‘I’m making it my mission to charm La’Rochelle horizontal before this movie wraps’
SHE’S QUIET, Sorcha says.
And that’s what, like, worries me? Because the one thing you’d have to say about our five-year-old daughter is that she’s always got something to say – even if it’s just, “Someone needs to tell Charlize Theron that girls with swimmer’s shoulders shouldn’t wear cut-off sleeves,” or even, “Serena Williams – oh my God, they can do nothing with the girl?” Since the day she learned to speak, Honor has never been short of a word or six.
“Might be just nerves,” I go. Sorcha puts a mug of coffee down in front of me – the good stuff as well, which means she must be happy with me at the moment.
She goes, “You’re right. It could be just nerves.” Honor, I might have mentioned, has been chosen to play Zara Mesbur, the little girl in, like, the movie adaptation of the old dear’s recession-era, misery-lit novel – Mom, They Said They’d Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoes – and today is the first day of actual filming.
I’m pretty much kacking it myself, it has to be said. I pick up the script and, like, flick though it. Honor’s lines, I notice, have been highlighted in yellow morker pen, which always reminds me of my glory days, when I was working my way through the Institute like a rat through a rubbish bag.
“So does she actually know her lines?” I go.
“She says she does.”
“Did you – I don’t know – test her on them?”
She laughs – you’ll have to check if this is a word yourselves – but ruefully? “I tried,” she goes. “I offered to do a script run-through with her last night.”
“See, I always forget you did Annie Get Your Gun in school.”
“But she just stared at me, Ross, and went, ‘Er, I know my lines, thank you.’ Then when I asked her again this morning, she told me I was lame.”
I laugh. Can’t help it. “Well,” I go, “speaking as someone who was an entertainer himself back in his rugby days, I can tell you there’s such a thing as having, like, too many voices in your ear?”
I think about Father Fehily and I end up having a moment myself then. As the old man was saying the other night, it’s a genuine tragedy that he never lived long enough to see his dream of a unified Europe, with Berlin at its centre, run by unelected bureaucrats, realised.
Sorcha sits down beside me at the free-standing island. “I’m worried that it’s too much, too soon,” she goes. “I’m worried that we’ve, like, spoiled her?”
Again, I laugh. I’m like, “As you know, babes, I’m on the record as saying I don’t believe it’s possible to spoil kids.” And it’s at that exact moment, roysh, that she steps into the kitchen, our little pride and joy, wearing – and I end up nearly falling off the high stool when I see her – a pair of oversized Jackie O sunnies.
“It’s, er, pissing down out there, Honor,” I try to go. “I doubt you’re gonna need shades.”
Except she doesn’t answer. She just goes, “Are we going or not? I’m supposed to be on set in, like, half an hour?”
Sorcha gets up. “Not without a good breakfast you’re not.”
Honor’s like, “Er, I don’t do breakfast?”
“Just a bowl of muesli, Honor. You’re going to need your strength today. And it’s rich in Omega-3 fatty acids, remember.”
Honor looks at me then. At least I think she does – it’s difficult to tell behind the Dwayne Wades. “Will you please tell your soon-to-be-ex-wife,” she goes, “what I just said. I’m not repeating myself. I’m saving my larynx.” Then out she walks to the cor, leaving me and Sorcha with our jaws literally on the ground.
“It’s nerves,” I go. “It’s definitely nerves. Come on, let’s just do what she wants,” and we end up following her out to the cor. I try to make, like, small talk during the drive. “You’ll remember this day in 20 years time,” I go, “when you’re up there collecting your Oscar.”
She sighs – bored. She’s like, “Whatevs!”
I laugh. “Whatevs! In me and your mother’s day, it used to be, ‘Whatever!’ Didn’t it, Sorcha? ”
“Oh my God,” Honor goes, “you are so lame – we’re talking Toats McGoats,” and then she just goes on staring out the window.
Ten minutes later, roysh, we’re pulling up on Mount Street, which is where the opening scene is being filmed. I saw it in the script. Zara is on her way to Montessori. She’s quiet and moody. Her mother asks her what’s wrong and Zara tells her. She happened to hear the news on the radio this morning.
The American markets have expressed concern at the increasing level of debt default, especially in the area of subprime lending. Zara goes, “Mom, it’s not going to affect us, is it?”
Her mother laughs and goes, “Of course it’s not. Here, put your little boater on.” As I’m feeding coins into the meter, I’m thinking, yeah, maybe that’s why she’s all quiet and moody – she’s, like, getting in character?
The next thing any of us knows, there’s this, like, American bird – think Elisabetta Canalis and you’re in the right postcode – and she’s walking towards us, a clipboard in one hand, the other hand outstretched.
“Hi,” she’s giving it, “I’m La’Rochelle. I’m going to be Honor’s personal assistant.” Sorcha and I look at each other, both of us thinking the exact same thing, which is her personal assistant? Actually, what I’m really thinking is, I’m making it my mission to charm La’Rochelle horizontal before this movie wraps.
“And you must be Honor,” she goes. “It’s so lovely to meet you.” The kid just shrugs, obviously not as impressed as her old man.
“And this is your trailer behind us, Honor.”
“Trailer?” Sorcha goes.
Honor just morches straight into the thing, not a word out of her.
LaRochelle must cop the look on Sorcha’s face, roysh, because she goes, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re worried that she’s going to end up spoiled, right?”
Sorcha’s like, “Well, you hear such terrible stories about child stars – you only have to watch E! News.”
La’Rochelle laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s my job to not only make sure she gets what she needs, but also to make sure the experience doesn’t affect her adversely. I’ve worked with the likes of Mila, Natalie and Reese.”
I’m there, “I presume we’re talking Kunis, Portman and Witherspoon,” and then I look at Sorcha. “You’d have to say fair focks, babes.”
That’s when we hear this sudden roar. Honor is standing at the door of the trailer, with the sunnies still on – not a happy rabbit.
“There’s fock-all in here!” she screams in La’Rochelle’s general direction. “I want flowers! Roses. White. I want a stack of Vogue magazines. And a focking smoothie. Strawberry and mango. Now!”
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock
