there? Like all estate agents, Dervla was an excellent reader of body language: she’d learned over the course of two decades spent showing houses to know instantly whether or not a potential buyer was interested, whether or not they could afford the property in question, and whether or not they were bluffing. Sitting side-on to the table, this man’s demeanour was relaxed: legs apart – one crooked, one stretched forward; left arm draped across the back of his chair; hair skimming his collar. His tie was loosened, his topmost shirt button undone, his Hugo Boss jacket worn with the casualness another man might wear a chain-store anorak. His watch was a discreet Rolex, and he exuded the easy authority of a Machiavellian prince. ‘Behold!’ both his dress and his body language were saying, ‘Here presides an alpha male.’ Dervla had sparred with many alpha males in the course of her career, and had more often than not emerged victorious. She had enjoyed the cut and thrust, the deploying of guerrilla tactics, the element of espion age. She wondered what kind of an opponent this guy would make, what his fatal flaw might be – if he had one. He certainly had an aura of invincibility.
‘What is that man doing over there?’ demanded Daphne.
Dervla thought at first that her mother-in-law was referring to Rolex man, but then realized that her gaze was trained on Shane, who had finished signing autographs with a flourish.
‘That’s Shane Byrne. He’s signing autographs.’
‘What for?’
‘He’s a film star.’
‘Oh! How exciting. I’d like to meet him.’
There was no point in telling Daphne that she’d met him already. Dervla waved at Shane, and he took his leave of the lovely girls and came over immediately.
Giving him an apologetic look, Dervla launched into introductions once again. Thankfully, Shane copped on immedi ately, and Groundhog Day began anew. After he had told Daphne how enchanté he was, and complimented her for the second time on her perfume, Dervla managed to fish for the information she wanted.
‘Who’s your lunch partner?’ she asked, lowering her voice a little and hoping that Daphne wouldn’t command her to speak up.
‘He’s one of the executive producers on the film.’
‘Executive! I’ve never really understood that word. What do “executive” producers do, exactly?’
‘Nothing much, except inject capital. It’s a vanity credit, really.’
‘So it’s all about ego?’
Shane shrugged. ‘In this case, there’s extra kudos in the fact that Corban’s name is in the film’s title. I suppose having a film named after you is a bit like having a ship named after you, and Mr O’Hara’s a major player on board this one.’
Wow. So Rolex man was Corban O’Hara, Fleur’s current squeeze! ‘What’s he like?’ she asked.
‘He seems nice enough for a rich bloke.’
‘Pot, kettle, Shane Byrne.’
Shane gave her an ‘as if ’ look. ‘O’Hara is seriously rich, Dervla. If he decided to withdraw funding, the film would capsize.’
‘Does he have any creative contribution at all?’
‘He can make a few suggestions; do a little hiring and firing. Being an executive producer is all to do with power. The movie set is his principality.’
‘So it’s like playing at being king?’
This was Daphne’s cue to start humming ‘My Lord and Master’ from The King and I.
‘That’s exactly what it’s like,’ Shane told her.
Dervla looked again at Corban O’Hara, who was eyeing the two autograph hunters. They were now strolling along the terrace of the restaurant, giggling and texting, probably sending word of their close encounter with the film star to every girl they knew.
Dervla narrowed her eyes in speculation. ‘If the movie set is his principality,’ she said, ‘could he practise droit du seigneur? Or has the casting couch become extinct in postfeminist la-la land?’
‘I don’t think la-la land is ready for feminism yet, Dervla, let alone post-feminism. Over there, you’d be known as that quaint contradiction in terms that is “a career girl”.’
‘I had a career once, you know,’ announced Daphne. ‘I was a model.’
‘Well, I’ll be doggone! You should think about taking it up again,’ said Shane, and Daphne gave him a playful slap on the arm.
‘I know all about men like you!’ she scolded.
‘What made you give it up?’ Dervla asked her mother-in-law, genuinely curious to know.
‘What made me give it up? My parents, I think. Yes. My parents wanted me to get married to someone.’
‘And who was the lucky man?’ asked Shane.
‘He was called…lucky. He was much older than I. He was a businessman. We lived in…Belgravia.’
‘Ritzy!’ remarked Shane.
‘Yes. It was ritzy. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to marry Jack. But Jack died.’
‘How sad,’ said Dervla. ‘Was Jack your boyfriend?’
‘Yes. It was very, very sad. He died in a fire. He was a dancer. He was the love of my life.’ Daphne spoke with such emphasis that Dervla sensed she had total recall of this event. She’d read somewhere that people suffering from dementia had stronger memories of yesteryear than yesterday. ‘It was very, very sad,’ she said again. ‘It was tragic.’
Shane and Dervla exchanged glances. Then Shane sat down on Christian’s seat, and took Mrs Vaughan’s hand. There were tears in the old lady’s eyes.
‘I know what it’s like to lose the love of your life,’ Shane said. ‘I lost mine.’
‘Oh. Did she die?’
‘No. But she wouldn’t marry me.’
‘Stupid girl! She should be ashamed of herself. What was her name?’
‘Her name is Río.’
Dervla looked at Shane in amazement. ‘Río, Shane? After all this time?’
‘It’s always been her.’
‘Your bird of paradise,’ she said with a smile.
‘What are you two talking about now?’ demanded Daphne. ‘Are you having an affair?’
‘No, Daphne,’ Dervla told her. ‘We’re just reminiscing about something that happened when we were very, very young.’
‘“The Young Ones”. That’s a song by Cliff Richard, you know.’
Dervla knew what
