The O’Hara Affair (29 page)

‘I guess bits of it are sexy.’

‘Read me some of it.’

‘A sexy bit?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well,’ said Fleur, flicking through the pages, ‘how about this? “Leisurely I changed into fifties-style garter and bra, in stiff pink satin. Bra made breasts high and jutty – when leaned forward could see nipples. Garter went from waist to top of legs, giving extreme hourglass curve. Rosy glow from fabric made thighs look creamy and smooth and I sat on brocade chair, liking rough feel of fabric against naked bottom. Slowly rolled silk stockings up legs and attached them to rubber suspenders on garter…”’

‘Oh, Fleur…’ Corban’s voice in her ear sounded thick. ‘Don’t stop.’

Later, when she had topped up the bath with more hot water, feeling smug that when it came to phone sex, she indubitably cracked the whip, Corban said: ‘You know, if your business ever fell through, you could make a living doing that. There’s nothing quite like having a bedtime story read in a sweet French accent.’

‘What is it about all things French that men find such a turn-on? French kissing, French letters, French knickers? I had some sicko come on to me in Second Life this evening,
and the minute I mentioned I was French he assumed I was sexually available.’

‘Really? What did he say?’

‘Oh – just horrible stuff. I think he must have been jerking off during our entire conversation.’

‘That’ll teach you to go to Loserville.’

‘Ha, Dervla calls it Sadville.’

There was a pause. ‘Is Dervla on Second Life, too?’

‘Not as far as I know. She’s going to have enough to cope with in real life soon. She’s taking over as her mother-in-law’s carer.’

‘Tell her to take care of herself, while she’s at it. There’s little to be gained in caring for an elderly relative when you’re exhausted and rundown. There was a first-person account in the
Guardian
yesterday. I’ll keep it for her.’

‘That’s sweet of you, but she’ll be grand. She says she’ll get lots of work done on her book.’

‘Another multi-tasking woman! How I admire the fairer sex.’

‘By the way, thanks for organizing the
O’Hara Affair
tour for us. Dervla was really impressed. There’s clearly a lot of money being sunk into it.’

‘Let’s hope I make it back.’

‘Of course you’ll make it back. You promised me a night at the Oscars, remember?’

‘Dream on, babe. The wrap party might be the height of our celebrations.’

‘Do I get an invite?’

‘You’re on the list already.’

Fleur stretched out a foot and studied her toenails, which needed repolishing. Not only that, but her feet could do with a good slathering with moisturiser. All that time spent in the bath had made them look leprous.

‘I’d better go,
chéri
,’ she said. ‘I’m starting to look like a prune. I’ll see you this weekend, yes?’

‘Looking forward to it. Do you think you might get hold of some of that lingerie you described earlier?’

‘I’ll see what I can do,
Monsieur
.
Au revoir
!’

Setting her phone down on the edge of the bath, Fleur reached for a towel. As she dried herself, she inspected her body in the cheval glass. She wasn’t in bad shape for a forty-four-year-old, thanks to all the walking she did, and to her two weekly exercise classes in the community hall. But could she still carry off sexy lingerie at her age? It wasn’t just the bath water that had had a crinkling effect. Her skin was starting to look a little thin. She remembered a joke that Río had told her about reaching a stage in life when you bend down to pull up your socks before remembering you aren’t wearing any. It had made her laugh at the time, but now, looking at her reflection, she didn’t find it quite so funny. No wonder people had virtual sex in a parallel universe, where all the participants were young and nubile, with no saggy bits in sight.

As she slid into her robe, she thought of the perv who’d invited her into his Second Life home. There’d been something really sinister about the fact that the cottage had a kind of picture-book prettiness about it, while harbouring a – a
pauvre con
. Who was he? There was no way of finding out, and no way of warning Bethany to be careful. Was she there in the cottage with him now? Fleur remembered the virtual portrait over the virtual fireplace, and shuddered. One thing was certain, there could be no more logging on to Second Life as Flirty LittleBoots. Next time she went there, she’d have to make sure her alias was ScarlettO’Hara Sahara.
Merde!
Maybe she should back off altogether. Dervla was right, Second Life was Sadville, and she, Fleur, actually had a life. Or did she? When she thought about it, real life hadn’t
been much fun lately. No wonder Second Life was so huge. She imagined that all over the world,
femmes d’un certain age
like her were making more virtual friends than real ones.

Her phone went again. She didn’t recognize the number in the display. Who was JM?

‘Hello?’ she said, cautiously.

‘Is that Fleur O’Farrell?’ It was a man’s voice.

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘It’s Jake Malone.’

‘Oh, Jake! Hello. Thanks for the tour today. It was kind of you to spare the time.’

‘It was my pleasure.’ There was a pause, then: ‘Fleur, I hope you don’t think I’m being cheeky,’ he said, ‘but I’m just being straight with you. I’d really like to see you again.’

‘Oh!’

‘You can tell me to bog off, no problem. I promise you I won’t be offended.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t tell you to bog off! I’m actually very flattered. But – um – to be perfectly honest, don’t you think you’re a little young for me, Jake?’

‘I don’t see how that’s a problem. We could just meet for a drink. Or a walk. I don’t want to put any pressure on you.’

Just a drink…
The thought was very appealing. But word would be around the village like wildfire that Fleur O’Farrell had bagged herself another toyboy. And of course there was Corban…

But Corban was on the other side of the country, and it wasn’t as if she was in purdah. And she was feeling a little lonely and this boy had made her laugh and he had flirted with her, and Fleur had always adored flirting. The moniker that Daisy had dreamed up for her aunt had been bestowed upon her for a good reason. Still…

‘I need some time to think about this, Jake,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry. I guess I ambushed you.’

‘I’ll call you back in a day or two.’

‘Cool. I look forward to it.’

Fleur put the phone down and regarded her reflection again. What was she doing, even considering meeting up with this boy? She’d looked at herself unsparingly just minutes ago, and hadn’t much liked what she’d seen. She was ageing, she was feeling insecure about her naked body…

Fleur’s eyes widened suddenly, and she bit down on her lip.
Quelle folie!
There could be no question of sex! That would have to be understood from the start. But to have a new friend to have a laugh with would be fun, uplifting. Fleur had always surrounded herself with young people: she adored their vibrancy and optimism – they made her feel young again herself – and since Daisy had gone off to Africa, she hadn’t had a decent fix of teen spirit. Not that Jake was in his teens – she’d put him at around twenty-three, twenty-four. Come to think of it – that wasn’t too horrendous an age gap. Look at Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher…

Oh, stop, Fleur, stop, Fleur, stop, stop, stop!

She needed some advice on this. Picking up the phone, she speed-dialled Río. But Río didn’t pick up. She went to speed-dial Dervla, but then remembered that Dervla had enough on her plate without Fleur phoning to engage her in girl talk. Christian was leaving for France in the morning.

She was tempted to simply phone Jake back straight away and say, ‘Yes – I’d love to meet up!’ – but she’d had a couple of glasses of wine and she knew about the dangers of drunk dialling. Also, she didn’t want to look like a cast member of
Desperate Housewives
.

Fleur turned her phone off, cleaned her teeth, and went to bed.

Dervla zipped up her laptop case and hefted it on to her shoulder. She threw an eye around her study to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, then went down to her bedroom and slung some essentials into a weekend bag. The bathroom still smelled of Christian’s aftershave, a pillow on the bed in which they’d made love last night still bore the imprint of his head. She had said goodbye to her husband earlier that day, and clung to him, feeling a little weepy.

‘Are you having second thoughts?’ he’d asked, and Dervla had shaken her head vigorously.

‘No, no,’ she assured him. ‘We’re doing the right thing. It’s only two weeks.’

But when he’d got into the car and driven off down the driveway she’d allowed the tears to fall.

It’s only two weeks…
Repeating the words to herself like a mantra, Dervla went downstairs. Oh! There on the kitchen table was a small giftwrapped package. Christian must have left it for her there after lunch – she hadn’t noticed it until now. She set down her case, reached for the package and untied the ribbon. Inside was a photograph, enclosed in a mother-of-pearl frame. The photograph showed herself and Christian sitting hand-in-hand on the sea wall in Lissamore. In the foreground Kitty smiled to camera, in the background, sun gilded
the peaks of the Coolnamara mountains and bounced off wavelets in the harbour. It was a picture of pure happiness.

Dervla tucked the photograph carefully away in the pocket of her case before leaving her house through the back door. She locked it behind her, and called for Kitty. Then she crossed the courtyard to Daphne’s house, where Nemia’s bags were waiting on the front step, and rang the bell.

‘Welcome, welcome!’ sang Nemia, throwing open the door and leading the way into the house. She was looking radiant, dressed in holiday hues of yellow and blue. ‘Hello, Kitty!’ She stooped to pat the dog, then said, ‘Let me show you the ropes, Dervla. I’ve made up a bed for you in there –’ she indicated her bedroom door ‘– and cleared some wardrobe space. There’s cannelloni in the oven for dinner and the freezer’s well stocked. Don’t worry if you have to run into town for basics – as long as you’ve made sure she’s been to the loo, she’ll sit in front of David Attenborough for hours. I often spend an hour doing Tai Chi after I’ve given her breakfast, and leave her listening to the radio or one of her audio books in bed. It’s important you keep fit and make some time for yourself.’

‘Yes. I read something about that in the paper recently.’

Nemia swung into the kitchen/breakfast room, where the table was set for dinner. ‘There’s prawn cocktail for starters, and I’ve given Daphne her gin and tonic—’

Dervla was aghast. ‘I thought she wasn’t allowed alcohol.’

‘No, no! I play a trick, see? I bring her a glass of tonic with ice and lemon, and just rub the rim of the glass with a little gin. So she thinks she’s having her pre-dinner drink, the way she always did in the past. And at dinner, if I’m having red wine I give her a glass of blackberry cordial, and if I’m having white wine, I give her a glass of apple juice. The same colour, see? That way she feels included.’

‘Clever,’ said Dervla.

‘You have to be a little cunning, sometimes. See – on the fridge, there is my routine. It’s important to stick to a routine, because otherwise she gets unsettled.’

Dervla slid the A-4 sheet out from under the fridge magnet and scanned it. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘This will be useful to know. Bedtime’s ten o’clock? Yikes! That late?’

Nemia shrugged. ‘Sometimes I try and get her to go a little earlier, but it’s difficult to persuade her that it’s time to go to bed when it’s still sunny outside. And if she does go to bed early, it means that she sometimes wanders at night.’

Dervla looked at Nemia apprehensively. ‘You mean she wanders around the house?’

‘Yes. She’s looking for reassurance, see? She needs to know that there is someone here with her and she is not all on her own. That’s why it is important to make sure that all the outside doors are securely locked, and the sliding doors in her bedroom, too. Come with me, and I’ll show you how to lock them.’

Nemia left the breakfast room, and passed by the sitting room, where Dervla caught a glimpse through the door of Daphne in her armchair, gazing stonily at the telly. Attracted by the howling of wolves on David Attenborough, Kitty veered into the room, whereupon Dervla heard Daphne exclaim: ‘A spotty dog! Where did you come from?’

In Daphne’s bedroom, Nemia picked a little silver dish up from the dressing table.

‘This is where the key to the windows belongs.’

The windows were wall-to-ceiling sliding glass doors. Dervla wished they were open now: the room was stuffy, and there was an old-lady smell of urine mixed with talcum powder. She took a look around, to familiarize herself with the room: she hadn’t been in here since she and Christian had moved Daphne’s possessions into it, all those weeks ago.

Things had changed. There was a railing on one side of
the bed, to prevent Daphne from falling out, and the headboard now boasted a white vinyl backrest. Dervla was rather touched to see that the counterpane was strewn with Beanie Babies, some of them well worn from all the attention they’d received. A table stood next to the bed, upon which a glasses case and a magnifier lay next to a large-print book.

‘Does she still read?’ Dervla asked.

‘Not at all. But she likes to pretend she can.’ Nemia opened the wardrobe door. ‘If you decide to take her out for a jaunt, she prefers to wear the silk blouse with the pussy-cat bow, and the herringbone trousers. They’re easy to get her into because they have an elasticated waist.’

Dervla looked into the wardrobe. Lined along the base was a row of shoes, all of which wore a patina of dust. ‘Bathroom next!’ breezed Nemia.

Opening the door of the bathroom cabinet, Nemia gave Dervla a guided tour. The shelves were stacked with jars and bottles and tubes: some of them with instructions written on them: ‘To rub onto back, legs, feet, etc’. Dervla tried to repress a shudder.