‘One of the qualities that made me – in the words of Gerry Thornley – the most exciting prospect that Irish rugby has seen since Ollie Campbell, was my quick decision-making’
SORCHA RINGS ME in literally tears and asks me if I’m anywhere near Blackrock. I honestly haven’t heard her this upset since Jennifer Aniston’s dog died. I’m there, “Sorcha, calm down. Now, just tell me, what’s wrong?”
She’s like, “I’m in Debenhams, Ross . . . ”
“Jesus!” I go, pulling a James Bond-style U-ey on the Rock Road. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
She roars at me loud enough to turn my brain into a focking smoothie. “I’m not upset because I’m in Debenhams.”
Three or four years ago, she would have been. Shows you how much the world has changed.
I’m like, “What’s the deal then, babes?”
“Honor had an – oh my God – freak attack in the middle of the Frascati Centre.”
I feel my shoulders suddenly loosen up. I actually laugh. “That’s hordly a biggie,” I go. “They’d be well used to that kind of shit in there. Jesus, it’s Blackrock, Sorcha.”
“Oh my God, you should have heard the names she called me. Ross, she said I was a bad mother.”
“Well, that’s obviously horsh.”
“Ross – get out here now!”
I hang up, then lean on the accelerator. The thing is, roysh, I already know what this is about? Fionn and Erika have asked Honor to be a flower girl at their wedding and I knew there’d be trouble from the minute Sorcha mentioned that the dress was going to be high street.
I swing into the Frascati cor pork and I spot Sorcha straight away, standing outside the main entrance, with her make-up all over the place, like someone shot her in the face with a paintball gun. She throws her orms around me like she’s just been rescued from a burning building and I’m about to ask where Honor is when I suddenly spot her over Sorcha’s shoulder. She’s inside, sitting on that little bench outside the jewellers, talking to someone on her phone, not a care in the world.
Sorcha pulls away from me, dabs at her eyes with the back of her hand, and goes, “There’s nothing wrong with high street, Ross. Kate Middleton has been – oh my God – championing it? And there’s a picture in Look this month of Sienna Miller wearing a pair of acid skinnies from just Topshop – and, like, totally rocking them.”
You can picture me, I’m sure, pulling sympathetic faces. It’s easier all round. “Well, you’ve won me over,” I go. “I take it Honor is unconvinced.”
“She stormed out of the shop, Ross.”
“I don’t know how you managed to get her in there in the first place. Fair focks would be my attitude.”
“She said it’s going to be designer or she’s not doing it. Ross, what am I going to do? Erika is her actual godmother.”
One of the qualities that made me – in the words of Gerry Thornley – the most exciting prospect that Irish rugby has seen since Ollie Campbell, was my quick decision-making. I’ve always had this ability to see things, I suppose, clearly?
“Why don’t we just let her get a designer dress,” I go. “She made a fortune from that movie. Let her pay for it herself.”
From her reaction, you’d swear I’d suggested buying her a focking gun. She’s like, “That money is for her future, Ross. We’re living in a country – in case you haven’t noticed – where the government has squandered the National Pensions Reserve Fund bailing out the banks. Who knows what kind of a future she’s going to have. Now, I want you to go in there and talk to her. Do your job as a father.”
Sometimes I wonder was I just born under a bad sign.
I shake my head and I go, “Fine!” and then I push the door and wander in. Honor sees me coming and rolls her eyes. She says to whoever’s on the other end of the phone, “Here comes the cavalry! Triple yay!”
I end up just standing around like a fool waiting for her to finish her call. She’s going, “OMG, I would so heart that. Let me know when you’re going. Toats. Anyway – got to go, love you so. Ciao for now,” and then she finally hangs up.
“Your mother’s upset,” is my opening line.
Honor rolls her eyes again. “Is life just one big period for that woman?”
I end up laughing. I can’t help it. It’s the idea of, like, a six-year-old coming up with that.
I’m like, “You possibly shouldn’t speak about your mother like that.”
“Why not? I’ve heard you say that.”
“I’m not denying it’s a cracking line, Honor. I’m just saying – should maybe show her some respect and blah blah blah.”
“Yeah, whatevs. Tell her when she’s finished her potty break, I’m ready to go into BTs and get, like, a real dress?”
I end up laughing at that as well, even though I know I possibly shouldn’t? A woman walking by gives me a serious filthy, so I turn around and go, “Hey, why don’t you mind your own focking business,” and off she scuttles.
Honor smiles at me, as if to say, nice one. She’s her daddy’s girl, there’s no doubt about that.
“Look,” I go, trying to reason with her, “your mother’s worried about the economy and the banks and the National Reserve Something Something . . . ”
“SEP, Dad! SEP!”
“SEP?”
“Somebody! Else’s! Problem! I have my own money. She just won’t let me spend it. Probably because she’s, like, jealous?”
I nod. “Well, her other point is that high street is, like, in at the moment?”
“But seriously, folks!”
I laugh again – can’t help it. “I think she’s just trying to make the point that the world has basically changed. Ireland is supposedly focked, remember.”
“Er, DILLIGAC, Dad?”
“DILLIGAC! Okay, what’s that one?”
“Do I Look Like I Give a Crap?”
I go through the letters in my mind. It does actually spell that. I might end up using that one myself.
“Okay,” I go, “you’ve made some very valid points here today, Honor. So what I’m going to suggest is, like, a compromise?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You can have a designer dress for the wedding – that’s if it even goes ahead, which I seriously doubt anyway. But I’m going to be the one who pays for it.”
The way she looks at me – you wouldn’t understand it unless you’re a parent yourself. Her little eyes fill up with tears and she, like, throws her orms around my neck and goes, “Oh! My God! I love you muchly, Daddy. I love you muchly.”
It’s a real cut-out-and-keep moment. “This way,” I go, “everyone’s happy.”
Except, of course, I couldn’t be more wrong if I tried. I turn around and catch Sorcha staring at us through the glass doors. She knows instantly what I’ve done, because that’s how well she knows me. She has a face on her like a suitcase that has been thrown from a train. I watch her turn away and walk sadly across the corpork of the Frascati Centre.
And under her breath, Honor sniggers and goes, “Love you, kiss you, already miss you!”
rossocarroll kelly.ie, twitter.com/ rossock