‘I had a Jack Bauer and got all dressed up. Even had a few splashes of the new Tom Ford. When you’re acting, you sort of, like, go into character, don’t you?’
SO I SPENT MOST of the week sex-texting my sister. That’s a line, I realise, that possibly requires some explanation? See, I was convinced that Erika – who is supposedly marrying Fionn – was still in love with Jesus Taradella, this Olympic showjumping dude from Argentina, who has suddenly appeared back in her life after however-many years, just as she’s about to walk down the aisle with one of my best friends.
People kept telling me there was, like, nothing in it. They were just old mates who happened to reconnect on Twitter when he was over for the actual Dublin Horse Show. But with the wedding only a few weeks away, he was still hanging around like a fart in a Smart car.
Maybe Sorcha was right. Maybe I was judging people by my own – I’d have to admit – low standards. But no one knows the old deadlier of the species better than me and I was convinced there was something going on.
So what I did was I borrowed her iPhone, went into her contacts, deleted my details and stuck my number in under his name? So that night she ended up getting a text from supposedly him, telling her that he still loved her and all the rest of it. And she texted back straight away saying that she still loved me – well, him.
Then she texted, “Jesus – what are we going to do?”
Well, I knew what I was going to do. I was going to catch her in the act. I was the one saying all along that she was hitting the panic button getting engaged to Fionn – wrong side of 30 and all that – and I was saying that as her brother and his best man.
Fionn’s, like, an out-of-work teacher with glasses. All it was going to take was for some rich looker to stort sniffing around her again and the poor geek was going to be out of the picture. I know Erika of old. If it hadn’t been Jesus, it would have been some other dude.
But I needed more evidence. Which is why I storted with the whole, like, inappropriate texting thing. One thing that’s always been said about me is that I have the gift of the serious gab. I storted with a few gentle openers, just to ease us into it. It was all, “I love the way your hair moves” and, “You could actually do modelling”, the kind of lines that any girl who’s spent time in the likes of Cafe en Seine and Krystle would recognise as my stock in trade. All written with an Argentina accent, by the way, just to keep it – I don’t know – authentic?
Well, it wasn’t long before we progressed from observations about hair and possible modelling careers to something a bit more adult – your something-somethings make me all something-something and I wouldn’t mind blahdy-blahing all over your blahdy blahdy blah-blahs.
Erika was giving as good as she was getting, by the way. She has a mouth like a bus station toilet seat when the mood takes her. Pretty quickly – as is the way with these things – the conversation turned to the possibility of putting into practice what was being discussed in theory. She was the one who mentioned a hotel. She was like, “We need to get a room.”
And I fired back straight away with, “Okay – where?”
“The Westbury. Friday night.”
Well, you can imagine how I felt at that moment. Like I said, I’ve always had a way with words and I was sort of, like, quietly congratulating myself on the job I’d done in talking yet another girl into bed. I had to keep reminding myself, of course, that she was a blood relative and that this was actually a set-up to stop a good friend of mine getting his hort broken into a million basic pieces.
As our supposed date approached, I storted to get the old butterflies-in-the-tummy feeling, which I put down to pretty much nerves. Friday arrived. I had a Jack Bauer and I got all dressed up. Even had a few splashes of the new Tom Ford. I don’t know why I went to all the effort – I suppose when you’re acting, you sort of, like, go into character, don’t you?
I grabbed an Andy McNab into town. “Jesus,” the driver went, “you smell like a hooer’s handbag. Big night, is it?”
I laughed and went, “You could say that, yeah.”
I had to keep reminding myself why I was doing this. Me and Fionn have had our differences over the years. I’d be on the record as saying that he was punching way above his weight with Erika anyway. In a way, he deserved the kick in the towns that was coming to him. But then, on the other hand, we played rugby together. And that’s got to count for something – even in a world that is turning to shit under our feet.
Erika texted. She was like, “Room 108. Waiting for you x.”
I paid the driver and had a last run through my gameplan. Because that’s what big-game players do. I’d knock on the door. When she answered it, I’d go, “Expecting someone else?” and, like, film her reaction using my phone. Then I’d show the footage to Fionn. Or maybe put it up on YouTube. I hadn’t thought that bit through.
I walked up the stairs, past reception and into the lift slash elevator. I hit the button for the first floor. The doors opened again and I wandered down the corridor. I was doing the right thing. I knew it. The thing was a sham. I’d been saying it since day one, except no one was listening to me.
I found the room and knocked. Through the door, I could hear Erika go, “At last! I thought you’d never get here!”
Then she reefed it open.
I didn’t get the reaction I was expecting. Instead of being, like, shocked, she ended up just smiling at me and going, “Hello!” as if it was me she was actually expecting. And then she burst out laughing. Over her shoulder, I could see Fionn, laughing as well, and shaking his head at me.
“You knew?” I went.
She was like – and she didn’t need to say this, in my humble op – “Ross, you really are a sad little man.”
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