The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson

High-maintenance girls, whose daddies footed the department-store bills and whose mummies stole their style. Girls who did not know what the word ‘recession’ meant.

      Lissamore was not usually host to such quantities of de luxe jeunesse dorée. The village was, rather, a playground for their parents, a place where those jaded denizens of Dublin 4 came to unwind for a month in the summer and a week at Christmas. Once the yearned-for eighteenth birthdays arrived, the princelings and princesses tended to migrate to hipper locations in Europe or America.

      But this summer, because a major motion picture was being made in the countryside surrounding Lissamore, the village had become a must-visit zone. Wannabe film stars had descended in their droves after an article in a national newspaper had mentioned that extras were being recruited for The O’Hara Affair – a movie based on the back story of Gerard O’Hara, father to Scarlett of Gone with the Wind. An additional allure was the fact that the movie starred Shane Byrne, a local hero and Ireland’s answer to Johnny Depp.

      The film was good news for the village during such a time of blanket economic gloom. Locals who had been made redundant since the collapse of the construction industry were being employed as carpenters and sparks and painters, hitherto jobless youngsters had been taken on as runners, and an ailing catering company had been given a new lease of life. Fleur’s shop had been honoured with several visits by the film’s leading lady, Río had charmed herself into being offered a gig as a set-dresser, and even Fleur’s lover, Corban, was involved – albeit it at a remove. He was an executive producer on The O’Hara Affair, and, while his artistic contribution to the film was negligible, his money talked. Because he had part financed the production, he, too, was due a credit.

      ‘Did he text back yet?’ It was a girl’s voice – a typical princess, to judge by the accent.

      ‘No,’ came the morose reply.

      Craning her neck a little, Fleur looked down to see two girls sitting on the windowsill of her shop, Fleurissima, below. The girl with the D4 drawl she recognized – she had been in and out of the shop half a dozen times in the past fortnight, helping herself to pricey little wisps of silk and tulle paid for by Daddy’s gold Amex.

      ‘Did you put a question mark at the end of your last message?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Shit. That means you can’t text him again, Emily. Like, the ball’s in his court now.’

      ‘I know. I should never have put the stupid question mark. He’s ignoring me, the bastard.’

      ‘How many Xs did you put?’

      ‘Three. But two of them were lower case.’

      ‘Ow. Three’s a bit heavy. I’d only put two lower case ones next time.’

      ‘If there is a next time. There was a comment from that Australian girl on his Facebook this morning.’

      ‘Uh-oh…’

      Fleur felt like leaning out of the window and calling down: ‘Just pick up the phone and talk to him!’ But she knew that the rules laid down by mobile phone etiquette meant that picking up a phone was not an option. Fleur couldn’t understand how kids nowadays coped with the uncertainty, the insecurity, the emotional turbulence generated by the text messaging phenomenon. It must be a kind of enforced purgatory, sending texts toing and froing through the ether – like playing ping-pong in slow motion.

      But Fleur was as in thrall to her phone as the girls on the street below, she realized, because when her text alert sounded she automatically reached for her nifty little Nokia. Accessing the message, she saw that it was from her niece, Daisy. The text read: Hey, Flirty! On my way now with cake & wine XXX

      Because Fleur’s middle initial was T for Thérèse, Daisy had come up with the nickname ‘Flirty’ for her. Fleur loved it: it sounded so much more youthful and fun than ‘Aunt Fleur’, which was what her nephew called her.

      Cake & wine sounds good, she texted back, adding

for good measure.

      Cake and wine did sound good. Especially wine. It had been busy in the shop today: Fleur’s jaw was aching from all the smiling she’d been doing, and her feet were killing her. Her boutique specialized in non-mainstream labels sourced from all over Europe: from evening chic to skinny jeans, from beachwear to accessories, all Fleur’s stock was hand-picked and exclusive to her – and none of it was cheap. From October, when the tourist trade dropped off and the summer residences were boarded up, Fleur hibernated, opening the shop only at weekends. After today, when two overdue deliveries had arrived at the same time, Fleur was looking forward to hibernating already. She reached up a hand to pull off her gypsy wig, then decided against it. It would give Daisy something to laugh at, and she loved to hear her niece laugh.

      Tossing her shawl on the bed, Fleur negotiated the spiral staircase that led down to her living area. Since the demise of her little dog Babette, Fleur had taken the brave step of redecorating. She had painted the walls in Farrow & Ball Wimborne White, had the floorboards sanded and lime washed, and her furniture reupholstered in pale damask. Cobwebby lace was draped around the windows, a pair of alabaster angels stood sentinel on either side of the fireplace, and a chandelier scintillated overhead. All eight of her dining chairs were overlaid with nubbly linen slip covers, and her chaise longue was piled with tasselled white cushions. Fleur’s room was all white for a reason. She had sworn that she would never get another dog, because the pain she felt when Babette had died had been so unendurable she never wanted to go through anything like it again. And what better way to resist the allure of that puppy in the pet shop window or the sad eyes of a rescue dog in an ISPCA ad than by creating a pristine environment – one that would not welcome muddy paws or moulting hairs.

      The only splashes of colour in the living space were courtesy of the artwork on the walls – much of which was by Río. Most of Río’s paintings were seascapes in vibrant oils, but the one that stood out was a portrait that had been painted some twenty years earlier. It depicted Fleur sitting back in her chair at the end of her long dining table, a glass of Bordeaux in front of her, a Gauloise between elegant fingers (she had stopped smoking two years later, and still missed it sometimes). Her hair was twisted into a loose chignon, and she was toying idly with a tendril that had escaped. Her attention was focused on someone to her right, someone with whom she was clearly rather coquettishly engaged. In truth, the painting depicted Fleur in full-on flirtatious mode, one eyebrow raised like a circumflex, mouth in a provocative pout, eyes agleam with intention. Fleur loved it.

      Moving into the kitchen – where the aroma of last night’s ragout still lingered – Fleur set a tray with plates, napkins, glasses and a wine cooler. She was just about to carry it through to the deck, when the door bell rang. ‘Come on up, Daisy-Belle,’ she purred into the intercom. ‘I’m on the deck.’

      Fleur’s deck overlooked the Lissamore marina, and was perfect for spying on the comings and goings of boats and boatmen. Corban had a pleasure craft berthed there, but so far this summer he’d had few opportunities to use it, as he’d been stuck in Dublin on business. When Río had asked Fleur to describe her lover, Fleur had laughingly called him her very own Mr Big.

      Corban was the latest in a fairly long line of amours: Fleur was most certainly not the marrying kind. She’d tried it once when, aged nineteen, she had fallen in love with a beautiful Irish boy who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris. Fleur remembered that epoch only dimly, as one might remember scenes from an art house movie viewed long ago through rose-tinted glasses: picnic lunches by the Seine, reading the poems of Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath in translation; strolls through the narrow winding streets of the Latin Quarter; rough wine and rougher cigarettes in cheap café bars; stolen hours in his bed when the concierge was napping; visit after visit to museums and galleries, and hour after hour of gazing into each other’s eyes, slack with desire and limp with adoration. And when Tom asked her to come with him to Ireland, she had said – breathless as Molly Bloom – ‘Yes, yes! I will, yes!’