Sorcha tells me that I need to do something and obviously, I’m like, “Er – as in?”
Yeah, no, Angela – the wife of my brother slash half-brother – has been on the phone from the States and Sorcha is running out of excuses.
I’m fixing breakfast for the boys when the dude eventually arrives downstairs in the company of a woman named Rowena, who wears leather trousers, has a smoker’s cough and works – so she says – in, like, hospitality?
She goes, “I wouldn’t say no to a coffee.”
Brett goes, ‘She’s close to the end, Ross. I was thinking we should arrange a living funeral for her’
I’m always telling Sorcha to tone down the southside when we come out to Bray but she never listens
‘I haven’t really been living before now,’ Brett tells his wife. ‘Ross has slept with more than 800 women’
‘I’m not even a bit stressed,’ Honor goes, ‘I haven’t done a focking tap for these exams’
And Sorcha’s like, “Well, if the walk of shame takes you through Dalkey village, I can recommend the Country Bake.”
I love my wife, but – yeah, no – she can be colder than a witch’s tit.
Rowena, by the way, is the third random woman that Brett has brought home this week.
“So come on, tell us,” Sorcha goes – this is right in front of her, by the way – “where did you meet this one?”
It’s Rowena who answers. She’s like, “Tinder,” and then the woman looks at me and sort of, like, narrows her eyes, like I do when I’m trying to add two numbers together, and goes, “Do I know you from somewhere?”
I’m there, “If you’re a rugby fan, then possibly?”
She’s like, “No, nothing to do with rugby, no,” in her husky voice. “Your face is just–”
I put a cup of coffee in front of her, portly to shut her up, but also because it’s nice to be nice.
Sorcha goes, “Brett, Angela has been ringing – as in, like, your wife?”
I think she’s expecting a reaction form Rowena to the news that he’s married. But she doesn’t respond in any way. Just sips her coffee. It’s not her first rodeo.
I’m there, “No, I’m most definitely not on the apps,” except at the same time I can feel my face flush?
— Ross
Sorcha goes, “She said she’s been trying your cell.”
He’s there, “I lost my cell.”
Sorcha’s like, “How can you be on Tinder if you’ve lost your cell?”
Very little gets past her. Twenty years of being married to me will do that to you.
Rowena goes, “That’s how I know your face! Are you on the apps?”
I’m there, “No, I’m most definitely not on the apps,” except at the same time I can feel my face flush?
She’s like, “We’ve definitely met.”
Brian, Johnny and Leo are unusually quiet. They’re just, like, staring at this woman, open-mouthed. Johnny is actually looking at her chest. Like father, like son, I’m hugely tempted to say. Sorcha cops it too. She goes, “Johnny, eat your cereal,” and then, at the same time, she gestures to me with her eyes that she wants a word in, like, private?
Thirty seconds later, we’re outside in the gorden and Sorcha is going, “Ross, what the actual fock?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, I’ll tell him to go. I’ll tell him that we don’t approve of this kind of behaviour under our roof,” at the same time hating myself for sounding like Sorcha’s old man.
She goes, “Ross, what did you say to him?”
I’m there, “Excuse me?” because I knew I’d end up getting the blame for this.
She’s like, “The way he’s carrying on, Ross, it’s very – I don’t even want to say it – but very you behaviour?”
I’m there, “I knew I’d end up being blamed.”
She goes, “It’s not a question of blame. I’m just asking, what did you do to encourage this?”
I’m like, “Fock-all, Sorcha. And I mean that literally. The goys – we’re talking Christian, we’re talking JP, we’re talking Oisinn, we’re talking, in fairness, Fionn – may have told him some stories about my carry-on over the years in terms of rugby and in terms of – yeah, no – the deadlier of the species. And Brett, who may have already been in, like, midlife crisis mode, decided that I was – yeah, no – some kind of, like, role model to him?”
Sorcha goes, “Oh, Jesus – God help him.”
It’s nice to see that Sorcha – while being a very, very good person – remains, at hort, an out-and-out south Dublin snob
I’m like, “Excuse me?” because it sounded like a bit of a dig.
She’s there, “I just mean – actually, I don’t know what I mean? But this can’t continue. It was Amory on Saturday night, Summer on Wednesday night and, I don’t know, what did she say her name was?”
I’m there, “Rowena,” a little too quickly for Sorcha’s liking. “She said she works in, like, hospitality?”
She’s like, “Rowena – whatever. With her leather trousers and a focking black bra showing through a white shirt.”
And it’s nice to see that Sorcha – while being a very, very good person – remains, at hort, an out-and-out south Dublin snob.
She goes, “Ross, you have to talk to him.”
I’m there, “Excuse me?”
She’s like, “Ross, he’s only in Ireland because of you. You were the one who–”
I’m there, “Don’t say it. Do not say it.”
She’s like, “I’m going to say it, Ross. You corrupted him.”
I go, “I didn’t corrupt him? Like I said, the goys made me out to be some kind of absolute rugby legend and he obviously decided that he’d wasted his life, focusing on career, marriage and family goals.”
She’s like, “Ross, even without being directly responsible, you basically caused this? You’re going to have to talk to him and tell him that this can’t continue.”
So – yeah, no – no choice in the matter, I end up agreeing to have a word with the dude. So we tip back into the kitchen. I could be wrong but it looks like Rowena has undone another shirt button.
I’m there, “Dude, all that shit the goys told you about my rugby career–”
He goes, “It was inspiring.”
I’m like, “Yes, I accept that. But no good can come of you trying to live like me.”
He’s there, “Why not? I mean, look at you!”
It’s lovely for me to hear.
I’m there, “That’s lovely for me to hear. But you have everything going for you back in the States, in terms of – yeah, no – a hot wife, a beautiful home, a couple of, in fairness, kids–”
He cuts me off. He’s like, “Well, maybe I don’t want that any more. Maybe that’s not the end of the rainbow for me.”
I’m there, “Oh, you’re telling me that’s the end of your rainbow,” flicking my thumb in Rowena’s general postcode and hating myself for it. “Dude, that woman is not the end of anyone’s rainbow.”
Rowena goes, “Oh my God, I remembered how I know you now. I was with you a few years ago – when you crashed the porty for the closing of the Berkeley Court?”
And I’m like, “Sorcha, we were almost certainly on a break at the time.”
