Sorcha is pacing the kitchen floor.
"Mom," she goes, "you shouldn't actually be here?"
But her old dear’s like, “I have nowhere else to go.”
“Yes, you do. You should be at home with Dad.”
Home is an aportment in Smithfield. Good enough for them.
“Oh,” Sorcha’s old dear goes, “you’d have me go back to him, would you? After what I found out?”
He dipped his quill in another woman’s ink pot. Again, I’m just giving you some background colour.
“Mom,” Sorcha goes, “that was, like, 40-something years ago.”
Her old dear’s there, “So?”
"Well, does it really, like, matter now?"
“You might be happy to live with a liar and a cheat, Sorcha.”
"Hey," I go, "let's focus on the real villain here. I've waited a long time for this moment."
“Ross,” Sorcha goes, “can you please stay out of my family’s . . . business.”
She very nearly said “affairs” and I was ready to pounce.
Sorcha’s old dear just shakes her head.
She's like, "I knew something was going on with that woman. She was painting that portrait of him for months. He used to come home with paint all over his body. God knows what they were doing."
I'm there, "It sounds to me like they were rolling around the floor, going at it like walruses. My hort bleeds for you, Mrs Lalor. It genuinely bleeds."
"But this happened in, like, the 1970s," Sorcha tries to go. "You've had, like, two children since then. And four grandchildren? Not to mention 40 years of, I'm presuming, happy marriage."
Her old dear’s there, “All founded on a lie.”
“The absolute nerve of the man,” I go. “Mister focking High and Mighty.”
Sorcha's like, "The point I'm trying to make is that you have all this, like, history together? You can't throw that away just because he made one mistake and in the distant past."
I’m there, “I doubt if it was just the one, Sorcha.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m saying, there’s bound to have been other women.”
Sorcha’s old dear goes, “Do you really think so?”
I’m there, “I’d nearly guarantee it. I’m on the record as saying that adultery is like getting a dent in a brand new cor. Once you’ve done it the first time, it becomes easier to do it again and again. Take it from me – I’m something of an expert in this area.”
All of a sudden, my old man steps into the kitchen. He’s there, “Are we ready?”
I’m like, “Ready? Where are you going?”
He’s there, “I’m taking Sorcha’s mother golfing!”
Sorcha goes, "You're what?" as if the man said "dogging".
Actually, maybe he did say "dogging"?
No, he didn’t, because I notice my golf bag hanging off his shoulder.
"I thought nine holes in Killiney Golf Club might be just the thing to cheer your mother up!" he goes.
Sorcha’s old dear is like, “Yes, I’m ready, Chorles.”
And Sorcha just looks at me with her mouth open so wide you could use her for chipping practice.
She's there, "You are not going out, either of you. Chorles, you're supposed to be cocooning."
“Nonsense!” the old man goes. “We’re permitted to take exercise! And Killiney Golf Course is well within the 5km limit!”
She’s like, “That doesn’t apply to you, Chorles. You’re over 70.”
“I certainly don’t feel it,” he goes, giving Sorcha’s old dear a wink. “Come on, let’s get on the road.”
We follow them outside into the hallway.
Sorcha’s going, “Chorles, you can’t just pick and choose which rules you follow and pretend that the law only applies to other people.”
Sometimes I wonder was Sorcha raised on this side of the city at all.
They end up totally ignoring her.
“The fresh air will do us both good,” her old dear goes, opening the front door. “I haven’t played golf in years.”
Thirty seconds later, we watch them drive off in the old man’s Bentley.
“I’m going to call the Gords,” Sorcha goes, whipping out her phone.
I’m there, “You can’t do that.”
“They’ll probably take Ballinclea Road. That’s where they’ll catch them.”
I end up having to actually shout.
I’m like, “Sorcha, wait!”
She goes, “What?”
“Why are you bringing the Feds into it?”
“Because the lockdown rules were brought in for all of our benefit, Ross.”
Once a Mount Anville Head Girl, always a Mount Anville Head Girl.
I’m there, “Is that the real reason you’re ringing them?”
She looks away. When she looks back at me, she has, like, tears in her eyes.
“I don’t want to come from a broken home,” she goes.
I’m there, “A broken home? Sorcha, you’re 40 – you moved out of home nearly 20 years ago.”
"My mom belongs with my dad, Ross. I don't want her getting too, well, comfortable here?"
“I’m actually loving having her here – especially when I think of how pissed off your old man probably is, the hypocrite.”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, Ross?”
“Spell what out for me?”
“I don’t want my mom ending up with your dad.”
I actually laugh.
I'm like, "Ending up with him?"
“Yes,” she goes.
"As in, like, with with?"
"Yes – as in, like, with with!"
“Sorcha, there’s no, literally, way that’s going to happen.”
“Oh my God, Ross, open your eyes. Have you not seen them flirting with each other?”
“Flirting?”
“I walked into the kitchen yesterday and she was feeding him hummus off a spoon.”
“Jesus.”
“The smoky, sweet potato one that I made from Donal Skehan’s recipe.”
“I’m glad I missed that. I might never have had another sexual thought again.”
“Then last night, I heard him compliment her on the way she smelled.”
"And how did she smell – do we know?"
"She borrowed some of my Bottega Veneta Knot."
“He was probably just being nice, Sorcha. I seriously doubt if he has designs on the wom–”
I stop mid-word and I’m suddenly staring over her shoulder at the coat rack behind her.
She’s like, “Ross, what’s wrong?”
I’m there, “Sorcha, it’s gone.”
“What’s gone?”
"His Greg Norman hat."
He used to wear the thing around the house whenever he was feeling amorous. It really lit the old dear’s grill.
I'm like, "Jesus Christ, he's taken it with him – to Killiney!"
She goes, “I’ll phone the Gords.”
And I’m just there, “Hurry, Sorcha. Before it’s too late.”