‘Molton Brown – you’d hordly know that Sorcha owes however many Ks it is to the Hilary Swank’
'IM STANDING in this, like, Euro Hero discount store that Sorcha is managing and I’m helping her to unpack a box of those freaky-looking gold cats (€3) that wave at you from the counters of Chinese takeaways.
All of a sudden, a voice behind us goes, “Merry Christmas!” and we both turn around at the exact same time. It ends up being the old dear. “My . . . word!” she goes, cracking on to be impressed. “Look . . . at . . . this . . . place!” like she’s just stepped into Buckingham focking Palace. Or the distillery where they make Grey Goose vodka.
“Hi, Fionnuala,” Sorcha goes and it’s suddenly air-kisses and all the rest of it. “Merry Christmas to you too.”
The old dear’s there, “This place is fabulous! Oh, the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre really needed something like this,” even though we all know that if Sorcha wasn’t managing this place, she’d have already stuck a focking picket on the door. “Look at all these wonderful . . . things you’re selling.”
She pretends to check out the tinsel (€2 for 20 metres) and the soaps shaped like Christmas puddings (50c for a pack of three) and the flip-up address books (€2) with the focked springs – and she cracks on to be impressed.
“What the fock do you even want?” I go. Sorcha rushes straight to her defence, of course. “Ross, don’t speak to your mother like that.”
“She obviously wants something,” I go. “My guess is that she’s got no plans for Christmas Day and she’s angling for an invite.”
The old dear’s there, “How dare you! I’m here to support my daughter-in-law – and friend! – in her new business endeavour, whether your cynical little mind believes it or not.” I notice that she’s trying not to breathe in too deeply.
“Would you like to come for Christmas dinner?” Sorcha has to go. The old dear’s like, “Oh, I couldn’t impose.”
“You wouldn’t be imposing, Fionnuala. It’s going to be me, Ross, Honor, my mum and dad and my sister. One more won’t make any difference. Oh my God, we’d love to have you.”
“Well, in that case,” the old dear goes, “I shall cancel my existing engagements,” and she makes sure to give me a big shit-eating smile.
I nip into the back of the shop, to the little office where Sorcha usually goes when it’s quiet – which is nearly always. The thing is, roysh, that I held the fort for her at lunchtime and I couldn’t help but notice that she came back with a bag from, like, Molton Brown? I end up finding it in the second-from-bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. I whip it out, pull the little ribbon and look inside. There’s, like, three bottles. One of, like, Indian Cress Instant Conditioner. One of, like, Relaxing Yuan Zhi Bath and Shower Gel. And one – happy focking days – of, like, Radiant Lili Pili Hairwash.
I hang on to that one and put the rest back.
Then I slip into the little staff toilet just off the office – the one with, “Not for customer use” on the actual door. I open the bottle and tip the entire contents down the sink. Then I give it a good rinse out. I have a bit of a chuckle to myself as I’m doing it, thinking, Molton Brown – you’d hordly know that Sorcha owes however many Ks it is to the Hilary Swank.
In the corner of the toilet are the 20 two-litre bottles of Iranian shampoo that Sorcha and me removed from the shelves a couple of weeks ago after it made a woman’s hair fall out. I grab the actual one she returned, bring it over to the sink and I use it to fill up the Lili Pili bottle. I screw the top back on, dry it off and stick it in my sky rocket. Then I head back out to the shop.
The old dear’s going, “Oh, it’ll be lovely to spend Christmas Day with my granddaughter.”
Sorcha’s ringing her items through the till. An eighteen-piece, nickel-plated Allen key set (€3), a Great Train Journeys of the World five-DVD boxset (€2), a set 37 assorted doilies (€2) and two tea towels (€1 each) with – focking hilarious, this – “Cork: City of Culture 2005” on them.
I watch the old dear go to pull out her plastic, then I go, “No credit cords, I’m afraid.”
She’s like, “What?” I’m there, “You heard. Only if you spend a Brody Jenner or more.”
Sorcha smiles sweetly at her and goes, “Sorry, Fionnuala. Oh my God, I’d obviously make an exception in your case – but Mr Whittle’s very strict about it.”
The old dear storts rooting in her bag, going, “I must see have I any euro,” saying the word like she could be talking about washers. She finds a tenner, hands it over, takes her change, wishes us a Merry Christmas again, then focks off – the demented old hag.
Sorcha ends up having a bit of a go at me then. She’s like, “Ross, you only get one mum. You really should make a better effort with her.”
I crack on to be suddenly full of regrets. “That’s a good assessment,” I go. I’m sure you can picture the sincerity on my face. “I’m actually going to go and apologise to her,” and I chase out of the shop after her.
I see her tipping down the steps and towards the doors on to South William Street. I’m like, “Excuse me!” and she turns around with a big guilty face on her. I swear to God, she was about to dump all the shit she bought into the bin just beside the door. I reach into my jacket and I produce the Molton Brown bottle. “You, er, forgot your free gift,” I go.
I hand it to her. The first thing she does is she checks the spelling on the bottle. She is such a snob. But then who am I to talk? “Yeah, no, it’s the real deal,” I go. She goes, “Oh,” genuinely surprised. “Lovely!”
Then she cocks her head to one side and sort of, like, smiles at me at an angle – which is what she does when she’s trying to get all in with me?
She’s like, “Ross, why can’t you and I be friends?” I crack on to be just as sad about it as she’s cracking on to be. I’m there, “Maybe I could make more of an effort.”
She’s delighted to hear that, of course. She’s there, “Let’s both do that this Christmas then. Put the past behind us.”
And through the doors she goes, crossing the road and heading up that little laneway that leads to actual Grafton Street, walking in a way that she probably imagines is sexy?
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock