Authors: Kate Thompson
Oh, stop it – stop it, Dervla! Her imagination was going into overdrive. Maybe the
prosecco
was for his niece, if he had one. Maybe it was a farewell present for a cast or a crew member on the film. Maybe there was an entirely rational explanation for his purchase.
This must be what happened when you were starved for company, living alone in a big empty house. You started making up stories about people you didn’t even know. Maybe she should start writing fiction instead of a useless book about how to sell houses nobody wanted to buy. Maybe she should get out more, get herself a proper job. But doing what? Auctioneering? Cue hollow laughter. Working in a shop? Maybe she could ask Fleur if she could help out part time in Fleurissima, or maybe Christian could take her on instead of Lisa? At least if she were working in
an environment surrounded by real live human beings she could keep up to spin with what was going on in the world. She hadn’t even known that her own nephew was coming back to Lissamore!
Yes. A job would be good: something that would earn her some money, restore a little of her self-esteem, give her a sense of purpose. Hadn’t Río used to grab any work that was going, when she’d been a struggling single mother? She’d driven a hackney cab, she’d worked behind the bar in O’Toole’s, she’d done odd jobs in people’s gardens.
But Dervla had none of those practical skills. She’d lived such a rarefied life in the heady days of Celtic Tiger Ireland that she barely even knew how to wield an iron. And now she was, ironically – ha ha – ironing her husband’s shirts for him. She’d thought of offering to pay Nemia to do it, but since she’d given up work, Dervla couldn’t afford to splash out the kind of silly money she had once upon a time on ironing services and suchlike. Anyway, she’d have felt too embarrassed to ask Nemia, because in a way, Nemia was family…
Nemia! Now there was a job she could do! Nemia earned six hundred and fifty euros a week looking after Daphne. Six hundred and fifty euros was a lot. If she, Dervla, took over Nemia’s job while she was off on holiday, she and Christian could save Daphne’s estate a fair few bob. Two and a half thousand a week for residential care was ridiculous! And Nemia would need more time off in the future, to visit her family in London. She’d mentioned recently that her own mother was ailing. Maybe, between the two of them, they could work out a roster so that when Nemia took time off, Dervla could take over. It couldn’t be that skilled a job, caring for an elderly person. All she would have to do would be cook and clean a little, and set Daphne down in front of
the television. Nemia occasionally did the crossword with her, and she’d mentioned something about reading bedtime stories, but that was hardly onerous. If Dervla moved into Daphne’s cottage for the two weeks that Nemia was away, she could bring her laptop, get some work done on her book! It was a no-brainer. Well…OK, not such a no-brainer. Daphne could be a real pain in the arse sometimes, but that was part of the job description and simply something Dervla would have to learn to put up with.
She and Fleur had been walking in companionable silence for some time, each wrapped in their own thoughts, when Fleur gave a sudden laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Dervla.
‘I was just remembering what some girl said when I was doing my fortune-telling gig. She told me to fuck off, and then clamped a hand over her mouth and apologized profusely.’
‘Why did she tell you to fuck off?’
‘It’s the way kids say “I don’t believe you”. You know – like the way we used to say “get away!” They say “fuck off ” instead – but they don’t mean it rudely. She was
so
mortified.’
‘I meant to ask you – how did that gig go?’
‘Really well, funnily enough.’
‘So the Facebook stunt worked?’
‘Yes. It’s amazing the stuff kids tell each other over the internet. It’s like a confessional. Having read some of it, I’d hate to be a mother.’
‘You’re like a second mother to Daisy.’
‘Ah, but Daisy can take good care of herself.’
‘Have you ever regretted not having kids, Fleur?’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Dervla regretted them. The eyes that Fleur turned on her were tragic.
‘Oh, Dervla – of course I have. I should have loved to have had a child. I just never found the right man to be the father.’
‘It’s not too late.’
‘Corban would make a fantastic father—’
What? Dervla doubted it, somehow.
‘—but a child is a big commitment, and he’s a very busy man.’ Fleur shook her head. ‘I don’t even entertain the notion of having a child now. I’d have adored to have had a daughter. A little girl that you could dress in cutesy clothes and read stories to and tuck up in bed and kiss and cuddle and inhale the scent of…Oh! Oh, dear. I’d better not go there. What about you, Dervla, now you’re settled? Have you thought about children?’
‘I’ve a feeling I might be too old for children, Fleur.’
‘Well, I know it’s more difficult to conceive at our age, but there’s still a possibility, isn’t there?’
Dervla shrugged. ‘My periods have become a bit erratic. I may be on the cusp of premature menopause.’
‘Oh, God. Dread word.’
‘They say it can be worse than puberty.’
‘Nothing gets easier, does it? Life’s a bitch and then you die.’
‘Or – as in the case of my mother-in-law, life’s a bitch and then you don’t even get to die.’
‘Dervla! That’s a shocking thing to say!’
‘Is it? Sorry. It’s just that Christian and I have developed a rather black sense of humour around her.’
‘Does she have absolutely no quality of life?’
Dervla was about to say ‘no’, and then she thought about it. What quality of life did Daphne have? She lived in comfort, surrounded by her own beautiful things. She could talk – even though she mostly just talked rubbish. She may not
have been able to see much on her flat screen, but she could hear the mellifluous tones of David Attenborough and Monty Don, listen to musical numbers. She had her radio, she had her audio books, she had the soothing gurgle of the fish tank. She had her scent –
Je Reviens
– and the aroma of the excellent food that Nemia prepared for her, plus, of course, the taste. She had the warmth of the sun on her face when she sat on the swing seat on her patio. She had her hair styled for her, and her nails manicured. She had her pashminas and her cashmere throws. She had memories of her lovers – that was evident from the way she’d spoken of Jack, the love of her life who had died in a fire. All in all, Dervla thought, when compared to some people, Daphne had a damned fine life.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘she’s got a lot going for her. I wouldn’t mind being taken care of like that, when I reach her age.’
They were nearing the end of their walk now, rounding the bend in the road that led to the outskirts of the village. A rather ugly apartment development had been built here during the boom years. Corban O’Hara had snapped up the penthouse, but as far as Dervla knew, most of the rest remained unsold. It was like a ghost building – even Corban rarely stayed there, preferring to sleep at Fleur’s any time he was in town.
Corban O’Hara. Why had Dervla taken so agin the man, when she hadn’t even met him properly? How long had he and Fleur been an item now? Six months or so? Dervla had once suggested that he and Fleur join them for dinner in the Old Rectory, but Fleur had told her that when Corban came to Lissamore it was in search of peace and quiet. He spent so much time wheeling and dealing and socializing in Dublin that privacy was a precious commodity for him here. Anyway, the notion of entertaining a millionaire – or was
he a billionaire? – in her kitchen did little for Dervla’s sense of self-worth. She’d rather wait until her dining room was finished – if they could ever afford to finish it.
Hmm. She wondered now if Mister O’Hara would recognize her as the woman from whom he’d bought the
prosecco
this afternoon, and if so, how it would affect his demeanour? Should she disingenuously ask him if he’d enjoyed it? Let a few worms wriggle out of that can? No,
no
, Dervla! It was none of her affair. It was Fleur’s affair. Or maybe even his…
Outside O’Toole’s, a handful of tourists were perched on windowsills, admiring the view of the harbour. One of them was playing a bodhrán, badly, while another was murdering a tin whistle. All of them were singing ‘The Fields of Athenry’. Inside, it was quieter: empty but for a pretty blonde girl reading a book and a mountainy man in a greasy gaberdine, both atop barstools.
‘Will you order for me?’ Fleur asked Dervla. ‘I need to pay a visit to the loo and make myself presentable.’
‘Sure,’ said Dervla. ‘A glass of Guinness?’
‘Please.’
Dervla ordered two glasses from the bartender, then sat down on a banquette by the fire. There was always a fire going in O’Toole’s, whatever the weather. Because the pub was small and rather dark, it provided a welcoming touch. Someone had left a
Daily Mail
behind. Reaching for it automatically, Dervla steeled herself to read more tales of recessionary doom and gloom.
An article on the ageing population demographic predicted that within a quarter of a century one in four people in Britain would be over the age of sixty-five. One in four! And one in eighty-eight of over sixty-fives was currently suffering from dementia. The caring industry
was clearly in for a boom time: more and more people would need to be recruited by agencies as carers. Dervla thought of all those first-time buyers she’d shown around apartments a year or two ago. There’d been lots of girls who’d trained as beauty therapists, employed in luxury spas and five-star hotels all over the Galway and Coolnamara region. In those days, beauty therapy had been big business. She wondered would those hapless girls have to retrain, now that jobs were so scarce; and if they did, would they realize that caring for the elderly was now the new beauty therapy?
‘Your Guinness, Dervla,’ said the bartender, setting two half-pint glasses in front of her. ‘Beautiful evening, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Dervla, segueing automatically into weather small talk.
‘The forecast is for more rain, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘Spreading from the west.’
‘I’ll get these!’ It was Fleur. She had combed her hair, spritzed herself with scent, and applied a little lip gloss. Her eyes and skin were glowing from the walk: she looked ten years younger than the forty she admitted to. Dervla suspected that since they had first met, shortly after Fleur had divorced her husband, she had shaved five years off her real age. She got away with it, as most French women did. And of course, like most French women, Fleur never got fat.
‘Can you bring us some nuts, too, Fergal?’ said Fleur, endorsing Dervla’s observation about French women. ‘I’m ravenous after that walk.’
‘Coming up,’ said Fergal, moving back to the bar.
‘How do you manage to pack away so many calories and stay so slim?’ Dervla asked. ‘I just have to look at a packet of nuts and I instantly feel about half a kilo heavier.’
Fleur shrugged. ‘I guess I inherited it from my mother.
She adored her food, but she warned me never to get complacent. That’s why I go to exercise classes twice a week. You should come, Dervla. The Irish dancing classes are great fun, and you can vent all your pent-up aggression doing kick-boxing.’
‘Maybe I should. Maybe I should join Nemia’s Tai Chi class, and go along with her on the nights when Christian takes over Daphne-sitting. Although I’m not sure that Tai Chi would burn up a whole load of calories.’
‘But I’m sure it’s good for the spirit. Didn’t you say that Nemia was a kind of saint?’
‘You’d need to be to put up with my mother-in-law.’
The door to the pub opened and Corban O’Hara came through. He was more casually dressed than when Dervla had encountered him earlier that day, but the clothes he
wore looked expensive. Approaching the bar, he ordered a pint of Guinness, then turned and moved in their direction.
Fleur raised her face for a kiss, and then, as Corban sent a look of polite enquiry in Dervla’s direction, she effected introductions.
‘Corban,’ said Fleur, ‘this is Dervla Vaughan.’
‘Delighted to meet you at last,’ said Corban, smoothly. He scooped up Dervla’s hand and brushed the back with his lips, regarding her from under his eyebrows. Had he recognized her? It was impossible to say. ‘I’ve heard so much about you that I feel I know you already,’ he added.
‘Likewise,’ said Dervla, reclaiming her hand with a perfunctory smile.
‘You even look the way I’d imagined you.’
Ew! Dervla wasn’t sure that she liked the idea of Corban O’Hara ‘imagining’ her. She picked at a piece of lint on her sleeve.
As Fleur went to extract money from her purse, Corban
put a hand over hers. ‘Put that away, darling,’ he said, sliding a billfold from his pocket, and handing the barman a fifty. Oh! He was so fucking smooth that Dervla wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him say ‘Keep the change’.
Turning back to his female companions, he drew out a chair for Fleur before sitting down beside Dervla on the banquette. Dervla got the trace of a light cologne, citrus, with notes of sandalwood. It was a subtle smell. Sexy. A trace of six o’clock shadow stippled his jaw; the hair that curled over his collar had the gloss of a raven’s wing. His skin was tanned – a little weathered, even; his teeth white, but not too white. Mr Corban O’Hara’s presence was palpable, his charisma undeniable. He looked at Dervla, bestowing upon her the full beam of his attention, and said: ‘I understand you’re writing a book on the art of selling houses.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What a very clever thing to be doing.’
Dervla raised an eyebrow. ‘In the middle of a recession, when nobody’s buying? I beg to differ.’
‘I beg to differ, too. I think you’ll find you have a bestseller on your hands, Dervla.’
‘Really? What on earth makes you think that?’
‘Well, people aren’t selling their homes right now. But they’re thinking of little else. How much the value of their property has depreciated, and what they could do to hike the price up by a grand or two – or simply shift the joint so that they can move on. And when the market starts to recover, everyone who is just thinking about selling now will be testing the waters en masse. They’re going to want to know the tricks of the trade. And who better to teach them those tricks than a savvy former auctioneer who was in the running for female entrepreneur of the year?’