The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson
we’ll get you a veil. Try this.’ Daisy unwound the chiffon scarf she was wearing and dropped it over her aunt’s head. ‘Perfect! Go again.’
‘Jana,’ repeated Fleur. ‘I think you might be a Pisces, yes? I see – um – a book with the title The Time Traveler’s Wife and I see Meryl Streep wearing dungarees – holy moly, is Mamma Mia everyone’s favourite film on Facebook?’
‘Tut-tut! You’re stepping out of character, Madame Tiresia. Here, have some more wine.’
‘Thank you, Jana. Now – where were we? I see you singing – singing in front of Simon Cowell. Perhaps you have auditioned for the X Factor?’
Some forty minutes later, Fleur had told half-a-dozen more fortunes, and was really beginning to have fun.
‘Not bad for a Facebook virgin,’ remarked Daisy, upending the wine bottle. ‘You’ll get hooked, Flirty, mark my words. Now, let’s do one more. This time I’m going to be Paris Hilton.’ ‘Paris Hilton is one of your Facebook friends?’
‘No, she’s not. But we all know everything there is to know about Paris. You should have no problem uncovering her secrets.’
‘Welcome!’ enthused Fleur, waving her hands over the crystal ball. But just as she was deliberating over questions for Paris, the phone in the kitchen sounded. Reaching for her wineglass, she excused herself and shimmied inside to pick up. It was Corban.
‘Hello, chéri!’ she crooned into the mouthpiece. When Fleur had a little too much to drink, or when she was enraged – which was seldom – her French accent became marginally more pronounced.
‘I just got your message,’ he told her, ‘and I have to say, you look pretty damned hot as Gypsy Rose Lee. But you made a mistake.’
‘I did?’
‘Yeah. Gypsy Rose Lee was a burlesque artist, not a fortune-teller.’
‘Oops.’
‘And she was a very sexy lady. The original Dita Von Teese.’
‘What are you getting at, Mister O’Hara?’ Fleur started toying with a strand of hair. She couldn’t help flirting with Corban, even on the telephone.
‘You know I said I’d double your take, Fleur? I’m prepared to quadruple it. On one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘When I call in to you on Friday evening, I want to see you wearing those gypsy threads.’
Fleur’s mouth curved in a provocative smile. ‘So that you can take them off?’
‘No. So that you can take them off. While I watch.’
Fleur’s smile grew even more provocative. She pretended to buy time while taking a sip from her wineglass. Then she laughed out loud. ‘Done deal,’ she said.
Dervla Vaughan (née Kinsella) stepped through the front door of her new home and set her bags down on the hall floor. The sun filtering through the mosaic glass of the fanlight cast a jewel-like pattern onto the stone flags, and when she slipped off her sandals the patch of spangled sunlight warmed the soles of her feet. The air was redolent of fresh paint, with here and there a trace of linseed oil. If you added base notes of baking bread, then bottled it, the scent could rival any room candle dreamed up by Jo Malone. It was perfectly quiet in the house: the only sound that of birdsong, and the distant baaing of sheep from the fields beyond the garden.
Her dream house! Moving into the centre of the hall, Dervla executed a slow turn, taking in each and every one of the three hundred and sixty delectable degrees that surrounded her. Off the hallway, to left and to right were two spacious, high-ceilinged reception rooms. In her mind’s eye they were washed in soothing shades of buttery yellow and eau-de-nil, furnished with understated antiques and carpeted in faded Aubusson; but right now the rooms were works in progress, with tools of the decorator’s trade heaped in a corner and undercoat spattered on dust sheets.
Her eyes followed the graceful line of the cantilevered staircase. On the floor above her, bedrooms and bathrooms had unparalleled views over the countryside, with sea shimmering and mountains slumbering on the horizon. The views were as yet unframed by curtains, but Dervla had improvised with yards of unbleached muslin in the master bedroom, to soften the magisterial appearance of the high casements. More muslin was draped from the tester over the king-sized bed, each side of which was flanked by a pale rug: not the Aubusson carpets of Dervla’s fantasy, but pretty in their own way. A chest at the foot of the bed contained bed linen, but aside from that, and the cushions piled on the window seat, the room was unfurnished.
Only one room in the house had been finished – finished to pretty high spec, at that. Christian – Dervla’s husband of less than a year – had surprised her one day by taking her hand and leading her up the staircase that accessed the turret room at the very top of the house. Unlocking the door, he’d thrown it open to reveal a dedicated office space with units to house computer, printer and scanner. There was an ergonomic chair cushioned in leather, and shelves just waiting to be filled with books and stationery. ‘This is where you’ll finish that book!’ he’d announced. ‘What do you think? Isn’t this a dream space for a writer?’
It was a dream space for a writer – her very own ivory tower. The only snag was that Dervla wasn’t a writer: she was – like thousands of other professionals recently made redundant – an aspiring writer. Having been a successful auctioneer in a former life and in a former economy, Dervla had been commissioned to write a beginner’s guide to selling property. She knew she had lucked out: other estate agents had sunk without trace since recession had struck. But even though she had a publishing deal and a deadline to work to, Dervla felt like a complete fraud every time she sat down in front of her keyboard and opened the file entitled How to Sell Your House – What Every First-Timer Needs to Know. Her contract specified eighty thousand words, and as the deadline inched closer, Dervla was feeling less and less confident that she’d be able to deliver.
It wasn’t entirely her fault – for the past few months she’d been inundated with the kind of stress that might floor a less resilient individual. Closing down her business, putting her Galway penthouse on the rental market and moving into the Old Rectory had all taken its toll on her energy, and she’d had little spare time in which to get any writing done. But now that she had a room of her own – a room with a view and an ergonomic chair, to boot – perhaps inspiration would come to her.
Crossing back to the front door where she’d dumped her bags, Dervla picked up her computer case, then made for the staircase that curved up to the first floor. A narrower spiral staircase took her to the turret room. Switching on her computer, she strolled over to one of the three double-glazed windows while she waited for the screen to shimmer into life.
When they’d bought the Old Rectory, the turret had been windowless – blocked up since the introduction of the window tax in the eighteenth century. Dervla and Christian had gleefully reinstated windows to east, west and south, thereby ensuring that the room was filled with light. From this vantage point the steeple of the little church on the outskirts of Lissamore village was just discernible, and you could hear the bells chime, too, when the wind was coming from the right direction. Sheep baaing! Birdsong! Church bells chiming! The kind of pastorale that accompanied Thomas Hardy adaptations on television, now made up the soundtrack to her life.
Chimes of another kind were coming from her bag. On honeymoon in Mexico, Dervla had fallen in love with the sound of the wind chimes on the veranda where she and Christian had slept. She’d made a recording to use as her phone tone, and every time her phone rang now, she picked it up with a pang of nostalgia.
Her sister’s name was lit up on the display.
‘Hey,