The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years (24 page)

Saturday morning I’m on Grafton Street, roysh, four days before Christmas and nothing bought. I’m walking out of, like, BT2 and who do I walk straight into, only Alan and Margaret focking Timmons. Big faces on them. I actually try to do a legger, but the goy’s fast – wouldn’t be surprised if he, like, played rugby – and we end up having this huge row on O’Connell Bridge. He’s like, ‘You double-crossing …’ and I’m like, ‘Hey, I’m not working today. I don’t have to take this …’ He goes, ‘You sold our house to someone else.’ I’m there, ‘First of all, it was not
your
house. And second, no, it’s not sold yet. It’s still Sale Agreed.’

He has me by the scruff of the neck, roysh, and he goes, ‘We’ve nowhere to live,’ and I’m like, ‘Look, the goy’s coming in on Christmas Eve to sign. Midday. You up your offer to two hundred and sixty, throw ten in for me and it’s yours. Can’t say fairer than that.’ He goes, ‘WE DON’T HAVE THAT KIND OF MONEY.’ I can hear Cliff Richard’s voice coming out of Carroll’s. I’d forgotten how much I focking hate Christmas music. The goy’s like, ‘Please. We’ve already given our notice in the place we’re renting. We’ve got to be out tomorrow. We’ve nowhere to go for Christmas.’

All of a sudden, roysh, his wife catches up. She’s all out of breath. The goy’s like, ‘Margaret, be careful. You shouldn’t be running.’ Then he looks at me, roysh, playing the sympathy cord, and goes, ‘My wife’s pregnant.’ I’m just like, ‘Well, I’m not taking the blame for that.’ She’s like, ‘You bastard. We’ve nowhere to go. For Christmas.’

I’m wondering whether I should buy a new Helly Hansen fleece now or wait for, like, the sales. I’m there, ‘Look, I’m
actually
shopping for my Christmas clothes. And you’re making a bit
of a show of me here.’ He’s there, ‘Look at me. Look me in the eyes. You can’t, can you? There’s nothing in yours. They’re dead.’

I hit the road, totally gone off the idea of shopping. Stop at the Shell garage on the Rock Road to, like, get petrol. There’s this, like, massive queue and this bird comes in and tries to skip, going, ‘I’m just paying for ten pounds worth of petrol. I’ve got the exact money.’ I tell her to get to the back of the focking queue and she goes, ‘Merry Christmas to you, too.’ I get back on the road, roysh, and when I hit, like, Blackrock, I remember the cord from Sorcha that I got a few days ago and I pull into this, like, bus bay, get it out of my pocket and open it. It’s like,

I go back to the gaff and drink half a bottle of brandy.

It’s Christmas Eve morning and I’m, like, sitting at my desk, roysh, and basically the only thing I have to do today is, like, the paperwork on this gaff in Drimnagh, sorry Crumlin, and then it’s, like, off on the major lash for me. There’s a mountain of papers to be signed and, as we’re going through it, I’m looking around the office, noticing that JP’s old man, the complete lech, has got mistletoe hanging all over the place. There’s a big, like, clump hanging over the photocopier, which the birds in the office are avoiding using. It takes about half an hour to get through all the paperwork and the signatures and then, finally, the house is sold and I don’t have to, like, worry about it anymore.

I hand over the keys and I’m like, ‘It’s a really nice Christmas present for you.’ Alan Timmons looks at me funny and he goes, ‘Why did you change your mind? I mean, when you phoned us this morning, we thought you were trying to, you know, extort more money out of us.’ I’m like, ‘Well, we agreed a price and I’m a man of my … no, forget that … you’re not going to be able to move in for a few days. Have you thought about where you’re going to go? For Christmas Day?’ Margaret goes, ‘We haven’t thought. A friend of mine from work’s minding all our stuff. What there is of it. We might try and get a B&B. We’re pretty stretched moneywise. Baby and everything.’ I’m watching the door. JP’s old man isn’t in yet. I’m like, ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I phoned around a few hotels this morning. See could I get you something. Most of them were full. The Four Seasons. The Burlington. I tried Jurys and they’re, like, chocker as well, but, em … there is room at the Inns.’ Alan’s like, ‘We couldn’t possibly afford …’ I pull an envelope out of my pocket and hand it to him. It’s, like, the two grand I have left from the five I got from the dickhead who wanted the house for
his daughter. I’m like, ‘Don’t argue. I owe it to you. Probably more as well. Merry Christmas.’

They get up and they’re both like, ‘Merry Christmas,’ and JP’s old man comes in, roysh, just as they’re leaving, and I spend the next, like, half an hour staring into space, wondering what I’m going to tell him and this other penis who’s coming in at twelve. Don’t know what I’m going to tell him about his money either. JP’s old man is saying to Sandra, one of the birds in the office, ‘I’m an organ donor, you know. Do you want one?’ And
everyone
in the office cracks up except me and eventually, roysh, he comes over to me and he’s like, ‘How’re you doing, Ross?’ I’m like, ‘Good … em …’ He goes, ‘You don’t have to lie to me. I know what you’ve done.’ I’m like, ‘You do?’ He takes out a cigar and lights it. He’s like, ‘Conscience. It’s a bad, bad thing to have. In this game anyway.’

I’m like, ‘You don’t sound, like, pissed off. I thought you’d go ballistic.’ He goes, ‘I blame myself. Should have watched you more closely. Especially this time of year. Christmas does funny things to some people. I’m going to have to let you go, you know that?’ I’m there, ‘I think I’m glad.’ He goes, ‘You’re no good to me now. Like a champion racehorse with a broken leg. And you were. A champion racehorse, I mean. You were the best. You were Nijinsky, Ross. Nijinsky.’ I’m like, ‘There’s one thing I’ve still got to do.’ He goes, ‘You’re talking about your twelve o’clock, aren’t you? Go on, get out of here. I’ll handle him.’ I’m like, ‘He gave me five grand.’ He goes, ‘I expected as much. Don’t worry. I’ll cover it. We’ll call it your redundancy.’ I take a quick look around the room and as I’m walking out the door, roysh, he calls me back and goes, ‘Hey, we sold houses together. We’ll always have that, kid.’

I meet the goys for a few old scoops, but I don’t, like, tell them the craic. JP will know soon enough. Oisinn says he was with one of the ugliest girls he’s ever seen in his life last night in Howl at the Moon. He goes, ‘I focking love
J’adore
. The fragrance that
celebrates
the rebirth of ultimate femininity, a sparkling, fresh, floral bouquet that expresses the outburst of a woman’s inner emotions.’

I hit the bor to get my round in. Fionn tells Oisinn he’s going to, like, help me carry the drinks, which is weird because we’re all drinking, like, bottles. When we get up to the bor, I’m like, ‘Fionn, I’ve a focking amazing idea. Let’s go on the total lash today and, like, carry on drinking right through, we’re talking Christmas Day, the lot. Me, you, Christian …’ He goes, ‘I’m having Christmas at home. With my family.’ The specky focker. I’m like, ‘Oh, roysh. Yeah.’ He goes, ‘Me and Christian called you a taxi. Or a transport, as Christian calls it. We did it that time when you went to the jacks. It’s outside. Go and see your old pair, Ross. They miss you.’

I don’t actually remember the journey, roysh. The next thing I know I’m standing at the front door, staring at this, like, wreath that the old dear puts up every year, she got it from her mother, who got it from her mother, who got it from her mother. And I don’t actually know whether I’ve rung the bell or not, but I must have done, roysh, because through the glass I can see someone coming, and the door opens, roysh, and it’s the old man and he’s like, ‘Darling, come quickly. It’s Ross … look, it’s Ross … he’s come home … for Christmas.’ And I just, like, burst out crying. I’m like, ‘I’ve focked things up, Dad. Focked things up big-style.’ He hugs me and goes, ‘But we can put them right, son. We’ll put them right.’

And next door, roysh, I can hear carols being sung and it’s like,

Paul Howard
didn’t go to Blackrock College. He has never played rugby. He has never lived in Foxrock, or been involved with a girl called Sorcha. He has never owned any item of clothing that cost more than fifty quid. He has many axes to grind. He likes his coffee black, if you’re asking.