Dancing with the Tsars, page 10
I tiptoe up the stairs, then slip quietly into my room. I look under the bed. It’s still there. I reach under and I pull it out.
But the sense of, I don’t know, relief that I feel doesn’t last long. A few seconds later, I hear the old dear coming up the stairs. She’s shouting down at Sorcha’s old pair, going, ‘Yes, Ross asked me to bring one or two things into the hospital to him.’
He goes, ‘Sorcha just phoned and said he’d signed himself out.’
But she just blanks him. She’s like, ‘I’ll just be a few minutes.’
I’m looking around me, thinking, okay, where the fock am I going to hide? I’m about to dive under the bed with it when I hear something suddenly hit the window. It’s a pebble. I walk over to the window and I open it. Honor is standing below.
I’m there, ‘She’s coming up the stairs, Honor.’
She goes, ‘Drop it out of the window.’
She’s so smort. She definitely didn’t get it from me.
I’m like, ‘Do you think you can catch it?’
She’s there, ‘Of course I can catch it!’
I drop it and she does catch it! Now that she did get from me?
‘Give it to Erika,’ I go, ‘and tell her to get the fock out of here.’
I close the window. Literally five seconds later, the bedroom door opens and I’m suddenly standing face to face with the woman who tried to murder me this morning.
‘Oh,’ she goes, ‘you’re –’
And I’m there, ‘Alive?’
‘I was going to say home. Your father said you’d been in a terrible accident. He said the car was a complete write-off.’
‘Yeah, no, thanks for your concern.’
‘I was about to go to the hospital to see you.’
‘Yeah, nice try. So how did you do it?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Did you cut my brakes or something?’
‘Don’t try to blame me, Ross. How many times have we all warned you about driving through that light when it’s red?’
I hear Erika’s cor drive away.
‘You won’t find it,’ I go. ‘And don’t say, “Find what?” because you know very well what I’m talking about. It’s gone to a safe place. The price has gone up to five million – or else I’m sending it to the Gords.’
‘What exactly is Brexit?’ I go. ‘It’s just the whole world seems to be suddenly banging on about it.’
Everyone just, like, rolls their eyes, as if not knowing makes me somehow stupid?
It’s actually little Ross Junior who ends up telling me. It turns out he’s learning about it in school. ‘The Unithed Kingthom,’ he goes, ‘ith going to dethide nektht week whether to thtay in the European Union or leave.’
Seven years old. Smort kid – if also a bit strange.
I’m there, ‘Thanks, Ross. That’s all anyone had to say. It’s quicker than everyone sighing and throwing their eyes up to the focking sky.’
I’m still none the wiser, by the way. I thought it was about Britain. Where the fock – and actually what the fock? – is the United Kingdom? And while we’re at, would someone mind explaining to me what actually is the European Union and since when has it been a thing?
‘It’s not going to happen,’ JP goes. ‘There’s more chance of Donald Trump becoming the next President of America.’
Everyone laughs. Seriously, I must stort watching the news – just to be able to follow the conversation when it happens to be not about rugby?
We’re in the back gorden of Christian and Lauren’s place in Booterstown, by the way. They’re having, like, a borbecue – unofficially, it’s to celebrate them being back together again, which I’m actually delighted about, even though Lauren wouldn’t be my number one fan.
As if to prove my point, she walks up to me, holding the giant Optimus Prime robot that I brought for Ross Junior – and which, by the way, he’s barely even looked at? She goes, ‘Who brought this?’
And I’m like, ‘It was me. Although I notice he still hasn’t taken it out of the box – er, a bit ungrateful?’
‘What have I told you about buying presents for him?’
‘Hey, I know it’s not his birthday, Lauren, but he’s my godson. I like to spoil him.’
‘I’m talking about you buying him gender-normative toys?’
‘Gender –?’
‘Toys for boys! Why do you always buy him toys specifically for boys?’
Every conversation in the gorden stops. All the girls are looking at us over the top of their Aperol spritzes, while the goys all look at their feet.
I’m there, ‘I hate to point out the obvious, Lauren, but he is actually a boy.’
Little Ross Junior decides to hang me then. He goes, ‘What my Mom ith trying to thay, Roth, ith that I thon’t like roboth and thuper heroth and thoth typthe of thoys. I actually prefer to play with dollth.’
I’m there, ‘I’m not buying you dolls.’
‘I love dollth. I have thixty-theven dollth.’
‘I repeat. I am not buying you dolls.’
I’m not buying you anything, in fact, you little focking Judas.
Lauren goes, ‘Ross, go and play with the other children and let the grown-ups talk.’
She’s talking to Ross Junior, rather than me. It says a lot that I have to point that out.
Off he goes. Lauren shoves the robot into my chest and goes, ‘Here, take it. And stop trying to impose society’s ignorant and outdated gender roles on my son.’
When the storm has passed, everyone returns to their drinks and their conversations. I tip over to Christian, who’s manning the actual grill – flipping the burgers and blah, blah, blah – and I go, ‘Rather you than me, my friend,’ and I’m saying that as someone who was originally happy to see them get back together.
He’s there, ‘Hey, I’m sorry, Ross. You know how protective Lauren is of him.’
‘Yeah, no, whatever. She’s never been a fan of mine. I just rub her up the wrong way.’
He goes, ‘Hmmm,’ and doesn’t even try to contradict me?
‘Do you remember the time she went to stay with that Erasmus friend of hers in Germany and when she came home she insisted that everyone took their shoes off before they went into your house?’
‘Yeah, you told her to fock off, Ross – on her own doorstep.’
‘And I’d do it again, Christian. It was focking ridiculous. I said it to her: “You’re not in Rothenburg ob der Tauber now. The Dubes stay on.” How’s the job going, by the way?’
‘Good.’
‘What exactly are you doing again?’
‘It’s kind of hord to explain –’
‘Hey, I don’t give a fock one way or the other. I was only making conversation with you.’
While I’m talking to him, I’m watching all of the kids playing together. We’re talking Honor and the triplets. We’re talking Christian and Lauren’s Oliver and little Ross Junior. We’re talking JP and Chloe’s Isa. We’re talking Erika’s Amelie. I sort of, like, smile to myself.
I’m there, ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Seeing all our kids playing together?’
He smiles and nods, then goes, ‘I still can’t get my head around, well, you know –’
He means Sorcha being pregnant by possibly Fionn, except he doesn’t want to say it.
I’m there, ‘I can’t either. Maybe it’ll only sink in when she storts showing.’
‘And they’re, like, together now?’ he goes. ‘As in, like, a couple?’
‘They’re giving it a go apparently.’
‘Well, for what it’s worth, I told him that I thought what he did – sleeping with Sorcha, especially when she was vulnerable –’
‘And still married to a former teammate.’
‘– exactly – was bang out of order. I told him I’d prefer if he didn’t come here today.’
‘Hey, that’s nice to hear. Thanks, Dude.’
After about twenty minutes of catching up, I do the whole mingling thing. I tip over to where the women are sitting around a big round table on the patio.
‘So,’ Amie with an ie is saying to Sorcha, ‘how are you, you know, doing?’
She means how’s the pregnancy going? And I can tell from the way Chloe’s ears prick up that it’s obviously been the subject of a lot of discussion.
‘Fine,’ Sorcha goes. ‘Just a bit of morning sickness, which I’ve had with all of mine.’
It’s obviously not what they wanted to hear because Sophie turns around then and goes, ‘I mean, do you have any idea who the father is, Sorcha? As in, who do you think it is in your hort of horts?’
And Erika – in fairness to her – goes, ‘Why don’t you mind your own focking business, Sophie?’
Lauren changes the subject by asking Sorcha how the plans for this International Gender Equality Hour are coming along.
Sorcha goes, ‘Absolutely amazing, Lauren – that’s if Likes on Facebook and Retweets on Twitter are any kind of barometer?’
Lauren says she’s shared literally everything that Sorcha has posted about it and she knows at least four girls who are going to be doing it.
Amie with an ie goes, ‘Can people do things while they’re thinking about the lack of gender equality in the world?’
Sorcha’s there, ‘What’s so important that it can’t wait?’
‘Well, I was going to get my eyebrows threaded that Saturday. I was thinking, if I made the appointment for exactly the same time, I could think about it while I was sitting there in the chair. Two birds with one stone.’
Erika obviously can’t listen to any more because she stands up and says she’s going to go and check on Amelie. I walk down to the bottom of the gorden with her.
I’m there, ‘Do you still have it?’ and I’m obviously talking about the heater.
She goes, ‘No, I focking sold it on Done Deal, Ross.’
I’m there, ‘Okay, I’m presuming that’s sorcasm?’
‘It’s still in the boot of my cor.’
‘Yeah, no, cool – don’t leave without giving it back to me.’
‘Ross, you need to go to the Gords.’
‘I’m not going to the Gords. I went online – well, Honor did – and she’s found this self-storage place. It’s just off the M50 in, believe it or not, Santry.’
She doesn’t get a chance to tell me what she thinks because that’s when Fionn decides to show his face. I’m there, ‘What the fock is he doing here? Christian said he was told to stay away.’
He rushes over to the table where the girls are all sitting. Sorcha’s there, ‘What’s wrong, my love?’
My love? For fock’s sake.
He’s out of breath, by the way. Like he used to be on the rugby field after, like, twenty minutes of play.
‘I’m sorry,’ he goes, ‘I’ve been trying to ring you for the past hour.’
She’s there, ‘I have my phone on silent. What’s going on?’
‘There’s a clash of dates.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The International Gender Equality Hour. Midday next Saturday. Which is the same time as the International Fashion Influencers Summit at the RDS.’
‘The what?’
‘It’s like the Web Summit except it’s for, well, style and lifestyle bloggers. It’s a huge deal apparently.’
Amie with an ie goes, ‘Oh my God, yeah, Lydia Elise Millen and Blair Eadie are coming here for it. And the Blonde Salad, I think?’
Fionn’s there, ‘I’m wondering should we maybe change the time of International Gender Equality Hour?’
Sorcha’s like, ‘Excuse me?’
‘I was going to suggest maybe bringing it forward to ten o’clock in the morning?’
‘Change the time of International Gender Equality Hour? To accommodate a summit for fashion bloggers? Are you actually serious?’
She sounds genuinely disgusted. It’s good to see him under pressure for once?
He goes, ‘Sorcha, it doesn’t make any sense to go up against them.’
She’s like, ‘There’ll be no competition, Fionn. I think we’ll find out next Saturday that women are far more interested in gender equality than they are in clothes.’
I watch Chloe, Sophie and Amie with an ie exchange dubious looks. And that’s when I suddenly hear a bump behind me. Lauren screams and goes running past me. When I turn around, it turns out that little Ross Junior has fallen flat on his face.
‘Ross!’ she goes, turning him over. ‘Ross!’
Christian rushes over to him as well.
It looks like I’m going to have to finish cooking the burgers? I actually don’t mind. I pick up the tongs and I stort turning them on the grill while Sorcha and Chloe and JP and one or two others ask if they can help. With Ross Junior, I mean. It’s pretty obvious to everyone that I’ve got the burgers under control.
I go, ‘What happened?’ just to let people think I actually care.
I watch Christian’s nose suddenly twitch a bit, then he looks up and he’s there, ‘He’s drunk.’
‘Jesus,’ Lauren goes, ‘he’s plastered.’
Christian’s going, ‘Ross! Ross, can you hear me? Ross, please, wake up!’
Lauren storts looking around her, going, ‘Who was it? Who gave my son alcohol?’
And my eyes automatically drift over to Honor, who’s sitting on the swing chair a few feet away, texting, with a little smile playing on her lips.
Ronan leaves me a voice message to say that he and Shadden are going to see a band tonight in the Broken Orms in Finglas which they think could end up being their wedding band.
They’re called 26 Plus 6 Equals 1, which should actually be a clue as to what kind of band we’re talking about.
‘They’re on at noyun o’clock,’ he goes, ‘and me and Shadden would lubben if you could be theer to see them wirrus.’
The two of them are already there when I arrive – sitting at the table nearest the front. They’re both like, ‘Howiya, Rosser?’ and then Kennet arrives back from the bor with a pint for himself, going, ‘What k … k … k … kepp you, Rosser? They’re about to cub on stayuch.’
Ronan is wearing a sort of vest, presumably to show off the names of the Easter Rising mortyrs, which are tattooed on his upper orm.
I pull up a stool and I sit down. ‘Hee-or,’ Ronan goes, ‘are you alreet, Rosser?’ because he can see I’m a little bit stiff in my movements?
I’m there, ‘Yeah, no, the old ribs are bit bashed up. I had a bit of an incident in the cor the other day. I’m actually alright.’
Speaking of bruises, though, I notice that Ro has a humungous one on his neck.
The band comes on – there’s, like, a massive tricolor hanging behind them – and they launch into the first number.
Eermurt keers and tanks and guddens,
Came to take away eer suddens,
But evody madden must stadden behoyunt,
The medden behyount the woyer.
Ronan claps along and stamps his feet and bellows out every word of the song. Shadden smiles, but I can tell from her face that this isn’t exactly the kind of music she had in mind for the biggest day of her life.
The band race through the first half of their set – shit that ‘the Brits’ did to us figures in pretty much every song, even though the singer is only about twenty and definitely not old enough to have experienced any of the things he seems so worked up about.
The interval arrives and the band goes off to take a break.
Shadden turns around to Ro and goes, ‘Yeah, not a bleeden chaddence.’
Ro’s there, ‘Thee do utter stuff as weddle, Shadden. Thee do one or two songs by The Scarript.’
‘I doatunt want to be listodden to rebiddle songs on me wetton day. It’s bad enough you habben them in the house alt the toyum.’
Her and Kennet then pop outside for a smoke – seriously, how long did they think they were going to keep Rihanna-Brogan off them? – leaving me and Ro sitting there.
He goes, ‘Doatunt woody, Rosser – she’ll cub arowunt to the idea.’
I’m there, ‘They’d certainly make it a memorable reception. So how did you get that bruise on your neck?’
It’s a hickey. Take it from someone who’s had plenty.
At the exact same time we both go: ‘Paintball.’
Well, he pronounces it, ‘Payuntbalt.’
And I laugh. Because paintball was what I always told Sorcha when I had a hickey.
‘A few of us went out to cedebrate fidishing eer exaddems,’ he tries to go.
And I’m like, ‘And you went paintballing? What exams were you celebrating, Ro – your focking Junior Cert?’
‘Ine tedding the troot, Rosser.’
‘What was her name?’
He goes silent for a good sixty seconds then.
I’m there, ‘Ro, there’s an old phrase I love that says you can’t shit a shitter. I saw that Corrina in Clontorf Castle slapping you across the chops.’
Eventually, he goes, ‘Her nayum’s Dodder.’
I’m like, ‘Dodder? Like the river?’
‘No, Dodder!’
‘Donna? Are you trying to say Donna?’
‘Yeah. Dodda.’
‘She must have some set of teeth on her. That’s some mork she left on you.’
That’s when he just blurts it out. He goes, ‘I think Ine a sex addict, Rosser.’
I actually laugh.
He’s there, ‘Ine seerdious. I caddent stop thinking abourrut – morden, arthurnoon and neet. It’s on me moyunt the entoyer toyum.’
I’m like, ‘That’s because you’re nineteen, Ro. It’s supposed to be. That doesn’t make you a sex addict.’
‘Ine about to maddy a beauriful geerdle –’
‘You could definitely do worse.’
‘– the mutter of me little priddencess. And Ine playin arowunt behoyunt her back. That’s why Ine saying there’s sumtin depinitely wrong wit me.’
‘You can’t go on like this, Ro. Paintball. Bras in the boot of your cor. It’s only a matter of time before Shadden stops giving you the benefit of the doubt.’
