Kate Thompson - The O’Hara Affair

‘The thing is, Kit,’ she told the dog, ‘that I love your master very, very much, but I don’t love my life right now. And of course I wouldn’t want to go back to my estate-agent days – even though I was a bloody good estate agent – because I’m not the person I used to be. But I’m not the person I thought I might become, living a Cath Kidston lifestyle in the Old Rectory, because let’s face it, nobody lives like that except in catalogues. And I’ve never had money worries before, and I’m frightened. And I wonder if everybody is frightened, or if – oh! Oh my God – Daphne, what are you doing?’

Daphne was sitting on the edge of the lawn, under a rhododendron bush. She had taken off her cardigan and blouse, and her vest was ruched up around her neck.

‘I was too hot,’ she told Dervla. ‘So I’m taking off my vest. Help me, will you?’

‘Oh – of course.’ Dervla went over to Daphne, and helped her pull her vest over her head, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be doing on a sunny June afternoon, with a skylark singing madly overhead, and sheep baaing in the field next door. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she remarked conversationally.

‘Yes,’ said Daphne, from under her vest. ‘And I shouldn’t be wearing a vest on a day like this. I wonder what made me put it on? What a silly old fool I am.’

Dervla tugged, and the vest came free. She rolled it up, and handed Daphne her blouse.

‘Would you mind helping me on with this?’ Daphne asked. ‘I seem to be all fingers and thumbs today.’

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