deck overlooked the Lissamore marina, and was perfect for spying on the comings and goings of boats and boatmen. Corban had a pleasure craft berthed there, but so far this summer he’d had few opportunities to use it, as he’d been stuck in Dublin on business. When Río had asked Fleur to describe her lover, Fleur had laughingly called him her very own Mr Big.
Corban was the latest in a fairly long line of amours: Fleur was most certainly not the marrying kind. She’d tried it once when, aged nineteen, she had fallen in love with a beautiful Irish boy who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris. Fleur remembered that epoch only dimly, as one might remember scenes from an art house movie viewed long ago through rose-tinted glasses: picnic lunches by the Seine, reading the poems of Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath in translation; strolls through the narrow winding streets of the Latin Quarter; rough wine and rougher cigarettes in cheap café bars; stolen hours in his bed when the concierge was napping; visit after visit to museums and galleries, and hour after hour of gazing into each other’s eyes, slack with desire and limp with adoration. And when Tom asked her to come with him to Ireland, she had said – breathless as Molly Bloom – ‘Yes, yes! I will, yes!’
They had married in the registry office in Dublin, and for a year she was pleased to receive letters as Mrs Thomas O’Farrell. Thereafter, following her separation and subsequent divorce, she trashed any correspondence addressed to ‘Mrs Thomas’, ‘Mrs Tom’ or ‘Mrs T. O’Farrell’. She would never be ‘Mrs Tom, Dick or Harry’ for any man. She was Fleur – Fleur Thérèse Odette O’Farrell (she’d retained the ‘O’Farrell’ because no one in Ireland could pronounce her real surname, which was de Saint-Euverte). And Tom? Tom had gone off to Canada with a Mountie. She hadn’t seen him since.
‘Hello! What in God’s name are you wearing?’ Fleur turned to see Daisy framed in the French windows, regarding her with a curious expression.
‘It’s my outfit for the village festival. Ta-ra!’ Fleur held her skirts out and attempted a Flamenco-style twirl. ‘I am the fortune-teller. What do you think? Smoking, ain’t it?’
‘Mystic Meg, eat your heart out,’ replied Daisy, strolling across to the table and dumping a carrier bag on it. ‘Let me take a photograph.’ Holding up her iPhone, she adopted the exaggerated stance of a pro photographer, and segued into the usual clichéd directive: Lovely! Chin a little higher! Drop your shoulder!
Click, click, click went Daisy’s camera, while Fleur twirled some more and hummed a little Bizet, and then Daisy slid her phone back into her bag and kissed her aunt on both cheeks. ‘How did you get roped into being the fortune-teller?’ she asked. ‘I thought that was normally Río’s gig.’
‘I’ll tell you later. I want to hear all your news first. Sit down and give me the wine and the cake.’ Daisy took a bottle of wine and a cake-box from the carrier bag, and Fleur reached for the corkscrew. ‘Have you seen sense and ditched that bad boy?’ she asked, stripping foil from the neck of the bottle.
‘Yes. You’ll be glad to know the bad boy’s ancient history, Flirty. But I’ve got some even better news.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘Guess.’
‘You have landed a new contract?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve been asked to be a judge on Ireland’s Next Top Model?’
‘Yes, I have actually. But that’s not the good news.’
‘You have a photo-shoot with Testino.’
‘In my dreams.’
Fleur poured wine into the glasses and handed one to Daisy. ‘A Vogue cover?’
‘Get real!’
‘OK. I give up,’ said Fleur.
‘That’s it! That’s exactly what I’ve done!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve given up modelling.’
Fleur set her glass down. ‘I am guessing this isn’t a joke.’
‘No joke. This is real, I promise.’
‘But why, Daisy?’
‘I’ve fallen out of love with it. It’s that simple. I’m going to Africa to do voluntary work.’
Fleur took a sip of wine, and gave her niece a look of assessment. It was clear from Daisy’s expression that she was resolute. Daisy was a Capricorn, and once a Capricorn decides upon a course of action, Fleur knew, there was no turning back.
‘Well. Good for you. Was it a tough decision?’
Daisy shook her head. ‘No. My agent asked if I needed twenty-four hours to think about it, and I said “Yes…” and then “No!” practically simultaneously. I really didn’t need to think twice. I’ve been miserable in this job for a long time.’
‘You’ve only been modelling for two years,’ Fleur pointed out.
‘Well, I’ve been miserable for a whole year of those two, and that’s a long time to be miserable. I was never cut out to be a model.’
‘You are a brave girl.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m just doing what I’ve always wanted to do, and that’s make a difference. You’ve no idea what it’s like to be surrounded by size zero girlies moaning about putting on half a kilo when there are people all over the world starving.’ ‘Won’t you miss your celebrity status, beauty?’
‘Nope. I’d rather be famous for having a real talent like singing or writing or painting. Being famous for being a model is just embarrassing.’ Daisy cut two slabs of choc olate sponge and plonked them on to plates. ‘Ha! Bye bye, stupid diet. Bring on the calories.’
‘What made you decide on Africa?’ asked Fleur.
‘A friend who’s over there told me I had to come out. She’s recruited a whole bunch of people via Facebook.’
‘How resourceful!’
‘Yep. I’ve been in touch with everyone else who’s going, and they’re all really sound. Facebook’s brilliant for networking. Have you joined up yet, Flirty?’
‘I keep meaning to, but I’ve been so busy lately. Perhaps I will get around to it in the winter, when things have calmed down.’
‘Things will be hotting up for me this winter. I’ll be working in a township in Kwazulu-Natal, building a school.’ ‘Actually physically building?’
‘Yeah. My mate says that she’s completely knackered at the end of every day, but that she’s never felt better in her life.’
‘Well. I am full of admiration – and not a little jealous. I would have loved to have had an opportunity to do something like that when I was your age. When are you off?’
‘Next week.’
‘No!
