That’s when I feel it. Something – I’m pretty sure a foot – rubbing the back of my leg
OH MY GOD!” Sorcha goes. “Do you know who I met in Wilde Green last weekend? Suzanne Mortimer!” Rebecca – we’re talking Rebecca Lesson, as in, like, Sorcha’s cousin? – looks up from her Nigella Lawson Turkish Delight Syllabub and goes, “Oh my God – random?!!! How is she?” Sorcha’s like, “Er, pregnant?” I look at Rob – as in, Rebecca’s other half – just staring blankly into space. I can tell that he’s enjoying this as much as I am. I actually hate dinner porties, especially when we’re the ones hosting and when they happen to clash with Leinster versus the Newport Gwent Dragons in the old Rabo Pro 12. But Sorcha said that if we’re going to be getting back together, we’re going to have to get used to doing, like, couply things again. Which means listening to this horses**t.
“I thought she couldn’t have kids,” Rebecca goes. “Didn’t they go to, like, Mexico or something to try to adopt?” Sorcha’s there, “That’s the amazing thing. It was while they were there that she actually conceived?” Rebecca smiles, cocks her head to one side and goes, “Happy story!” That’s the other thing I should mention about Rebecca. Every anecdote you tell her gets one of two responses. First, the patronising smile, then either, “Sad story!” or, “Happy story!” When Sorcha told her that we’d decided to have another crack at the whole marriage thing, it was obviously, “Happy story!” But when Sorcha mentioned that we might have to send Honor to a child psychiatrist for her behavioural problems, it was, “Sad story!” God forgive me, it’s making me want to shove her face in her dessert.
“I wonder how Ian Madigan’s getting on,” I just happen to go.
Rob’s face flickers to life for the first time this evening, until Sorcha goes, “Ross, you are not putting the rugby on!” and me and Rob settle back into a state of Zen-like boredom.
That’s when I feel it. Something – I’m pretty sure a foot – rubbing the back of my leg, tracing the outline of calf, from just below my knee to just above my ankle, in long, gentle strokes.
It couldn’t be Sorcha, because she’s only had, like, two sips of the Fleurie. And I know it’s not Rob. At least I hope it’s not Rob. Yeah, no, it can only be Rebecca.
I quickly pull my leg away. Which is out of character for me, I know.
Usually I’d just go with it? Look, I don’t want to come across as all, I don’t know, moralistical here. I’ve been around the track a time or two. I’ve played footsie with a hundred girls under a hundred southside dinner tables – both with and without my wife being present. I’m a dirtbag. I don’t think I’ve ever denied that basic fact. But there’s something about this particular manoeuvre that, like, shocks me? Possibly because she was talking about her kids while she was dong it.
It was, “Mindy started big school last week. And she settled in much quicker than Aodan, didn’t she, Rob?” and this was, like, while trying to sex me up with her stockinged feet. Like I said – too weird. So I pull my leg away and move my chair back about 12 inches.
“What about you two?” the girl suddenly goes. “Would you go again?” Sorcha laughs, roysh, you’d have to say nervously? She shoots me a look, then goes, “I think we’ve enough on our plate with Honor!” and Sorcha, Rebecca and me all laugh at basically what a little wagon our daughter has turned out.
Rebecca goes, “Funny story!” which is a new one, then I suddenly feel the ends her toes reaching for my leg again, so I’m there, “I’ll go and get the coffees!” and I jump up from the table.
“Ristretto for me, Ross,” Sorcha goes. “As in, like, the black one?” Rebecca’s like, “I’ll have a Vivalto.” Am I the only one, by the way, who thinks they all taste the focking same? Ten seconds later, I’m in the kitchen, filling the little tank with water, thinking maybe I’ll give Sorcha a Vivalto as well and see does she cop the difference. Then, as I’m popping the light blue capsule in the machine, I’m suddenly thinking, ‘Is this what marriage is? Is this what I’ve got to look forward to for the next – I don’t know – however long I hang on in there?’ That’s when Rebecca comes suddenly bursting into the kitchen, going, “Sorry, Ross, I’ll actually have a Decaffeinato Intenso,” except the Decaffeinato Intenso is obviously just a cover story to get me on my own.
Of course, I’m straight on the attack. I’m there, “Okay, what the fock are you playing at?” She’s like, “Excuse me?” all innocence.
I’m there, “Er, can I just remind you, Sorcha’s your supposedly cousin?” She goes, “That didn’t seem to bother you when we were all in UCD.” Okay, that’s actually true. I was with Rebecca loads of times behind Sorcha’s back. She looks a bit like Jenna-Louise Coleman and I’m saying that in my defence.
I’m there, “That was different. We were, like, young. Now we’re, like, married, kids – blah, blah, blah.” She goes, “What’s going on between you two?” straight out with it, just like that.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the zero sexual chemistry between you. It’s actually impossible to miss. She’s making you wait, isn’t she? Oh my God, that’s so Sorcha. She wants you to prove your faithfulness first!”
I hit the little button. Sorcha’s coffee storts dribbling into the cup and I try to change the subject. I’m there, “I must descale this thing at some point.” That’s when Rebecca suddenly makes a grab for the goods. I jump back, at the same time managing to knock Sorcha’s coffee over on to the countertop.
I’m like, “Okay, that’s so not going to happen.” She goes, “You’re not going to be able to stay celibate, Ross. Especially when the word gets around. You’re going to be a challenge to – oh my God – every girl out there.” I go, “What if I go back out there and tell Sorcha that you were coming on to me in a big time way?” She’s there, “With your track record? Do you honestly think she’d believe you?” She smiles at me, roysh, in a really evil way, then suddenly grabs my wrist and pushes my hand down onto the wet countertop. Then, before I realise what her actual game is, she presses my hand to her chest, leaving a coffee stain in the shape of my hand on her white top.
With typically unfortunate timing, Sorcha steps into the kitchen at that exact moment. Rebecca turns around. Sorcha straight away cops the mark on her cousin’s ta-tas. Shaking her head, Rebecca goes, “I don’t know if he’ll ever change, Sorcha!” Then she walks past her and out of the kitchen.
I go to say something, except no actual words come out? Sorcha goes, “I don’t want to hear it, Ross.” Yeah. Sad story! You said it.