The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years (21 page)

I sit down beside some goy on this, like, hard chair. The goy’s off his face, roysh, and he’s got, like, a McGuigan moustache and DUBS tattooed across his knuckles. He smells of piss. I’m like, ‘Which Dorsh station do you work in?’ He goes, ‘I don’t work in a Dart station.’ I’m like, ‘Sorry, it’s just a private joke I have.’ He goes, ‘I used to. Got laid off last week.’ I’m like, ‘Oh, roysh. What are you waiting for now?’ He goes, ‘Making a complaint. Police brutality.’

We sit there for, like, half-an-hour and no one comes near us. Eventually, roysh, the goy goes, ‘Good night, tonight?’ I’m there, ‘The worst ever. Don’t think just because I’m good-looking that I’ve no worries.’ The goy’s too locked to even understand me. I’m there, ‘You know, I hate this town. I hate this
focking
town.’

I must be sobering up because I’m storting to wonder what the fock I’m doing still sitting there. I get up and go outside. It’s already storting to get bright. I put my hands in the pockets of my chinos and stort walking in the direction of Dalkey.

It’s half-past five in the morning, roysh, when I pull up outside the old pair’s next-door neighbours’ gaff and I take out a can of, like, blue spray paint and I write Glasgow Rangers Football Club across the front gate. JP’s idea. A nice touch.

I did a shitty thing. A really shitty thing. For the last two weeks, all anyone has been talking about is, like, Sophie’s liposculpture operation, or I should say rumours about Sophie having a liposculpture operation because basically nobody knew the truth. She told us she was going in to hospital to have, like, an ingrown toenail removed, then said she didn’t want any visitors, and the girls were all like, ‘
Hello
?’ and it was actually Aoife who came up with the liposculpture theory on account of the fact that Sophie was always going on about still having a fat chin and fat thighs no matter how much weight she lost.

Chloe goes, ‘Why can’t she just admit it then? She’s spent the last, like, I don’t know how many years talking about
rhytidectomies
and laser skin-resurfacing – the girl is, like,
TOTALLY
obsessed
– and then I asked her what she got for her twenty-first and she couldn’t give me a straight answer.’ Aoife goes, ‘You think it’s a rhytidectomy?’ I’m like, ‘I’m lost. What the fock is a rhytidectomy?’ Aoife goes, ‘An operation to get rid of, like, sagging skin around your eyes and your lips.’ Chloe goes, ‘And frown lines. Oh my God, she is going to be
such
a bitch when she gets out of hospital. She’s going to think she’s
SO
beautiful.’ And Aoife goes, ‘She
SO
will. I bet she makes a move on Simon at Críosa’s going-away-to-Australia porty.’ Oisinn arrives over with the drinks and he’s like, ‘Who are you talking about?’ and Aoife’s like, ‘Sophie,’ and he goes, ‘Did you hear she’s having a breast job?’ Chloe says she heard it was liposculpture, but Oisinn says it’s definitely a breast job because he heard it from Gavin, who’s been seeing her sister on and off, say nothing to Katie, we’re talking BT2 Katie, because she’d go ballistic. Oisinn goes, ‘Definitely boobs. God knows she could do with
them.’ Aoife’s there, ‘And a tummy-tuck.’ And I tell them I’m
going
to the bor in a minute if anyone wants a saucer of milk.

All of this is basically background. What happened was, roysh, this particular night, about three days later, I was sitting in the gaff, chilling out, watching the Geri Halliwell yoga video that the goys got me for my birthday, when Oisinn calls over, roysh, and the two of us get talking and somehow we come up with this, like, plan to drive out to the hospital where Sophie’s staying, sort of, like, doorstep her, to basically see what she’s getting done for ourselves.

I don’t want to sound like I’m getting deep here, but you shouldn’t, like, judge me, or if you do, roysh, you need to know where I’m, like, coming from. You’re talking about a goy whose old dear wrote to the National Gallery to tell them she thought the idea of charging people in to see those new paintings was – and I quote – “splendid, because it deters undesirables from hanging around the place”. We’re talking about a goy whose old man believes that pound shops are immoral because they – his words now – “exploit the fallen in our society, the unfortunates, the wretched poor”. None of this is an excuse for what
happened
, roysh, but I’m an asshole only because my old pair were assholes before me and it’s all to do with, like, genes and shit. So before I tell you the story, you shouldn’t judge me.

The cor pulls up outside the hospital and the two of us get out, still breaking our shites laughing, but trying to hold it together long enough to ask the porter what ward she’s in. He says St Ann’s and we take the stairs two at a time, the adrenaline really going through us now. Oisinn goes, ‘This is going to be a laugh,’ and I’m like, ‘Totally.’ This nurse, roysh – black hair, glasses, pretty do-able – she asks us who we’re looking for and
we tell her and she tells us there’s a Sophie in, like, the second last ward on the left. So we head down, roysh, and the room is empty. There’s magazines – we’re talking
Cosmopolitan, Celebrity Spy, In
Style
– scattered all over the bed, but nothing to show that it’s, like, Sophie’s ward. I turn around to Oisinn and I go, ‘Is that her dressing-gown?’ And Oisinn goes, ‘How the fock would I know?’ I’m like, ‘I thought you said you were with her before?’ And Oisinn’s like, ‘Yeah, but she wasn’t
wearing
anything
obviously
.’

All of a sudden, roysh, we turn around and we see her, down the far end of the corridor. She’s got her back to us and it’s
actually
her old dear we recognise first. She’s standing chatting to her, roysh, so we hang around for, like, a couple of minutes,
trying
not to look too suspicious, waiting for the old dear to go. After about ten minutes, roysh, she gives Sophie a hug and tells her she’ll ring her tonight and then she’s, like, gone. Sophie turns around, roysh, and storts, like, walking towards us,
holding
onto the wall as she does, which is when we notice for the first time, roysh, that her whole face is wrapped in bandages. She’s got them, like, around her mouth and over her nose and across her eyes, so she can’t see a thing. And as she gets closer, roysh, it’s like she’s aware of the fact that there’s someone standing in front of her because she stops feeling her way down the wall and just stands there. And the look on my face, roysh, it just sets Oisinn off into hysterics. He storts breaking his shite laughing, and Sophie drops this bunch of grapes she’s holding. I turn around, roysh, and I go, ‘Focking hell, Sophie. You look like the Elephant Man.’

But she doesn’t laugh, roysh. She’s just there, like, frozen to the spot. And me and Oisinn, roysh, we suddenly hear the
sound of, like, water splashing onto the floor. And we look down, and Sophie’s, like, pissed herself. Must have been the fright she got. We get the fock out of there before she storts screaming and the nurses call for security. And on the way home not a single word passes between us, between Oisinn and his asshole friend.

Erika says she
is
not
putting up with it, she is
SO
not putting up with it, and she calls over the waitress, roysh, and she goes, ‘This soup is cold,’ and the waitress, a total focking howiya, she’s like, ‘I’ll change it,’ and as she’s heading back to the kitchen, Erika goes, ‘Hey you.’ The chick’s like, ‘Sorry?’ and Erika goes, ‘Tell the chef that my sister’s a microbiologist. If he spits in that soup, snots in it or anything like that, I’ll sue your focking orses. Now go and get me a hot one.’ When she’s gone, roysh, Erika turns around to Keelin and goes, ‘That girl has a
serious
attitude problem. I told you we should have gone to Wagamamma.’ Keelin, who’s working in, like, human resources, roysh, she tells me that I look
SO
well in a suit and out of the corner of my eye, roysh, I can see Erika giving her daggers. I wolf down the rest of my tuna and cheese melt and tell them I have to, like, head back to the office, busy afternoon ahead, shitload of paperwork to get through on that house I’m selling, blah blah blah.

I sold this house, roysh – I say house, I mean kennel – we’re talking one room downstairs that’s, like, big enough for a sofa, a TV, a fridge and a cooker, one bedroom upstairs and a box room big enough to fit a futon. Middle of Drimnagh, called it Crumlin,
two hundred grand and the next thing the phone’s ringing off the focking hook. Had something like eight offers for the kip. So there’s me upping the price all the time. I’m like, ‘I’m sorry, we’ve had a bid of two hundred and ten. You’re going to have to upsize your offer if you want to stay in the game.’

And JP’s old man, roysh, he’s practically frothing at the mouth listening to this, feet up on the desk opposite me, rubbing his big sweaty armpits, going, ‘Go on, Ross. Take ’em. Take ’em for five more grand. They’ve got things they can sell.’ So eventually I agree to sell it to this couple, roysh, this real IT wanker and his bird, who said she was, like, a travel agent or some shite, as if I give a fock, they were just making bullshit small talk to try to butter me up when I was showing them around. It was all like, ‘It’s everything we’ve ever dreamed of,’ and, ‘Oh, Tadhg and Arran are
SO
going to love this room.’ I’m just there thinking they’ll need a focking shoehorn to get two kids into that room.

They were there, ‘If we tighten our belts … don’t go out so much … a bit here, a bit there … no more big Christmases for a while …’ – I’m there, COME ON! – and then the goy’s like, ‘Okay, we’ll take it.’ Two hundred and forty notes they went to. So that was it, roysh, lashed the old Sale Agreed sign on it and left it to the solicitors to, like, I don’t know, solicit. So Wednesday afternoon, roysh, the two of them were due to sign for the gaff and, like, one hour before, we’re talking one
focking
hour before, we get another offer. The goy who rings up, roysh, he goes, ‘How much have you agreed to sell it for?’ I’m like, ‘Two hundred and fifty.’ JP’s old man is there egging me on, going, ‘Go on, Ross. Go on.’ The goy on the phone goes, ‘I’ll up it to two hundred and fifty-five.’ After ten minutes of to-ing and fro-ing, I’m like, ‘Sale agreed, my man. Sale agreed.’

Of course, the couple, roysh – Timmons, I think their name was – the two knobs, they try to make me feel bad about it. They ring up, roysh, and the woman’s like, ‘You didn’t show up at the signing.’ I’m like, ‘I had a better offer.’ And she’s there, ‘
Meaning
?’ getting a bit smart with me. I’m there, ‘What I mean is GAME OVER. PLEASE INSERT MORE MONEY,’ which I have to say, roysh, I was pretty pleased with. She goes, ‘You mean we’ve been gazzumped?’ I’m like, ‘Look, I don’t know what the Irish for it is and I don’t care. All I know is that you’re out of the game, and to get back in, you’re going to have to come up with another twenty grand.’

JP’s old man is in front of me, punching the air, while I’m
saying
all this to her. She’s, like, blubbing her eyes out at this stage. She goes, ‘But we’ve given our notice in the flat we’re renting. It’s Christmas in two weeks. Where are we going to go?’ I’m like, ‘We’re an estate agents, not a homeless charity,’ which is what it says on the sign over JP’s old man’s desk. ‘But … what are we going to
do
?’ she goes. JP’s old man, roysh, he must have been through this many times before because he seems to know exactly what this bird is saying. He’s shouting, ‘They’ve got kids, haven’t they? Get them out earning. Paper round or something.’

She goes, ‘My husband doesn’t even know I’m ringing. He’s gone to see our solicitor.’ I’m there, ‘Well, if your solicitor is qualified, he’ll tell you that no law has been broken. I mean, you could try Marian Finucane, if it’s just a sympathetic ear you’re looking for.’ I’m actually shocked at how easily this stuff is coming to me. JP’s old man is dancing around in front of me. I’m like, ‘And stop your focking snivelling. You’re storting to wreck my head.’ She goes, ‘We’ve got two children. What do you
suggest
I do?’ I was
SO
tempted to say, ‘Get yourself sterilised,’
roysh, but I didn’t. I just went, ‘It’s going to be another week or two before the other goy signs. Improve your offer.’

When I hang up, roysh, JP’s old man is lighting a cigar and just, like, staring at me in admiration. He goes, ‘Ross, all my life I’ve been looking for someone like you. You have no heart and no soul.’

I go into Bon Espresso and Patisserie to get a coffee, roysh, and the bird behind the counter goes, ‘Black or white?’ I’m like, ‘Black.’ She’s about to put the lid on it, roysh, and I’m like, ‘Could you put some milk in that as well.’ And she goes, ‘I thought you said you wanted it black?’ I’m like, ‘I meant black as in made with water, not milk.’ She goes, ‘That’s not what you said.’

Sitting in the gaff in Dalkey, roysh, basically just chilling, watching ‘90210’ and thinking to myself that Tori Spelling actually looks a bit like Shirley Temple Bar, when all of a sudden Erika rings, roysh, and she’s like, ‘Do you want to head into town? Late-night shopping?’ I’m just like, ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’ She tells me she’ll pick me up in, like, half an hour and then, before she hangs up, roysh, I hear her going, ‘Oh my God, that girl is
SO
lucky her father is Aaron Spelling.’

Erika’s attitude towards me has
SO
changed in the last few weeks, maybe because she thinks I was with Sorcha when she was home from Australia and now she wants to be with me, roysh, just so she’ll have one up on her, which is perfectly alroysh by me. I reckon at this rate I’ve a pretty decent chance of being with her on Christmas Eve, so even though shopping with birds is basically for knobs, roysh, when she asks me if I wanted to
come, I was like, ‘Oh yes, I am
SO
there.’ Headed into my room to get ready, roysh, changed back into my work clothes because I know that suits impress her, we’re talking my navy Hugo Boss suit and, like, my new blue-and-red sailing jacket, a splash of
Gio Acqua Di
, we’re talking the works here.

While I’m lashing the old wax into my hair, roysh, my phone rings and I check caller ID and it’s Dick-Features again, so I just let it go to the message-minder. When I play it back, it’s like, ‘Hello, Ross. Just your old dad here. Your old man, whatever it is you call it. Just ringing with the latest on the pair next door. You won’t believe it. Snow spray, Ross! Yep, you heard right. They’ve written HAPPY XMAS on all the windows in snow spray. Snow spray, thank you very much indeed. Probably taken about twenty thousand euros off the value of our house in the process. The Gardaí were no help, of course. No crime has been committed, etcetera, etcetera. These people know the law inside out. All the loopholes. And the other thing–’ Then he suddenly gets cut off. What a knob.

I hear the front doorbell buzzing, roysh, and for one horrible moment I think it might be him, that he’s, like, actually managed to find out where I’m living, but it turns out to be Erika, roysh, and she’s, like, early. I head downstairs, hop into her cor and go to kiss her on the cheek, but she goes, ‘Don’t push it,’ and then she sort of, like, turns her nose up and goes, ‘
Gio Acqua Di
? Oh my God, Ross, that is
SO
last year.’ We get into town about seven o’clock, roysh, pork in the Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre and head straight for Grafton Street, where there’s this big crowd and they’re, like, picketing the shop we’re heading to, a couple of them I think I recognise from Annabel’s, and they’re giving out leaflets with
BATTERY BUNNIES
in big writing on them,
and they’re like, ‘Don’t go in there, they’re selling rabbit fur. Don’t go in there, they’re selling rabbit fur.’

I stop, roysh, and I’m actually considering not going in, but Erika walks straight past them and I sort of, like, call her back and she turns around and goes, ‘
Hello
? What is your problem?’ I’m like, ‘You’re not actually going to, like, pass the picket, are you?’ She goes, ‘Of course I am. There’s fock-all in French Connection I like.’ One of the protesters, roysh, this fairly alroysh-looking bird who may or may not be Tiernan’s cousin, she goes, ‘You
SO
shouldn’t go in. Did you not hear what we’ve been shouting? They’re selling rabbit fur in there.’ Erika goes, ‘And they’re
selling
rabbit stew in Patrick Guilbaud’s. So focking what?’ And this chick, roysh, the protester one, she goes totally ballistic then, roysh, and we’re talking
TOTALLY
. She’s like, ‘Oh, so is
that
how you like to think of rabbits, in a stew?’ Erika just looks her up and down, roysh, and goes, ‘
Don’t
give me that. I don’t even like stew.’ And then, just to piss this bird off, she goes, ‘I prefer rabbit braised, if you must know, with herb crust and Bunratty mead. And basil
jus
.’

This bird, roysh, I think her name’s Jade, she goes, ‘I
remember
you from Mount Anville. You were in the class below me. You never got involved with Greenpeace or anything like that. The only thing you ever cared about was you. You certainly never cared about the planet, or issues, or …’ Erika, roysh, she just looks her up and down again and she’s like, ‘Sorry, did the death of Linda McCartney open up a gap in the market that you’re trying to fill?’ Jade’s like, ‘You have one
serious
attitude problem. At least animals aren’t just food to me. Or something to wear.’

And Erika, she always has to have the last word, roysh, she goes, ‘Oh no, they’re much, much more than that. They can also
be used for testing cosmetics. Come on, Ross.’ She goes into the shop and I, like, follow her in. What else could I do? I turned around to Jade, shrugged my shoulders and went, ‘She got you there. You have to admit it.’

My stash of CDs is, like, humungous now. A random taste: we’re talking
Come On Over
by Shania Twain, we’re talking
Be Yourself
Tonight
by the Eurythmics, we’re talking
Ocean Drive
by the Lighthouse Family, we’re talking the soundtrack from
Coyote
Ugly
, we’re basically talking
Changing Faces
by Louise, we’re talking
Never Stop the Alpenpop
by DJ Otzi, we’re talking
Young Lust
by Aerosmith, we’re talking
Full Circle
by Boyz II Men, we’re talking
Panpipes – the Flight of the Condor
, we’re talking basically
Gold – the
Greatest Hits of Steps
, we’re talking the soundtrack from
Notting
Hill
, we’re talking Rise by Gabrielle, we’re talking
Tuesday Night
Music Club
by Sheryl Crow, we’re talking the soundtrack from
Moulin Rouge.
But I did not – despite what she’s said to at least two people I know – steal
Step
One
by S Club 7 from Ailish, as in Ailish LSB always in Lillies lives in Donnybrook Ailish. She focking
wishes.