Читать книгу The O’Hara Affair - Kate Thompson - Страница 7

Sliding an arm out from under the duvet, Fleur reached for her watch. Eight-thirty. Corban had left an hour ago. She’d smiled as he’d kissed her goodbye, her eyelids fluttering open briefly before she’d tumbled back into dreamland. She’d hoped to have a leisurely breakfast à deux this morning, with freshly juiced oranges and croissants on the deck, but Corban had had other plans. He’d scheduled an early meeting with the director of The O’Hara Affair.

As she set her watch back on the bedside table, Fleur’s eyes fell on the flamboyant gypsy threads that she’d discarded the previous night with Corban’s help. Undressing her – or watching her undress – was one of Corban’s peccadilloes, and because it made him happy, she was glad to oblige. Fleur indulged her lovers – to a point. Once they showed signs of complacency, or became overfamiliar, she showed her displeasure. By saying ‘no’, by being unavailable, by being a little less free with her favours, she kept her men on their toes. It was a highly skilled game, and one at which she was very good.

Or had been, until she met Corban. Corban was proving a lot less malleable than the lovers she’d had to date – all of whom had been considerably younger than she. Río had used to joke about Fleur’s penchant for toyboys, declaring that her love life would make a great biopic. But since Corban had taken centre stage, she wasn’t sure whether the story of her life was a rom com or a melodrama. Aspects of it fitted both categories, she supposed, but whichever genre it belonged to, it was certainly X-rated.

Sinking back against her pile of goosedown pillows, Fleur allowed her mind to meander back to the first time she and Corban had met, six months ago. It could make a stand-out scene in a movie…

INT. UPMARKET HOTEL.

BALLROOM. NIGHT.

A charity ball in Dublin. The theme: the Tudors. The ballroom billowing with society dames dolled up as Elizabeth, bejewelled frocks and coppery-coloured curls everywhere. The men all emulating Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Henry (or trying to); everyone in masks.

Fleur had struck lucky with her frock. Joan Bergin, the costume designer of the Tudors TV series was a friend, and Joan had wangled a divine outfit for Fleur. It included an elaborate wig, a gold mask, and a magnificent gown, the bodice of which was embroidered with droplets of lapis lazuli and tiny seed pearls. The mask, too, was trimmed with pearls. It concealed most of Fleur’s face, but stopped short at the jaw line, leaving mouth and chin exposed. Exposed, too, was most of her bosom: her breasts pushed so high by the boned corset that she felt practically naked. The effect was one of rather sexy regality, of come-on combined with ‘look, but don’t touch’. The get-up, however, was bloody uncomfortable, and after a couple of hours of small talk in the crowded ballroom (during which much champagne was poured by overzealous waiters, and baroque music was played to deaf ears), Fleur yearned to escape.

‘Ladies and gentlemen—’

Oh, no! The speeches were about to begin. She had to get out of there. Murmuring excuses, she threaded her way through the throng of Walter Raleighs and Mary Stuarts, troubadours and serving wenches.

French windows took her onto a terrace. Here it was balmy, the air sweet with night-scented stock. The sound of the string quartet came faintly, and she could hear a fountain splashing at the far end. As she moved towards it, the silk lining of her underskirt moved against Fleur’s legs like a caress. She longed to dance, but because no one was versed in the arcane steps of the gavotte, no one was dancing this evening; and now everyone would be sitting listening to speeches for the next hour.

Dipping a hand into the bubbling water, Fleur laid the palm first on her forehead, then her breasts. The coolness was so sensual that it made her want to slip off her shoes, gather up her skirts and get wet, like Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita. As she went to lean over the pool again, she became aware of a man lounging against a pillar, watching her. He was unmasked. A predatory half-smile curved his mouth, and he was eyeing her cleavage as if he wanted to dive straight in.

The insolence! Fleur dismissed him with a toss of her head and a curl of her lip; but her hauteur was wasted. He responded with a low laugh, peeled himself away from the pillar and sauntered towards her. The next thing she knew, her arms were pinioned and she was being kissed more forcefully than she’d ever been kissed in her life.

Her initial impulse was to pull away, but the greater her resistance, the more insistent the kiss, until Fleur’s champagne-muzzy mind thought Pourquoi pas? Who cares? His kiss was so expert, so masterful, so goddamned sexy, that it would have been too selfless an act not to kiss him back. As he pulled her harder against him she was aware of his erection, aware of the subtle scent of spice, the subtler one of sweat, aware of his breath on her cheek as he released her mouth and trailed a kiss along the line of her jaw.

‘I think you’d better stop now,’ she managed finally, sounding as if she’d been inhaling helium.

‘Really? I think the lady doth protest too much.’ His voice in her ear contrived to sound both sceptical and amused. A finger skimmed the curve of her throat, pausing briefly to trace the scoop made by her collarbone, and then the stranger allowed his hand to travel further, sliding it beneath her bodice and cupping her breast. ‘Something tells me you don’t want me to stop. Something tells me you’re more trollop than sovereign, Rachel. Perhaps you should have thought about attending the ball as the whore Boleyn, rather than the virgin Queen.’

Rachel? Rachel! Oh, horror, horror! This was clearly an egregious case of mistaken identity. What to do? What to say? Fleur knew she should disabuse him at once, but the sensations being triggered in her by the touch of this man were so unexpectedly, so wickedly erotic that she didn’t want to come clean, didn’t want to explain that she wasn’t who he thought she was, didn’t want him to back off with an awkward apology. She heard her breath coming faster, felt her nipple rise under his fingers, and – as he thrust a knee between her legs – recognized the surge of lust that made her want to grind herself against him…Oh! She was shameless! She wanted to be a whore, a hussy, a harlot!

‘Slow down, sweetheart,’ he murmured, disengaging his hand, dislodging his knee, and leaving her weak as water. ‘Let me go check if there’s a room available.’

And the tall, dark stranger – who, before the night was out would be a stranger no longer – had bestowed a smile upon her before dropping a brusque kiss on her mouth and strolling back into the ballroom…

The strains of Edith Piaf’s La Vie en Rose interrupted Fleur’s sentimental journey. Corban’s name was displayed on the screen of her iPhone.

‘Hello! I was just thinking about you,’ she told him with a smile.

‘I’m glad to hear it. What were you thinking, exactly?’

‘I was thinking about the first time we met.’

‘Soppy girl.’

‘It would make a great short story.’

‘Or a Mills & Boon.’

‘Now there’s a thought! I read somewhere that sales of romantic fiction have gone through the roof recently. Everyone’s trying to escape into fantasy land.’

‘Might be too raunchy for Mills & Boon. You’d have to shut the door on the bedroom activity.’

‘Au contraire. They publish really sexy stuff these days.’ Fleur stretched languorously. ‘Let’s see – how would our story go? “‘I’m not who you think I am,’ confessed our heroine, as the masterful stranger took her hand. ‘I don’t care who you are, any more than you care who I am,’ he growled, leading her into the bedroom of the magnificent, luxury penthouse.”’

‘It wasn’t a penthouse,’ Corban corrected her.

‘In my Mills & Boon version it is. “She set her champagne flute down on the marble-topped bedside table and turned to him. His gaze was fierce. ‘I must have you,’ he told her. Her bosom heaving, she sank upon the fourposter, looking up at him through the slits of her golden mask. ‘Now?’ she breathed. ‘Now!’ he insisted. Without further ado, he reached for his manhood. She gasped when she saw—”’

‘OK. Enough’s enough. Time to shut the door. Incidentally, did I really growl, and did you really gasp?’ asked Corban.

‘Of course. Gasping was mandatory. It was the raunchiest thing I’ve ever done. Until last night, that is. It’s a pity I’ll have to give Río back her gypsy costume.’

‘I’m sure we can think of some other suitably titillating attire. I rather fancy you as a schoolgirl.’

‘No! Schoolgirl’s too pervy, Corban. And I’m far too old. French maid is more my line, don’t you think? Il y a quelque chose d’autre que je peux faire pour Monsieur?’

‘Translate.’

‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’

‘Well, yes, actually, there is. I scribbled a number on yesterday’s Financial Times, and forgot to enter it into my phone. Could you text it to me?’

‘Sure.’ Fleur swung her legs out of bed, and reached for her peignoir. ‘Whose phone number is it?’ she asked, as she padded downstairs.

‘Shane Byrne’s. I want to arrange lunch with him.’

‘Lucky you. Where are you taking him?’

‘There’s a new place that’s opened not far from where they’re shooting today. I thought I’d try that.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘Chez Jules.’

‘Oh! How brave of Jules to open when all around him restaurants are closing. I hope it works out for him.’

The Financial Times was on the breakfast bar, open at some arcane article on investments. A number was scrawled in the margin, with the initials S. B. beside it. How many people in the world had access to Shane Byrne’s private phone number? Fleur wondered. Maybe she should auction it at the charity gig this afternoon, to raise more money for the hospice. Reaching for her mobile with her free hand, she started texting Corban. ‘Shall we eat out tonight?’ she asked, as she keyed the numbers in.

‘No. I’ll pick something up on the way back. Fillet or sirloin?’

Fleur’s heart sank a little. Corban adored red meat, while she favoured chicken or fish. However, since she didn’t have many opportunities to cook for her man, she might as well serve up what he was partial to. ‘Why not bring me some good quality braising steak, and I’ll do Carbonade de Boeuf?’

‘Excellent. I’ll get us a Bordeaux to go with it.’ There came a blip over the line. ‘Ah – incoming call. I gotta go, lover. Did you find that number?’

‘Yes.’ Fleur pressed ‘Send’. ‘It’s on its way to you now. A plus tard, chéri.’

Setting the phone down, Fleur tied the sash on her robe, broke off a hunk of baguette, spread it with butter and thick comb honey and moseyed out onto her deck. The first time she’d appeared on the deck in her peignoir, the village had been mildly scandalized; now, no one turned a hair.

It was a shame that she’d be breakfasting alone, she thought. It was a perfect morning for perusing the papers over café au lait and shooting the breeze with her lover. They managed so seldom to spend quality time together, as demands on Corban to spend precious weekends in his Dublin office were ever more pressing. Even though he had a boat moored in the marina, Lolita spent most of her life at anchor. There had only been one excursion so far this summer, and the curtains of Corban’s holiday apartment on the harbour were constantly drawn. No wonder really – any time Corban O’Hara could afford to spend in Lissamore was spent chez Fleur.

‘Hey, gorgeous!’

Looking down, Fleur saw Seamus Moynihan unwinding the hawser of his boat from a bollard.

‘Hello, Seamus! Off to inspect your lobster pots?’

‘I am. But sure I don’t know why I’m bothering. There’s no demand for lobster since that outcry on the radio.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Some gobshite complained on a talk show about lobsters being killed inhumanely, and the politically-correct brigade have decided to boycott them.’

Fleur felt a pang of guilt. She should have talked Corban into going for lobster this evening, in O’Toole’s seafood bar, with Guinness instead of Bordeaux. It made sense to support the local community now that times were hard. She knew well that the only reason her shop was doing such brisk business was because word had got out on the street that Elena Sweetman, the star of The O’Hara Affair, had taken to dropping in to Fleurissima. Once the movie was wrapped she – and all the workers employed on the film – would be back to leaner times.

‘Maybe you’ll have luck tonight,’ she told Seamus. ‘There’ll be lots of people looking for restaurant tables now that the festival’s in full swing. And I’m sure they are not all politically correct.’

Seamus shrugged. ‘Even the festival’s down-sized this year. There’s no fun fair, and no ceilidh. And I heard that Río’s too busy on the film to do her fortune-telling gig.’

‘Oh – but she’s enlisted a replacement.’

‘Who might that be?’

Fleur bit her lip. ‘I don’t know,’ she lied. She didn’t want to confess that she would be ensconced in the fortune-telling booth today. If word got around, people might not bother forking out money to see the local boutique owner do a bad imitation of Río, who always bluffed a blinder. ‘But I hear she’s very good,’ she added, lamely.

‘Maybe I should pay her a visit, so,’ remarked Seamus. ‘She might see something in my future to give me a glimmer of hope. Nets brimming with fish, for instance.’ Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he squinted at the horizon. ‘God be with the good old days when you actually caught something out there.’

Fleur gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Well, bonne chance today!’

‘Bonne chance?’

‘It means “good luck”, darling!’

‘I’ll need it.’ Seamus pulled at the throttle of his outboard and chugged away from his mooring. ‘If I do have bonne chance,’ he threw back over his shoulder, ‘I’ll drop a couple of mackerel in to you later.’

‘Thank you, Seamus! Salut!’

Resting her forearms on the railing, Fleur watched as the boat made its way out of the marina, foam churning in its wake. Gulls looped the loop lazily in the sky blue above, and a tern plummeted headlong into the marine blue below, breaking the surface with barely a splash. She could see the submerged shape of a seal over by the breakwater; and a couple of beat-up-looking cats on the sea wall were laughing at Seamus’s lurcher, who was lolloping along the pier in pursuit of the post mistress’s Airedale.

There was a shrine to Fleur’s little doggie, Babette, on the deck. It comprised a photograph of Babette that Daisy had taken, and had framed as a present for Fleur. Fleur had surrounded the photograph with flowers and candles and some of Babette’s toys. She had buried her best friend six months ago, on the beach at Díseart, where the dog had loved to romp. Fleur still missed the Bichon Frisé with the laughing eyes and the perma-smile.

From the hill above, the church bell chimed nine. Fleur had promised Río that she’d be in the fortune-telling booth ready to go at midday. For the past week, she had practised her crystal ball skills every evening, using Daisy’s password to gain entry to her Facebook page for research purposes. Some of the comments on Daisy’s wall had expressed a genuine interest in going to see Madame Tiresia. ‘If she got your future sorted, Daisy-Belle, then I’m deffo gonna go!’ one girl had written. ‘She might make me lucky 2 ’

Fleur had felt a twinge of guilt when she’d read that one. She guessed that some people really did believe in tarot and horoscopes and all that jazz: you just had to look at the number of fortune-tellers advertising in the back pages of gossip magazines, who charged rip-off rates for their services. But then, Fleur wasn’t ripping anybody off. All the money she took today was going to charity – and then some. Corban had been true to his word. After she’d donned her gypsy outfit for him last night, he’d made out a cheque to the Irish Hospice Foundation, signed it, and left the amount blank.

‘You’ve just quadrupled your donation,’ he told her. And then he’d taken her by the hand and led her upstairs to her bedroom.

It was funny, Fleur thought, that dressing up for Corban didn’t embarrass her. If any of her former lovers had suggested that she dress up to have sex, she’d have told them where to get off. But then, in all her previous relationships, Fleur had been the more experienced partner: her lovers had deferred to her. In her current relationship, Corban called the shots; and it hadn’t taken long for Fleur to find what a relief – and what a turn-on! – it was to be told what to do rather than doing the telling.

The mini Mills & Boon scenario she’d dreamed up earlier had rehashed much of what had actually happened on the night she and Corban had first met. Having gone off to book a hotel room, her tall dark stranger had returned to find Fleur sitting on the edge of the fountain in an attitude of bewilderment. ‘What’s wrong?’ he’d asked. ‘I’m not who you think I am,’ she’d told him. And his response – as per the stupefying response of her Mills & Boon hero – had been: ‘I don’t care who you are, any more than you care who I am.’ And then Corban had escorted her upstairs to the room and – with a passion that compensated for the deficiency of ceremony – had baisé’d her.

Smiling, Fleur leaned her chin on her forearms. Why was there no equivalent word for the sex act in English? ‘Fuck’ was too rough. ‘Shag’ too casual. ‘Making love’ was far too fey. The only verb that accurately conveyed the deliciousness, the pleasure, the sheer je ne sais quoi of coitus was the French one: baiser.

She remembered how, afterwards, he’d unmasked her and laughed and said: ‘You’re Fleur O’Farrell!’

He’d seen her in Lissamore, he’d told her, going about her business, and thought how quintessentially French she was, and how very lovely. He’d Googled her and viewed her website, but he had never found an opportunity to woo her. And now that he had her in his bed, he told her, he didn’t intend to let her go.

‘What about Rachel?’ she’d asked.

‘Ancient history,’ came the response. ‘Let’s not talk about her.’

So they’d talked about him for a while instead. Over a glass of champagne, Fleur learned that Corban O’Hara was a successful entrepreneur who had taken to financing films. The O’Hara Affair was his most ambitious project to date. He was divorced, he told her, sans children. A pleasure craft, recently acquired, was moored in the marina at Lissamore, where he owned a holiday apartment – also recently acquired. He supported numerous charities, including her favourite, the Hospice Foundation. And when he let a hint drop as to his age, Fleur realized that – at nearly a decade older than her – he was the most grown-up lover she’d ever had. It made her feel deliciously, absurdly youthful.

And then they’d had some more champagne, and she’d told him a little about herself, and they’d discovered that they each had a penchant for Paris and piquet and the Monsieur Hulot films, and they’d laughed and larked a little and then baisé’d some more.

But Rachel – whoever she might be – preyed on Fleur’s mind. Corban had booked the room for Rachel, and the champagne and the flowers that had been brought to that room had been intended for Rachel, not for her. Fleur felt bad about the fact that she’d muscled in on another woman’s man, and it unsettled her to know that Corban had cheated on this Rachel with such insouciance. But any time she questioned him about her, he just said those two words: ‘Ancient history’. So finally, she made herself stop thinking about Rachel altogether.

‘Flirty! Good morning! Isn’t it a gorgeous day?’

Daisy was hailing her from the sea wall that skirted the main street of the village. She was wearing frayed cut-offs that revealed an astonishing length of golden leg, and a man’s hoodie. Despite the dressed-down ensemble, she still looked as if she’d stepped out of the pages of Vogue. Fleur felt a great surge of love for her niece. She was so beautiful, so full of joie de vivre, so young!

‘Good morning, Daisy-Belle!’

‘But bad, bad Flirty, to be lazing in the sun when she should be hard at work!’ Daisy scolded her. ‘Why aren’t you doing your homework?’

‘Homework?’

‘Livre de visage!’

Oh. Facebook. Daisy was right. Fleur should be practising her fortune-telling skills, not lounging around on her deck, coasting on a nostalgia trip.

‘OK, OK. Do you fancy joining me for coffee?’

‘No, thank you kindly. I’m off for a swim. Catch you later!’ And Daisy swung a leg over the pillion of the motorcycle that was waiting for her, a helmeted youth revving the engine. He handed her a lid, and they were off, buzzing up the village street like a hornet.

Fleur wandered back into her kitchen and booted up her laptop before fixing herself coffee. Sitting down, she entered Daisy’s password, and perused the new postings on her wall. A lot of messages that meant nothing to Fleur, some photographs, a couple of links to YouTube videos.

Fleur now knew how engrossing Facebook could be. Over the past few days she had been distracted from her ‘homework’ on numerous occasions: once you got sucked in to YouTube it was difficult to pull yourself away. She found herself checking out all the silly Bichon Frisé footage, and even contemplated putting up some of the sequences she’d compiled of Babette. And, of course, it was impossible to resist all the clips from old movies – Rita Hayworth singing ‘Put the Blame on Mame’, Marilyn crooning ‘I Wanna be Loved by You’, Ava Gardner rhapsodizing over her man in Showboat.

She had also followed links to numerous blogs, many of which made her want to weep for the young people out there who seemed so lonely, despite the myriad methods of communication available to them:

I’ve finally hit triple digits with Facebook friends – altho the females outnumber the males. Why? Now, topping out at a hundred, I have more Facebook friends than real life ones. Sad, or what?

It’s scary to see pictures and details of former friends/enemies. Revisiting the past is no fun. Some ‘friendships’ should never be resurrected, not even in a virtual sense.

I say to myself, aww fuck. Even tho I hate this person, I guess I’d better add them as my friend…I’ll take ANYONE now.

Have you noticed the weird thing is that girls seem to be way more flirtatious on Facebook than in real life. Why is that?

Scrolling through Daisy’s Facebook friends, Fleur found crazy girls, dreamy girls, beauty queens, nymphs. Princesses, preppie girls, Barbie dolls, tramps. Wannabes and It girls, Latinas and Goths. Goddesses and nerdy girls and cheerleaders and vamps. Girls with names like Tinkerbell, L’il Monkeypaws and Puss. Or plain Emily and Martha and Jennifer and Luce. The pages of Facebook were adorned with girls galore.

‘Hi, Miriam,’ Fleur murmured, clicking on a link. ‘Welcome. You had a birthday recently, didn’t you?…Come on in, Rosa. Don’t be sad about your boy breaking up with you. You have a holiday to look forward to…Hi, there, Nelly. You’ve got to get those red shoes you’ve been hankering after. If you shimmy down to Fleurissima this afternoon, maybe you’ll find they’ve been reduced by fifteen per cent…Hi, Kitten; hi, Angel; hi, Naomi; hi, Paige…’

Glancing at the time, Fleur saw that it was nearly half-past ten. Time to jump into a shower, pull on her disguise, and get her ass down to the community centre. But a new notification on Daisy’s wall made her click one last time.

Oh! Bethany had the most candid eyes she had ever seen. Her birth date told Fleur she was eighteen, but she looked younger. She had the other-worldly appearance of one of Cicely Mary Barker’s flower fairies – tousled hair, delicate bone structure, translucent skin. She was Pisces, a Friday’s child, an incurable dreamer. She loved cats and cuddles and jacaranda-scented candles. She played piano, loved to paint, and was no good at games. She adored Harry Potter and the music of A Camp and Muse. She haunted art galleries. She was partial to Dolly Mixtures. She hated polystyrene cups. She was going to be in Lissamore this weekend. She was looking forward to visiting Madame Tiresia.

And Madame Tiresia was looking forward to meeting her.