Kate Thompson - The O’Hara Affair

‘I know for a fact that she’s in Lissamore this weekend.’

‘So?’

‘So, picture this. She’s messing about on Facebook. She learns that there’s a shit-hot fortune-teller at the festival, and decides to investigate. Put yourself in her shoes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Pretend you’re Sofia.’

Fleur gave Daisy a bemused look, then shrugged and said: ‘OK. I’m Sofia.’

‘Welcome, Sofia!’ said Daisy, doing a kind of salaam and adopting a mysterious expression. Gazing into the crystal ball that Fleur had set on the table, she added in a dodgy Eastern European accent: ‘I think you might be a Libra, Sofia, yes? Hmm. What else can I tell you about yourself? I see – I think I see you in a suit of trousers – white trousers, with bare feet. You are dancing – no, no! You are kicking! I guess perhaps you might have a talent for karate, Sofia? And there is more – you have travelled, travelled far and wide. I see many foreign countries in the crystal – Sydney, Paris, Rome…And what is this? You are in a club, now, and this time you are dancing. But dancing in the future. Next Friday, perhaps? Next Friday I think you are going dancing with a friend, to a place called the – could it be Club N?’

‘No,’ said Fleur with a smile, as the penny dropped. ‘It’s Club M.’

‘There!’ Daisy flopped back in her seat with a triumphant smile. ‘You see! It’s ingenious! Word spreads like lightning through the Facebook community, and anybody who’s spending the bank holiday weekend in Coolnamara will come flocking to see – what’s your fortune-teller name?’

‘Haven’t an idea.’

‘Tsk-tsk. How about Tiresia?’

‘From Thérèse?’

‘No. Tiresias was a famous soothsayer in ancient Greece.’

Fleur sighed in admiration. ‘My niece has brains as well as beauty!’

‘Sounds good, doesn’t it? The famous Madame Tiresia, who knows all!’

‘Daisy – how exactly do you propose that I do this?’

‘Simple! You check out profiles on your iPhone, which you will have cunningly concealed under the table.’

‘But I don’t do Facebook.’

‘Aha! But you log on as me – popular minor celebrity and model, Daisy de Saint-Euverte. You saw how many friends I have. And those friends have friends, and I have influence. Sometimes being a C-lister can be useful.’

‘You’ve clearly had too much wine. This can’t possibly work.’

‘Don’t be so negative, Flirty!’ Daisy reached for Six Lessons in Crystal Gazing and started leafing through it. ‘Just think of all the moolah you can raise for the Hospice Foundation.’

‘But we have got to anticipate the worst. Lots and lots of things could go wrong. What if Mister Norman No-Friends from Nenagh enters the booth. What do I say to him?’

‘You tell Norman that there is no hope of telling his fortune because…because he doesn’t have one!’

‘I couldn’t say that! Poor Norman will think he’s going to die.’

‘Um. OK. Tell him you can’t see his aura. Listen to this: “It is quite possible for the gazer to be able to see things in the crystal at one time and not at another. In fact, many of the best crystal gazers have lost the power for weeks together. This being so, you should not be discouraged if such images fail to appear at your command.” There’s your disclaimer. Print it out and display it by the entrance to your booth.’ Daisy checked out the cover of the booklet. ‘It’s by Dr R A Mayne. There you go! Your spiritual mentor has impressive credentials.’

‘But that book was published in 1928.’

‘Your punters don’t need to know that. Come on – let’s have another go. This time you can tell my fortune. My name is…Jana.’ Daisy’s fingers twinkled over her iPhone, then she handed it to Fleur.

‘Jana!’ said Fleur, peering at the display as if she were reading Ancient Egyptian. ‘Um, welcome.’

‘Pretend to be gazing into the ball,’ instructed Daisy.

‘I can’t look at the ball and Jana’s profile at the same time!’

‘Then we’ll get you a veil. Try this.’ Daisy unwound the chiffon scarf she was wearing and dropped it over her aunt’s head. ‘Perfect! Go again.’

‘Jana,’ repeated Fleur. ‘I think you might be a Pisces, yes? I see – um – a book with the title The Time Traveler’s Wife and I see Meryl Streep wearing dungarees – holy moly, is Mamma Mia every one’s favourite film on Facebook?’

‘Tut-tut! You’re stepping out of character, Madame Tiresia. Here, have some more wine.’

‘Thank you, Jana. Now – where were we? I see you singing – singing in front of Simon Cowell. Perhaps you have auditioned for the X Factor ?’

Some forty minutes later, Fleur had told half-a-dozen more fortunes, and was really beginning to have fun.

‘Not bad for a Facebook virgin,’ remarked Daisy, upending the wine bottle. ‘You’ll get hooked, Flirty, mark my words. Now, let’s do one more. This time I’m going to be Paris Hilton.’ ‘Paris Hilton is one of your Facebook friends?’

‘No, she’s not. But we all know everything there is to know about Paris. You should have no problem uncovering her secrets.’

‘Welcome!’ enthused Fleur, waving her hands over the crystal ball. But just as she was deliberating over questions for Paris, the phone in the kitchen sounded. Reaching for her wineglass, she excused herself and shimmied inside to pick up. It was Corban.

‘Hello, chéri !’ she crooned into the mouthpiece. When Fleur had a little too much to drink, or when she was enraged – which was seldom – her French accent became marginally more pronounced.

‘I just got your message,’ he told her, ‘and I have to say, you look pretty damned hot as Gypsy Rose Lee. But you made a mistake.’

‘I did?’

‘Yeah. Gypsy Rose Lee was a burlesque artist, not a fortune-teller.’

‘Oops.’

‘And she was a very sexy lady. The original Dita Von Teese.’

‘What are you getting at, Mister O’Hara?’ Fleur started toying with a strand of hair. She couldn’t help flirting with Corban, even on the telephone.

‘You know I said I’d double your take, Fleur? I’m prepared to quadruple it. On one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘When I call in to you on Friday evening, I want to see you wearing those gypsy threads.’

Fleur’s mouth curved in a provocative smile. ‘So that you can take them off?’

‘No. So that you can take them off. While I watch.’

Fleur’s smile grew even more provocative. She pretended to buy time while taking a sip from her wineglass. Then she laughed out loud. ‘Done deal,’ she said.

Dervla Vaughan (née Kinsella) stepped through the front door of her new home and set her bags down on the hall floor. The sun filtering through the mosaic glass of the fanlight cast a jewel-like pattern onto the stone flags, and when she slipped off her sandals the patch of spangled sunlight warmed the soles of her feet. The air was redolent of fresh paint, with here and there a trace of linseed oil. If you added base notes of baking bread, then bottled it, the scent could rival any room candle dreamed up by Jo Malone. It was perfectly quiet in the house: the only sound that of birdsong, and the distant baaing of sheep from the fields beyond the garden.

Her dream house! Moving into the centre of the hall, Dervla executed a slow turn, taking in each and every one of the three hundred and sixty delectable degrees that surrounded her. Off the hallway, to left and to right were two spacious, high-ceilinged reception rooms. In her mind’s eye they were washed in soothing shades of buttery yellow and eau-de-nil, furnished with understated antiques and carpeted in faded Aubusson; but right now the rooms were works in progress, with tools of the decorator’s trade heaped in a corner and undercoat spattered on dust sheets.