Authors: Kate Thompson
‘Are you going to let him know you have his porny DVD?’
Fleur considered, then shook her head. ‘No. I’ll let him stew. Maybe he’ll think that Audrey took it.’
‘Are you sad, Fleur?’
‘I’m more angry than sad. And I feel so stupid to have been manipulated by him, I really do. In all my relationships in the past, Dervla, I have called the shots. I suppose it’s the result of my marriage going so wrong. Wanting to be in control of things. That’s why I’ve always dated younger men. Corban was the first older man I’d been with since I followed my ex-husband to Ireland.’
‘Do you ever hear from Tom?’
‘No.’ Fleur smiled a little nostalgically. Her ill-advised marriage had been enormous fun while it had lasted – turbulent and torrid and tender. ‘I wonder if he’s still with his Mountie in Canada. Maybe I should track him down on Facebook.’ Abruptly, Fleur stopped in her tracks.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Dervla.
‘The couple at the end of the beach. It’s Jake Malone and Bethany O’Brien. Oh! Fucking men! Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.’ Fleur hurled her pebbles into the sea. ‘Now look what he’s made me do! I really liked those pebbles.’
‘There are lots more where they came from,’ soothed Dervla.
Fleur made a
moue
. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that there are more pebbles in the world than there are men you can trust.’ Turning, she stomped back in the direction from which they’d come. ‘I’m sorry, Dervla. I can’t walk past them. They say you’re getting old when you start looking at young people the way you might look at exotic flowers, and that pair resemble particularly luscious orchids.’
‘No worries.’ Dervla glanced at her watch. ‘I should really get going, anyway. I promised Finn I’d be back by half-past nine, to put Daphne to bed.’
‘How lucky is she, to have someone to put her to bed! If I ever get to that age, I’ll have nobody.’
‘You have your gorgeous niece, who is devoted to you.’
‘I’m hardly going to expect Daisy to put me to bed and change my nappies. Oh, God, Dervla! It’s so difficult to grow old – I hate, hate,
hate
it. Especially when one was beautiful once.’
‘You’re still beautiful, Fleur O’Farrell,’ protested Dervla.
Fleur shook her head. ‘You’re not beautiful if you don’t feel it from the inside. And I have that feeling less and less frequently these days.’ She stooped automatically to pick up another pebble, then tossed it aside. It wasn’t pretty enough for inclusion in her collection. ‘I guess that’s why I am fascinated by young people. Hooking up with them makes me feel as if I’m on an energy transfusion.’
‘Tsk tsk. You have to embrace your inner goddess, my dear.’
‘Except my inner goddess is probably Hecate.’
‘Who was she?’
‘The crone goddess worshipped by witches.’
‘Oh, Fleur! Don’t let him do this to you! This is all Corban’s fault!’
‘Sorry.’ Fleur knew she was being truculent, but she couldn’t help it. Seeing Jake and Bethany sitting together laughing on the sand had made her feel redundant and wretched. But Dervla was right. ‘Are
you
on Facebook?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘Yes. It was practically mandatory to be on Facebook in my estate agent days. I don’t go there so often now.’
‘Maybe I’ll hunt you down when I get home.’
‘Do that. It’s funny – I was going to look for Corban and add him. I won’t be doing that now.’
‘Maybe we should just poke him to death.’
‘Now there’s a thought.’
Fleur wondered whether Corban’s Facebook password was
the ubiquitous ‘theoharaaffair’, and concluded that that was unlikely. He had set up his Facebook account long before the film had gone into production. Shame. It would have been fun to mess about with his Facebook profile the way she had with his Second Life persona, and let the universe know what an ugly person Mr O’Hara really was.
‘Look!’ said Dervla, pointing at another pebble on the beach. ‘There’s a likely candidate.’
Fleur pounced on the pebble and pocketed it. ‘More ammo,’ she said.
Bethany’s hair was nearly dry. The air was still balmy, even though it was dusk. She ran a comb through her tangled mane and shook it out.
‘You look like somebody in a shampoo ad,’ said Jake, with a smile.
‘Get away!’
‘I worked on a shampoo commercial once. Those girls’ hair’s photoshopped to fuck. Fancy going to O’Toole’s for a drink?’
Oh, yes, yes – she did!
‘Um. OK. Cool. But I can hardly roll up in a damp swimsuit. Just let me go change.’ Jumping to her feet, Bethany grabbed her backpack and ran to the cottage where she divested herself of the towel she had wrapped around herself earlier, sarong-style. What to wear, what to wear, what to wear? A delphinium blue cotton frock, flip-flops, a misting of Stila scent, a transparent slick of Vaseline on lips and eyebrows. An ankle bracelet. Why not?
When she came back out, shrugging into the sleeves of her prettiest cardigan, Jake was lounging against the garden gate looking like a
ragazzo
. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Now you don’t look like someone in a shampoo commercial. You look like someone in an ad for fabric conditioner.’
‘Fabric conditioner?’
‘All clean and fresh and smelling of flowers. Mister O’Hara was right. You have a great face for camera, Bethany.’
‘But I don’t want to do ads! I want to be a proper actress.’
‘Don’t knock ads. There’s a lot of money to be made from them.’
‘Money isn’t everything.’
‘Not until you don’t have any. I know actors who once turned up their noses at commercial work who would now kill for a gig.’
Bethany resisted the impulse to reach for his arm as they began to negotiate the uneven terrain.
‘Tell me about the actors you’ve worked with,’ she said. ‘Have you met anyone famous?’
‘Don’t be fooled by the fame game, Bethany. Kids these days don’t know what they’re letting themselves in for when they woo the cult of celebrity. There’s nothing very glamorous about being famous – it’s hard graft. Imagine trying to stroll down to O’Toole’s for a quiet pint if you’re Kate Winslet or Colin Farrell looking anything other than one hundred per cent gorgeous.’
‘I’m not afraid of hard work.’
‘If you can get it. I know a casting director whose kids use the backs of actors’ CVs as drawing paper.’
And as they walked along the boreen that would take them to the main road, Jake told Bethany cautionary tale after cautionary tale about the film industry until, by the time they reached O’Toole’s, Bethany was wondering if she really wanted to be an actress after all.
Dervla pulled up outside Daphne’s cottage, steeling herself to go in. Maybe she could just flee – head for the hills and leave Finn to it? But then she’d be investigated by the social
services and arrested for dereliction of care. Besides, she could hardly land her nephew with the chore of putting Daphne to bed. She switched off the engine. Mozart’s sixth came to an abrupt end, to be replaced by the strains of ‘Summer Holiday’ wafting through the open window of the sitting room. Finn and Daphne were dancing to Cliff Richard. Well, Finn was doing a vigorous twist; Daphne was clutching the back of a chair and swaying gently from side to side, a beatific smile on her face, a white rose tucked behind her ear.
Dervla hurried through the front door and into the sitting room.
‘What’s going on?’ she yelled, over the din.
‘We’re having a party!’ Finn yelled back, as Dervla picked up the remote and cut the music.
Daphne stepped backwards and fell into her armchair with an ‘Oof!’ Then she glared at Dervla. ‘Spoilsport,’ she said, reaching for a glass and swigging back the contents. ‘More gin, young Finn!’ she said. ‘I’m a poet and I know it.’
Dervla turned aghast eyes on Finn. ‘You haven’t been giving her gin?!’ she said.
‘She asked for it. She said you always have gin and tonic in the evening.’
‘You’re a tonic, young Finn. Finn and tonic.’
‘How many has she had?’ asked Dervla.
‘Two.’
‘There once was a man called Michael Finnegan,’ sang Daphne, then hiccuped.
‘Just two? Are you sure?’
‘He had whiskers on his chinnegan. Hic.’
‘Yes,’ said Finn.
‘They fell out and then grew in again.’
‘You must have poured her bloody large measures,’ Dervla rebuked him.
‘Poor old Michael
finny finny Finnegan
,’ finished Daphne, triumphantly.
‘I’m not that irresponsible, Dervla.’
Dervla drew Finn into the kitchen, where the gin bottle was unstoppered on a work surface. It had been full before Dervla left the cottage this evening: now it was nearly half empty.
‘Oh shite,’ said Finn. ‘She must have been helping herself while I was on the phone. I honestly didn’t give her that much.’
From the sitting room came the sound of Daphne singing along to Cliff Richard.
‘She’s in flying form,’ remarked Finn. ‘We had a really good time. She showed me around the patio, and we sat singing on her swing seat for ages. We picked flowers, too – look.’ Finn indicated a jug on the windowsill in which half a dozen white roses had been arranged.
‘Pretty!’ remarked Dervla, abstractedly.
‘She arranged them herself. She said she’d had plenty of practice as a girl when her beaux used to bring her flowers. I told her I’d bring her a dozen red ones next time I came.’
Dervla gave a wan smile. ‘You smooth-talker, you! I don’t suppose you’d think about taking on the job full time?’
‘I could sure do with the cash, but – Jesus! What kind of life would that be? Stuck in a cottage in the country with a batty old woman!’
That’s my life, thought Dervla. Who would ever have thought it?
‘I’m going to have to get her into bed now,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I’ve a feeling she won’t go quietly.’ Dervla reached for the Gordons and poured herself a large one. ‘If you can’t beat ’em…’ she said.
‘How much longer do you have to do this?’
‘Christian’s due back on Friday.’
‘So you’ve another week to go. I’ll help out, Dervla, any time I’m not involved in filming.’
‘How does it feel,’ Dervla asked, droppng ice cubes into her drink, ‘to prance around on horseback wearing women’s clothes?’
‘I could get used to it,’ said Finn with an arch smile.
‘What a weird way to earn a living.’
‘Piggy on the railway, picking up stones,’ sang Daphne, from the sitting room. ‘I want a gin and tonic!’
‘Right back atcha, Piggy!’ said Finn. ‘I’d better go, Dervla. I promised Dad I’d meet him in O’Toole’s.’
‘It must be fun, working on the same project as your mum and dad.’
‘Well, we haven’t had a row yet. Ma even volunteered to cook for Dad tonight.’
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Some Nigella Lawson thingy. She’s even been practising!’ Finn bent and kissed his aunt’s cheek. ‘Good luck, Aunty dear, and good night.’
‘Good night, darling.’
Dervla leaned back against the kitchen island and took a swig of her drink. From the kitchen she could hear Finn’s farewell to Daphne.
‘I’m off now, Mrs Vaughan,’ he said. ‘Thank you for having me.’
‘You’re welcome, young man. Come back and visit me again soon. And ask someone to bring me a drink on your way out, will you please?’
‘I’m not sure you should be having another drink, Mrs Vaughan. It’s late. Dervla will be in soon, to help put you to bed.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of putting myself to bed, thank you. Good night. Sleep tight.’
‘And don’t let the bugs bite,’ said Finn. Then Dervla heard the front door close behind him.
The house fell suddenly silent – Dervla felt awfully lonely. She knew she should go into the sitting room and persuade her mother-in-law to go to bed, but she didn’t have the energy. She’d stay on here for five minutes, finish her drink. Then she’d cross the last hurdle of the day: get Daphne into bed, and get an early night herself. She’d taken to making sure that her bedroom door was locked at night, because she found the prospect of Daphne coming into her bedroom so unnerving.
The ice tinkled in her glass, and then she heard a sound from the sitting room. Daphne was moving around. She came out into the corridor, and Dervla stiffened, thinking that she might be heading for the kitchen to replenish her glass, but instead she heard the old lady make her way slowly but steadily along the corridor towards her bedroom. She was going quietly, without kicking up her usual stink about not wanting to go to bed. The gin must have made her sleepy. Dervla heard her go into the bathroom and have a tinkle, and she thought: Thank God! Maybe she will last the night without needing to go again. She really didn’t want to make the effort of persuading Daphne to get into incontinence pants this evening.
Dervla took another couple of hits of her drink, then followed Daphne into her bedroom, where she was drawing the curtains.
‘Oh!’ Daphne said, when she turned and saw Dervla. ‘You gave me a fright!’
‘It’s all right, Daphne,’ said Dervla. ‘I’m Dervla, who is married to your son Christian, and I’m staying here with you.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Daphne teetered towards her dressing table, and
started rummaging among the items there. To Dervla’s astonishment, she picked up her lipstick, and slicked some on.
‘Daphne? Why are you putting on lipstick?’
‘Aren’t we going out?’
‘No. It’s late – it’s ten o’clock at night.’
‘Ten o’clock? But that’s early! I always dance till dawn.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather have a nice story?’ suggested Dervla.
‘A story? I haven’t had a story read to me since I was a child! Are you my mother?’
‘No,’ said Dervla.
Daphne sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I must telephone my mother. She worries about me if I don’t come home.’
‘You can telephone her in the morning,’ Dervla assured her. ‘It’s too late to phone her now. She’ll be asleep.’ She took hold of the sleeve of Daphne’s cardigan, and pulled it gently off first one arm, then the other. Then she plumped up the pillows, and persuaded Daphne back against them before taking hold of her legs and levering them up onto the mattress. She took off Daphne’s slippers, and gave her her ARICEPT, and drew the duvet up over the old lady’s sunken chest. Then she reached for the volume from which she’d been reading Daphne’s bedtime stories. She’d given up on Roald Dahl – his stuff was too dark – and had opted for
The Fairy Stories of Oscar Wilde
instead.