‘He’s a ringer for Enrique Iglesias. That’s what all the birds used to say about him. That and he knows how to wear a cricket jumper’
HE OLD DEAR is wearing gladiator sandals. Probably because the magazine that you’re currently holding mentioned that they’re hot right now. Well, not on a woman of her age, they’re not. And with her legs. The last time I saw a pair of pins like that, Cian Healy was hauling them down five yords from the line in Cordiff.
Oh, I make sure to say it to her as well. “Does Russell Crowe know you’ve been raiding his wardrobe?” Except she doesn’t take the bait, just rolls her eyes and tells me she’s not here to listen to my unpleasantness. This is a happy occasion, she says.
Namely, the meet and greet ahead of Fionn and Erika’s wedding in, like, six weeks’ time. Erika, as in the lovechild that the old man fathered while he was still married to her? And here we all are playing happy families in Patrick Guilbaud’s .
“You’re not even family,” I go.
She smiles without even looking at me. She has enough foundation on her to paint the Stena Nordica.
“Your father and I have managed to remain dear, dear friends,” she tries to go, “in spite of the divorce. Why that should upset you, I don’t know. We were part of each other’s lives for many, many years. It’s only natural that he’d want me to be a part of his daughter’s big day. And to meet her betrothed and his family.”
I watch her fake-smile Fionn’s old dear across the restaurant. “At the same time,” I go, “gladiator sandals. Are you on medication or something?” Again, she doesn’t react, just tips over to Fionn’s old dear, giving it, “How lovely to see you again. And congratulations,” and of course she does the whole air-kissing thing – pure fake, of course.
Erika, who looks really, really well – and I’m saying that in, like, a brother-sister way – tells us all to be seated because they’re going to be, like, taking our orders soon? I feel a hand touch my elbow and I turn around. It ends up being Sorcha. “Do you want to sit together?” she goes.
It’s a lovely thing to hear, as well as being a boost to the old ego. I’m there, “Hey, I’m easy like a Sunday morning, baby.”
We sit down. I tell her she looks well. She says that skater tops ended up being so in this year – as did asymmetrical skirts, which certainly caught the high street on the hop. It has to be said, it’s great to have the old Sorcha back.
I grab a breadroll from the middle of the table and I go, “By the way,” keeping my voice down so no else hears, “what do you think of the whole Jesus Taradella situation?”
She’s like, “What?” genuinely meaning it?
I’m there, “Come on, Sorcha – some dude from . . . ”
“Argentina.”
“I was going to say from Erika’s distant past. An ex. Who just happens to be loaded. Actually showjumped for, as you said, Argentina. He suddenly shows up, just as she’s about to get married?”
“So?”
“Just as she’s about to get married – to Fionn.”
“Oh my God, you’re supposed to be his best man.”
“That’s why I’m looking out for his interests. Open your eyes, Sorcha. The dude’s one of my best friends. But he’s still an unemployed teacher. And he’s got glasses.”
“So you automatically think Erika’s going to dump him.”
“This Jesus dude – he’s a serious looker, if I remember rightly. Fancies himself as a bit of a player as well. Doesn’t he have, like, his own jet or something?”
“It’s actually his father’s, Ross – he’s a former presidential candidate.”
“Whatever. My point still stands. What’s he doing back here sniffing around Erika?”
Sorcha just shakes her head. “Don’t judge everyone by your own standards,” she goes.
That’s when I all of a sudden hear it: “Haylo!” I look up and – speak of the devil – there he suddenly is, standing in front of us. He’s a ringer for Enrique Iglesias. That’s what all the birds used to say about him. That and he knows how to wear a cricket jumper. I’m sure he can read my thoughts from the look on my basic face. I’m thinking, she invited him here? To the actual meet and greet? Of course, Fionn’s too innocent to even spot another bull seal checking out his stretch of beach.
“Ah, Jesus,” he goes, “you’re very welcome. Everyone, this is an old friend of Erika’s,” and then it’s Erika who stands up – obviously delighted to see him – and introduces him to everyone at the table.
The only available seat, it turns out, is, like, directly opposite me and Sorcha. He sits down. And you can imagine the tension between me and him. One, like, predatory alpha male always recognises another.
“Sureeka,” he goes, because that’s how he always pronounced it, “you are heefen more beautiful then I remember.” Sorcha actually blushes and I suddenly remember why it was always so easy to get her to take me back.
“So what the fock are you doing?” I go. “As in, with yourself these days.”
“I steel ham competing for Hargentina,” he goes. He thinks he’s too cool for school. I pull a face – cracking on not to be impressed? I used to always tell him that showjumping was for girls. Pony club, I used to call it.
I’m there, “Fair focks.”
“Also, I ham coach for Hargentina polo team. And what about you, Russ?” He always refused to pronounce my name properly.
I’m there, “Meaning?”
“Well,” he goes, a real look of badness in his eyes, “the last time I see you, you say to me, I wheel play rugby for Ireland one day. I see on television there is World Cup on now. I ham surprised to see you harr not in New Zealand.”
I suddenly realise that every conversation at the table has stopped and that practically everyone in the restaurant is waiting to hear my comeback.
“I had a lot of bad luck with injuries,” I go. “Then you’d the likes of Ronan O’Gara and Johnny Sexton breaking through at the wrong time for me.” He smiles – except it’s more like a sneer? The old man – the shame of it – comes riding to my rescue from the top of the table.
“The big problem with Ross, of course, was that every coach that Ireland had, from Warren Gatland to Declan Kidney, by way of Eddie O’Sullivan, didn’t know how to harness his talent.”
Jesus flashes a grin at me. “Oh,” he goes. “How you say again? Fear focks!”
And I just stare at him and think, this is war. This is actual war.
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock