I get in quick and try to smooth things over. “Just a misunderstanding,” I go. “Something Honor did or didn’t say to Georgette last weekend.”
“What?” Sorcha goes, on the straight away defensive? I thought yogalates was supposed to chillax you.
“She told Georgette that she looked like Khloe Kardashian,” Ann goes. “Or that she would when she grew up.”
“Well,” Sorcha goes, “maybe she meant Kim Kardashian. Or even Kourtney.”
There’s not a focking chance in the world that she did, by the way. Honor knows that family better than she knows her own. She certainly spends more time with them.
Sorcha’s in denial about our daughter, though. About who she is. About what she’s become. She suddenly turns on me then? “And what were you saying, Ross?”
I’m like, “What?”
“While this woman was sitting in our kitchen drinking our coffee and slandering our daughter.”
“I was just – I don’t know – listening to what she had to say. I mean, come on, Sorcha, it wouldn’t be the biggest surprise in the world if it turned out to be true.”
I’m there, “We’re always saying what a little wagon she can be,” and then I turn to Ann and go, “She makes my life a misery a lot of the time, if it’s any consolation!”
Sorcha laughs – except in, like, a bitter way? “So she’s not entitled to the benefit of the doubt, is that it? We always have to think the worst of her?”
Sorcha was always pretty gullible. That’s why she took me back so many times.
I’m there, “I’m not saying always. I’m just saying, you know, there have been other complaints.” Her mouth drops open and she flutters her eyelashes in true drama queen style. “Oh my God,” she goes, “so we’re going to discuss our private family business in front of a stranger, are we?”
Ann decides that she’s heard enough. “Well, as it happens,” she goes, “I’ve heard stories from one or two other mothers as well. And they don’t paint a very pretty picture of your daughter.”
Sorcha practically explodes. “So why do you keep bringing your daughter around here to play with her then? You don’t need to answer that. It’s so you can lech over my husband!”
I’m there, “There wasn’t a huge amount of leching going on, Babes,” trying to keep the porty polite.
“Where are they now?” Sorcha goes.
I’m there, “Er, upstairs. Honor’s giving Georgette a makeover,” and then I turn around to Ann and go, “That’s not saying the kid needs one,” still trying to remain – I don’t know – neutral?
Sorcha looks at Ann, then with real viciousness in her voice, goes, “Get your daughter and get out of my home.” Ann gives her the old elevator eyes and goes, “With pleasure!”
She steps out into the hall and I follow her, apologising for my wife. She calls her daughter’s name and suddenly Georgette is coming down the stairs, going, “Honor said she was sorry, mommy.”
Except there’s something wrong with the kid. I can’t put my finger on it. I’m looking at her and I immediately know that there’s something NQR about the way she looks.
Ann cops it straight away. Her hand is suddenly covering her mouth and she’s going, “Oh my God, where are your eyebrows?”