The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson

      ‘That doesn’t explain why anyone should want to stick a phone in his face.’

      ‘Phones can take photographs now, Mum,’ said Christian.

      ‘What a lot of nonsense you talk,’ said Daphne.

      Christian sighed, then opened the menu. ‘Hmm. Potted crab sounds good.’

      Daphne regarded him with interest. ‘Potted what?’ she said.

      The excruciating lunch dragged on over ninety long minutes. Daphne kept making remarks about the other diners in quite stentorian tones, and every time she did, Dervla died a little death. And she had constantly to remind her mother-in-law that the drink in the tumbler to her right was elderflower pressé, and the food on the plate in front of her was fish pie, and Daphne insisted that she’d ordered meatballs like Christian, not fish pie, and her nose dripped constantly and she chewed on her cuticles, and Dervla found herself chewing on her cuticles – something she hadn’t done since her stressed-out estate agent days.

      At one stage, Christian made his excuses: he wanted to combine business with pleasure by having a chat with the owner about some alterations to the wine list. So he upped and left Daphne and Dervla together. After a couple of polite enquiries – would Daphne like some more water? Would she care for a cup of coffee? – Dervla gave up making desultory conversation, and people-watched instead. A woman’s threeseasons-ago Vuitton bag was showing signs of wear and tear, and her roots were an inch long. A man was studying the bill with a furrowed brow, clearly hoping there was some mistake. A young couple had opted for two starters rather than main courses. At least Dervla wasn’t the only person in Coolnamara who was feeling the pinch.

      Things were different at Shane’s table, on the other side of the room. There, lobster thermidor and an excellent bottle of Meursault had been served (Christian had recognized the label). Holy moly! It was far from lobster and swanky vintage wine that Shane Byrne had been reared! But, Dervla noticed now, he wasn’t the one footing the bill. His lunch companion was dealing with it, while Shane signed autographs for a couple of awestruck teenage girls. As Shane chatted to his fan club, clearly charming them as much as he’d charmed Daphne earlier, Dervla saw his host finish the business with the chip and pin, smile at the waitress, and produce a business card. The pretty girl accepted it, smiled back, and nodded.

      Hmm. What was going on there? Like all estate agents, Dervla was an excellent reader of body language: she’d learned over the course of two decades spent showing houses to know instantly whether or not a potential buyer was interested, whether or not they could afford the property in question, and whether or not they were bluffing. Sitting side-on to the table, this man’s demeanour was relaxed: legs apart – one crooked, one stretched forward; left arm draped across the back of his chair; hair skimming his collar. His tie was loosened, his topmost shirt button undone, his Hugo Boss jacket worn with the casualness another man might wear a chain-store anorak. His watch was a discreet Rolex, and he exuded the easy authority of a Machiavellian prince. ‘Behold!’ both his dress and his body language were saying, ‘Here presides an alpha male.’ Dervla had sparred with many alpha males in the course of her career, and had more often than not emerged victorious. She had enjoyed the cut and thrust, the deploying of guerrilla tactics, the element of espion age. She wondered what kind of an opponent this guy would make, what his fatal flaw might be – if he had one. He certainly had an aura of invincibility.

      ‘What is that man doing over there?’ demanded Daphne.

      Dervla thought at first that her mother-in-law was referring to Rolex man, but then realized that her gaze was trained on Shane, who had finished signing autographs with a flourish.

      ‘That’s Shane Byrne. He’s signing autographs.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘He’s a film star.’

      ‘Oh! How exciting. I’d like to meet him.’

      There was no point in telling Daphne that she’d met him already. Dervla waved at Shane, and he took his leave of the lovely girls and came over immediately.

      Giving him an apologetic look, Dervla launched into introductions once again. Thankfully, Shane copped on immedi ately, and Groundhog Day began anew. After he had told Daphne how enchanté he was, and complimented her for the second time on her perfume, Dervla managed to fish for the information she wanted.

      ‘Who’s your lunch partner?’ she asked, lowering her voice a little and hoping that Daphne wouldn’t command her to speak up.

      ‘He’s one of the executive producers on the film.’

      ‘Executive! I’ve never really understood that word. What do “executive” producers do, exactly?’

      ‘Nothing much, except inject capital. It’s a vanity credit, really.’

      ‘So it’s all about ego?’

      Shane shrugged. ‘In this case, there’s extra kudos in the fact that Corban’s name is in the film’s title. I suppose having a film named after you is a bit like having a ship named after you, and Mr O’Hara’s a major player on board this one.’

      Wow. So Rolex man was Corban O’Hara, Fleur’s current squeeze! ‘What’s he like?’ she asked.

      ‘He seems nice enough for a rich bloke.’

      ‘Pot, kettle, Shane Byrne.’

      Shane gave her an ‘as if ’ look. ‘O’Hara is seriously rich, Dervla. If he decided to withdraw funding, the film would capsize.’

      ‘Does he have any creative contribution at all?’

      ‘He can make a few suggestions; do a little hiring and firing. Being an executive producer is all to do with power. The movie set is his principality.’

      ‘So it’s like playing at being king?’

      This was Daphne’s cue to start humming ‘My Lord and Master’ from The King and I.

      ‘That’s exactly what it’s like,’ Shane told her.

      Dervla looked again at Corban O’Hara, who was eyeing the two autograph hunters. They were now strolling along the terrace of the restaurant, giggling and texting, probably sending word of their close encounter with the film star to every girl they knew.

      Dervla narrowed her eyes in speculation. ‘If the movie set is his principality,’ she said, ‘could he practise droit du seigneur? Or has the casting couch become extinct in postfeminist la-la land?’

      ‘I don’t think la-la land is ready for feminism yet, Dervla, let alone post-feminism. Over there, you’d be known as that quaint contradiction in terms that is “a career girl”.’

      ‘I had a career once, you know,’ announced Daphne. ‘I was a model.’

      ‘Well, I’ll be doggone! You should think about taking it up again,’ said Shane, and Daphne gave him a playful slap on the arm.

      ‘I know all about men like you!’ she scolded.

      ‘What made you give it up?’ Dervla asked her mother-in-law, genuinely curious to know.

      ‘What made me give it up? My parents, I think. Yes. My parents wanted me to get married to someone.’

      ‘And who was the lucky man?’ asked Shane.

      ‘He was called…lucky. He was much older than I. He was a businessman. We lived in…Belgravia.’

      ‘Ritzy!’ remarked Shane.

      ‘Yes. It was ritzy. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to marry Jack. But Jack died.’

      ‘How sad,’ said Dervla. ‘Was Jack your boyfriend?’

      ‘Yes. It was very, very sad. He died in a fire. He was a dancer. He was the love of my life.’ Daphne spoke with such emphasis that Dervla sensed she had total recall of this