to-ceiling library shelves and grassy parklands and Carrara fireplaces. There was, of course, an Aga in the kitchen, which was charmingly cluttered with copper pots and pans and mismatched china. Bedrooms were furnished with fourposters dripping with tassels and tiebacks and swagged with faded brocade; bathrooms featured throne-like loos and scroll-topped, claw-footed baths; there were designated rooms for boots and coats, a schoolroom and a night nursery, and Farrow & Ball was splashed everywhere.

A house like this had been, once, the vision at the forefront of Dervla’s mind’s eye. This is how she had pictured the Old Rectory in her childhood dreams. She had populated it with a rosy-cheeked housekeeper and a gnarled gardener, a husband, a dog, and children. She had the husband, now; she had the dog. But there was no rosy-cheeked housekeeper and no gardener, and instead of the children, she had another dependent.

Christian had compared Daphne to a baby, earlier. But
babies were bundles of joy. They epitomized hope, growth, a future where anything was possible. Aside from that, you could pinch babies’ chubby bits, stroke their peach-like skin; you could squeeze them and kiss them and rock them and rough-house them and inhale their glorious babyness. You could teach them and learn from them and laugh with them and applaud their hand–eye coordination. Babies were a brave new world.

Draining her glass, Dervla decided that Daphne wasn’t like a baby at all. She was more like an incubus, sucking energy from others to maintain her own wellbeing. The analogy was so appalling that she found herself clamping her hands over her mouth. Then she lunged for the bottle, and poured.

Thank God the alcohol helped.

Fleur waited for ScarlettO’Hara Sahara to rezz on the screen of her Apple Mac in all her red velvet glory; but for some reason, Flirty LittleBoots materialized instead. She must have entered the wrong password. Flirty was still wearing the leather skirt over her combats, her helmet hadn’t rezzed, and neither had the blue hair. Flirty looked worse than ever: maybe Fleur should change the avatar’s name to Baldy LittleBoots instead.

She was about to consult the file in which she stored her passwords so that she could breathe life into ScarlettO’Hara Sahara, when lo! suddenly a request for Flirty LittleBoots’s friendship popped up. It was from Bethany’s virtual boyfriend, Hero. Hmm. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get to know this Hero better, find out how kosher he was, work out whether he was truly worthy of Bethany O’Brien. Fleur accepted his invitation, then set about trying again to divest Flirty of her leather skirt. It worked! Now all she needed was to reinstate her helmet and her hair.

Her Instant Messenger sprang suddenly into life.

Hero says: Hi, Flirty
, she read.

Oh! He was online.

Hi
, she said back.

Wanna come and see the place I made?

Um. Did she want to see it? What kind of place is it?
she asked, cautiously. She didn’t want to end up in another lap-dancing club.

It’s real cosy. I have a kitty cat.

His invitation to teleport popped up on her screen. Fleur hesitated, then typed in
On my way,
and clicked ‘Accept’.

She found herself in the kind of cottage Walt Disney might have dreamed up. There was a fire burning in the hearth, and a kettle steaming on the hob. A vase of marguerites sat on the windowsill, the cat was snoozing in a basket, and a framed picture of Bethany’s avatar had been hung over the mantelpiece. Hero was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching her.

Nice place you’ve got here,
she said.

TY.

Flirty moved to the window. Virtual waves licked at golden sand, and she could hear the call of a curlew.
You’ve a great view of the sea.

It’s my little Irish cabin.

You’re Irish?

Begorrah, and I am. You?

French.

Ooh la la! Bienvenue, Madame!

Merci, Monsieur
.

There was a hiatus, then:
You managed to get rid of the leather skirt, LOL
, he said.

Yes. Finally.

But I’m not sure that the bald look is right for a sophisticated French lady. Maybe you should go shopping for some new hair and help yourself to a French maid’s outfit while you’re at it. LOL.

Hmm. Fleur hoped that the tone of the convo wasn’t going to become prurient. She’d raise the bar a little.

A French maid’s outfit is a little too Feydeau farce, don’t you think?

Hello! An educated French lady! Maybe we could discuss Proust next.

Or Yeats.

Or Voltaire.

Or Synge.

Or Pauline Réage.
Hero took a step towards her.
Would you like me to show you around my humble abode?
he asked.

Yes, please.

He turned back towards the stairs, and Flirty followed.

Mind your head
, he said, as she banged her head on the ceiling.
Pity you forgot your helmet LOL.

Upstairs was a little bedroom, with a dormer window and a sloping ceiling. The bed boasted piles of snowy pillows and a patchwork quilt. A candlestick stood on a rustic bedside table, there was a rag rug on the floor, and a white nightgown hung from a peg on the back of the door. Hero moved to the bed and sat down. Flirty elected to keep her distance, and sat instead on a reed-bottomed chair just inside the door.

What are you in RL, Flirty?
Hero asked.

You mean, what do I do?

Yes.

I own a boutique.

Cool! Where?

Paris,
she lied. And then she remembered that the last time they’d met she had told him she was in Sydney, Australia. She thought fast, then typed:
I’ve just come back from a buying trip in Sydney.

Paris! Lucky you, to live in the city of lovers! What kind of clothes do you stock?

Designer gear.

Lingerie? French knickers? Pretty little brassieres?

No,
she lied again.
Are you trying to be provocative?

Provocative?
Moi
?

Let’s keep it clean, my friend. I saw the picture of your girlfriend downstairs, and I wouldn’t like to think I’m muscling in on her territory. What are you in RL, Hero?

Hmm. What would you like me to be?

How about a matador?

Fleur watched as Hero rezzed into a matador, complete with cape and tight bolero jacket.

Wow!
she said.
I’m impressed.

Anything else?

Show me a fire fighter.

This time he morphed into a Village People-style fireman, booted and helmeted.

Very good! How about a handsome prince?
she asked.

Like in the fairy tales?

Yes.

Your wish is my command, Madame LittleBoots.

Again he obliged. His prince sported an ermine-trimmed cloak, a gold medallion on a chain, and a glittering crown. He also sported an enormous erection. It poked angrily out of his breeches, swollen and red.

Come and join me on the bed,
chérie
, he said.
I’ve got something for you that I think you might enjoy. I bet you’re wet just looking at it. suck me off suck me off suck me off i’m gonna make you gag oh god i’m so horny for you i’m gonna cum all over the screen—

Fleur lunged for her touchpad and teleported the hell out of there.

Oh. Oh, God. She leaned back in her chair and realized she was hyperventilating. What a sleazeball! What a scumbag! What had made him think she’d be up for virtual sex? The fact that she’d told him she was French? She’d heard warning
bells go off when he’d mentioned Pauline Réage, author of erotica, but when he’d moved on to brassieres and French knickers she’d made it perfectly plain that she wanted to keep things clean. Oh! Had he been masturbating from the moment he’d invited her into his cutesy cottage? Did he invite Bethany there? Was the white nightgown on the back of the bedroom door intended for her? The thought of some pervy middle-aged guy getting his rocks off while Bethany danced around his cottage like Snow White made her feel sick. Oh, God. Maybe things had gone further between the virtual couple since she’d last spoken to Bethany, maybe Hero was grooming the girl? Maybe he’d been encouraging her to dress up as a French maid or something even tackier – pornographic permutations on Second Life were infinite; Fleur had seen stuff for sale that had made her blench…No. She shook the thought from her head: she couldn’t countenance the idea.

Going to ‘Search’, she typed in ‘Poppet’. But Poppet wasn’t online.
Merde
– even if she had been, what would Flirty tell her? That the Hero of her imagination was in fact a jerk-off drooling in front of his computer screen? Bethany was too blindly in virtual love – she’d never believe it.

Merde
. Suddenly Fleur felt grubby. She went upstairs to run herself a bath.

Five minutes later, she was lying in L’Occitane-scented water, glass of wine to hand, book on the lectern of the bath tidy. She was still feeling a bit shaky after her brief encounter, but there was no one she could talk to about it. She hadn’t told Dervla about Second Life because she’d heard Dervla refer to it one day as ‘Sadville’, and Río was a Luddite who wouldn’t have a clue. How about Corban! She’d filled him in on her Second Life persona – maybe he could calm her down. She was just about to reach for the phone when it rang. Corban’s name was on the display.

‘Lover!’ she said. ‘I was just thinking about you.’

‘Serendipity,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking about you.’

‘Nice thoughts?’

‘
Very
nice thoughts. What are you up to?’

‘I’m in the bath.’

‘Hmm. And what exactly are you up to in the bath?’

‘I’m having a glass of wine and reading a book.’

‘Is it a sexy book?’