The O’Hara Affair (43 page)

‘Don’t mind Eunice,’ said an officious-looking woman, bustling into the foyer. ‘She sits there all day, every day, bothering people and waiting for no one. Are you Dervla Vaughan?’

‘No,’ said Dervla, backing away. ‘I’m not. I’m sorry. I’ve come to the wrong place. Excuse me.’ She reached for the door handle and pulled, but nothing happened.

‘All right. Just let me release the lock,’ said the woman. She leaned over the reception desk and unlocked the door, and as Dervla passed through she heard Eunice say in a small, desperate voice, ‘Please don’t forget to tell him. Tell him I’ll be waiting here by the door.’

She sits there all day, every day
,
waiting for no one…
And, Dervla conjectured, that’s what Eunice would be doing all day, every day, for the rest of her life.
Old age ain’t no place for sissies…
Oh, shit. Maybe old age was no place for survivors, either.

Bethany was standing on the mark that the assistant director had given her – an X chalked onto the flagstoned courtyard. On ‘Action’, she was to cross the yard carrying a hatbox that belonged to the character played by Elena Sweetman, and climb after her into a carriage. She was feeling nervous. What if she stumbled? What if she dropped the hatbox, and they had to go for another take? Time meant money on a film set. What would she say to Miss Sweetman, once she was in the carriage? Miss Sweetman was Hollywood royalty, and would probably have no truck with a mere extra like her.

But at least she didn’t have to do a scene with Nasty Harris, who was living up to her nickname and had earned herself a reputation as Christian Bale in petticoats. Cast and crew had watched in gobsmacked silence yesterday as she’d laid into a make-up assistant who had dared to approach her while she was ‘in character’. Considering the character Nasty played was the spoilt Anglo-Irish daughter of the wicked landlord, Bethany figured that this was a fairly easy mistake for the make-up girl to have made.

‘Nervous?’

A man had come up behind her. Bethany recognized him as the executive producer of the film – an important man. She gave him a deferential smile. ‘A little,’ she admitted.

‘No worries. I’ve been watching you on screen. You’re a natural.’

‘I am?’

‘Yes. You have a lovely, luminescent quality. Have you thought about taking up acting professionally?’

‘Well, yes, actually. I’m hoping for a place in the Gaiety School in Dublin.’

Corban O’Hara produced a leather card case from his pocket. ‘Here’s my card,’ he said, handing her one. ‘Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you want help. A personal reference from me can do no harm.’

‘Oh! Thank you so much, Mr O’Hara.’

‘Corban. And you’re Bethany, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a beautiful name.’

The assistant director approached. ‘There’s been a delay, I’m afraid. You can relax, Bethany. Good morning, Mr O’Hara.’

‘Good morning, Jake. I was just telling Bethany here how great she looks in the rushes. We might think about giving her a line or two to say.’

‘Seriously?’ Bethany was awestruck.

‘Why not? It would look good on your CV, wouldn’t it? To be credited with a speaking role in
The O’Hara Affair
. I’ll have a word with the director.’

And Corban O’Hara winked at her and strolled away.

‘What a nice man!’ said Bethany.

‘Aren’t you suspicious of men who wink?’ Jake was looking down at her with an amused expression.

‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

‘Think about it now.’ He winked at her, and Bethany laughed. ‘You clearly have a trusting nature. Did I see you the other day, walking the beach at Díseart?’

‘Yes, that could have been me. How did you find the beach? Not many people know about it.’

‘Shane Byrne let me in on the secret. Do you live around there?’

‘My parents have a holiday cottage in Díseart, so I’m staying here until the film’s finished. I live in Dublin.’

‘So once we’re wrapped, you’ll be heading back east?’

‘Yes.’ Bethany found herself looking from Jake’s eyes to his mouth. She looked back at his eyes at once, feeling shy. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m from Dublin too.’

‘Dublin too, or Dublin 2?’

‘Both. I’ve a flat in the city centre.’

‘Cool!’

‘Yeah, I guess it is pretty cool. I’m lucky enough to have a roof garden.’

‘Even cooler.’ She resisted the temptation to let her eyes slide to his mouth again. ‘I’d love to live in the city centre. My parents are miles out in Dalkey and I’m going to have to commute every day, if –
when
I start college in September.’

Bethany had deliberately substituted ‘when’ for ‘if’. It was part of her new positive-thinking strategy, and if Corban O’Hara’s interest in her was anything to go by, it seemed to be paying off.

‘What are you studying?’

‘Drama, at the Gaiety. Well – fingers crossed.’

‘So you’re planning on being an actress?’

‘Yes.’

Jake heaved a sigh. ‘Another one bites the dust,’ he said.

‘Hey!’ she said indignantly. ‘Don’t be so negative! Didn’t Corban O’Hara just give me his card?’

‘You and a thousand other hopefuls,’ said Jake. ‘Here. Take mine instead. I might be of real use to you. I’ll be working
on a film for Lawless Productions next, filming in Dublin. And the casting director’s a friend of mine.’

Bethany gave him an oblique look. ‘I bet that’s what you say to all the girls,’ she heard herself saying. Ohmigod! She was
flirting
!

‘Ah ha. So you
do
have a mistrustful side, after all.’

‘My mummy told me never to take sweets from strangers.’

‘And mine told me never to look a gift horse in the mouth,’ he said, with a wicked smile. ‘Are you going to take my card or not?’

Bethany took it, just as Jake’s walkie-talkie crackled into life. He gave it a reproachful look, then segued back into authoritarian mode.

‘Back to work, boys and girls,’ he called out. Then he turned back to Bethany. ‘Good luck, sweetheart,’ he said. And winked.

Corban was due that evening. But Fleur wasn’t going to let him in. She wasn’t going to pick up the phone to him, she wasn’t going to respond to any emails or text messages, or any blandishments he might send in the shape of flowers or champagne –
ouf
! Since she was still nursing her Chablis hangover, the very thought of champagne made her feel ill. Instead, she was going to spend her evening having fun with Hero Evanier.

She entered Corban’s password and waited for Hero to rezz. Here he came…Oh! How cool he was, working that Johnny Depp rock star look! But – hmm. Maybe it was time he had a makeover. He was
way
too tall, and he needed to put on some weight. Fleur adjusted his height downward, and fattened him up a bit. Well, she actually fattened him up a lot. Then she gave him a small, squashed head, big sticky-out ears, bug eyes and a Cyrano de Bergerac nose.
Love handles? You bet! Bulging ones. Facial hair? Yes! A handlebar moustache. Shorter arms suited him, and bandy legs, and dainty hands and feet. Well, you know what they say about men with small feet?

Fleur played around with his clothing, too. She gave Hero short pants, mid-calf-length socks, and a puffy, diaphanous skirt. She added a big gold medallion to compensate for his small feet, and glittering earrings to draw light and radiance to his face, and then she changed his password from ‘theoharaaffair’ to the much more appropriate one of ‘fleursrevenge’. Now, she thought with satisfaction, poor Monsieur Evanier would be trapped forever like a fly in amber as the ugliest avatar ever to frequent Second Life.

What’s that smell?
asked someone when Hero landed in Sweethearts nightclub, where the crème de la crème met up.
Who let the dog out?
said somebody else. Eyebrows were raised, elegant shoulders shrugged, and patrician noses pointed skywards. All the most beautiful residents of Second Life seemed to have congregated here tonight, and Hero stomped around randomly on his little feet, trying to make friends with them. He walked up to a slim blonde in a drop-dead-gorgeous frock. She disappeared without trace. He greeted a group of dudes with a
Yo, bros!
They ignored him. He sat down beside a Beyoncé lookalike, who curled her lip at him before taking to her sparkly heels.

Where, oh where was Hero’s charm and charisma? But wait…

Where r u babe?
asked a coquettish someone called Bo Peep.

I’m over here
, typed Fleur.

But where? I want to see u.

I’m over by the bar
.

Well, dude. Wanna buy me a drink?

Sure
.

I’m coming to get you!
Dainty Bo Peep rounded the corner of the bar, chocolate-box pretty in her shepherdess ensemble.
Hey!
she said.

Hello!
typed Fleur.

OMG. What happened to you? You are so…

Yes?

Ugly and small.
Bo Peep gave him a repulsed look.
Bye, loser,
she said, and shimmied away.

Hmm. This Hero was clearly not the one Bo Peep was used to meeting up with in Sweethearts. Fleur wondered how many female avatars had been seduced by Hero Evanier on Second Life, how many he had invited to his cottage or dallied with on nudist beaches or fucked in orgy palaces. She knew now that Corban was an arch manipulator. He’d manipulated her and Bethany and Anastasia Harris and who knew how many other malleable women, and it felt good now to manipulate him here in Second Life. As for real life? That pleasure was yet to come.

In Sweethearts, Hero jumped. He laughed. He blew random kisses. He salsa danced. He plonked himself down in front of a drum kit and played worse than Animal in
The Muppets
. He stumbled around on his little bandy legs, crashing into people and landing on top of them, until someone approached and cautioned him. Oops! Skulking off, he sat by himself in a corner. Fleur didn’t want to go too far – she wanted Hero’s image tarnished, but she didn’t want him banned from Second Life altogether. She had other plans for him.

At eight o’clock, she would send him to Shakespeare Island.

Bethany had been looking forward to eight o’clock p.m. since eight o’clock that morning. It had been a fabulous day, and she was desperate to share it with Hero. She was dying to
tell him that she’d been promised a couple of lines in
The O’Hara Affair
; that she hadn’t stumbled or dropped the hatbox; that not one, but two influential people had given her their cards; and that Elena Sweetman had been as sweet as her name and had told Bethany that she was wonderfully photogenic, and had given her a kiss on the cheek.

At around ten minutes before the appointed hour, Bethany took Poppet off to Shakespeare Island. Hero had not yet arrived. She made her avatar comfortable on their usual divan in the library, then decided to spend the intervening minutes until her date showed up by checking out Facebook.

Oh! Jake Malone had invited her to be his friend, adding a ;-) She accepted, then checked out his profile. Hmm. They shared a lot of the same interests. Films, theatre, books. His photo album was full of arty/amusing pictures, including one of a party on his roof garden. Lots of people had written witty comments on his wall. He had three hundred and eighty-six friends. Even Shane Byrne and Elena Sweetman were on there! Jake was too popular for her, Bethany decided. She was scared to write on his wall, scared that she might say something stupid and look like a loser.

But hurray! Flirty O’Farrell was online! Bethany sent her an IM saying,
Just off to meet my boyfriend in Second Life!

The message she got back read: You’re spending too much time there! And how do you know that your Hero isn’t some pervy old git?

But Hero couldn’t be a pervy old git. He spoke directly to Bethany’s soul.

Back to the library on Shakespeare Island she went. Oh. Oh! Hero was sitting next to her – his nametag told her so, but he wasn’t his beautiful self. He was misshapen, hideously ugly, and he was wearing a puffy see-through skirt, with short pants underneath. Poppet jumped up.

Hero! Is this a joke?
she asked.

I’m afraid not
, came the reply.
I’m showing you my true colours, Poppet. I know it’s harsh, but this is your wake-up call. Life is real, life is earnest
.

Hero? It is you?

Yes.

Why have you changed?

I told you. These are my true colours. In the real world I am a sad middle-aged man who likes to pretend that I can recapture my youth by seducing young girls in Second Life.

Hero? You’re joking, right?

No, Poppet. Go to my profile. You’ll find a picture of me there.

Bethany clicked, and clicked again. There, on Hero’s real-life profile, was a photograph of a fifty-something man. He was heavy-set, with a six o’clock shadow, and hooded eyes. It was Corban O’Hara.

No!
she typed.
Stop it, Hero. You’re scaring me.

Poppet. I am teaching you a lesson. It may be an unpalatable one, but it’s a lesson you need to learn. Look before you leap. And never judge a book by its cover.

Hero!

Never judge a book by its cover
.

Hero? What are you playing at? Is this some stupid—

You heard me, Poppet. Never judge a book by its cover
.

He was gone.

Bewildered, Bethany stared at her screen, waiting for Hero to come back as her prince valiant. After several moments of no show, she went to ‘People’ and searched. He wasn’t
online. What had happened? Why had he changed his avatar? And why had he put a picture of Corban O’Hara on his real-life profile? This was too, too weird.

Her IM blinked at her. Flirty.

No one ever told me I was pretty when I was a little girl. All little girls should be told they’re pretty, even when they aren’t: Marilyn Monroe.