The O’Hara Affair (11 page)

Luckily, there was income from the renting out of Dervla’s apartment in Galway, and from the cottage – Christian’s sister had insisted that if Daphne was to live with the newlyweds, it was only fair that they receive rent in return from the income that Daphne’s investments brought in. It wasn’t a whole lot, but it kept things ticking over – just.

Dervla remembered how things had been at the height of the property boom, when she could have afforded to eat out every night if she’d felt like it. She remembered how she’d fantasized about sitting with Christian on the bench by the door of the Old Rectory, sipping chilled Sancerre and sharing with him her dreams of planting fruit trees and keeping chickens and maybe – if they were lucky – having babies. She’d pictured herself drifting around the garden in a wifty-wafty frock, carrying a trug full of vegetables she had grown herself, vegetables that she would whizz up into a delicious purée, to be served later with roast rack of lamb at the dining table around which a dozen friends would have congregated, all laughing and swapping gossip and repartee. The women would be dressed in Cath Kidston florals, the men in Armani casuals. Kitty the Dalmatian would sport a fringed suede collar, and there’d be Mozart on the sound system.

How ironic, she thought, that now she’d made the definite decision to grow her own fruit and veg, it wasn’t for trendy ecological reasons: it was because it was cheaper. Ironic that – now she was actually installed in her dream house – she couldn’t afford to furnish it. Ironic that the only Cath Kidston florals within her current budgetary remit would come second-hand from eBay. But it was terribly,
terribly sad that, instead of Mozart, the accompanying soundtrack to her life was Des O’Connor.

‘What does that funny-looking person think he’s doing?’ Daphne was glowering at the maître d’.

‘He’s showing Christian to our table,’ Dervla told her. ‘Now. What’ll we have to eat?’

‘What is there?’

‘I’ll read the menu to you. Potted crab—’

‘Potted what?’

Oh, God. Dervla resisted the temptation to sling the menu on the table and leg it out of the restaurant. Instead, she smiled at Christian as he joined them.

‘Hi, darling,’ she said.

He gave her a brief kiss on the cheek before dropping into his chair. ‘Is that Shane Byrne I see over there?’ he asked. ‘That’s him. I felt very chuffed to be seen hobnobbing with him: he came over to say hello.’

‘This place must be good if it’s frequented by film stars. He’s a bit older in real life than he looks on the screen, isn’t he?’

‘Stop gawking at him. He says he can’t go anywhere these days without someone sticking a phone in his face.’

‘What an idea!’ said Daphne. ‘Why should anyone want to stick a phone in his face?’

‘Shane’s famous,’ explained Dervla. ‘He’s a movie actor.’

‘That doesn’t explain why anyone should want to stick a
phone
in his face.’

‘Phones can take photographs now, Mum,’ said Christian.

‘What a lot of nonsense you talk,’ said Daphne.

Christian sighed, then opened the menu. ‘Hmm. Potted crab sounds good.’

Daphne regarded him with interest. ‘Potted what?’ she said.

The excruciating lunch dragged on over ninety long minutes. Daphne kept making remarks about the other diners in quite stentorian tones, and every time she did, Dervla died a little death. And she had constantly to remind her mother-in-law that the drink in the tumbler to her right was elderflower pressé, and the food on the plate in front of her was fish pie, and Daphne insisted that she’d ordered meatballs like Christian, not fish pie, and her nose dripped constantly and she chewed on her cuticles, and Dervla found herself chewing on
her
cuticles – something she hadn’t done since her stressed-out estate agent days.

At one stage, Christian made his excuses: he wanted to combine business with pleasure by having a chat with the owner about some alterations to the wine list. So he upped and left Daphne and Dervla together. After a couple of polite enquiries – would Daphne like some more water? Would she care for a cup of coffee? – Dervla gave up making desultory conversation, and people-watched instead. A woman’s threeseasons-ago Vuitton bag was showing signs of wear and tear, and her roots were an inch long. A man was studying the bill with a furrowed brow, clearly hoping there was some mistake. A young couple had opted for two starters rather than main courses. At least Dervla wasn’t the only person in Coolnamara who was feeling the pinch.

Things were different at Shane’s table, on the other side of the room. There, lobster thermidor and an excellent bottle of Meursault had been served (Christian had recognized the label). Holy moly! It was far from lobster and swanky vintage wine that Shane Byrne had been reared! But, Dervla noticed now, he wasn’t the one footing the bill. His lunch companion was dealing with it, while Shane signed autographs for a couple of awestruck teenage girls. As Shane chatted to his fan club, clearly charming them as much as
he’d charmed Daphne earlier, Dervla saw his host finish the business with the chip and pin, smile at the waitress, and produce a business card. The pretty girl accepted it, smiled back, and nodded.

Hmm. What was going on there? Like all estate agents, Dervla was an excellent reader of body language: she’d learned over the course of two decades spent showing houses to know instantly whether or not a potential buyer was interested, whether or not they could afford the property in question, and whether or not they were bluffing. Sitting side-on to the table, this man’s demeanour was relaxed: legs apart – one crooked, one stretched forward; left arm draped across the back of his chair; hair skimming his collar. His tie was loosened, his topmost shirt button undone, his Hugo Boss jacket worn with the casualness another man might wear a chain-store anorak. His watch was a discreet Rolex, and he exuded the easy authority of a Machiavellian prince. ‘Behold!’ both his dress and his body language were saying, ‘Here presides an alpha male.’ Dervla had sparred with many alpha males in the course of her career, and had more often than not emerged victorious. She had enjoyed the cut and thrust, the deploying of guerrilla tactics, the element of espion age. She wondered what kind of an opponent this guy would make, what his fatal flaw might be – if he had one. He certainly had an aura of invincibility.

‘What is that man doing over there?’ demanded Daphne.

Dervla thought at first that her mother-in-law was referring to Rolex man, but then realized that her gaze was trained on Shane, who had finished signing autographs with a flourish.

‘That’s Shane Byrne. He’s signing autographs.’

‘What for?’

‘He’s a film star.’

‘Oh! How exciting. I’d like to meet him.’

There was no point in telling Daphne that she’d met him already. Dervla waved at Shane, and he took his leave of the lovely girls and came over immediately.

Giving him an apologetic look, Dervla launched into introductions once again. Thankfully, Shane copped on immedi ately, and Groundhog Day began anew. After he had told Daphne how
enchanté
he was, and complimented her for the second time on her perfume, Dervla managed to fish for the information she wanted.

‘Who’s your lunch partner?’ she asked, lowering her voice a little and hoping that Daphne wouldn’t command her to speak up.

‘He’s one of the executive producers on the film.’

‘Executive! I’ve never really understood that word. What do “executive” producers do, exactly?’

‘Nothing much, except inject capital. It’s a vanity credit, really.’

‘So it’s all about ego?’

Shane shrugged. ‘In this case, there’s extra kudos in the fact that Corban’s name is in the film’s title. I suppose having a film named after you is a bit like having a ship named after you, and Mr O’Hara’s a major player on board this one.’

Wow. So Rolex man was Corban O’Hara, Fleur’s current squeeze! ‘What’s he like?’ she asked.

‘He seems nice enough for a rich bloke.’

‘Pot, kettle, Shane Byrne.’

Shane gave her an ‘as if ’ look. ‘O’Hara is
seriously
rich, Dervla. If he decided to withdraw funding, the film would capsize.’

‘Does he have any creative contribution at all?’

‘He can make a few suggestions; do a little hiring and firing. Being an executive producer is all to do with power. The movie set is his principality.’

‘So it’s like playing at being king?’

This was Daphne’s cue to start humming ‘My Lord and Master’ from
The King and I
.

‘That’s exactly what it’s like,’ Shane told her.

Dervla looked again at Corban O’Hara, who was eyeing the two autograph hunters. They were now strolling along the terrace of the restaurant, giggling and texting, probably sending word of their close encounter with the film star to every girl they knew.

Dervla narrowed her eyes in speculation. ‘If the movie set is his principality,’ she said, ‘could he practise droit du seigneur? Or has the casting couch become extinct in postfeminist la-la land?’

‘I don’t think la-la land is ready for
feminism
yet, Dervla, let alone post-feminism. Over there, you’d be known as that quaint contradiction in terms that is “a career girl”.’

‘I had a career once, you know,’ announced Daphne. ‘I was a model.’

‘Well, I’ll be doggone! You should think about taking it up again,’ said Shane, and Daphne gave him a playful slap on the arm.

‘I know all about men like you!’ she scolded.

‘What made you give it up?’ Dervla asked her mother-in-law, genuinely curious to know.

‘What made me give it up? My parents, I think. Yes. My parents wanted me to get married to someone.’

‘And who was the lucky man?’ asked Shane.

‘He was called…lucky. He was much older than I. He was a businessman. We lived in…Belgravia.’

‘Ritzy!’ remarked Shane.

‘Yes. It was ritzy. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to marry Jack. But Jack died.’

‘How sad,’ said Dervla. ‘Was Jack your boyfriend?’

‘Yes. It was very, very sad. He died in a fire. He was a dancer. He was the love of my life.’ Daphne spoke with such emphasis that Dervla sensed she had total recall of this event. She’d read somewhere that people suffering from dementia had stronger memories of yesteryear than yesterday. ‘It was very, very sad,’ she said again. ‘It was tragic.’

Shane and Dervla exchanged glances. Then Shane sat down on Christian’s seat, and took Mrs Vaughan’s hand. There were tears in the old lady’s eyes.

‘I know what it’s like to lose the love of your life,’ Shane said. ‘I lost mine.’

‘Oh. Did she die?’

‘No. But she wouldn’t marry me.’

‘Stupid girl! She should be ashamed of herself. What was her name?’

‘Her name is Río.’

Dervla looked at Shane in amazement. ‘Río, Shane? After all this time?’

‘It’s always been her.’

‘Your bird of paradise,’ she said with a smile.

‘What are you two talking about now?’ demanded Daphne. ‘Are you having an affair?’

‘No, Daphne,’ Dervla told her. ‘We’re just reminiscing about something that happened when we were very, very young.’

‘“The Young Ones”. That’s a song by Cliff Richard, you know.’

Dervla knew what was coming, and sure enough, Daphne turned back to Shane and started to serenade him with ‘The Young Ones’. Dervla was impressed by Shane’s acting prowess. He managed to look as if sitting in a restaurant having a love song sung to him by a superannuated diner was the highlight of his day. And in fact, now that she
listened to the song, Dervla realized that the words were peculiarly poignant: she didn’t think she’d ever heard them properly before. No matter about Daphne’s short-term memory, it was highly possible that her recall of greatest hits of the sixties could get her a gig on
Mastermind
. The lyrics were all about how important it was to live in the present because the transient nature of youth meant that you might never have another chance to find love.

Is that why Daphne had conducted all those affairs after she married? To try to find the love that had been so cruelly snatched from her first time around? Christian had mentioned that his father had been much older than his beautiful wife – that he had, in fact, been a friend of his grandfather – but he appeared as reluctant to talk about his family history as Dervla was to talk about hers. Oh, God! She hoped that the ghosts of Daphne’s amours would never come spilling skeleton-like out of the closet. It was just as well, for Christian’s sake, that the ‘novel’ his mother had been planning to write had never found a publisher.

‘Mum! What are you doing, singing to a film star?’ Christian had returned from his business chat, and was smiling down at his mother.

‘Is this person a film star?’ asked Daphne. ‘Do I know him?’

‘He certainly is a film star.’ Christian extended a hand. ‘Hi. I’m Christian Vaughan, Dervla’s husband. Nice to meet you.’

‘Likewise. You’re the wine importer, yeah?’

‘That’s right.’

And as Christian and Shane got to know each other, Dervla returned her attention to Corban O’Hara, who was still checking out the two teens texting on the terrace. He was distracted from the vision of loveliness by the BlackBerry
on the table in front of him. Picking it up, he checked the display. Then he smiled, and looked directly at the cuter of the two girls. She was smiling right back at him.

Frowning, Dervla looked away.

On the top of the double-decker bus that had been converted into a mobile canteen, the extras were on a tea break. Most of them were locals who had been working on
The O’Hara Affair
for the past three weeks, and most of them were playing starving peasants. The obesity rate in Coolnamara had plummeted, because as soon as word had got out that
The O’Hara Affair
was going to be shooting near Lissamore, half the population had gone on diets and taken up exercise classes in the community hall. The downside of playing a starving peasant was the costumes: they were filthy, raggedy old things. Bethany had been lucky: she was meant to be a lady’s maid in the Big House, so she got to wear something rather more stylish: an ankle-length black dress with button boots, starched white pinafore and matching lace-trimmed cap.