You should be an agony aunt – no offence!’ she added hastily. ‘You’re a really good fortune-teller as well.’
‘I know I am,’ said Madame Tiresia. ‘Give your cat Poppet a cuddle from me when you get home.’
‘Wow!’ said Bethany. ‘How did you—?’
‘How do you think?’
Utterly mystified, Bethany shook her head, gave a little smile, then left the booth. Outside, the gaggle of girls was sitting on the sea wall, swinging their legs.
‘I think I’m great,’ she murmured to herself as she plugged herself into her iPod. ‘I think I’m great. I think I’m great!’
She smiled as the Sugababes told her how sweet life could be, how it could change. Nothing ventured, nothing gained – that’s what Madame had told her, that’s what her mother told her, and really, the old clichés were the ones that always made the most sense. She could change her life around, and she was going to do it today because, after all, she was great – wasn’t she?
It was lucky for Bethany that the strains of the Sugababes drowned out the small arms fire of snide remarks that came her way from the sea wall as she headed for the narrow road that would take her home to Díseart.
As soon as Bethany left the booth, Fleur scribbled a ‘Back in five minutes’ sign and stuck it on the tent flap. Then she phoned Corban. ‘Lover?’ she said. ‘Can you do me a favour?’
‘That depends. Run it by me.’
‘There’s a girl who’d love to work as an extra on the film. Do you think you could organize it for her?’
‘That’s not my department, Fleur.’
‘I know. But I told her that it would happen.’
‘You mean, Madame Tiresia told her it would happen?’
‘Same difference. Surely you have some influence in the casting?’
‘I had some say in casting the leads, yes. Extras are a whole different ball game.’
‘Please, Corban. I really like this girl.’
‘What makes her so special?’
‘She’s vulnerable. She’s desperate to be an actress, but she’s not going to make it without a leg-up and some kind of experience.’
‘What age is she?’
‘Eighteen. But she looks younger. She could easily pass for a child. And didn’t you say that most of the extras were too well-fed-looking to be famine victims? This girl’s a skinny little thing. Very pretty, though, in a – um…What’s that word you use for “growing into”?’
‘Nascent?’
‘Nascent! That’s it. You can tell that she’s uncomfortable with the way she looks. I remember going through that stage when I was her age. It’s horrible – really horrible. You don’t realize that you’re turning into a swan. You think you’re going to be the ugly duckling for ever.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Bethany O’Brien.’
‘Easy to remember. OK. Leave it with me. I’ll have a word with the casting assistant and ask her to look out for your Bethany.’
‘Thank you, darling. She’ll be sending through an email application this afternoon. How did your meeting go?’
‘Not great. We’re over budget. It looks as if this is going to be the most expensive movie ever made in Ireland.’
‘Oh. Then what can I say but – enjoy your lunch.’
‘Thanks. How’s your fortune-telling lark going?’
‘It’s fun.’
‘Maybe you should take it up full time. Predicting the future could be a lucrative way to earn a living in these uncertain times.’
‘Only if you get it right. I hope people don’t come looking for their money back.’
‘Well, it’s unlikely that your Bethany will.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The casting assistant’s just come in. I’ll pull some strings and get your girl a job, starting asap.’
‘You star! Oops! I’d better go. Someone’s put their head around the tent flap. Time to have my palm crossed with more euros.’
Fleur stuck her phone in her bag. It wasn’t seemly for a fortune-teller to be caught chatting on a mobile. And as for the device under the tablecloth? Well, nobody need ever know about that. She called to the next girl to come in, then started to scroll through Daisy’s very useful list of Facebook friends.
‘Hello, Madame. I’m Gina.’
‘Gina. Sit down. Might your surname be Lombard?’
‘That’s amazing! How do you—’
‘I don’t know. But the crystal does,’ said Fleur, with a smile.
It was Daphne’s eighty-fifth birthday and as a treat, Christian had booked a table for lunch at a newly opened restaurant, for which he was sourcing the wine. Nemia had dressed Daphne in a shirtwaister with a pie-crust collar, American Tan tights, and faux-suede shoes with elasticated sides. Her hair was coiffed in a bouffant, and she’d been sprayed with her favourite scent, Je Reviens. She sat in the passenger seat of Christian’s Saab, singing random snatches of old musical numbers and reapplying her lipstick, while Dervla zoned out in the back, mulling over the events of the past few days.
Getting her mother-in-law settled into the cottage had been rather a fraught affair, and Dervla wasn’t sure how well she’d handled things. On their first evening, Nemia had opted out of joining them for dinner, claiming that she’d prefer to cook for herself in the cottage and – since Nemia was a vegetarian – this made sense. Dervla had gone to some trouble, setting the kitchen table in the Old Rectory with flowers and candles, and putting Des O’Connor on the iPlayer. She’d downloaded it specially for Daphne, hoping that familiar music from a bygone era might help to make her feel at home. She’d also shifted the table across to the window, so that Daphne would have something to look at. Her eyesight was failing, but she could still make out motion and colour, and the wisteria growing around the window frame was spectacular – a pelmet of purple.
‘Why are we eating in the kitchen?’ Daphne demanded, on being shown into the room.
‘Because we have no dining room yet.’ Setting the serving dish on the table, Dervla started spooning out portions.
‘What do you mean, you have no dining room?’
‘It’s
