'She was in shock. Ross, you know how much Rosanna loved my boutique'
I ASK SORCHA IF she’s heard from Erika – since the girl split on her supposed wedding day, that is – but she doesn’t even look at me, just goes, “I don’t want to talk about her,” as in the girl she used to describe as her best friend forever.
She’s been listening to a lot of Sufjan Stevens this week and talking about the – if this is a word – impermanence of things? I think she feels even more betrayed than Fionn by Erika’s last minute flit.
Typical of my soon-to-be-ex-wife, though, she’s throwing herself into her work – managing the Euro Hero discount store that now stands where her Sorcha Circa fashion boutique once stood.
I’m looking around at the shop at the magnetic can openers (€2) and the Australia-to-US plug adaptors (€1) and the grey crimplene under-bed storage bags (€3) and the leftover plastic Halloween masks (50c) and I’m thinking it’s hord to believe that this is still the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre.
Honor hasn’t taken the news of Sorcha’s new job well – she is terrified, of course, that someone from school is going to find out about it. She’s hiding in a corner of the shop behind a pair of oversized aviators and the breathing mask that her mother bought during the Sars scare of 2003.
Sorcha even says it to her. “Take off that silly mask, Honor.”
“Er, no,” Honor goes. “I don’t want to catch something.”
I don’t say it to Sorcha, of course, but the kid has a point – the shop smells of dust, wrongly spelt eau de colone and desperation.
Sorcha is suddenly talking over my left hammer to a group of English girls who are giggling at the hen’s night accessories. “There’s 50 percent off the iron-on faux diamanté transfers (€1),” she goes, giving them the sales pitch. “And the Last Night Out sashes (€2) and the L-plate deely boppers (€2) are Buy One, Get One. Oh, and with every €5 spent, there’s a free Hottie Whistle!”
All the birds are there, “What?”
One of them is alright looking – the rest are focking lagoon creatures.
“A Hottie Whistle,” Sorcha goes, suddenly producing one from a little bowl on the counter. “When you’re all out in, like, Busker’s and one of you sees a goy who’s, like, totally hot, you do this . . .”
She puts the whistle in her mouth and gives us three or four serious blasts on it.
All the girls laugh. Whereas I could focking cry. A year ago, she was standing in the exact same spot telling people that – I don’t know – a playful hot pink bow adds a much needed pop of colour to an Oscar de la Renta sequined gown. Or that the best summer layering advice anyone can give you is to steer clear of matchy-matchy and keep your colour palette soft.
And now she’s reduced to this – pushing pink Stetsons (€3), shot glasses on a neck chain (€2), lollipops shaped like penises (€1) and Hottie Whistles (50c, or free with every purchase of €5 or more) to packs of focking hounds.
The girls – and I’m using that term loosely – say they’ll have a think about it and they might come back, then they drift out of the shop, still giggling like dopes.
Honor looks at me and goes, “Did she tell you that Rosanna Davison called in? And that she – OMG – burst into tears when she saw what mom had been reduced to. Er, awks much?”
“She did not burst into tears,” Sorcha goes. “She was in shock. Ross, you know how much Rosanna loved my boutique . . .”
I’m there, “She was never out of the focking place.”
“Well, she hadn’t actually heard that it was closed down. She came in earlier to see could I order her this – oh my God – amazing violet Marchesa mini that Diane Kruger wore to the premiere of Pieds Nus Sur Les Limaces . . .”
“And here you are,” I go, “flogging seven-piece screwdriver sets (€3) and magic brush and matching shoe horn gift packs (€2). Jesus, no wonder she burst into tears.”
Sorcha’s like, “She didn’t burst into tears, Ross. She was concerned about me, that’s all. I was like, ‘Rosanna, it’s okay. This is just what I’m doing now. I’m honestly happy.’ And I’m really well – especially within myself?”
I’m like, “Poor Rosanna, though. I must text her.”
It’s as I’m saying this that a customer suddenly arrives at the counter. It’s a woman. Nice as well. I don’t think she’s that unlike Adrianne Palicki? Sorcha switches back to sales-assistant mode.
“How are you finding everything?” she goes.
See, she’s still got the clothes shop patter.
“I have a complaint,” the woman goes.
Sorcha’s like, “Oh?”
“This shampoo,” she goes, then slaps this, like, two-litre bottle (€1) down on the counter. Whatever is inside it is the actual colour of French mustard.
“Did it not do what it says on the bottle?”
“I don’t know. Because I have no idea what it says on the bottle. The only word I recognise is shampoo. Everything else is in, I don’t know, Indian.”
“I think it’s actually Farsi,” Sorcha goes. “I recognise some of the script. A really good friend of mine represented Iran in the Model UN at school.”
“It made my scalp bleed,” the woman goes.
“What?”
“My scalp bled – when I tried to wash my hair with it.”
My instant reaction would be, what the fock do you expect for a euro? Honestly, it’s the size of a lorge bottle of Coke. Except Sorcha is unbelievably professional.
“I am so, so sorry,” she goes. “Okay, the first thing I’m going to do is give you your money back.”
“The money isn’t the issue . . .”
“No, I insist. Okay, there’s your euro. Now, I’m going to promise you that I’m going to investigate this thing fully.”
“I already made an effort. There’s a telephone number on the back of the bottle there – presumably for the manufacturer. I dialled it but the number isn’t valid. The country code doesn’t even exist.”
“Oh! My God!”
“You really shouldn’t be selling it, though. It couldn’t have passed any kind of safety checks. I was washing my hair and there was actual blood on my palms. I just thought I’d say it to you.”
“Well, thank you – for being so understanding as well.”
“I just wouldn’t like to think of it happening to anyone else. Especially someone old.”
Off she goes with her euro – the focking busybody. Honestly, I’d have run her – I don’t care what she looks like.
Honor sniggers behind her little mask. She’s like, “Er, toats embarrassing?”
Sorcha just ignores her and tells me she’s going to ring Mr Whittle, the owner.
She goes, “Ross, will you do me a favour? Get those bottles off those shelves – quick.”
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock