Authors: Kate Thompson
Christian looked thoughtful. ‘You could be right. We could certainly manage the business side of things.’
‘It’s a great idea – I know it is,’ said Dervla, as they came to the end of their walk. ‘I get this kind of fizzy feeling in my bones when I know I’m onto something good.’ Christian zapped the locks on the car, and Dervla doffed her raincoat and exchanged her walking boots for her heels. ‘We’ll talk it over later during dinner, shall we?’
‘I’ll have other things on my mind during dinner.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Dervla, chucking her binoculars into the boot. ‘What things?’
‘Taking my wife to bed, of course,’ said Christian.
They ordered dinner in the bar, over drinks. Dervla went for watercress soup and duck breast with rosemary polenta, while Christian opted for pan-fried wild mushrooms to start, followed by beef fillet with
foie gras
butter. He was texting his business partner when a call came through.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ he told Dervla. ‘This one’s urgent. One of the wine-tasting tourists has missed the flight from Montpellier. I’ll take it outside.’
Christian got to his feet and left the bar just as a man Dervla recognized came through the door. He was Mike Coughlan, a man who had successfully run as an independent candidate in the local elections some years before, but who had since retired from politics. He took a seat at the table next to Dervla, and nodded at her.
‘Lovely evening,’ he said.
‘Yes. We could be in for an Indian summer.’
‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ he asked. ‘You’re something in property, am I right?’
‘I used to be,’ smiled Dervla. ‘But I’m out of the property game now.’
‘
Well
out, in the current climate. The name’s Mike Coughlan,’ he said, extending a hand.
‘Dervla Vaughan.’
‘So what are you up to now, Dervla?’
‘I’m between jobs. Making plans for the future. And as a matter of fact, Mr Coughlan—’
‘Mike.’
‘Mike – you might be able to help me. May I ask you a question?’
‘Fire ahead.’
‘How does one go about getting into politics?’
‘Well, it really depends on how proactive you want to be. Have you a party in mind?’
‘I used to support the Greens until they got into bed with Fianna Fáil. Now I’m a floating voter, I guess.’
‘In that case I suggest you have a look at party websites and determine which endorses your own ethics. Join up, and start going to their local meetings. At election time it’s a good idea to canvas on their behalf, drop leaflets, doorstep – that kind of thing. And apply to become a tally man. That way you can keep up to spin on PR and STVs – that kind of thing.’
Dervla was thankful that she’d read
The Bluffer’s Guide to Politics
. STVs, she recalled, stood for single transferable votes.
‘Don’t underestimate the art of schmoozing,’ continued Mike. ‘And backtrack on your morals and principles if you think it’ll help drum up support.’
‘But that’s –
un
principled!’ protested Dervla.
‘That’s why I got out of the game. You could take the independent route, but that’s expensive.’
‘Oh.’ Dervla drooped a little.
‘You need a tough skin to be involved in politics,’ Mike warned. ‘You’ll shake hands with people and want to wash your hands right after. You’ll set yourself up as a target for some of the most vindictive sniping you’ll ever experience in your life. You’ll weep into your pillow at night, and leave the house with a mile-wide smile the next morning to show the world you’re invincible. You’ll kiss some of the ugliest babies you’ve ever seen.’
Dervla laughed. ‘So who in their right mind goes into politics in the first place?’
‘No one,’ said Mike Coughlan.
‘Madam?’ said the maître d’, approaching. ‘Would you care to come through to the dining room now?’
‘Thank you,’ said Dervla, rising to her feet. ‘And thank you, Mike, for your advice.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Mike. ‘Here’s my card. Feel free to contact me if you need help.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dervla again, before turning to follow the maître d’.
Oo-er, she thought, as they passed through the foyer. She wouldn’t mind kissing ugly babies, but Dervla had spent enough sleepless nights in her life crying into her pillow. Life was too short to be shedding more tears. Besides, she was definitely in her
right
mind. She didn’t have the lunatic credentials to be a politician. Anyway, she’d have her hands full if she and Christian really were going to go ahead with their plans for setting up a retirement home with a difference.
She sat down at the window table they’d requested. The view was spectacular – airy mountains, rushy glens – and the sun was just beginning to dip over a gold and indigo horizon. In the lake below, a salmon flashed silver as it leaped from the water.
On the other side of the room, a family was celebrating something – a birthday, or an anniversary. There was lots of laughter, lots of wine being poured and glasses chinked. There appeared to be three generations at the table: children ranging in age from babies to teens, parents and grandparents, all in rollicking form. But wait – maybe there was a member of a fourth generation there, too. At a far corner, sandwiched between a burly, red-faced man and a middle-aged blonde spilling out of a too-tight dress was a tiny shrivelled lady of about ninety. She looked confused, as if she had no idea where she was or how she had got there, and she kept looking around with anxious, blinking eyes, like a capuchin monkey. Nobody spoke to her, and she spoke to nobody. And as the first course arrived, the blonde got to her feet and tied a bib around the old lady’s neck, all the while listening to and
laughing at a joke with which the red-faced man was regaling the table.
Dervla looked away.
‘You’re looking very pensive,’ Christian said, joining her at the table. ‘I’m sorry about the phone call. That took some sorting out. The bloke was half-cut.’
‘He’d been swallowing instead of spitting?’
Christian nodded. ‘Most of them do, if the truth be told. They can’t resist the temptation on wine tastings.’
‘Madam? Watercress soup with sweet onions.’
‘Sir? Pan-fried wild mushrooms with parmesan and thyme butter.’
The two waiters set down the dishes, and retreated. Then the sommelier arrived, and – upon Christian’s pronouncement that the wine was excellent – he too retreated, leaving Christian and Dervla smiling at each other.
‘This is blissful,’ said Dervla. ‘Thank you for suggesting it.’
Christian raised his glass. ‘To Daphne,’ he said.
‘To Daphne,’ Dervla echoed, mirroring the gesture.
And as she drank, beyond the window the salmon leaped again.
After dinner, they took coffee in the drawing room. Before it was poured, Dervla excused herself to visit the loo. In the ladies, two of the teenage girls who were members of the big family party were retouching their make-up and chatting.
Dervla eavesdropped on their conversation through the door of her cubicle.
‘I
begged
Dad not to bring Nana,’ one of the girls was saying. ‘I knew she’d ruin the whole evening, sitting there, staring into space like something out of
Night of the Living Dead
.’
‘She dribbled soup all over herself – did you see?’ said the other girl. ‘And now we’re going to have to go home the long way around and dump her back in that stinking old folk’s place. And we’re going to have to kiss her – ew! I
hate
kissing Nana. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. I always want to wipe my mouth afterwards.’
‘I know. But we can’t very well not kiss her on her ninetieth birthday. Especially since she’s forking out for the party.’
‘Let’s order another sneaky glass of champagne from the bar and stick it on the tab.’
‘Excellent idea! Mmm. What’s that perfume?’
‘It’s Kylie’s new one.’
‘Spray some of it on Nana, will you, before she gets into the car – otherwise I’ll have to hold my nose for the entire journey.’
The two girls giggled, and then Dervla heard the door of the ladies shut behind them.
She emerged from the cubicle and washed her hands, regarding herself solemnly in the mirror.
When she got back to the drawing room, Christian looked up at her. ‘You’re wearing that pensive look again,’ he remarked.
‘That’s because I’ve been thinking about our future – again,’ she told him.
‘Oh? What else are we going to have in our old folk’s home? Fairground rides? Paintball? Pole dancing?’
‘Christian. I happen to think my idea is genius.’
‘So do I. But it’s not going to be easy.’
She smiled at him over the rim of her glass. ‘Just as well I’m a gal who loves a challenge.’
‘What particular challenge have you in mind now? Aside from finding out where to get your hands on large-print publications of
Finnegan’s Wake
and audio books on quantum physics?’
‘You know I was once short-listed for female entrepreneur of the year?’
‘How could I forget it?’ he said with an indulgent smile.
‘And you know that entrepreneurs are renowned for their skills in diversifying, team building and multi-tasking?’
‘I’m knackered even thinking about it. But I’ve a feeling you’ve found yourself yet another fish to fry.’
‘Fishy business is right,’ she agreed.
‘You’re going to become a Mafiosa?’
‘Warm, but not smokin’.’
‘OK. I give up.’
‘The elderly need a voice.’
‘That’s some non sequitur.’
‘They need someone to speak on their behalf.’
‘But of course. And that person might be?’
‘Me. I’m going into politics,’ said Dervla.
Some weeks later, the day of the wrap party dawned.
‘What are you wearing?’ Río asked Fleur over the phone.
‘I haven’t been invited.’
‘Shane’s invited you,’ Río told her.
‘Well, thank you, dear one!’
Fleur put the phone down and smiled. A party! It was a long time since she’d been to a party – in fact, now she thought about it, the last big party she’d attended had been that costume ball where she had first met Corban Bastard O’Hara. She’d be curious to go this evening, to see if he had the nerve to show up. She smiled at the memory of the expression on his face when she’d shoved her foot into his chest that evening in Díseart, and told him to stay out of town. Maybe she should ask Finn to isolate that image on his camera phone and print it out for her. She could frame it, and hang it on the wall in her loo.
What would she wear to the party? A replica of the iconic halter-necked dress designed by Trevilla for Marilyn in
The Seven Year Itch
had just come into the shop, but Fleur was too self-conscious about her upper arms to risk it. However, there was a darling little tea dress with fluted sleeves floating around in her wardrobe upstairs. She’d only worn it twice – and it also had the advantage of being comfortable. Fleur
was fed up with wearing sucky-in knickers that seemed to do nothing but leave cheese-cutter marks around her waist and thighs. She’d even toyed with the idea of sending away for one of those old-lady comfy-style bras that she had seen advertised in the
Guardian
’s Saturday magazine.
She looked up as the bell to the shop tinkled, and Bethany O’Brien came in.
‘Hello, baby girl!’ she said. ‘What can I do for you this fine morning?’
‘Hi, Fleur. I’m actually here to buy something. D’you mind if I browse?’
‘But of course I don’t mind! Browse away, and I shall come to your aid as soon as I’ve finished this invoice. How are you,
chérie
, and what is it you are looking for?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m actually looking for a dress for the wrap party this evening.’
Fleur was astonished. ‘You mean all those hundreds of extras are invited to the wrap party? That’s going to be one hell of an entertainment bill for Mr Bas—Mr O’Hara.’
‘Well, no, the extras haven’t been invited,’ said Bethany, looking apologetic. ‘I was lucky. I got a personal invitation from one of the ADs.’
‘Oh? Which one?’
‘The one I told you about on Facebook – Jake Malone.’
Aha! thought Fleur. So Jake
had
become more than just a Facebook friend for Bethany. She, Fleur, hadn’t been on Facebook in ages; nor had she been on Second Life. She’d been more creative with her spare time: she’d taken up knitting.
Alors
– if Meryl Streep and Elena Sweetman found it relaxing, why shouldn’t Fleur? It was time she had a few more middle-aged moments in her life. ‘Oh, Jake Malone! Of course I remember!’ she told Bethany. ‘The one you said took you to a session in O’Toole’s?’
‘Yes. That’s him.’
‘You like him, yes?’
Bethany pinkened and nodded, and Fleur said. ‘
Bonne chance, chérie!
’ before returning her attention to her invoices. As she checked the figures, she looked up from time to time to see what class of frock Bethany was drawn to. She was, Fleur could tell, checking out ones that were a little too old for her, or a little too glitzy. And then, upon clocking the price tags, she’d hastily hang the garments back on the rail.
She definitely needed some help here. Fleur took off her reading glasses and said, ‘All done!’ – when in fact she had several more invoices to attend to. But this morning, Bethany was her priority.
‘Hmm,’ she said, as the girl helped herself to a silk tulle confection in burnt sienna. It was a little like something you’d buy in aDiva couture in Second Life. ‘I’m not quite sure that’s your colour.’
‘What about this?’ asked Bethany, reaching for a baby-pink frilled silk gown, the skirt of which was slit to the crotch.
‘No, no,’ said Fleur. ‘That’s too Anastasia Harris. You need something simpler.’ Taking Bethany’s hand, she led her across the shop floor to where a sleeveless white broderie anglaise frock with a scalloped hem was displayed. It was young, it was fresh, it was virginal. ‘Try this,’ she suggested.
Bethany looked dubious. ‘It’s not very – well – sexy, is it?’
‘Trust me,’ said Fleur. ‘It’s perfect for you. Just let me make sure the zipper is working. Sometimes they get caught, you know, and then they’re a bitch to get into.’