Sorcha was always pretty gullible. That’s why she took me back so many times.
ANN TILSON is Georgette’s old dear – Georgette, as in one of Honor’s little friends from school? – and, much as I hate to come across as big-headed here, it has to be said that the woman has it pretty bad for the old Rossmeister General.
She drops Georgette around for a playdate with Honor last Sunday wearing a bucket of John Paul Gaultier and, when I ask her how she likes her coffee, she goes, “Rich, complex and with plenty of body,” at the same time checking out the old abcordion like a focking polar bear staring at a fox hole.
“The same way I like my men,” she adds, just in case the compliment went over my head. Which it didn’t. You’d want to be as slow as The Hunger Games to miss the vibes she’s throwing in my general postcode.
It’s all hormless stuff, of course. Nothing would ever happen between us: (a) because she’s married, and (b) because she has a face like a bloodhound licking shit out of a tyre groove.
Still, us marrieds have to take our pleasures wherever we can get them.
Our daughters are upstairs, playing – day spa! The last I saw of them, Honor was going through all of Sorcha’s lotions, potions and mixed emotions, giving Georgette the full makeover treatment.
It’s as I’m pouring the actual coffee that I hear Ann take a deep breath – like she’s building up to ask me something? – then she goes, “Ross, I have a question for you.” I pull a face. I’m there, “If it’s the question I think it is, the answer’s possibly going to have to be no. I promised Sorcha I was going to finally make a go of the whole marriage thing. Although I am flattered.”
Except, from her response, it obviously wasn’t that? She laughs and goes, “You’re joking, right?” And I end up having to laugh as well and go, “Of course I’m joking!” “You’re so funny!” she goes. “Yeah, no, what it is – Honor said something to Georgette last week and, well, I don’t know whether she intended to hurt her feelings?”
With Honor, of course, it’s usually pretty easy to tell. I’m like, “So what did she supposedly say?”
“Well,” she goes, “she told her that when Georgette grew up, she was going to look like Khloe Kardashian.”
“Oooh,” I go. “Khloe wouldn’t be the pick of the family, in fairness to her.” Ann’s like, “I know. Georgette came home terribly upset by it. I said to her, ‘Maybe she meant one of the other sisters.’” “Kim?” “There’s a lot of them, isn’t there?” “Or Kourtney.” “Possibly.”
There’s not a focking chance in hell of Georgette growing up to look like Kim or Kourtney, by the way – not if she has her mother’s genes.
“Maybe Honor just confused Khloe with one of the decent-looking ones,” I go, somehow managing to keep a straight face.
Ann’s there, “I was just worried that – okay, I’m going to come out and say this – that Honor was maybe bullying her?” That’s when the kitchen door suddenly opens and who’s standing there only Sorcha, back early from yogalates. “Who’s being bullied?” Sorcha goes.
There’s an instant atmos between the two of them. Sorcha picked up on the fact that Ann is one smitten kitten a long time ago.