The O’Hara Affair (6 page)

The wedding of Daphne to the honourable Jeremy Vaughan had been recorded in all the society pages as
the
event of the year 1945. Christian had showed her the cuttings in the scrapbooks that had arrived, along with all his mother’s other effects. They showed the couple on their
wedding day, on honeymoon, and at the christening of their first child, Josephine. There were articles on what Daphne had worn to Cheltenham; to the Proms and to Henley, and a picture of them smiling lovingly at each other at the Queen’s garden party. Daphne was described as a model wife and hostess, and doting mother. When Jeremy died – leaving her very comfortably off with a trust fund and investment portfolio – the widow had been inconsolable. The photograph of the funeral – cut from the
Daily Telegraph
– showed her standing at the graveside swathed in Blackglama fur, holding the hands of her two young children. Christian had been just twelve.

Moving back into the sitting room, Dervla activated the digital box. While waiting for it to boot up, she wandered over to the glass-fronted bookcase. Since Bronagh had unpacked the books, she was curious to inspect Daphne’s library. What might her taste in literature be? Eclectic, by the look of it. On the shelves, volumes of poetry sat next to obscurely-titled novels, many of them French. There were books on gardening, books on history, and books on art and artists. As well as being sophisticated, Christian’s mother was clearly cultured. There were lots of complete works, too, many of which were beautifully bound in leather, and Dervla was delighted to see that a set of Dickens was displayed. Nice! She could realize her dream of sitting by the fire, turning the pages of
Little Dorrit
or
Great Expectations
! Reaching for a volume, Dervla realized too late that the ‘book’ was actually a box with a hinged lid. The lid fell open as she slid it off the shelf, and a second volume, bound in vellum, fell to the floor. Dervla stooped to pick it up. It was a diary, and on the cover, in black italics, were the words
Daphne Beaufoy Vaughan, 1968
.

She wouldn’t open it. She
shouldn’t
open it. But of course, Dervla couldn’t help herself.

The pages of the journal were covered in sprawling, energetic writing – as if the hand of the author could not keep up with the torrent of thoughts splashed over the creamy paper. Dervla’s eyes scanned the script, lighting randomly on a paragraph here, a sentence there. ‘The most far-fetched vow I ever made,’ she read, ‘was when, as a child, I swore that if I ever had children I would love them unreservedly: a promise I have been utterly powerless to keep.’ ‘As well as being non-conformist, I happen to be very proud, and that, of course, makes one aloof.’ ‘We have been married for over two decades now, and still have nothing to say to one another.’ ‘Spent the weekend with L. in the Royal Albion in Brighton. We fought like tigers, as usual.’ ‘Have decided to send C. & J. to boarding school. Children are not conducive to conducting an
amour
.’ ‘R. presented me with a diamond so paltry I promptly hurled it into the lavatory. Much to my amusement, he retrieved it.’

Dervla sank to her knees on Daphne’s thick-pile carpet. It took her a scant ten minutes of riffling through the journal to learn that Daphne had had a string of lovers; that she despised the wives of those lovers, and that she especially despised her husband. On the last page, she declared that she was going to relate the story of her life so far in the form of a novel.

Oh. Oh God! Was there more? Again, Dervla couldn’t stop herself from reaching for another of the faux volumes. Inside was an identical vellum-bound journal with the owner’s name writ large in her distinctive script. The date was 1969. Systematically, Dervla worked her way through the hollow
Collected Works of Charles Dickens
. There were thirteen volumes, and each contained a journal. By Dervla’s calculations, the diaries spanned the years 1960 to 1973. The final volume contained a splenetic attack on the literary agents
who had repeatedly declined to represent Mrs Vaughan on the basis that her novel appeared, in fact, to be a work of thinly disguised autobiography too slanderous ever to find a publishing house.

Dervla sat motionless on the floor, gazing at script so jagged it looked as if it had been penned by a razor dipped in ink. Did Christian know about these diaries? Did his sister, Josephine? Dervla knew that Christian had attended boarding school from a young age, but he had told her it was the Vaughan family policy: his father had attended Eton, and his grandfather before him. Dervla privately thought it shocking that children be shunted off to boarding school on account of some antediluvian tradition: now that she knew that the real reason was to facilitate his mother’s
amours
, she found it infinitely more shocking. Her quandary now was: should she tell Christian about the diaries? She thought not. Sleeping dogs were best left to lie, and Dervla knew what power past secrets had to inflict damage.

The sound of wheels on gravel made her turn. Through the window, she could see Christian’s car rounding the corner of the big house into the courtyard. Quickly, Dervla shoved the last journal into its leather-bound casing, noticing ruefully that the title of the volume in question was – ironically –
Hard Times
. How hard would it be to defer to her mother-in-law, knowing what she now knew?

She watched as the Saab pulled up outside the front door of the cottage. Christian got out, rounded the bonnet and opened the passenger door, leaning in to offer his mother support as she struggled to her feet. Meanwhile, a pretty, almond-eyed girl emerged from the rear and started hefting bags out of the boot.

‘We’re here now, Mum!’ Dervla heard Christian say.

‘Where, exactly, are we?’

‘We’re at your new home.’

‘I’ve never been here before in my life,’ came the autocratic reply.

‘I know that, Mum. It’s your
new
home.’

Daphne was wearing a navy blue trouser suit with a turquoise silk blouse. A string of pearls was looped around her neck, a Kelly bag dangled from the crook of her right arm, and on her feet were blue canvas pixie boots. She looked around, and as she did, her gaze travelled to the open window in which Dervla stood framed. Mother and daughter-in-law locked eyes, and then: ‘There’s someone in there,’ pronounced Daphne. ‘You said this was
my
house.’

Dervla moved out into the hall, took a deep breath and shook back her hair. Then she counted to three and opened the door, estate agent’s smile perfectly in place. ‘Hello, all!’ she called brightly. ‘Welcome!’

‘Hello, love,’ said Christian. ‘Come and say hello to Mum, and Nemia!’

Dervla stepped onto the gravel and advanced, willing her smile not to falter as she reached out and took Daphne’s free hand in both her of own. ‘Did you have a good journey, Daphne?’

‘What kind of a stupid question’s that?’ said Daphne, withdrawing her hand.

‘This is Dervla, Mum,’ said Christian. ‘Remember her? She’s my wife.’

‘I’ve never seen her before in my life.’

‘Well, it’s been some time since you met. Let’s go inside, shall we, and have a cup of tea? And if we’re lucky, there might be biccies.’

‘There
are
biccies,’ said Dervla. ‘Choccie biccies.’

‘Choccie biccies! Yum yum,’ said Christian.

He offered Daphne his arm as they began to move towards
the cottage, then looked back at Dervla and gave her a tired smile. Her heart went out to her husband. He didn’t need tea and biccies as much as a huge Scotch. Dervla remembered the champagne that she’d stashed in the fridge, and, as she saw Daphne stumble over the threshold, decided against producing it.

‘Hello. I’m Nemia,’ came a voice from behind her, and Dervla turned.

‘Oh – I
am
sorry! How rude of me not to have introduced myself. I’m Dervla.’

‘Nice to meet you, Dervla.’

‘Likewise. Hey. Let me help you with those.’

‘Thanks,’ said Nemia. ‘There’s nothing very heavy.’

Dervla swung a carrier bag out of the boot, noticing that it bore the logo of a pharmacy in Galway.

‘Did you have to stop off somewhere on your way here?’

‘Yes. We just needed to stock up on some basics.’

‘How was your journey?’

‘Fairly uneventful. There were no delays, which helped.’ Nemia reached into the boot, and produced another carrier. ‘Oh, crap. There’s a split in this bag. Can I just transfer the breakable stuff to yours?’

‘Sure.’

Nemia delved into the bag, then handed over a couple of distinctive Côté Bastide bottles. Sliding them into her bulky carrier, Dervla was about to observe that Côté Bastide just happened to make her favourite bath oil – but the words never made it out of her mouth. Instead, as she took in the contents of the bag, a single word emerged from between her lips.

‘Nappies?’

Nemia turned to her and smiled. ‘Just in case,’ she said.

Sliding an arm out from under the duvet, Fleur reached for her watch. Eight-thirty. Corban had left an hour ago. She’d smiled as he’d kissed her goodbye, her eyelids fluttering open briefly before she’d tumbled back into dreamland. She’d hoped to have a leisurely breakfast
à deux
this morning, with freshly juiced oranges and croissants on the deck, but Corban had had other plans. He’d scheduled an early meeting with the director of
The O’Hara Affair
.

As she set her watch back on the bedside table, Fleur’s eyes fell on the flamboyant gypsy threads that she’d discarded the previous night with Corban’s help. Undressing her – or watching her undress – was one of Corban’s peccadilloes, and because it made him happy, she was glad to oblige. Fleur indulged her lovers – to a point. Once they showed signs of complacency, or became overfamiliar, she showed her displeasure. By saying ‘no’, by being unavailable, by being a little less free with her favours, she kept her men on their toes. It was a highly skilled game, and one at which she was very good.

Or had been, until she met Corban. Corban was proving a lot less malleable than the lovers she’d had to date – all of whom had been considerably younger than she. Río had used to joke about Fleur’s penchant for toyboys, declaring
that her love life would make a great biopic. But since Corban had taken centre stage, she wasn’t sure whether the story of her life was a rom com or a melodrama. Aspects of it fitted both categories, she supposed, but whichever genre it belonged to, it was certainly X-rated.

Sinking back against her pile of goosedown pillows, Fleur allowed her mind to meander back to the first time she and Corban had met, six months ago. It could make a stand-out scene in a movie…

INT. UPMARKET HOTEL.

BALLROOM. NIGHT.

A charity ball in Dublin. The theme: the Tudors. The ballroom billowing with society dames dolled up as Elizabeth, bejewelled frocks and coppery-coloured curls everywhere. The men all emulating Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Henry (or trying to); everyone in masks.

Fleur had struck lucky with her frock. Joan Bergin, the costume designer of the
Tudors
TV series was a friend, and Joan had wangled a divine outfit for Fleur. It included an elaborate wig, a gold mask, and a magnificent gown, the bodice of which was embroidered with droplets of lapis lazuli and tiny seed pearls. The mask, too, was trimmed with pearls. It concealed most of Fleur’s face, but stopped short at the jaw line, leaving mouth and chin exposed. Exposed, too, was most of her bosom: her breasts pushed so high by the boned corset that she felt practically naked. The effect was one of rather sexy regality, of come-on combined with ‘look, but don’t touch’. The get-up, however, was bloody uncomfortable, and after a couple of hours of small talk in the crowded ballroom (during which much champagne was poured by overzealous waiters, and baroque music was played to deaf ears), Fleur yearned to escape.

‘Ladies and gentlemen—’

Oh, no! The speeches were about to begin. She
had
to get out of there. Murmuring excuses, she threaded her way through the throng of Walter Raleighs and Mary Stuarts, troubadours and serving wenches.

French windows took her onto a terrace. Here it was balmy, the air sweet with night-scented stock. The sound of the string quartet came faintly, and she could hear a fountain splashing at the far end. As she moved towards it, the silk lining of her underskirt moved against Fleur’s legs like a caress. She longed to dance, but because no one was versed in the arcane steps of the gavotte, no one was dancing this evening; and now everyone would be sitting listening to speeches for the next hour.

Dipping a hand into the bubbling water, Fleur laid the palm first on her forehead, then her breasts. The coolness was so sensual that it made her want to slip off her shoes, gather up her skirts and get wet, like Anita Ekberg in
La Dolce Vita
. As she went to lean over the pool again, she became aware of a man lounging against a pillar, watching her. He was unmasked. A predatory half-smile curved his mouth, and he was eyeing her cleavage as if he wanted to dive straight in.

The insolence! Fleur dismissed him with a toss of her head and a curl of her lip; but her hauteur was wasted. He responded with a low laugh, peeled himself away from the pillar and sauntered towards her. The next thing she knew, her arms were pinioned and she was being kissed more forcefully than she’d ever been kissed in her life.

Her initial impulse was to pull away, but the greater her resistance, the more insistent the kiss, until Fleur’s champagne-muzzy mind thought
Pourquoi pas? Who cares?
His kiss was so expert, so masterful, so goddamned
sexy
,
that it would have been too selfless an act not to kiss him back. As he pulled her harder against him she was aware of his erection, aware of the subtle scent of spice, the subtler one of sweat, aware of his breath on her cheek as he released her mouth and trailed a kiss along the line of her jaw.

‘I think you’d better stop now,’ she managed finally, sounding as if she’d been inhaling helium.