‘I don’t want the personal shopper hearing the way I speak to my old dear’
SOMEONE’S ON THE phone in the kitchen when I arrive home. The voice is angry. Giving it, “And don’t talk to me like I’m a child. Now take down these names. Acne. Alice + Olivia. Vince. Alexander McQueen. They’re the kind of pieces I want you to pull. And nothing off the rail. Repeat that back to me . . .” I stick my head around the kitchen door. My six-year-old daughter is pacing the floor with the phone to her ear and her face all pissed, like someone gave her stew and told her it was cassoulet.
I’m there, “Hey, Honor, how was your last day of term?” except she just shows me the palm of her hand, a gesture that most South Dublin fathers would recognise as meaning, “Whatever!” “Okay,” I go, “I’ll just go and, er, talk to your mother.” Sorcha is sitting on the edge of the sofa in the living room, looking more excited than I’ve seen her since Aung San Suu Kyi got out on TR.
“What’s the focking Jack?” I obviously go.
She’s like, “Oh my God, Ross, I am so excited! I promised Honor that when she got her summer holidays, we’d do the whole Horvey Nicks personal shopping thing?” “You’re saying that’s who she’s talking to?” “I know what you’re going to say, Ross – there’s a recession on and I haven’t been earning anything since I got sacked from the euro store . . .”
“What I was actually going to say was that I thought we agreed that she’d turned into a little bitch and we were going to try to stop pretty much spoiling her?” “I don’t think we used the B word, Ross.” “Bitch or wagon – it was one of those.” “Well, this was something I promised her before that. And I don’t want to break a promise to her, Ross – you know how much I’m against the idea of fracturing the trust between young people and adult role models.” “You’ve mentioned it once or twice alright.”
“And besides, she’s going to need an outfit for the movie premiere.” The movie being Mom, They Said They’d Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoes, the film based on the old dear’s misery lit novel, of which Honor is the stor. It’s supposedly opening in September, and the studio is already calling it a post-millennial Angela’s Ashes – whatever the fock that even means.
All of a sudden, Honor is off the phone and standing with us in the living room. “Okay,” she goes, hand on her hip, “that girl needs to talk less and listen more. Hashtag – You Might Learn Something! Do we have any Gouda, by the way?” Like I said – focking spoiled.
I end up barely sleeping that night, dreading our trip to Dundrum like the American ormy must have dreaded storming that beach at the stort of Saving Private Ryan. But at 10 o’clock the following morning, we’re in the cor and we’re on the way to the old DTC – or, as Sorcha calls it, Xanadu. And it ends up being every bit as bad as I feared it would be.
The woman they give us to do the actual shopping with us ends up being a mixture of Kim Sears and Pippa Middleton – and, as a fan of both, I’ve no complaints. Which is more than can be said for Honor. It all kicks off about 10 seconds after we walk through the door.
“Okay, where’s my champagne?” she goes.
The bird looks at Sorcha. “We’re, er, obviously we’re not allowed to give alcohol to children.” Honor’s there, “Sorry, why are you looking at my mother? What am I, a ventriloquist’s dummy? Okay, let’s see what monstrosities you’ve picked out for me,” and three of us follow Honor down to the private room where you always see the Vips trying on clobber on TV3’s Xposé. In we go.
The poor personal shopper, you can tell, is shitting bricks. I’m throwing her sympathetic looks, as if to say, “You only have to dress the girl. We’ve got to live with her.” “I’ve picked out a beautiful Tara Jarmon design,” the woman goes, very professional in fairness to her. She shows her a dress. Looks fine to me. “In fact, Ruth Griffin very nearly bought the adult version of this for Gordon D’Arcy’s wedding!”
Honor’s like, “Excuse me?” “It’s a beautiful piece,” Sorcha goes, trying to smooth the waters. “And acquamarine is so in this year.”
Honor’s like, “At the risk of hurting my larynx, I’m going to repeat myself. I don’t want anything that anyone has tried on before. Bring me the good stuff. This isn’t some birthday treat, you know? It’s for, like, a red corpet event?” Sorcha goes, “She’s playing Zara Mesbur in the movie adaptation of Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly’s latest book,” and the poor woman nods like it actually means something to her.
“Well,” she tries to go, “not to worry. I’ve picked out some other dresses that reflect some of the themes that we saw at some of the bigger shows this spring.” Honor’s there, “Okay, don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. Just show me.”
The woman holds up another number. Again, a dress is a dress to me. “Okay, this only came in yesterday. There isn’t another one like it in the country. It’s by Elizabeth and James . . .”
“Do I look an Olsen twin?” “Sorry?” “I said do I look like an Olsen twin? Hashtag – a forceps in a dress! What else?” “Okay, what about this one?” Sorcha gives a big enthusiastic wow – obviously impressed. “Gatsby-trend is huge this year, especially the drop waist.”
“Sorry, is my name Honor O’Carroll-Kelly or Shirley Temple?” You can tell from the woman’s face that she’s never heard a six-year-old girl talk like this before – and that’s saying something, considering it’s Dundrum.
“Okay, I suppose I could try this one?” Honor goes, finally choosing one from the 20 or 30 that have been laid out for her. “Alexander McQueen,” and then she looks at me. “I hope you’ve room on your credit cord.” “Shouldn’t be a problem,” I go. I’m just dying to get the fock out of there. And that’s when my phone all of a sudden rings.
I can see from the caller ID that it’s my old dear. I step out of the room. I don’t want the personal shopper hearing the way I speak to my old dear and thinking that that’s where Honor gets it from.
“Hey, it’s Menopause the Musical!” I go. “What the fock do you want?” She’s like, “I don’t have time for your unpleasantness, Ross. I’ve just had some very bad news. The studio have pulled my movie.” I’m like, “What? Why?” even though the answer is obviously because it’s shit.
"I have no idea," she goes. "I just got a message to say that it's no longer going out on cinema release." Through a two-inch door, I hear Honor go, "Are you deaf? I said I would not put a Sam Edelman shoe on my foot!" and I think to myself, how am I going to tell her? rossocarrollkelly.ie; twitter.com/rossock