The O’Hara Affair (20 page)

‘Feeling a little slutty, are we?’

He was lounging against the doorjamb, watching her lazily. She knew that look. It was her cue to bite down on her lip and
lower her eyes. And as she did so, she felt herself assume a character, a character who bore no resemblance to the real-life Fleur. And as the character took possession of her, her apathy lifted as she felt the first stirrings of sexual arousal.

‘Because no one but a whore wears stuff like that,’ resumed Corban. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. You
are
ashamed of yourself, aren’t you, Fleur?’

She glanced up at him from under her eyelashes and nodded.

‘Something tells me you need to be taught a lesson, madam. It’s not a nice thing to do, to parade around the streets looking like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, wearing stuff like that under your chic little sweaters and skirts. What would people think, if they knew? They’d think that you needed to be taught a lesson, and they’d be right, Fleur, wouldn’t they?’

‘Yes,’ she managed. Her body had begun to betray her already. She could feel her nipples harden, and she saw Corban’s eyes go to them, where they jutted from the embroidered eyelets in the crimson satin.

‘Slutty little bitch.’ He reached between the folds of his heavy towelling robe and began to stroke himself. Fleur felt her breath coming faster, and her head drooped a little. ‘Stand up straight when I’m talking to you.’ She raised her chin and set back her shoulders. His eyes were still on her nipples. ‘Get your lipstick.’ She moved to her dressing table and took YSL’s
Rouge Pur
from a drawer. ‘Paint them,’ Corban commanded, and she raised a hand and circled her nipples in red. His lip curled in contempt. ‘What would your customers say if they could see you now?’ he said. ‘The fragrant Fleur O’Farrell playing with her own tits, gagging for it. You
are
gagging for it, aren’t you, Fleur?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you’d like me to give it to you, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’ There was an ominous silence. Corban narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Yes…please, sir,’ she amended.

‘That’s better,’ said Corban, with a humourless smile. Under the robe, he was still working on his erection.

‘So, my little French whore, how are you going to go about getting what you want?’

Fleur got to her knees. ‘I’m begging you, sir,’ she whispered.

‘Speak up, you pathetic bitch. I can’t hear you.’

‘I’m begging you.’

‘Begging me to…?’

‘To fuck me. Sir.’

‘Hmm. Corban gave an ostentatious yawn. ‘To tell you the truth, sweetie, I’m not sure I could be bothered.’

Oh, God. She’d have to earn it. She crawled across the carpet, parted the folds of his robe, and took him in her mouth. ‘Good girl,’ he said, laying his hands on the back of her head and exerting a little pressure. Fleur was gratified to hear the moan of pleasure that was her reward for being compliant. And she knew she was good at this: Corban had once told her jokingly that she had missed a vocation as a fellatrix. After several minutes, when he was very, very stiff, he withdrew. ‘Get to your feet,’ he commanded. ‘At once.’

She obeyed, rising clumsily from the carpet.

‘Turn around.’

Again, she did as he ordered.

‘Bend over, Fleur.’ And this time his voice was velvet smooth, indulgent as a paterfamilias and gentle as a caress. ‘I think you’re going to like what I’ve got for you, darling. I think you’re going to like it very much.’

She did like it. And as she felt him thrust into her, she heard him say the words she longed to hear. ‘Oh, God – you’re beautiful, Fleur. You’re so, so beautiful.’

‘Am I?’ she asked.

‘Oh, yes. You’re – oh, God!’

‘Say it. Say it again.’ This time there was nothing obsequious in her tone; this time
she
was in command.

‘You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful, Fleur. You’re so, so beautiful…’

The next morning when she awoke in Corban’s arms, he raised himself on one elbow, kissed the tip of her nose and smiled down at her. ‘You stay there,
mon petit chou
,’ he said. ‘I’m bringing you breakfast on a tray.
Café au lait
and croissants?’

‘Mmm. Yes, please. Sir.’ They shared a smile.

And as he made his way down the spiral staircase, Fleur hugged herself, then stretched from her pretty painted fingertips all the way down to her tippy tippy toes. This must be how Scarlett felt, she decided, the day after being ravished by Rhett, smug in the knowledge that she had her man where she wanted him. Corban might perceive himself to be a master of the universe, but savvy Fleur O’Farrell knew that it took two to tango.

It was the second night in a row Bethany had spent on Second Life, waiting for Hero to show. She’d revisited all their old haunts, but there was no sign of him. Now she was sitting on the mezzanine in the library again, all alone. She knew that she should shut down her computer and do something else – take a bath, take some exercise, read a book – but she felt a compulsion to remain online, hunting for Hero.

Her mother had phoned today, to make sure all was well in Bethany’s world, and Bethany had told her that yes,
everything was fine – she was eating properly and enjoying her work and keeping the place tidy. But in fact, that had been a big, fat lie. She didn’t bother preparing food for herself other than cereal, the only good thing about work was the fact that she was fed for free, and the cottage was looking sadly neglected. She hardly even bothered with Facebook any more. Bethany was spending all her spare time roaming a brave new virtual world.

But what was the point of exploring a virtual word if she had no fellow adventurer to explore it with? Tara had found herself a real live boyfriend, Hero had gone AWOL, and Bethany was lonelier than ever.

Diddle-ip!
The convo button on her toolbar lit up. Flirty. Who was Flirty? Oh yes – the girl who’d asked to be her friend a couple of weeks ago. They’d chatted a little on IM since then – she seemed nice. Bethany remembered that she’d used a funky font.

She clicked, and read: Hi! I see you haven’t updated your Facebook status for a coupla days. How are things?

How were things? Things were…

Bloody awful
, typed Bethany.

Oh no! What’s up?

Before she could even register what she was doing, Bethany had typed:
I’m in love.

What? Who are you in love with?

Oh, it’s too stupid.

Tell me.

I can’t. I feel like such a loser.

Maybe I can help.

How?

I’m a good listener. But don’t just take my word for it. Check out Daisy de Saint-Euverte’s
profile and you’ll see that she describes me – Flirty O’Farrell – as her favourite agony aunt in the world. But if you don’t want to talk to me, there are lots of places on the internet where you can look for advice.

I’d rather talk to a real person like you.

That generally makes more sense. So. Tell me about it.

OK. Have you been on Second Life yet?

Once only. But I could give it another go.

OK. The problem is that I met a guy on there. He’s really cute.

But he’s only an avatar, Bethany!

I know. That’s what makes this so stupid. But he’s just – I don’t know how to explain it.

Perfect?

Yes!

What makes him perfect?

He’s just everything I want and everything I’ve ever im agined. He loves all the same things I do and wants to do all the things I want to do. He’s a dreamer and an adventurer and he’s really intelligent and he makes me laugh.

Hmm. He sounds pretty perfect, all right. Have you been spending a lot of time on SL?

Well I can’t during the day cos I have work. But in the evening I do.

How long?

An hour maybe.

That was a lie. Bethany actually spent much longer on Second Life. In a way, it gave her the same kind of comfort that she’d garnered from all those hours spent alone in her
bedroom as a child, acting out fantasy scenarios. But she didn’t want Flirty to think she was a
complete
loser.

Maybe not even that
, she added, for good measure.

And how did you meet this guy – what’s his name?

Hero.

Cool! What’s your avatar’s name?

Poppet.

Where did you meet this Hero?

In an empty theatre.

Was that not a little scary?

No. He looked kinda lost. I showed him around.

And you’ve met up with him since?

Yeah. Loads of times. He teleported me to a club the other night. It was cool. There were loads of couples dancing.

Like – cheek to cheek?

Yeah.

And did you dance?

Yeah.

How did it feel?

Kinda warm and fuzzy.

Weird?

No. Not really. It felt right. And then I was meant to meet him again there last night and I blew it because I was late and he’d gone. And then I tried looking for him again tonight and I couldn’t find him anywhere.

What does Hero do in real life, Bethany?

He has something to do with casting.

Like in theatre casting?

Yeah.

In LA?

No. In Dublin.

Dublin, Ireland?

Yeah.

There was a hiatus in the convo. Bethany filled it by bringing up Second Life, where her avatar, Poppet, was still sitting on the divan in the library, waiting for Hero to show up. She scrolled down the actions menu, wondering whether to make Poppet stand up or fall down and cry, and then she froze. There was someone downstairs. Bethany felt a rush of apprehension mixed with adrenaline. She moved to the balustrade and peered over.

Hello,
said Hero.
Did you miss me?

Bethany didn’t waste words. She sped down the library stairs – stumbling, banging off walls – and into his virtual arms.

Dublin, Ireland?

Yeah.

Fleur sucked in her breath and reached for the wine bottle. Uh-oh. What had she stumbled across? She quickly reread the final few exchanges in the convo, then typed:

Bethany, you haven’t let him know where you are, have you?

There was no response.

Because she had had nothing better to do this evening now that Corban had called off their Coolnamara Castle weekend, Fleur had decided to see who was available to chat on IM. She was glad she had – she was concerned about Bethany. Poor little lamb, wasting her time consorting with strangers on Second Life – strangers who, for all she knew, could turn out to be unscrupulous manipulators.

Bethany – are you there?

Nothing. But Bethany was still online. Maybe she was chatting to somebody else? Maybe she’d gone back to Second Life? Maybe she’d finally touched base with Hero?

Hero! Fleur had lied when she’d told Bethany it was a cool moniker. It was a very clever moniker – what girl didn’t want a hero in their life? – but anyone could be a hero on
Second Life. Anyone at all. Hell – even
she
could be a hero on Second Life.

Hmm. Maybe she should check out the online community. But before she went to the Google tool bar, she typed in one last question:

Bethany – promise you’ll keep in touch? I am concerned for you.

Fleur had decided to do some detective work. Her Second Life account was all set up, and she was just waiting on confirmation via email that she was good to go. She poured herself a glass of wine, wound a pashmina around her shoulders, and stepped through the French windows onto the deck. It was dusk now, and the village was quiet. The only sound was that of the water lapping against the keels of the boats and the occasional lonely call of a curlew. A heron was standing in the inky water by the slipway, perfectly motionless, waiting for some hapless fish to pass by.

Fleur reached for Dervla’s bird-watching binoculars. She’d left them behind in the pub the other day, and Fleur had realized that actually, binoculars were quite a handy item to have around. Apart from making the view more immediate, it channelled her inner nosy neighbour. She’d had fun spying on the residents of the holiday houses around the marina and making up stories about them. Was that the wife, daughter, or mistress of the man whose Merc was parked outside his picture window? Did the honeymoon couple realize that she could see straight into their bedroom? Were those rather mannish elderly ladies sisters, or lesbians, or just very good friends? You could write a soap opera about what went on in the holiday houses around Lissamore.

And as for the locals: Fleur didn’t much care to think
about what ‘Peeping’ Tom Hunter got up to on the shiny MacBook Air he’d recently treated himself to.

Fleur trained the binoculars on the heron and watched as, with a lightning-bolt dart of its head, the bird plunged its beak into the shallows, gulped down its dinner, and took off with a melancholy squawk in search of new hunting grounds.

As she followed its flight, the boat that belonged to Corban came into view. Corban wasn’t a serious sailor: the
Lolita
was a small pleasure craft, which he used for trips to neighbouring islands. The last time she’d boarded it Fleur had packed a picnic, and they’d spent an afternoon sunbathing and skinny-dipping, feeling as if they were the only two people in the world. Now that she knew just how powerful a pair of bird-watching binoculars could be, she might think twice about skinny-dipping.

She took a sip of her wine, then leaned her elbows on the table and scanned the horizon. There was Sean the Post coming out of O’Toole’s, there was Mrs Murphy closing her curtains, there was Río, watering the miniature garden of Eden she’d created on her balcony, there was…someone on Corban’s deck! Someone – a girl? – with long blonde hair…Was there? Fleur adjusted the focus so that she could zoom in closer, but instead of zooming in, the image became blurred. She twisted the dial in the opposite direction, but by the time she’d refocused, the deck that ran the length of Corban’s penthouse was deserted. Had she imagined it? She wasn’t used to viewing things through binoculars: maybe it had been a trick of the fading light. Still, she’d hate to think that someone had broken in to his apartment. Should she call the guards? No – they had enough on their hands without someone dragging them all the way from Ardmore to investigate a crime that might be wholly imaginary. But maybe it mightn’t be a bad idea to phone Corban.