'Isolde felt two sets of fingers tug against the elasticated waist of her cropped towelling pants'
The old dear has let someone have a crack at her face again. Her forehead is suspiciously wrinkle-free and her lips are swollen into a permanent pout.
She looks like a focking monkey sucking a Locket.
“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “she looks so amazing.”
We’re in, like, the Merrion Hotel at the launch of her new so-called erotic novel, Fifty Greys in Shades, about an active retirement group from Cornelscourt and Foxrock who go on holiday to the Algorve and discover a reawakening of their sexuality – and then presumably stort humping each other.
“Your mum never seems to age,” Sorcha goes – she was always a bit of a crawler where my old dear is concerned. “I’d love to know her secret.”
I’m like, “Women like her don’t age. The ratio between what’s real and what’s artificial just keeps shifting.”
“Ross, don’t be mean – not on her big night.”
“Hey, I’ve never been afraid to call it. Right now I’d say the woman is about 30 per cent skin and bone and 50 per cent collagen. The other 20 per cent is Bombay gin and insincerity.”
All of sudden a hush, I suppose, descends on the room? It’s full of her friends – we’re talking veterans of her various campaigns over the years, basically to keep poor people out of the parts of the city that she likes. Then she’s suddenly standing at the – I’m throwing it out there as a possible word – lectern, with the book open in front of her.
She’s obviously going to, like, read. But first she pauses, presumably for dramatic effect, but she does it for, like, way too long and ends up totally tearing the orse out of the moment.
She goes, “Herman was emptying the sand from his espadrilles into the bathroom sink when the knock on the door came.”
I’m like, “Herman? Where the fock does she even get these names?” Someone shushes me – actually shushes me?
“He considered not answering. He didn’t want company – not at this moment. The argument on the beach with Mr Loughran had taken a lot out of him. And at 82, he knew he had to think of his heart. But the knocking persisted. He went to the door and answered. Isolde was standing there in a Marks and Spencer’s tangerine T-shirt with matching cropped towelling pants, looking up at him over the top of her reading glasses.‘’ello, Mr Chistman,’ she said. Herman nodded and acknowledged her with a formal: ‘Mrs Kendall’.”
I’m looking around to see does anyone else think this is total horseshit – except they don’t? They’re all obviously into it, lapping up every line. Sorcha – who reads actual books – turns to me and goes, “Her characters are – oh my God – so well drawn.”
“Herman opened the door wider as an invitation to Isolde to enter.
‘I came to see if you were okay,’ she said. ‘I know Mr Loughran upset you.’ They had argued badly. Voices were raised; the Saviour’s name invoked. The row was over the Seniors Got Talent singing contest that was due to take place in the commissary the following night. Herman was going to be Roy Orbison. He said it first. But then Mr Loughran announced that he was going to be Roy Orbison too. It seemed so trivial now. But there was a history of bad blood between them. Mr Loughran was from ‘new Foxrock’. Herman would have considered it more Deansgrange and he was never slow in reminding people. They could never be friends.”
Sorcha shakes her head. “She builds the tension – oh my God – so well.”
“Isolde smiled. ‘There is a solution,’ she said. ‘You can both be Roy Orbison. You can do Candyman.’ Herman said ‘Candyman,’ Isolde repeated. ‘And Mr Loughran can do Blue Bayou.’ It was a simple solution.
Herman had been too worked up to see it. ‘That man,’ he said, ‘he gets under my skin. That’s not even real Foxrock he’s from.’ “Isolde touched his forearm absently. ‘Come on, Mr Christman,’ she said. ‘You remember what Dr Goswami said about your blood pressure.’ Herman recoiled – it was sunburn rather than shyness. ‘Sweet merciful hour!’ Isolde exclaimed. ‘Your poor arms! We need to put something on them.‘ She disappeared into Herman’s bathroom and returned a moment later with a bottle of aftersun.
“She squeezed some into her hand, warmed it between her palms, then touched Herman’s arm with it, in light, tentative touches at first, but then more fully, with gentle, loving strokes.”
“For fock’s sake!” I obviously shout. “These are, like, pensioners she’s talking about!” I’m shushed again – by, like, 20 or 30 people this time.
“There was a change in the current between them. There was no point in denying it. Herman felt a tectonic movement in an area that had long been inactive. ‘It’s important to look after your skin,’ Isolde said, trembling now, ‘especially at our age,’ and she quietly chastised herself for sounding so gauche: it seemed like such an affront to the moment.
Herman leaned closer to her. He was aware of her smell now. Olay Anti-Wrinkle Targeted Treatment Serum and Fox’s Glacier Mints.
“Their lips joined. Herman felt suddenly strong and vital, the same way he’d felt when first they met, on Kildare Street, the day they helped force a Government U-turn on the issue of means-testing medical cards for the over-70s. Isolde felt two sets of fingers tug against the elasticated waist of her cropped towelling pants and, in an instant, she knew what it was to be a teenager again.”
The old dear looks up, looking incredibly pleased with herself. I’m suddenly deafened by the applause.
