Orna Mulcahy on people we all know
Kevin feels a slight twinge of guilt as he horses into a (large) plate of antipasto at the Unicorn. He should be at the Nativity play, watching Kevin jnr be a shepherd dressed in a tea towel, but as he's tried to explain to Deirdre, this isn't just Lunch. It's Work. It's not as though he wants to sit around in a restaurant for four hours eating and drinking! No, normally he's a sandwich-at-the-desk man, but at this time of year you have to make an effort with clients who could always introduce you to future clients. Christmas cards and a bottle of booze aren't enough in these competitive times. People want to see the whites of your eyes.
Kevin's eyes are all red and boiled looking, but that's his seafood allergy. A rogue prawn slipped onto his plate last week and he's still feeling dodgy. Nothing to do with pints. He can handle any amount of the black creamy stuff, but prawns destroy him. He keeps a bottle of Gaviscon in the glove compartment, just in case, along with a spare tie for when he slobbers béarnaise down his front, but neither are much good to him since he generally can't find his car. It never seems to be where he left it. It's been a tough week: Guilbauds on Monday, Peploes on Tuesday and Wednesday, Shanahans on Thursday - beautiful meat - and now the Unicorn, with the annual Knuckleheads dinner with the lads later on and that's usually an all-nighter. God will he suffer tomorrow at the Elm Park Santa lunch.
But back to the business in hand. What'll it be? Where's that nice girl who looks after the wine till we get more of that Chablis, or is it time to switch to red? Decent bread basket, thank God. You need a good bit of soakage so early in the day.Then it's duck all round and extra spuds, followed by sticky toffee pudding. To hell with the fresh fruit dessert. He's half-a-stone up already, but what else is January for but to detox, and no point stinting after such a good year, thanks to you gentlemen - now let's see, do they do a good dessert wine?
It's still daylight, which means that, theoretically, one could go back to the office after this last round, but it's not a good idea, in case anyone gets the whiff of the port he's just spilled on his trousers. A quick one in the Shelbourne instead, nice and Christmassy in there and always someone you know in the corner. Honestly, Deirdre doesn't believe it but there are more deals done in the Shelbourne bar than ever get done sitting across a boardroom table.
Afterwards Kevin floats off to the meet the rest of the Knuckleheads and after that it's all a terrible blur. He's in an awful way today, and no one's to tell Deirdre that he left his good Bugatti raincoat in a taxi with a cheque made out to cash in the pocket. She'd kill him.