The airport is absolutely rammers and I’m in – it has to be said – scintillating form, so much so that Sorcha actually remorks on it.
She goes, “You’re in, like, really good form,” except she says it like it’s an accusation.
I’m there, “A week away from kids – er, who wouldn’t be?”
She’s like, “Is that your third beer?”
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It’s actually my fourth. I threw one down while she was in the jacks.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, it’s definitely in that ballpork.”
She’s looking up at the deportures board to see if our flight is leaving on time.
That’s when we hear a voice go, “Oh! My God! Sorcha Lalor!”
And – yeah, no – it ends up being Melissa Bliss, a girl she was in, like, UCD with back in the day. Did Orts. Never heard of her again. The old story.
“How many years has it been?” the girl goes.
Sorcha ends up blanking me for the next pretty much hour. The next time she opens her mouth to me, in fact, is when we’re in the air over – I don’t know – wherever
And Sorcha’s like, “Oh my God, I don’t even want to think about it?”
She introduces us to some randomer, who turns out to be her husband, Mike. The dude is Canadian. She says she’s been living in Vancouver for, like, 20 years.
“And Ross,” she goes, “how are you?”
The only two things I remember about Melissa are (1) she had zero interest in rugby and (2) – and there’s possibly a connection here – she had zero time for the Rossmeister General. As a matter of fact, she used to tell Sorcha that she was punching well below her weight going out with me – and that once she got over her fixation with rugby players, she’d be left with a dude whose IQ was the same as his belt size.
Which is 34, by the way. I don’t know if that’s high or low in IQ terms.
“So where are you heading?” Melissa goes. “Somewhere nice?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, Dubai.”
Melissa and Mike look at me like I’m actually speaking in, I don’t know, Dubaish.
“Ross,” Sorcha goes, “we’re not going to Dubai.”
I’m there, “Aren’t we?”
She’s like, “We cancelled? Weeks ago? Because of, like, the war?”
I’m there, “What war?” and I genuinely mean it.
I wouldn’t be a big follower of current affairs, Babes. Who’s even involved?
She turns to Melissa and goes, “I’m really sorry,” for some reason feeling the need to apologise for me?
“We’ve got to run,” Melissa goes. “Our gate is about to close. Lovely to see you, Sorcha. We must connect on LinkedIn,” and off the two of them fock.
Sorcha ends up blanking me for the next pretty much hour. The next time she opens her mouth to me, in fact, is when we’re in the air over – I don’t know – wherever. I’ve still no idea where we’re even going.
She’s like, “How could you not have heard about the war?”
I’m there, “I wouldn’t be a big follower of current affairs, Babes. Who’s even involved?”
She goes, “Like, what do you and your friends talk about, Ross?”
I’m there, “Rugby.”
And she’s like, “I should have known better than to ask.”
I’m there, “So where are we going if you don’t mind me asking?”
She goes, “Quinta do Lago. We’re staying in your dad’s aportment – you said you’d ask him, remember?”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, I remember now. The thing about the war is storting to ring a bell as well.”
Both lies, by the way. She goes quiet again.
I’m there, “Are you thinking about what Melissa used to say about what would happen if you ended with a rugby player?”
She’s like, “No.”
She’s more than capable of telling the odd porky herself.
Anyway, fast forward a few hours and we’ve landed in, I don’t know, whatever actual country Quints is in, we’re talking Spain-slash-Portugal. We get an Uber to the aportment. It’s, like, two in the morning and we decide to hit the sack.
Some old dude is standing there staring at me. I’ve never seen him before in my life. He’s looking at me like he thinks he might be dreaming me. I’m in the raw
So we’re in the bed and you can probably guess what happens. Yeah, no, I’ll spare you the gory details, but we end up – in fairness – rattling the headboard for a good 15 to 20 minutes and that’s not an exaggeration.
Afterwards, Sorcha is silent again, except this time it’s a happy silent, like she’s delighted with the choice she made all those years ago and she doesn’t care what so-called Melissa Bliss thinks.
I kiss her on the top of the head and I step out of the room to see if the old man left any sticks of Heinemite in the fridge the last time he was here. Except when I step out onto the landing, the most random thing ends up happening.
Some old dude is standing there staring at me. I’ve never seen him before in my life. He’s looking at me like he thinks he might be dreaming me. I’m in the raw, by the way. I’m just adding that detail for a bit of colour.
I step past the dude and I go, “Excuse me. I’m just going to grab myself a cold one. Sorry about the noise, by the way. I hope we didn’t wake you,” and I give him a big wink.
I watch his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, except he can’t form any words, until he finally manages to go, “Margaret – there’s a naked man on the landing! Call the police!”
I have a chuckle at that one. It’s a good story to tell the goys later. It’ll be one in the eye for the critics who say that all I can talk about is rugby.
I tip downstairs and I notice that I’ve left my mobile phone on the table. I ring the old man while I’m opening the fridge. He answers on the seventh ring.
He goes, “Ross?” sounding like he’s still half-asleep.
It’s the middle of the night, bear in mind.
I’m like, “How the hell are you?”
He goes, “Four, three, one, nine –”
I’m there, “Dude, I’m not ringing you for your credit cord number. Jesus, is that what you really think of me?”
He’s like, “Sorry, Kicker! So why are you ringing?”
I’m there, “You could have told me you let one of your mates have the aportment.”
He goes, “What aportment?”
I’m like, “The one in Spain-slash-Portugal. Why are there no beers in this fridge, by the way?”
“Ross,” he goes, “I sold the aportment two years ago. I’m sure I told you that.”
I just hang up on him, wondering how I’m going to break the news to Sorcha without her thinking that Melissa may have been right all along.
