‘I’m marrying the love of my life. And that’s no offence to your mother, Ross’
WIFE!” THE OLD MAN GOES – as he tends to do when he’s feeling, I don’t know, philosophical? “As Father Denis Fehily – your old mentor and mine, Ross – used to say, ‘It’s like chasing a rugby ball. You can follow its trajectory all you bloody well want. But just when you think you know where’s it’s going, it jumps up and confounds you.’ Tch! I don’t know!”
I end up just shaking my head. “You’re not having any more brandy.”
And he laughs, all innocence. “Haven’t touched a drop of the stuff,” he goes. “I’m merely in scintillating form. And why wouldn’t I be? In 20 minutes’ time, I’m going to be marrying the love of my life. And that’s no offence to your mother, Ross.”
This is us in, like, Barbados, by the way.
I roll my eyes. “Hey, offend away. I don’t know how you ended up with that raddled, gin-swilling soak in the first place.”
He pulls a face like he thinks I’m being possibly horsh. He’s like, “Our marriage wasn’t perfect, Ross. But, well, it wasn’t without its high points.”
I actually laugh? I’m there, “Okay, name one.” It’s at that exact point that Sorcha walks into the room and storts putting my cornation into my button hole.
“Well,” the old man goes, “if I’d never met your mother, then you’d never have been born.”
I’m like, “Er, yes I would. It’s just that Helen would have been my actual mother instead.”
He stares at me for a long time, trying to work out whether I’m ripping the pistachio or not.
Sorcha goes, “Don’t confuse him, Charles. Biology wasn’t his strongest subject in school.”
That’s true. Although I wasn’t any worse at it than any of the other subjects I supposedly took.
He takes a breath. “Do you know what?” he goes. “I’m feeling rather nervous.”
I’m there, “Why? She’ll definitely show up.” Of course she will. Helen’s in her 60s. What the fock else is she going to do? Hold out for Enrique Iglesias?
“I know she’ll show up!” he goes. “It’s just, well, I don’t know – it’s like my entire life has been building up to this moment. You’d know how that feels, Ross.”
“Would I?”
“Of course! The senior cup final! Nineteen hundred and ninety-nine!”
“Oh, yeah!”
“I wish I could handle the nerves like you did that day. The bigger the occasion, the bigger the performance – that was always the way with you.”
I’ve had my differences with this man over the years but it’s amazing the way he still bulls me up. If confidence had been a Leaving Cert subject, then I wouldn’t have got all NGs like I did.
Sorcha looks amazing, I possibly should mention. I attempted to have my sweaty way with her while we were getting dressed earlier – gave her one or two compliments, full eye contact, the lot – but she’s holding firm on her demand that I – what was it? – demonstrate my commitment to her by remaining celibate until she’s ready to do the nasty-nasty.
The old man goes, “I just wish . . .” and then his voice sort of, like, trails off. Except he doesn’t have to finish his sentence? I know what he means.
He wishes Erika was here.
I’m the only one, by the way, who knows that she is. And presumably Helen, since I sent Erika up to her hotel room about 15 minutes ago. Up the Hilary Duff as well. There’s going to be a lot of shocked expressions in the wedding photographs. They’re all going to look like plane crash survivors.
The door opens and in walks Hennessy, carrying a bottle of, well, Hennessy. “Let’s get this gone,” he goes.
The old man’s like, “No, no, Old Scout. I was just telling Kicker here. I haven’t touched a drop this morning and neither do I intend to. I want my memory of this day to be crystal clear.”
Hennessy looks at him like he’s just said, “I think I’ll take my mickey out in the middle of the service.”
“Please yourself,” he goes, then he pours himself one, at the same time – I notice – stealing sly looks at Sorcha’s ta-tas, which her dress is doing a great job of showcasing.
“Okay,” I just go, clapping my hands together. “Hammer Time,” which’d be a catchphase of mine going back to my rugby days.
“Okay,” the old man goes. “Lead on, Best Man!”
We walk down – the four of us – to the little private beach, where the actual vows are going to be exchanged. We step on to the sand and meet the dude who’s going to perform the actual ceremony. Me, the old man and Hennessy are all wearing white suits. We look like the world’s shittest boyband.
Hennessy and Sorcha go and sit down on these chairs that the hotel have arranged on the sand. He’s still scoping her chest, by the way – the drink making him oblivious to how basically obvious he’s being?
Then it’s suddenly just me and the old man, facing the front, listening to the sound of the tide and his efforts to get his breathing under control.
“Are you okay?” I go, thinking about his hort history.
He’s like, “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just thinking what a pity it is that Dermot and JP couldn’t have been here. I did invite them. Busy, don’t you know!”
And, for the first time in my life, roysh, I resist the temptation to go, “Dermot and JP couldn’t pick you out of a police line-up,” or, “Do you have to be such a knob?” or even just, “Stop talking, Dick Features.”
I just go, “I hope you’re going to be very happy. You deserve it . . . er, Dad.”
And, of course, typically then, he ends up trying to turn it into a moment. “What a wonderful thing to say!” he goes.
Except then the dude who’s about to marry them gestures with his eyes to say that the bride has arrived.
The music storts up. Pie Jesu. The usual.
I lean in to the old man. “I’ve got a present for you,” I go, and I look over my shoulder to see Erika – heavily preggers – linking her old dear and making their way down the beach.
Happy.