Authors: Kate Thompson
She reached for her phone and pressed speed-dial. It rang and rang, and just as she thought her call would be diverted to voice mail, he picked up.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said.
‘Corban – I think there might be someone in your apartment.’
There was a pause, then Corban said: ‘What makes you think that?’
Fleur didn’t want to say that she’d been checking the joint out through a pair of binoculars – that would make her sound like some spooky stalker type – so instead she said: ‘I was strolling down towards Río’s and happened to look up. I could have sworn I saw someone on your deck.’
‘Darling, have you been drinking?’
‘Well yes, I have had a couple of glasses of wine. But not enough to give me hallucinations. I was wondering whether I should call the guards.’
There was another pause. ‘OK,’ Corban said finally. ‘I’ll come clean with you. One of the ADs knew I had a place in the village. He’s conducting an illicit affair with one of the extras – a girl from Lissamore. He knew he couldn’t entertain her in his hotel room because you can’t keep something like that secret on location, so I gave him a key to my apartment.’
Fleur’s perplexed expression broadened into a smile. ‘Oh – aren’t you sweet! What a generous thing to do,
chéri
. But why is the affair illicit? Is he married?’
‘No. She is.’
‘Oh!’ Fleur’s nosy neighbour antennae stiffened. ‘Who is she?’
‘Darling – if I told you that, I would have to kill you.’
‘Spoilsport! Go on, Corban, tell me! I promise I won’t breathe a word.’
‘Fleur – do you consider me to be a man of integrity?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well, I am not going to compromise that integrity by revealing the identity of someone who swore me to secrecy.’
‘Oh.’
Fleur felt a little small, suddenly. She knew perfectly well that if Corban furnished her with the identity of the mystery girl she’d spotted on his deck she couldn’t have resisted the temptation to share the knowledge with Dervla and Río. But she couldn’t prevent herself from speculating. Who in the village did she know with long blonde hair? How many extras had long blonde hair? How many married extras had – oh, stop it, stop it, Fleur! She was behaving like a busybody.
‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘I’m ashamed of myself for being a nosy parker. You can give me a rap over the knuckles next time you see me.’
‘I’d rather give you something much more vigorous than that. By the way, darling – do let me know if you see any lights on in the apartment, will you? I did ask them to be discreet and not turn on any lights that can be seen from the street.’
‘Why so?’
‘I didn’t want anyone calling in and expecting to find me there.’
‘Good point.’
‘Oh – there’s another thing you could do for me. Could you let – what’s the name of your cleaning lady?’
‘Audrey.’
‘Could you let Audrey have your set of keys so that she can do a clean-up job on the place some day next week?’ ‘Can’t they clean up after themselves?’
‘Think about it. How would you like to have a romantic weekend and then spend the next day doing laundry and cleaning the bath and scrubbing floors?’
‘You
are
a thoughtful man, Corban O’Hara. How was your trip, incidentally?’
‘Uneventful.’
‘It’s a shame Río isn’t still driving a hackney. She’d have been great entertainment on the run into Galway. Who drove you?’
‘Somebody local. I didn’t catch his name.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘In one of the Grange hotels. I’ve a great view over the City.’
‘Have you raided the mini bar yet?’
‘Yep. And I’m on my way to chill in the steam room – if that isn’t too much of an oxymoron.’
‘Oxymoron?’
‘Contradiction in terms, my little French maid. Be off with you now. If I don’t get to the spa before nine o’clock they won’t let me in.’
‘All right, my darling. Enjoy your steam.’
‘Enjoy your wine. Are you sitting on the deck?’
‘Yep.’
‘I can just picture you. How’s the weather?’
‘Fine. It’s a beautiful, balmy evening.’
‘Lucky girl. It’s raining here. Bye, darling.’
‘Bye, lover.’
Fleur hung up, then speed-dialled Río’s number.
‘Hello, Mrs Monty Don!’ she said.
‘Mrs Monty Don?’
‘I saw you on your balcony earlier, tending your garden.’
‘Why didn’t you come up and say hello? I haven’t seen you in ages.’
‘I didn’t see you from the street – I was on my deck.’
‘God bless your eyesight.’
‘It was much improved by a pair of binoculars. I’ve been spying on people.’
‘Spying on people? Oh, hello, Fleur! Are you turning into the village curtain twitcher? Next thing you know you’ll have a telescope installed on your deck.’
‘The binoculars aren’t mine,’ confessed Fleur. ‘I borrowed them from Dervla, when we were out walking the other day. I’ll have to return them to her, otherwise you’re right – I could turn into the village curtain twitcher. Binoculars are addictive.’
With her right hand, Fleur reached for the binoculars, and started to pan over the hump of an island that lay to the west. It was rimmed with red-gold light, from where the sun had set behind it.
‘How is Dervla?’ asked Río. ‘I haven’t seen her in ages, either.’
‘She seems all right. I think she’s a little worried about business in Bacchante.’
‘I’m not surprised. Have you taken a hit in Fleurissima?’
‘But of course.’
‘I thank God every day for this film,’ said Río. ‘If I was still driving a hackney, I’d be in deep shit. I ran into my ex-boss the other day, and he says fares are down by twenty per cent.’
‘You’ll be glad to know that Corban will have boosted business for him. He took a hackney all the way to the airport today.’
‘I thought the pair of you were having a romantic tryst in Coolnamara Castle?’
Fleur shrugged. ‘He had to go to London on business.’
‘Not again!’
‘That’s what happens when you’re involved with Mr Big. You don’t get to see as much of him as you’d like. Haven’t you met him yet?’
‘No. But someone pointed him out to me on set last week. He’s some dude, Fleur.’
‘I know,’ said Fleur, smugly, as she scanned the purple mountains to the east. Venus, the evening star, was just climbing into the sky above them. ‘Oh, by the way, Río, did you know that one of the ADs on your film is having an affair with one of the extras?’
‘What’s so unusual about that?’ said Río. ‘Loads of people have affairs on a movie set. There’s even an acronym for it. DCOL. Doesn’t Count On Location. Shane told me.’
‘How is Shane?’
‘Charming, nimble-witted and generous of spirit, according to one of his fan sites.’
Fleur remembered what Dervla had said to her on their walk.
He’s still in love with Río…
She wondered if Río knew that the father of her son was still crazy about her after all these years.
‘I think it’s great that the pair of you get on so well,’ she hazarded.
‘Well, it would be nightmarish for Finn if we didn’t. He’s coming back to Lissamore soon, you know.’
‘Does that mean he and Izzy have split up?’
‘I think they’re on a break. In a way I’m glad. She may have been an excellent business studies student, but that idea of turning her daddy’s mansion into a scuba-diving outfit would have been bonkers in the CEC.’
‘CEC?’
‘Current economic climate.’
Fleur allowed her binoculars to abseil down the mountainside. They landed on a woody area near the lake at Coolnamara Castle. ‘What about your plans for building on your land by Coral Mansion?’
Coral Mansion was the name Río had come up with for the ostentatious house that had belonged to Adair Bolger, Izzy’s father.
‘Can’t afford to. But it’s still a nice feeling to be a landowner. Once this film’s over, I’m going to set up a stall selling organic produce.’
‘Apples from your orchard?’
‘And honey. I’ve started keeping bees. And I’m going to plant a load of vegetables. I’ll be just like W B Yeats on his lake isle. My daddy used to recite “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” when he’d a few jars on him. “Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee.” And very likely the only house I’ll ever afford to build there will be one just like his – “of clay and wattles made”. I wonder would you need to get planning permission for a cabin made from clay and wattles?’
‘Probably. I’ve had planning permission for my extension turned down.’
‘Oh – poor Fleur. Will you appeal?’
‘I can’t be bothered, to tell you the truth. The way things are going, this country will soon be as wound up in red tape as France.’ Fleur set the binoculars down and sloshed more wine into her glass. She made a ‘yikes’ face when she saw how much the level in the bottle had gone down. ‘So – tell me, who do you think is having the affair? Apparently the woman involved is married, and from the village.’
‘How do you know all this, Fleur?’
‘Corban told me.’
‘I wouldn’t have taken Corban for a gossip.’
‘He’s not. He’s actually helping them out by lending them his apartment to conduct their liaison in.’
‘Wow. That’s big of him.’
‘I told you – he
is
my Mr Big.’
‘I’m dying to meet him. Maybe I should introduce myself next time he’s on set.’
‘Do that. Dervla met him for the first time the other day.
I think she was impressed – and you know what an astute judge of character she is.’
‘I wonder where that came from. She can hardly have inherited it from our parents.’
Fleur laughed. ‘I bet
she’d
be able to work out who’s having this dangerous liaison.’
‘How? By skulking around the set spying on the extras’ body language? What has you so intrigued, Fleur?’
‘That’s what living in a village does to you. I guess I’m just a small-town gossip at heart.’
‘Concealed by an
über
elegant exterior, like one of the Wisteria Lane gals.’
‘The Wisteria Lane gals would never be caught dead in wellies.’
‘Ah – but they don’t live in the wild west of Ireland.’
From the kitchen table beyond the sliding doors, Fleur heard the ‘ping!’ of an incoming email. ‘Ooh – some email’s just arrived that I’ve been expecting. I’d better go check it out.’
‘It’s probably from Neighbourhood Watch, thanking you for your contribution to security in Lissamore. By the way, if you see a man in a black polo neck climbing over my balcony, please don’t phone the guards. I’m expecting the Milk Tray man this evening.’
‘Lucky you! Enjoy!’
Fleur put the phone down and went back into the kitchen. When she clicked on her in-box, this is what she found:
Welcome to Second Life, Flirty LittleBoots! Please keep this email in case you need to retrieve your account name later. CLICK HERE TO ACTIVATE YOUR ACCOUNT
She clicked, and there was her avatar, suddenly, a bluehaired little Gamer girl with a funky helmet and combats and hardcore boots, standing in Arrivals, looking for some action. The first thing she had to do, obviously, was ask for help, and the Helper of the Week who approached her was only too happy to oblige. Within the space of an hour, Flirty LittleBoots had been equipped with an inventory of sparkly stilettos, leatherwear, hairstyles and accessories. She’d learned how to teleport, how to gesture, how to have private conversations with other avatars, and how to fly.
By the end of the evening, Fleur was ready to try something else new. She poured herself another glass of Dutch courage, and sent Flirty LittleBoots off on an adventure. She was keen to find out for herself just how far you could push the parameters in the curiously seductive virtual world that was Second Life.
It was another beautiful day in Lissamore. If Dervla could have been arsed to get into the car, she would have driven to the nearest signpost and added a capital B to the place name.
She had been woken in the most delightful way of all, with her husband’s hard-on nudging her hip. She’d put Mozart on the CD player after he’d gone off to work, and blasted it through the house as she’d had her shower. She’d juiced carrots and ginger and apples and pineapple, and then she’d ruined the beneficial effects to her health by having a mega hit of caffeine and a bowl of Honey Nut Loops (Christian adored them), while sitting on the front doorstep, admiring her view. From Finnegan’s farm a mile away she could hear the crowing of a cockerel, bees were buzzing loudly in the lavender, and a mile high above her, a skylark was singing its heart out.
But bliss could not be prolonged. There was much to be done. Dervla washed up her breakfast things, then crossed the courtyard to Daphne’s house and rang the doorbell. Nemia came to the door, wiping her hands on a cloth.
‘Oh – it’s you!’ she said. ‘Come in, come in – it’s not often we have visitors. Will you have tea or coffee?’
‘Tea would be lovely, thanks.’
Dervla followed Nemia into the kitchen. It was pristinely clean and tidy. A stock pot was simmering on the hob, and Ryan Tubridy was on the radio, talking to someone about the ageing demographic. Nemia reached to switch it off.
‘Oh – don’t let me interrupt your radio,’ said Dervla.
‘No worries. I’ll get it later, on a podcast. It’s interesting stuff. Sit down, sit down.’
Dervla took a seat at the kitchen table, while Nemia set about making tea. A half-filled in Sudoku puzzle lay beside a vegetarian cookbook. From the sitting room floated the gently authoritative tones of David Attenborough. ‘How’s Daphne?’ she asked.
‘She’s in good form today.’
Nemia’s voice was lovely, Dervla thought – lilting and slightly accented. She had a fantastic smile, too. It seemed a shame that she was stuck here in a cottage in the middle of the countryside when she should be out being sociable – even finding herself a man, maybe. She was a good-looking girl.
‘Are you looking forward to your holiday, Nemia?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Nemia. ‘I am so glad that the weather forecast is for lots of rain here! I would hate to go to Malta and know that back in Ireland it is sunny still.’ She reached for the teapot. ‘How have you got on with finding a replacement for me?’