The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson
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?’
‘It’s Des O’Connor.’
‘Des O’Connor! Turn him up.’
Dervla did as she was told.
‘Grub’s up, Mum!’ said Christian, rubbing his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm.
‘What are we having?’ asked Daphne, lowering herself into the chair that Christian was holding out for her.
‘Looks like shepherd’s pie to me,’ said Christian.
‘That’s exactly what it is!’ enthused Dervla. ‘Shepherd’s pie! Made by my own fair hands! Except it’s not strictly speaking shepherd’s pie, because it’s made with beef, not lamb. I suppose it should be called cowman’s pie instead.’ ‘Isn’t it known as cottage pie?’ Christian supplied.
‘Oh, yes! I think you’re right.’
Dervla felt as if she were doing a bad audition for a job as a children’s television presenter. Her smile had never felt more fake. Having finished serving, she was about to sit down when Daphne lowered her head and said: ‘For what we are about to receive…’
Yikes! Grace? Dervla gave Christian a look of enquiry. He responded with a nod, and Dervla took her place at the table, murmuring, ‘May the Lord make us truly thankful.’
‘Amen.’ Daphne peered at her plate. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s shepherd’s pie, Daphne,’ Dervla reminded her.
‘Oh, good. I love shepherd’s pie.’
‘We all love shepherd’s pie.’ Christian took up his fork and tried a mouthful. ‘Mmm. It is delicious.’
‘I’m going to eat this now,’ announced Daphne. ‘Shall I eat it?’
‘Yes. Do.’
Dipping her fork into the shepherd’s pie, Daphne scooped some up. But as she brought the food to her mouth, a lump of mashed potato dropped onto her lap.
‘Oops!’ said Dervla. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’
Daphne gave her a cross look. ‘I don’t have a napkin! I should have a napkin.’
‘I’ll get you one now.’ Dervla helped herself to a cloth, and tore some sheets off a roll of kitchen towel. Then she wiped the mashed potato off Daphne’s lap, and distributed the makeshift napkins. ‘Nappies for everyone!’ she carolled. ‘Dear God,’ remarked Christian. ‘I hope not.’
Dervla widened her eyes at him, and he winked. Resuming her seat, she tried hard not to laugh, but it was proving impossible, and then, to make matters worse, Christian started to laugh too.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Daphne.
‘Nothing,’ he told her. ‘I just remembered a joke.’
Daphne looked put out. ‘Well, if it’s so side-splittingly funny, I think you might have the manners to share it.’
‘Um. OK. A grasshopper walks into a bar. The barman looks astonished.