The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson

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      ‘What do you mean, you’re married?’

      ‘Dervla and I were married last year.’

      ‘What? Why did nobody tell me? I don’t believe that the pair of you are married! Congratulations and jubilations!’

      Christian started to sing along, then stopped abruptly, and slid Dervla an apologetic look.

      ‘It’s OK,’ she told him. ‘It really is.’ And, taking a deep breath, she joined in the song she had never been able to bring herself to sing before in her life because it was so damned naff.

      ‘There’s a bird!’ exclaimed Daphne, interrupting the singalong. ‘That was a bird, you know. I saw it land on the windowsill. And then it took off. It was a bird.’

      There was another pause, then Dervla rose and started to clear away her plate. She wasn’t hungry any more. And then she tensed, waiting for Daphne to say it was rude to clear away before everyone had finished. But thankfully, Daphne hadn’t seemed to notice. ‘Would you like a bowl of ice cream for pudding, Daphne?’ she asked, in her children’s television presenter’s voice.

      ‘No. I would not like a great big bowl. I would like a dish of ice cream for pudding. Thank you.’

      ‘You’re welcome.’

      ‘Well, that was a lovely dinner, wasn’t it?’ said Christian, putting his knife and fork together.

      ‘What did we have, again?’

      ‘Shepherd’s pie.’

      Oh, God help us, Dervla thought, as she scraped leftover pie into the bin and went to fetch bowls – dishes – from the cupboard. Behind her, she could hear Daphne blowing her nose. When she went back to the table, a sheet of scrunchedup kitchen towel was sitting on her place mat.

      That had been the first day. And now, sitting in the back of the car listening to Daphne singing about putting on her top hat and white tie and dancing in her tails, she thought the same thought again. God help us.

      In the car park of Chez Jules Christian pulled up outside the door, and came around to the passenger side to assist his mother out of the car. There was nothing much Dervla could do to help: she stood there watching as Daphne was shoe-horned out of the passenger seat and hoisted to her feet.

      ‘I’ll take over now,’ said Dervla, taking hold of her mother-in-law’s arm. ‘You go and park.’

      Daphne staggered a little as she redistributed her weight and clutched onto Dervla for support. Her bouffed-up hair had subsided, her American Tan tights were wrinkled round the ankles, and the lipstick that she’d put on in the car was lopsided, lending her the look of a badly made-up clown. Dervla suddenly felt a flash of pity for the old woman. To think that she had once modelled Balenciaga, conducted illicit affairs, and chucked diamonds down the loo! Had she ever imagined, as she’d stalked down the catwalk, that she’d end up like this?

      A small boy was toddling across the car park, holding on to his mother’s hand. He stopped when he saw Daphne, and stared at her, mouth agape. ‘Old hag, Mammy!’ he said. ‘Look, Mammy – old hag!’

      ‘Shh, Jamie!’ said the woman in a terse undertone. ‘Mind your manners!’

      But it was true. Despite Nemia’s attempts to style her hair and dress her up, Daphne did look like the kind of old hag you’d see in a storybook – beauty had turned into a beast.

      As Dervla manoeuvred Daphne through the door of the restaurant, the maître d’ came forward, concern on his face.

      ‘Mr Vaughan’s party,’ said Dervla. ‘He reserved a table for three.’

      The maître d’ smiled, and consulted his reservations book. ‘Ah, yes! Follow me, please.’

      As he led the way towards a table in an alcove on the far side of the room, Dervla could see diners exchanging glances that said, quite clearly, Oh my God, I hope they’re not going to be seated at the table next to us…The table was set for four, and Dervla knew damned well that the table plan had been deftly rejigged, to ensure that the Vaughan party would be seated in the most inconspicuous part of the restaurant. The maître d’ drew out a chair for Daphne, and she fell into it with an ‘Oof!’ of relief.

      At a nearby table, two yummy mummies were looking sideways at them, and talking in undertones. At another table, a middle-aged couple was sending Dervla sympathetic smiles. Was this inevitable when you got old? Dervla wondered. Did hitting a certain level of decrepitude mean that every time you emerged into public you were gawped at like something out of a freak show? She imagined the entrances that Daphne might once have made into restaurants, in her modelling days, when maîtres d’ would bow and scrape, and diners gaze in admiration.

      Although – she saw now – one person was regarding her with an engaging smile. It was a man she realized she knew. As Shane Byrne rose from his table and strolled over to her, diners did indeed gaze in admiration, for this was Hollywood royalty incarnate.

      ‘Dervla! How lovely to see you. It’s been a while.’

      ‘Shane!’ Dervla stood up and presented her face for a kiss. ‘Río told me you were in town. You look great. How does it feel to be coming back as a hotshot movie star?’

      ‘Not half bad. Apart from the camera phones. I can’t go anywhere without someone sticking a phone in my face.’

      ‘Remember your manners,’ came the magisterial tones of her mother-in-law, ‘and introduce me.’

      ‘I beg your pardon. Shane, this is my mother-in-law, Daphne Vaughan. Daphne, this is Shane Byrne.’

      Shane took Daphne’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Enchanté,’ he said, smiling directly into her eyes. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance. And I hope you won’t think it forward of me if I compliment you on the exquisite perfume you are wearing, madame.’

      ‘Thank you. It’s Je Reviens, you know. That means “I will return”. I’ve worn it since I was a girl.’

      ‘Not so long ago, then,’ remarked Shane.

      Daphne gave him a coquettish look. ‘Ha! I can tell you are a Casanova.’

      ‘Only around beautiful women,’ said Shane.

      ‘It’s Daphne’s birthday today, Shane,’ Dervla told him.

      ‘Twenty-one again?’

      Daphne gave a tinkling laugh. ‘You are a Casanova! Would you care to join us for a glass of champagne?’

      ‘There’s nothing I would enjoy more. I am, alas, otherwise engaged. It was a pleasure to have met you, Madame Vaughan. And may I wish you all the compliments of the day.’

      Shane turned back to Dervla, who was regarding him with admiration. What an awesome performance! And then she remembered how adroitly he’d charmed her when they were little more than teenagers, and her sister after her, and – if the tabloids were to be believed – a bevy of beauties in Tinseltown.

      ‘So СКАЧАТЬ