E ven after 10 years of marriage, Sorcha hasn’t lost her ability to surprise me. We’re walking out of Donnybrook Fair, our orms laden down with bags, when she turns around to me and goes, “I think you and I should stort going out on dates again.”
Naturally enough, I’m like, “Dates? What are you talking about?” I put the bags in the boot of the Lambo, then I slam it shut.
She goes, “Do you remember my friend Maolisa, spelt the Irish way – she did a Masters in HRM and organisational behaviour in the Smurfit School of Business?”
I actually do remember her. She wasn’t great. She had one of those faces – looked like she’d been beaten with a bag of limes.
“Yeah, no,” I go, “I remember Maolisa spelt the Irish way. What about her?”
She goes, “I bumped into her the other day in Dundrum. She’s married to this amazing, amazing goy who’s about to become a portner in, like, Matheson Ormsby Prentice?”
I’m like, “Fair focks.”
“She told me his name but I can’t remember it. Anyway, she also has a career? And they’ve got, like, four children. I was like, ‘Oh my God, how do you always manage to look so well!’”
“I’d be very surprised if she looked well, Babes. I always thought the girl was bet-down. I hope that doesn’t come across as sexist.” We both get into the cor and I stort the engine.
Sorcha goes, "Well, she looked rested then, as in, like – oh my God – so chilled out. I was like, 'What's your secret?'. And she said that one night a week she and her husband have, like, a date night?"
I’m like, “Keep going, Babes,” wondering is this a trap or something. “Well,” she goes, “what would you think of it? The whole idea of, like, going back to dating?”
I kill the engine. I somehow resist the temptation to hang my hand in the air for a high-five. I’m like, “Can I just say, this is muesli to my ears. I genuinely didn’t think this would be your kind of thing at all.”
She laughs. She’s there, “Why wouldn’t it be my kind of thing?”
Sorcha always got jealous when I slept with girls who weren’t her.
“I’m just saying,” I go, “it’s very open-minded of you at last.”
She’s there, “A lot of married couples do it, Ross. Life is, like, so stressful, with work and family and blah blah blah. You have to take time out and think of yourselves, whether it’s once a week, once a month . . . ”
“Once a week,” I quickly go. “Definitely once a week.”
She’s like, “Okay, once a week, we’ll have a date night. Even if it’s just dinner somewhere . . . ”
“And if it leads to something else,” I go, “you’re totally cool with that?”
She looks at me crooked. She's there, "Of course I'm cool with it!" and she laughs. "As a matter of fact, Maolisa spelt the Irish way said that's how she and her husband have kept the actual magic in their marriage?"
I’m literally pinching myself here.
I’m there, “Yeah, no, I can see how it’d keep things definitely interesting.”
She goes, “I don’t want us to become one of those married couples, Ross – you know, just staring at each other across a Chinese takeaway every Saturday night. We should be out, like, socialising.”
I'm there, "Hey, I'm all about meeting new people, Babes. Keeping it fresh and blah blah blah."
"I was thinking we should sort of, like, ease our way into it? We should stort off by going on dates with each other's friends."
I do a quick mental inventory of all of her friends that I like. Sandrine. Amie with an ie. That bird with the long white coat who I thought was some kind of hospital consultant but actually just works in Kiehl’s.
“There’s definitely material to work with there,” I go. “Which of my friends were you thinking in terms of?”
She goes, “What about Oisinn? Is he going out with anyone at the moment?”
She’s borking up the wrong tree there. Oisinn wouldn’t go near her. We played rugby together. It’s called Bro Code. Deal with it.
I’m there, “You could certainly ask him. Don’t be offended if he says no, though. So when are we going to do this thing?”
We’re still porked outside Donnybrook Fair, by the way. I’m still wondering am I possibly dreaming this?
She goes, “Well, I was thinking in terms of this Saturday.”
I’m like, “Saturday works for me.”
She goes, “Do you know my friend, Medb – she’s in my mindfulness class?”
I’m there, “Er, no.”
She’s like, “I just thought you two would definitely hit it off. You have, like, totally the same sense of humour.”
“Is she hot?” I go. “Not that looks matter. But they’re obviously very, very important.”
Sorcha’s there, “She’s one of those girls who definitely makes the best of herself.”
I pull a face. That’s what girls say when someone is horrendous.
I’m there, “I think I might pass on her, Sorcha. What else have you got?”
Sorcha’s like, “Why is her appearance important to you, Ross?”
And – quite reasonably – I go, “I don’t want to date someone who’s, as you said, a bit of a mess in the old face deportment.”
That’s when the atmosphere between us suddenly changes.
Sorcha goes, "Date her? Ross, I'm talking about me and you going out for dinner with her and her husband, Ailill."
I’m suddenly confused. I’m there, “Okay, I’m possibly being a bit thick here. But you were the one who said we should stort dating again.”
She goes, “I meant going on dates with each other.”
I’m like, “But why would I want to date you? I’m already married to you. Would that not be a bit, I don’t know, weird?”
The air in the cor suddenly tightens. She goes, “Excuse me?” and I suddenly realise – not for the first time in our marriage – that we’re on two totally different pages.
I stort the cor again and I nearly drive head first into the path of a 46A.
“Ross,” Sorcha goes, “what did you think I was talking about?”
I’m there, “Maybe we should stop talking for a while, Babes. Let me concentrate on the road here.”
