The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson
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Fleur got to her feet and eased into a stretch. ‘Ow. I’ll get out of this costume while I’m up there. If I don’t take off the cummerbund I’ll have no room for your cake.’
‘Why did you lace it so tight?’
‘Vanity, of course, chérie.’
Upstairs, Fleur doffed her fancy dress and got into lounging pyjamas. On reflection, she decided she was glad that Daisy had decided to quit her modelling career. She knew that her elder brother, François, was uncomfortable with the notion of his daughter being caught up in such a superficial milieu. Being the father of an only daughter, François was a staunch protector of his pride and joy, and had reared her quite strictly, as is the manner of French fathers. Fleur remembered how François had been sent by her own father to rescue her when she had run off to Dublin. The ironic thing was that her brother, too, had fallen in love with Ireland – more specifically, with a Galway girl – and both siblings had stayed, building businesses on the west coast. Fleur had her boutique in Lissamore, and François had his – a fishing tackle shop – in nearby Galway. Fleur was glad she had family so close: although she and her brother were chalk and cheese (François was into hunting, shooting and fishing in a big way), she was mad about her beautiful niece, whom she treated as her surrogate daughter.
Her phone alerted her to a message: Daisy had forwarded the picture she had taken earlier. Ooh la la – it was quite fun! Her gypsy skirts were all a-twirl around her thighs, the cinched-in waist enhanced her curves, and she was smiling directly to camera. She’d forward it to Corban, for a joke. She composed the caption: Gypsy Rose Lee will tell your fortune for a modest remuneration, then pressed Send. By the time she’d got back downstairs with the crystal ball and Six Lessons in Crystal Gazing, Daisy was checking something out on her iPhone.
‘My idea is inspired, Flirty. Have a look at this.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s my Facebook profile.’
‘Wow. You have so many friends,’ said Fleur, looking over Daisy’s shoulder. ‘But what has this to do with your inspired idea?’
‘Aha! Behold.’
Aiming the cursor at ‘Status’ on the top of her profile page, Daisy typed in, ‘Anyone in the Coolnamara region this weekend? Check out the fortune-teller at the festival in Lissamore. She rocks!’
Fleur gave her niece a sceptical look. ‘Daisy – that’s just inviting disaster!’
‘No, it’s not. Because this is what you are going to do. Watch this.’
Daisy clicked on a name, and another profile appeared on the screen. The person in question was a pretty girl called Sofia. As Daisy scrolled down, Fleur learned that Sofia’s birthday was on the second of October: she was a Libra. Her relationship status was single, she was interested in men. A click told Fleur that Sofia’s favourite movies included Mamma Mia and Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, her favourite book was The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, she had a brown belt in karate, and she made excellent pasta because her mother was Italian. Her photo album included shots of herself standing against a variety of landmarks: the Sydney Opera House, the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum. Remarks that had been posted on her wall read: ‘See you when you get back from Coolnamara – Club M, Friday week?’ ‘Hmm…I hear you met a cutie in Paris!’ ‘You saw Cheryl Cole in Top Shop? Awesome!’
‘This is most illuminating, my dear,’ said Fleur. ‘But why should you want to share with me the information that one of your friends met a cutie in Paris and has a brown belt in karate?’
‘I know for a fact that she’s in Lissamore this weekend.’
‘So?’
‘So, picture this. She’s messing about on Facebook. She learns that there’s a shit-hot fortune-teller at the festival, and decides to investigate. Put yourself in her shoes.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Pretend you’re Sofia.’
Fleur gave Daisy a bemused look, then shrugged and said: ‘OK. I’m Sofia.’
‘Welcome, Sofia!’ said Daisy, doing a kind of salaam and adopting a mysterious expression. Gazing into the crystal ball that Fleur had set on the table, she added in a dodgy Eastern European accent: ‘I think you might be a Libra, Sofia, yes? Hmm. What else can I tell you about yourself? I see – I think I see you in a suit of trousers – white trousers, with bare feet. You are dancing – no, no! You are kicking! I guess perhaps you might have a talent for karate, Sofia? And there is more – you have travelled, travelled far and wide. I see many foreign countries in the crystal – Sydney, Paris, Rome…And what is this? You are in a club, now, and this time you are dancing. But dancing in the future. Next Friday, perhaps? Next Friday I think you are going dancing with a friend, to a place called the – could it be Club N?’
‘No,’ said Fleur with a smile, as the penny dropped. ‘It’s Club M.’
‘There!’ Daisy flopped back in her seat with a triumphant smile. ‘You see! It’s ingenious! Word spreads like lightning through the Facebook community, and anybody who’s spending the bank holiday weekend in Coolnamara will come flocking to see – what’s your fortune-teller name?’
‘Haven’t an idea.’
‘Tsk-tsk. How about Tiresia?’
‘From Thérèse?’
‘No. Tiresias was a famous soothsayer in ancient Greece.’
Fleur sighed in admiration. ‘My niece has brains as well as beauty!’
‘Sounds good, doesn’t it? The famous Madame Tiresia, who knows all!’
‘Daisy – how exactly do you propose that I do this?’
‘Simple! You check out profiles on your iPhone, which you will have cunningly concealed under the table.’
‘But I don’t do Facebook.’
‘Aha! But you log on as me – popular minor celebrity and model, Daisy de Saint-Euverte. You saw how many friends I have. And those friends have friends, and I have influence. Sometimes being a C-lister can be useful.’
‘You’ve clearly had too much wine. This can’t possibly work.’
‘Don’t be so negative, Flirty!’ Daisy reached for Six Lessons in Crystal Gazing and started leafing through it. ‘Just think of all the moolah you can raise for the Hospice Foundation.’
‘But we have got to anticipate the worst. Lots and lots of things could go wrong. What if Mister Norman No-Friends from Nenagh enters the booth. What do I say to him?’
‘You tell Norman that there is no hope of telling his fortune because…because he doesn’t have one!’
‘I couldn’t say that! Poor Norman will think he’s going to die.’
‘Um. OK. Tell him you can’t see his aura. Listen to this: “It is quite possible for the gazer to be able to see things in the crystal at one time and not at another. In fact, many of the best crystal gazers have lost the power for weeks together. This being so, you should not be discouraged if such images fail to appear at your command.” There’s your disclaimer. Print it out and display it by the entrance to your booth.’ Daisy checked out the cover of the booklet. ‘It’s by Dr R A Mayne. There you go! Your spiritual mentor has impressive credentials.’
‘But that book was published in 1928.’
‘Your punters don’t need to know that. Come on – let’s have another go. This time you can tell my fortune. My name is…Jana.’ Daisy’s fingers twinkled over her iPhone, then she handed it to Fleur.
‘Jana!’ said Fleur, peering at the display as if she were reading Ancient Egyptian. ‘Um, welcome.’
‘Pretend