The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson

wicked stepmother?’

      ‘She’s not my stepmother, Río. She’s my mother-in-law.’

      ‘Mother-in-law! The scariest words in the world.’

      ‘According to Fleur, the French call them belles-mères – beautiful mothers.’

      Over the phone, Dervla heard her sister suppress a snort. ‘What are you going to call her? I mean, call her to her face? “Daphne”, or “Mrs Vaughan”?’

      ‘According to the carer it depends on what kind of a mood she’s in. If she’s in a snit she insists on being called Mrs Vaughan, but when she’s in good form she doesn’t mind Daphne.’

      ‘You could always call her Daffy.’

      ‘That would be very politically incorrect, Río.’

      Dervla moved to the window that overlooked the stable yard. It had been spread with golden gravel, and terracotta planters had been arranged around the water feature – a raised pond complete with underlighting. A gleaming new thatch roofed the outbuildings that had been converted into a cottage-style dwelling for her mother-in-law, and – to complete the rustic look – shutters painted duck-egg blue flanked a half-door crafted by a local carpenter. The exterior was deceptive: inside, the cottage had been modernized, and now boasted a state-of-the-art kitchen, a big, comfortable sitting room with an HD plasma screen and a tropical fish tank, and underfloor heating. There was also adjoining accommodation for Mrs Vaughan’s carer, Nemia.

      ‘Are you all set for her arrival?’ Río asked.

      ‘Yep. There’s a shepherd’s pie ready to go, and a bottle of vintage Moët in the fridge.’

      ‘Posh!’

      ‘One of the pluses of being married to a wine importer. We got a case from Christian’s partner as a wedding present.’

      ‘Is Mrs Vaughan senior allowed a drink?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Well, I don’t imagine a person with her complaint would have much tolerance for alcohol.’

      ‘Oh. I see what you mean. Yikes. I never thought of that.’

      Christian’s eighty-four-year-old mother suffered from dementia. Because she had been born and reared near Lissamore, it was Christian’s wish that she should spend her final days in the place she still called home. She and her carer had left London earlier that day on what was to be Daphne’s final journey to her native Coolnamara.

      ‘You could always just pour her a glass of fizzy water and pass it off as champagne,’ suggested Río.

      ‘I don’t think she’s that confused.’

      ‘When did you last talk to her?’

      ‘A couple of days ago. She hadn’t a clue who I was, of course, but Christian thought it was a good idea to give her a gentle reminder of my voice from time to time, to get her used to it.’

      ‘Does she even know who he is?’

      ‘He claims she does. But then, he constantly refers to himself as “Christian, your son”, when he talks to her on the phone.’

      ‘Jesus. It’s a bitch of a disease, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes. It is.’ Dervla realized that she didn’t want to talk about her mother-in-law any more. She sat down at her desk and started to doodle squares on a Post-It pad. The shapes evolved into a house like one a child might draw, with four windows and a door. ‘So what’s new, Río?’

      ‘I’m bored.’

      ‘You’re on the set of a blockbuster movie surrounded by Hollywood luminaries and you’re bored?’

      ‘Well, I guess I’m more pissed off than bored. One of the actors complained today that his snuffbox was too gay, and that horrible little child star has a million riders written into her contract.’

      ‘There’s a child star in the movie?’

      ‘Well, she’s twenty-something, but she behaves like a child. Her name is Nasty – short for Anastasia – Harris.’

      ‘Oh – I’ve heard about her. Didn’t she get married recently, to some film star old enough to be her daddy?’

      ‘Yeah. She married Jay David.’

      ‘Of course! Hollywood royalty.’

      ‘And she’s living up to it. She’s every bit her sugar daddy’s little princess.’

      ‘Have you met him?’

      ‘No. He can’t take time off his schedule to visit Ireland. Rumour has it he’ll be flying in on his Gulfstream for the wrap party, though.’

      ‘Is she any good as an actress?’

      ‘According to her husband – who is, of course, completely non-partisan – Nasty is the new Julia Roberts. Her talent will blaze forth into the world like a supernova. And boy, does she believe it. The problem with princesses like her is that the more their demands are met, the more outrageous they become.’

      ‘Like J. Lo insisting on her coffee being stirred counterclockwise?’

      ‘You got it. Nasty insists on having rose petals scattered in the loo bowl—’

      ‘No!’

      ‘Yes. And the bed sheets in her trailer – Egyptian cotton, of course – have to be changed every day. And this morning she decided that her character should have a parasol, even though parasols were unheard of in nineteenth-century Coolnamara.’

      ‘Shouldn’t that be wardrobe’s problem? I thought your job was strictly set-dressing?’

      ‘The line between the two gets blurred, sometimes. I spotted a lovely découpage screen in the transport van this morning, by the way. I thought I’d nab it for you as a housewarming present when we’re wrapped.’

      ‘You’re not going to steal it?’

      ‘No – I’ll get it at cost. And it’s genuine Victorian, not repro.’

      ‘Thanks. That’s sweet of you.’

      ‘Hang on two seconds, Dervla.’ There came the mumbling of a man’s voice in the background, and Río said: ‘No, no, you great lummox – not you, Dervla – a dudeen is a clay pipe. Yeah – and be careful – they break easily.’

      A Victorian screen would look great in the drawing room, Dervla decided, as she doodled a chimney on to her house. They could set it in front of the door of a winter’s evening to stop draughts – although of course, with double-glazed windows and underfloor heating and a blazing turf fire, there wouldn’t be any draughts. Scribbling a plume of smoke puffing from her chimneypot, Dervla pictured herself and her husband sitting on either side of the fireplace reading their books in companionable silence, Christian’s trusty Dalmatian at his feet. She’d definitely start reading Dickens – preferably in leather-bound editions. Or maybe she’d take up knitting? Knitting had a certain cachet: all the actresses on The O’Hara Affair were busy with five-ply Guernsey wool and number twelve needles, according to Río.

      ‘Sorry about that.’ Río was back on the phone. ‘The feckin’ eejit hadn’t a clue what a dudeen was. Probably thought it meant a hot girl. So. Tell me more of your news. How’s your gaff shaping up?’

      ‘Well, the bathroom’s nearly finished, and the kitchen.’

      ‘Utility, too?’

      ‘Yes. But we’re just glorified campers at the moment. The only real piece of furniture we have is the bed.’

      ‘Sure, isn’t that all you loved-up pair need?’

      Dervla smiled. ‘I have to confess I miss my fix of Corrie.’