PS, I Scored the Bridesmaids, page 11
But nothing she says can calm me down, roysh, and I tell her I have to go out to get some air, but she knows damn well, roysh, that I’m going outside to ring that penis, him and his moany focking tapes. The focker actually has the cheek to play it Kool and the Gang with me. He goes, ‘Alroysh, Ross? Stuck in traffic. Harcourt Street’s a mare. When’s the Daniel Day gonna be finished anyway?’ I’m there, ‘What’s your focking game?’ and he’s going, ‘My game?’ and I’m like, ‘Making Sorcha a tape?’ He goes, ‘It’s a CD, Ross. Did she like it?’ His specs are SO going up his orse when I see him. I’m like, ‘Don’t play the innocent with me. You made her a tape. I know what that means. You make someone a tape and it’s like … she’s my girlfriend, you … glasses head.’
He’s so focking smug, of course. He goes, ‘Is she really, Ross? Well, who was that bird you were playing tonsil tennis with last Saturday night? She was doing a very passable impression of being your girlfriend,’ and I’m like, ‘You’re bang out of order,’ and he’s giving it, ‘Was her name Gwen? Isn’t she one of Sorcha’s friends?’ I try to change the subject. I go, ‘Get it into your thick head, she has no interest in you. She goes for looks,’ and I hang up before he can say anything back. I’m still shaking. I can’t believe the effect that this has had on me. I storm back into Sorcha’s gaff and peg it up the stairs. She’s on the phone to, I think, Aoife. She’s telling her she SO hopes Tanya gets focked out of the house because the girl has got SUCH an attitude problem. I rip the CD out of the CD player – he drew a love hort on it, the steamer – and just, like, fock it out of the window. She goes, ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?’ Then she goes, ‘Aoife, I’m going to have to ring you back. Ross is being, like, SO weird.’
She hangs up and I just stort babbling. I’m going, ‘I’m sick of it, Sorcha. Sick of all the messing around. Not saying what I mean,’ and she goes, ‘Have you been drinking?’ I’m like, ‘Sorcha … let’s get married,’ and she doesn’t say anything for ages. I’m thinking, I can’t believe I just focking said that and I think her answer is going to be, I don’t know, getting married in your early twenties is SO working class or something, but instead, roysh, she just looks at me and she goes, ‘The ring HAS to come from John Farrington’s.’
I’m going to look up the word ‘simpering’ in the old man’s dictionary when I go home because I’m pretty sure, roysh, that’s what Sorcha and her old dear are doing. Her old dear goes, ‘It’s going to be a wedding no one will ever forget,’ and then she gives me a look that basically says, If you don’t fock it up, that is.
Sorcha’s like, ‘I’ve already decided the theme is going to be cranberries,’ we’re talking ten minutes after I proposed to her. She goes, ‘I’m going to have cranberry-coloured flowers woven into my dress. Ross’s tie will be cranberry and the bridesmaids’ dresses will have some kind of cranberry trim, as will the invitations and the placenames. And the menus.’
Her old dear’s just looking at her, roysh, shaking her head, like she’s struggling to take it all in. Sorcha goes, ‘OH! MY! GOD! Mum, we HAVE to go away to shop,’ and her old dear goes, ‘Paris for the dress, Milan for the underwear,’ and Sorcha shakes her head and goes, ‘New York for the dress.’ Her old dear’s there, ‘Wait a minute. I know that look. You’re thinking Vera Wang, aren’t you?’ and Sorcha nods and goes, ‘Absolutely! OH! MY! GOD! Can you ACTUALLY picture Erika’s face when she finds out I’m, like, going to New York to buy my dress?’
HELLO? I’m still here, people. Not that you’d know it. Sorcha’s old dear storts, like, fussing over her, fixing her hair, like she’s walking up the aisle in five focking minutes. She goes, ‘I take it Erika’s going to be one of your bridesmaids?’ and Sorcha looks at her in, like, total horror and goes, ‘No way! I was thinking Orpha and maybe Claire.’ Her old dear’s like, ‘Claire’s very plain, bless her,’ and Sorcha goes, ‘I know. A girl doesn’t like to be upstaged on her big day, Mum,’ and her old dear just, like, nods her head, as the penny drops, and she goes, ‘You should ask her to lose some weight though. Give her those Weight Watchers books.’ Sorcha goes, ‘I think I might even have cranberries on the wedding cake.’
The next thing, roysh, I hear someone coming in the front door and it’s, like, Sorcha’s old man, who wouldn’t be my number one fan. You can’t blame the dude either. I couldn’t tell you how many times Sorcha’s bawled her eyes out in this house over shit I’ve done. He was in the George in Dún Laoghaire having a few scoops. The old dear pretty much rugby tackles him as he walks into the kitchen and goes, ‘Edmund, we have the most wonderful news,’ and I can see him eyeing me, roysh, and I know I make his flesh crawl.
Sorcha goes, ‘Dad, I’m getting married,’ and he doesn’t need to say the words, ‘Who to?’ roysh, because they’re written all over his face. Sorcha links my orm and she’s there, ‘We’re getting married. Ross and I,’ and it’s ages before he says anything, roysh, and the first words that come out of his mouth are, ‘When did this happen?’ The old dear goes, ‘Oh yes, Sorcha, you still haven’t told us how he proposed.’ She goes, ‘Yeah, we were up in my room …’ and straight away the old man’s like, ‘What the hell were you doing in my daughter’s bedroom?’ and the old dear goes, ‘Oh, Edmund, they’re practically married. You can’t play that heavy parent routine anymore. Continue, Sorcha.’
Sorcha goes, ‘Well, we were up in my room, just talking about how, like, close we’d become while we were in Indonesia and I was like, ‘If only we could always have the fantasy,’ and he was there, ‘Why can’t we,’ and then – OH MY GOD! – he just, like, got down on one knee and I was like, ‘OH! MY! GOD!’ and he was like, ‘Sorcha, will you make me the happiest goy in the world by marrying me?’ and I was like, ‘OH! MY! GOD!’ which is total bullshit, roysh.
I’m not going to, like, contradict her, of course, because I actually come out of the story looking pretty good, it has to be said. Her old dear is actually crying and her old man is just, like, nodding furiously with this, like, stern look on his face, but at least he’s not looking like he wants to tear my focking fingernails out with a pliers like he did a minute ago. The dude even offers me his hand, which I decide to shake. He goes, ‘My wife is much easier-going than I am. I’ve never liked you from the first day I clocked eyes on you. But if you’re what makes Sorcha happy, then as a father it’s my job to ensure you continue to make Sorcha happy. Do you understand me?’ It’s one hell of a handshake he’s got there. I’m like, ‘Yes, Mister Lalor.’
Sorcha goes, ‘Let’s go tell your mum and dad,’ and the old dear goes, ‘Hurry back, Sorcha. We can get planning. Agent Provocateur have a website,’ and Sorcha goes puce and she’s there, ‘Mum!’ and I haven’t a focking bog what they’re talking about. I go, ‘I was just, em, thinking, Sorcha, we don’t actually need to call to my old pair to tell them. Can we not just text them?’ and she storts giving it, ‘ROSS! O’CARROLL! KELLY! Their only child is about to get married and you want them to read the news in a text? OH! MY! GOD! You have got some strange ideas.’
So of course we’ve got to drive all the way up to Foxrock just to let the two biggest tools in the world know. In the cor, roysh, Sorcha had this idea of how she was going to tell them, dropping hints, ‘Do you ever wish you’d had a daughter?’ all that kind of shit. But, of course, the second the old dear opens the door, Sorcha can’t hold her piss, roysh, and she blurts out, ‘We’re getting married, Fionnuala,’ and the two of them fall into this, like, embrace, big-time amateur dramatics stuff, then the old dear actually goes to hug me, roysh, and my whole body stiffens up and I’m there, ‘Just a congratulations will do, thanks very much.’ She brings us into the kitchen and of course the old man’s heard everything from inside the study and suddenly he’s in on the act. It’s all hugs and kisses and handshakes. He’s going, ‘Well, Sorcha, it’s one way of getting you to come back and work for me. Because one day you and Ross are going to inherit the business,’ and it’s, like, false laughs all round.
He’s going, ‘Absolutely tremendous news and I mean that with a capital T. I have to tell you, Sorcha, Fionnuala and I always hoped that you’d be the one. You’re a wonderful person. Must say, Ross, you’re a bit of a dark horse. Didn’t come looking to your old man for advice on this one?’ and I’m there, ‘I wouldn’t ask you for advice on how to wipe my orse.’ He goes, ‘Sorcha, have you told your parents?’ and she’s there, ‘OH! MY! GOD! They are, like, SO happy,’ and Dickhead goes, ‘Let’s them over here. This calls for a celebration. We got that bottle of Bollinger that we picked up in Paris, darling. I’ll pop it in the fridge for half-an-hour and then I’ll ring Edmund.’
The old dear turns around to Sorcha and she goes, ‘Has your mum decided what she’s going to wear yet?’ and Sorcha’s there, ‘Something black and white, I’d say. Pastels put ten years on you, that’s what she always says,’ and I can tell from the old dear’s reaction, roysh, that she had black and white in mind as well and it’s, like, may the battle of the mothers-in-law commence. The old man dials the number, roysh, and while he’s waiting for an answer he goes, ‘I suspect Edmund and I are going to play quite a bit of golf between now and the big day.’ Then he goes, ‘Hello, Edmund, old chap. It’s Charles … my congratulations to you, too. Both of you. We’re delighted. Not a hint of it from Ross here beforehand. Played his cards close to his chest on this one. Yes, your daughter is a wonderful girl. Fionnuala and I loved her the very first day Ross took her home. He is one lucky man. What? Yes, he can be. But I think those days are behind him now,’ and he just, like, winks at me.
Then he’s like, ‘Just wondered if you both fancied coming over. This calls for a celebration. I’ve been pretty busy lately, you’ve probably heard, but if my son getting engaged to a beautiful girl isn’t reason enough to take an evening off from my efforts to clear an innocent man’s name, then I might as well go and live in North Korea. Terrific! See you in half-an-hour.’
I’m just there thinking, This wedding’s gonna be more focking trouble than it’s worth.
CHAPTER FIVE
For Richer or Poorer
‘So you’re really taking the plunge?’ Oisinn goes to me in Kiely’s the other night and I’m there, ‘Totally,’ trying to sound a bit more enthusiastic than I basically am. He’s there, ‘Makes sense, Ross. No point in holding out for the dream. Luykx is gone. It’s over, I tell you,’ and we all just sit there staring into space for, like, ten minutes.
Eventually, roysh, Christian goes, ‘I’ve been making some notes. For the best man’s speech,’ because, like, who else would I choose, and he goes, ‘Want me to run some of them by you?’ and he pulls out this, like, sheaf of paper, maybe ten pages. I’m there, ‘As long as there’s no Star Wars shit in it,’ and he just, like, stares at me, like he’s about to burst out crying, then he slowly puts the pages back into his pocket and I feel kind of bad, roysh, but the last thing I want is all that Obi Wan Kenobi shite on Sorcha’s big day, and mine as well I suppose.
Maybe I’m just a bit uptight. December nineteenth is the date we’ve set. I say we, but I’ve got basically fock-all to do with this wedding. Sorcha, her old dear and my old dear have basically hijacked the whole thing. I’m being frogmorched into town next week to spend ten thousand lids on some Art Deco engagement ring the three of them saw while shopping for dresses, and after that, roysh, my only involvement in this wedding is showing my face on the day and, at this rate, it’ll be a focking miracle if I do. I do love Sorcha, roysh, bent and all as it sounds, but I was hoping for a long engagement, three or four years maybe, keep putting it around Annabel’s, Dublin Four Fanny Central, happy days. But no sooner have I popped the old question, roysh, than Sorcha’s telling me that the choice of storter SO has to be dried apricots with goat’s cheese and pistachios, or smoked caviar and hummus on pitta toasts, and suddenly I feel like I’m being shoved up the aisle on focking casters.
All the craic has gone out of her as well. It’s like the wedding’s all she ever thinks about. We haven’t had a bit of the other in the three weeks since we got engaged and, not being crude or anything, but I’ve a love truncheon on me that could beat a donkey out of a quarry. Of course, I’m trying to keep the romance going. There I am sitting in the M1 with the goys and my phone rings and I actually answer the thing, even though I know it’s her. And of course straight away it’s like, ‘Your mum’s right, Ross. I forgot so many of my friends are vegetarians. We’ll have lemon-scented couscous timbale with cut sugar-snap peas and gingered Parisian carrots for those who don’t want the grilled charmoula lamb and yukon potato croquets,’ and I’m there, ‘Sorcha, I love you,’ under my breath I admit, so the goys don’t hear, but she doesn’t respond, just goes, ‘Or maybe zucchini julianne,’ and then she hangs up.
The next thing, roysh, who walks in only Erika, who’s in a total Pauline at the moment, basically because Sorcha’s sister – whatever the fock her name is – and Claire – as in Claire from Bray of all places – were asked to be the bridesmaids and she wasn’t, and she’s still steaming over this. She stops by our table and she goes, ‘A Christmas wedding, I believe. Your little girlfriend’s been hanging around Claire so long she’s becoming a knacker herself.’ She looks amazing. Now I can understand Sorcha’s game. Claire wouldn’t get kicked in a stampede. No bride wants to be upstaged on her big day by good-looking bridesmaids, and Erika would basically go out of her way to knock spots off her.
Oisinn sniffs the air and goes, ‘The new Issey Miyake, huh? Its fragrant nature explores essences of peony, white lily and carnation, blended with notes of jasmine, sandalwood and oakmoss. Erika, I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep my hands off you,’ and Erika goes, ‘If you want to keep them attached to your orms, I suggest you try,’ and she focks off to the jacks. Me and Oisinn and Christian and JP, we sit there for ages, roysh, staring at the toilet door, telling our Erika stories. Every single one of us has tried to get in there in the past and everyone, with the exception of me, has crashed and burned.
Oisinn chanced his orm at the Traffic Light Ball and she told him – word for word, roysh – ‘If me and you were marooned on a desert island with a tin of frankfurter sausages, I’d kill and eat you and keep the sausages for sex,’ which, like all of Erika’s put-down lines, left him pretty speechless. She took JP to the Mount Anville debs four years ago, let him think he had a chance just to see how many birds he knocked back to be with her, then red-corded the dude on the way home in the limo, which he paid for incidentally. I’m basically the only one who’s managed to bail in there, even if she was only doing it to fock with Sorcha’s head. Oisinn goes, ‘Forget what I was saying earlier, goys. The dream’s not dead. Not while that girl’s still single.’ Suddenly the door opens, roysh, and out she comes, big pouty face on her as usual, and she can’t resist the temptation to stop by and have another dig. She goes, ‘I must drop by Argos tomorrow, Ross. See if the wedding list’s in yet,’ and as she heads for the door, roysh, we all notice at pretty much the same time that she’s got this length of, like, bog roll stuck to the sole of her shoe and she hasn’t noticed it. Off she goes, collar up, nose in the air and this, like, streamer of jacks paper following her, basically ruining the overall effect. Doesn’t look so high and mighty now. We all crack our holes laughing. It feels good.
A choreographer? A focking choreographer? That’s what I go to Sorcha the other night, roysh. I’m there, ‘This wedding business is getting out of hand,’ and of course, suddenly I’m the focking Grinch Who Stole Christmas. She goes, ‘This wedding business? Ross, this is supposed to be the happiest day of our lives. I want our first dance to be something everyone remembers. I want to see Erika’s face.’ I’m there, ‘No focking way, Sorcha. If the goys find out I’m getting dance classes, I’m totalled,’ and she loses it then, roysh, going, ‘It’s always what OTHER people think, ISN’T IT? What about what I want?’ and I’m thinking, HELLO? Definite case of blob strop here, and it is her time, roysh, but of course I say nothing except, ‘I don’t want the goys calling me a benny. End of story,’ and she’s there, ‘You are SO homophobic.’ I’m like, ‘I’m hordly homophobic. I just don’t like goys cracking onto me. I don’t like tomato ketchup either. Doesn’t make me ketchup-aphobic. Just don’t like it.’
Of course there’s no talking to birds when they’ve fallen to the communists. She just, like, storms off out of the room, roysh, opens the front door of her gaff and tells me she thinks a short period of reflection would do me good, which means she’s going to basically sulk for a few days until she gets her way. But she was roysh – my period of reflection did me no end of good. It was, like, Friday in Bar Mizu and Cocoon, Saturday in The Bailey and Lillie’s, Sunday in Ron Black’s and Reynord’s, basically getting shit-faced and throwing the lips on any bird that came into my line of vision, happy focking days. Monday night my phone rings, roysh, and I can see it’s Sorcha’s home number and I think she’s obviously decided she’s left me stewing long enough. But it turns out, roysh, it’s not Sorcha ringing at all but her old man – he’s a total penis, this goy – telling me he wants to have a bit of a chat – ‘man to man,’ he goes, like the dickhead that he is. So I call a Jo and I head back out to Killiney and he leads me into the study and he’s giving it, ‘I’ve a very fine bottle of Port here somewhere that I keep for special occasions,’ and he opens the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, whips out the bottle and pours two glasses of this stuff, basically pisswater.
