“You? The woman who christened Ranelagh ‘Calcutta’ when they stuck a focking Lidl in it?”
I put my hand into one of her shoes, then I open the bedroom door just a crack and I stick the orm slash leg through it and I stort moving it up and down in, like, a sexy way?
“Oh, you really are insatiable!” he goes. “Let me take another one of these little blue pills that Hennessy gave me, we’ll give it 15 minutes, then I’ll make love to you like the proverbial man possessed.”
That’s when I literally kick the door open and go, “Really? I didn’t know you felt that way about me!”
He screams – as in, like literally screams?
He’s like, “Aaaarrggghhh!” and at the same time he pulls the sheets up around his chin. “Good Lord! God Lord!”
I’m just there, “Busted and disgusted!”
Of course the old dear comes chorging up the stairs when she hears the commotion. Do you know what her opening line is? “Do not ladder those tights! They cost €80 per pair!”
The old man is at least embarrassed to have been caught in the act. “Ross,” he tries to go, “it’s not how it looks.”
I’m there, “It’s exactly how it looks. I knew you two were having an affair. Er, can I just remind you that you’re supposed to be, like, divorced?”
“We’re consenting adults,” the old dear – hilariously – goes.
I’m there, “And he’s supposed to be married to someone else – namely Helen – who I happen to like a lot. Am I the only one in this family who has the embarrassment gene.”
I have to admit, as I’m saying these words, I’m pulling my old dear’s tights off my orm.
“We don’t have to explain ourselves to you,” she goes. “Charles, let’s not deny it. Yes, we’re having an affair. Two people who were married to each other for more than 35 years are still sufficiently attracted to each other to want to express their feelings in physical terms.”
I’m there, “I think I’m going to vomit,” and then I stare the old man out of it and go, “And what was she doing to you that bruised your tailbone.
“Actually, don’t answer that. I’m not a 100 per cent sure that I want to even know.”
He tries to take the high moral ground with me then. His voice goes up, like, an octave or two, and he’s like, “Your mother’s right, Ross. You crash in here, invading our privacy, demanding answers . . .”
I decide that I’m not going to listen to it. I’m like, “I presume that your current wife knows nothing about you two – what was it? – expressing your feelings for each other in physical terms?”
That softens his cough. He’s like, “You’re not going to tell her, are you?”
I’m like, “Dude, I would have to be one seriously mean and spiteful person who despised his parents to do something like that. Of course I’m going to tell her.”