The O’Hara Affair (9 page)

‘Me? Are you—’ Bethany had been about to say, ‘Are you mad?’ but, realizing how rude it would sound, stopped herself and changed it to, ‘Are you serious?’ Nobody apart from her parents had ever told her that she was beautiful. At school, she felt so ordinary next to the glossy girls who spent a fortune on their appearance. Plus, she was always being asked for her ID.

‘You’re beautiful, Bethany. You’re a natural beauty. Trust me.’

‘But everybody picks on me and calls me pleb and loser!’

‘You’re neither of those things, Bethany.’

‘Oh – I’ve been a pleb and a loser for as long as I can remember.’ Bethany gave a little laugh, as if she didn’t care that people called her names – even though in reality it hurt like hell. ‘I remember when all the girls in my class were getting confirmed and boasting about the frocks they were going to wear, and I pretended that I had a frock with lace petticoats and pearls sewn on and in fact there wasn’t a frock at all because I wasn’t getting confirmed. My parents are atheists, you see and have no truck with religion. And when the other kids found out I was lying they gave me such a hard time.’

‘I can imagine. Children can be very cruel.’

‘They’re even worse when they grow up. I’ve had so much grief since people found out that I want to be an actress.’

‘But haven’t you always wanted to be an actress?’

‘Yes – since I was a little girl. But I never told anyone. I just used to act out scenes all by myself in my bedroom.’

‘So you’ve never acted in public?’

‘No. I used to help out with the drama group at school, but I didn’t have the nerve to audition. I just used to fetch
and carry for the stage manager, and sit on the book in the prompt corner during shows. And then when people found out that I had – well, aspirations – they decided I’d got too big for my boots. They started sniggering and saying things like, “Got yourself an agent yet?” and, “When’s DiCaprio coming to find you?” And I’d have to laugh and pretend I can take a joke. I’ve got pretty good at pretending. Maybe that’s why I identify so much with Laura in
The Glass Menagerie
. They’re doing it in November, in the Gaiety School. I’d give anything to play Laura. In my dreams!’

‘Dream building is a good starting point. Tell me this. Assuming your application is successful, how are you going to put yourself through school? Will your parents finance you?’

‘I’ll live with them, because I can’t afford to rent anywhere. But I’m going to have to get some kind of a part-time job.’ Bethany gave a mirthless laugh. ‘That’ll be a challenge, the way things are in the employment market.’

‘So you’ll be looking for work when you go back to Dublin?’

‘Yeah. I’d much rather stay here, though, until term starts. I love it here.’

‘Why don’t you try and get a job in Lissamore, then?’

‘I’ve tried. There’s nothing going.’

‘You’re wrong. There are jobs going. Did you look for work on
The O’Hara Affair
?’

‘As an actress? Are you – serious? I wouldn’t have the nerve.’

‘Not as an actress, no. As an extra.’

‘I’d have loved that, but somebody told me there was no point. Apparently hundreds of wannabes like me applied. Oh – that’s an awful word, isn’t it! Wannabe.’

‘No. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something.
Wanting something is proactive. Apathy is far, far worse. That’s why your classmates made jokes at your expense. They don’t have the courage to dream.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said an interesting thing earlier. You said that people decided you’d got too big for your boots. That’s because you have a dream, Bethany, and maybe they don’t. And because they’re jealous of your dream, they want to destroy it. Seeing you fail will make them feel better about themselves. Think about it.’

Bethany thought about it, and as she did, she felt a creeping sense of relief that what she’d always suspected to be true had been put into words by someone so much older and wiser than her. Was that the reason she was confiding all her secrets in Madame Tiresia? ‘That’s horrible, isn’t it?’

‘It’s human nature. But a much easier way of feeling better about yourself is to have a positive mantra. You lost your phone recently, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. How did you – oh. The crystal, of course.’

‘Of course,’ echoed Madame. Was Bethany imagining it, or was there a smile in her voice? ‘And when you lost your phone, what did you say to yourself?’

‘I told myself that I was an idiot.’

‘You see?
You
told
yourself
.’ Madame shook her head. ‘If
you
are telling yourself that you’re an idiot, Bethany, you are simply giving other people a license to do the same. If your self-esteem is rock bottom, you can hardly expect other people to respect you. So next time you lose your phone, don’t tell yourself you’re an idiot. Say, instead: “Oh! I have lost my phone – but hey, that happens to everyone from time to time. Losing my phone doesn’t mean I am an idiot. In fact, I think I’m pretty damned special.”’

Bethany wrinkled her nose. ‘But isn’t that kind of arrogant?’

‘Not at all. I have never understood why people think it is an insult when someone makes the observation, “You think you’re so great.” Tell me – how would you respond if someone said that to you?’

‘I’d tell them no way – I
don’t
think I’m great.’

‘You see! How negative is that? The correct response is, “That’s because I
am
great!”’

‘I’d never dream of saying that!’ protested Bethany.

‘You don’t actually have to articulate it. Say it to yourself. Say it now, Bethany. Say, “I think I’m great”.’

‘No. I can’t.’

‘Say it!’

‘I think I’m…great,’ said Bethany, without conviction.

‘There you are! Say it to yourself every time you want to call yourself an idiot. Say it over and over. “I think I’m great, I think I’m great, I think I’m
great
!” Let it be your mantra. Picture that little girl who pretended she had a confirm ation dress with petticoats, the little girl who could only act a role in the privacy of her bedroom. She’s afraid – she needs reassurance. Get to know her, make her your friend. Give her the respect she deserves, and I can guarantee that people will start to respect you, too.’

Bethany’s mind’s eye saw herself as a child, standing in a circle of little girls all comparing notes on their confirmation dresses. They’d been insecure, too, of course, with their bragging about how much their dress had cost and where it had been purchased. As for those girls she’d seen earlier – the ones with the swingy hair and orthodontic smiles – maybe they too sought help from internet sites or cried hot tears while updating their blogs? Maybe even Daisy de Saint-Euverte suffered from the blues, or the mean reds, like Holly Golightly in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.

‘The crystal tells me you should try for work on the film.’ Madame Tiresia’s tone was authoritative.

‘What?’

‘The crystal is certain that if you try, you will succeed. Go home now, and send off an email application for work as an extra. You’ll find it on
The O’Hara Affair
website.’

‘You really think I should?’

‘I do. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

Bethany smiled. ‘That’s what my mum always says.’

‘Mums can be pretty wise women.’ Madame Tiresia passed her hands over the crystal, setting her bangles jingling. ‘Alas, Bethany, your time is up. The crystal’s gone cloudy.’

‘Oh. Well – thank you for your advice, Madame. I’ll send off an application right away. I’ll send off two! One to the movie people, and one to the Gaiety School! My horoscope said I should heed the advice of a wise woman.’

‘Do you believe in horoscopes?’

‘No,’ she lied. ‘But I believe in you.’

‘That’s the spirit, beautiful girl. Shoo.’

Bethany rose to her feet. But before she lifted the flap of the booth she turned back to Madame. ‘D’you know something? I kinda feel more like I’ve been talking to a counsellor or a shrink or something rather than a fortune-teller. You should be an agony aunt – no offence!’ she added hastily. ‘You’re a really good fortune-teller as well.’

‘I know I am,’ said Madame Tiresia. ‘Give your cat Poppet a cuddle from me when you get home.’

‘Wow!’ said Bethany. ‘How did you—?’

‘How do you think?’

Utterly mystified, Bethany shook her head, gave a little smile, then left the booth. Outside, the gaggle of girls was sitting on the sea wall, swinging their legs.

‘I think I’m great,’ she murmured to herself as she plugged herself into her iPod. ‘I think I’m great. I think I’m
great
!’

She smiled as the Sugababes told her how sweet life could be, how it could change.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
– that’s what Madame had told her, that’s what her mother told her, and really, the old clichés were the ones that always made the most sense. She could change her life around, and she was going to do it today because, after all, she was
great
– wasn’t she?

It was lucky for Bethany that the strains of the Sugababes drowned out the small arms fire of snide remarks that came her way from the sea wall as she headed for the narrow road that would take her home to Díseart.

As soon as Bethany left the booth, Fleur scribbled a ‘Back in five minutes’ sign and stuck it on the tent flap. Then she phoned Corban. ‘Lover?’ she said. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

‘That depends. Run it by me.’

‘There’s a girl who’d love to work as an extra on the film. Do you think you could organize it for her?’

‘That’s not my department, Fleur.’

‘I know. But I told her that it would happen.’

‘You mean, Madame Tiresia told her it would happen?’

‘Same difference. Surely you have some influence in the casting?’

‘I had some say in casting the leads, yes. Extras are a whole different ball game.’

‘Please, Corban. I really like this girl.’

‘What makes her so special?’

‘She’s vulnerable. She’s desperate to be an actress, but she’s not going to make it without a leg-up and some kind of experience.’

‘What age is she?’

‘Eighteen. But she looks younger. She could easily pass for a child. And didn’t you say that most of the extras were too well-fed-looking to be famine victims? This girl’s a skinny little thing. Very pretty, though, in a – um…What’s that word you use for “growing into”?’

‘Nascent?’

‘Nascent! That’s it. You can tell that she’s uncomfortable with the way she looks. I remember going through that stage when I was her age. It’s horrible – really horrible. You don’t realize that you’re turning into a swan. You think you’re going to be the ugly duckling for ever.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Bethany O’Brien.’

‘Easy to remember. OK. Leave it with me. I’ll have a word with the casting assistant and ask her to look out for your Bethany.’

‘Thank you, darling. She’ll be sending through an email application this afternoon. How did your meeting go?’

‘Not great. We’re over budget. It looks as if this is going to be the most expensive movie ever made in Ireland.’

‘Oh. Then what can I say but – enjoy your lunch.’

‘Thanks. How’s your fortune-telling lark going?’

‘It’s fun.’

‘Maybe you should take it up full time. Predicting the future could be a lucrative way to earn a living in these uncertain times.’

‘Only if you get it right. I hope people don’t come looking for their money back.’

‘Well, it’s unlikely that your Bethany will.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The casting assistant’s just come in. I’ll pull some strings and get your girl a job, starting asap.’

‘You star! Oops! I’d better go. Someone’s put their head
around the tent flap. Time to have my palm crossed with more euros.’

Fleur stuck her phone in her bag. It wasn’t seemly for a fortune-teller to be caught chatting on a mobile. And as for the device under the tablecloth? Well, nobody need ever know about that. She called to the next girl to come in, then started to scroll through Daisy’s very useful list of Facebook friends.

‘Hello, Madame. I’m Gina.’

‘Gina. Sit down. Might your surname be Lombard?’

‘That’s amazing! How do you—’

‘I don’t know. But the crystal does,’ said Fleur, with a smile.

It was Daphne’s eighty-fifth birthday and as a treat, Christian had booked a table for lunch at a newly opened restaurant, for which he was sourcing the wine. Nemia had dressed Daphne in a shirtwaister with a pie-crust collar, American Tan tights, and faux-suede shoes with elasticated sides. Her hair was coiffed in a bouffant, and she’d been sprayed with her favourite scent,
Je Reviens
. She sat in the passenger seat of Christian’s Saab, singing random snatches of old musical numbers and reapplying her lipstick, while Dervla zoned out in the back, mulling over the events of the past few days.

Getting her mother-in-law settled into the cottage had been rather a fraught affair, and Dervla wasn’t sure how well she’d handled things. On their first evening, Nemia had opted out of joining them for dinner, claiming that she’d prefer to cook for herself in the cottage and – since Nemia was a vegetarian – this made sense. Dervla had gone to some trouble, setting the kitchen table in the Old Rectory with flowers and candles, and putting Des O’Connor on the iPlayer. She’d downloaded it specially for Daphne, hoping that familiar music from a bygone era might help to make her feel at home. She’d also shifted the table across to the window, so that Daphne would have something to look at. Her eyesight was failing, but she could still make out motion and colour,
and the wisteria growing around the window frame was spectacular – a pelmet of purple.

‘Why are we eating in the kitchen?’ Daphne demanded, on being shown into the room.

‘Because we have no dining room yet.’ Setting the serving dish on the table, Dervla started spooning out portions.

‘What do you mean, you have no dining room?’

‘It’s being decorated.’

‘Oh. What’s that noise?’