She’s there, ‘Oh my God, you could get into so much trouble for that,’ then she shakes her head, roysh, as if to say, same old Ross, he’s never going to change – thank God.
The queue for hot dogs is up the focking street and around the corner, but it’s good because it gives us, like, an hour to catch up. ‘Like, all the celebrities come here?’ Sorcha goes. ‘I saw Famke Janssen here a few weeks ago and I’m pretty sure Mila Kunis. And my really, really good friend Elodine – Honor goes on, like, playdates with her daughter, Jagger? – she saw Brody Jenner ordering a pastrami reuben. It’s like, Oh! My God!’
I laugh. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ I go, ‘because I mean it as an actual compliment – you’ve become, like, so American. You just seem really at home here.’
She smiles, I suppose you’d say, warmly. ‘The only thing I don’t like about LA,’ she goes, ‘is that the water is – oh my God – so hard. Look, my hair’s frizzy – and that’s even after an hour with my GHD…’
I give her, like, a sympathetic look.
‘That’s why all of the stars are getting Evian filtered into their boilers. It said in People that Rhea Durham’s doing it – even though she’s denied it.’
I tell her I can’t believe the size of the gaff they’ve ended up in. ‘Are Pricewaterhouse actually paying for it?’
‘No – it’s, like, a weird one?’ she goes. ‘Bob Soto, who’s, like, the head of the department that Cillian’s been seconded to, his wife is, like, an attorney and it’s one of her clients who owns it. They’ve gone on, like, a cruise for a year and they needed someone to just, like, house-sit? When we saw it, we were just like, Oh my God!’
I’m there, ‘I’d say you were.’
‘I can’t believe you won’t stay with us,’ she goes. ‘You’ve seen it, Ross – there’s loads of room.’
I’m there, ‘No, I’m Kool and the Gang in the Viceroy. Hey, did I tell you I’m in the exact same room where Christopher Moltisanti stayed in The Sopranos?’
‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘that must be, like, so expensive.’
I’m there, ‘Fock it – the old man’s paying. The least he owes me when you think about it.’
It’s at that point that I probably should mention Erika. But I don’t – maybe I’m enjoying being around Sorcha too much. Instead, I ask her about work.
‘Well, work-wise,’ she goes, ‘the last few months have been, like, a fact-finding mission for me? Even just walking around Melrose or Robertson, I’ve got – oh my God – so many ideas for the shop back home. Betsey Johnson’s got, like, vertical TV screens playing actual catwalk footage? It’s like, oh my God – why has no one in Ireland even thought about that? Except BTs, obviously.
‘And I’m thinking of having, like, a seating area with huge pink couches – PVC, obviously, not leather. If people are relaxed, they will spend. Elodine told me that and she studied actual retail.
‘And even just the way they talk to you in the shops, Ross. If they see you with, like, two or three items, they come over to you and go, “Do you want me to start a room for you?” And then they, like, compliment you? They’re like, “Oh my God, that is such a good look for you!” I’m going to start saying all of those.’
Then she asks me what’s been happening in my life. I’m there, ‘Well, you know about the whole Andorra thing – a try against Ireland A, blahdy blahdy blah. Let’s just say there’s going to be a lot of teams all of a sudden interested in my services…’
Sorcha’s phone beeps. Except it’s not a phone – it’s, like, a pink BlackBerry? I presume it’s a text from Cillian – still bulling – but she reads it with, like, her mouth open, then tells me that members of the National Restaurant Association are furious with Kevin Federline for appearing in a commercial as a fast-food worker dreaming of becoming a rapper. They say it demeans low-wage restaurant workers.
Of course, I’m left just shaking my head.
‘Oh,’ she goes, ‘it’s this, like, celebrity alert service – Cillian got me a subscription for Christmas. You get, like, all the news and gossip, straight to your phone, as it happens. Even photographs. Oh my God, I have to show you the giraffe-print Escada halter that Jada Pinkett Smith wore to the New York Fashion Fête.’
Luckily, roysh, it doesn’t come to that, because we’re suddenly at the top of the queue. I order, like, a chilli cheese dog with, obviously, fries and I persuade Sorcha to have, like, a Patt Morrison Baja Veggie, even though she says she’s trying to steer clear of guacamole.
We end up sitting in this little, I suppose, yord at the back of the place, at a little white plastic table, wolfing down what I would have to say is the most incredible hot dog I’ve ever tasted.
Sorcha mentions that she’s going to buy Ayaan Hirsi Ali’s autobiography again. ‘I was only talking to Elodine the other night about her whole struggle?’ she goes. ‘And I thought, oh my God, I have to re-read it.’
I swat away a mosquito the size of a small bird, then I tell her it’s great to see her. She smiles at me – like old times – and says it’s great to see me, too.
The ugly munter – what is she, following me now?
She’s all, ‘What you’re asking me, I think, is why do I write? And the answer to that is that I can’t imagine not writing…’
I’m, like, shouting at the TV, going, ‘You swamp donkey! You total focking mong!’
‘I know this is going to sound, oh, impossibly celestial,’ she’s giving it, ‘but sometimes it’s as if my fingers are being directed – that I’m merely a cipher for this wonderful story that the universe has determined must be told.’
‘Karma Suits You,’ the dude interviewing her goes. ‘Hey, what a crazy title – what’s it about?’
‘Well, it’s the story of a fifty-something Irish woman who experiences a sexual reawakening – a re-blossoming, if you like – after going through the menopause. She abandons her old, rather repressed life in Ireland and comes to America, where she experiences this rebirth, which is where the idea of karma comes in. And of course she meets all these wonderful men – a fireman, obviously, a two-hundred-pound NBA star, even an elevator repairman – and has all these wonderfully erotic experiences, some of which she would have considered impossible without recourse to heavy pain medication…’
I’m, like, screaming now. ‘You’re a focking disgrace! You absolute focking manatee!’
‘Of course, the full title,’ the other interviewer – who’s, like, a woman – goes, ‘is Karma Suits You – States of Ecstasy. Because during the course of her year, she has – let’s just say – relations with fifty men in fifty different states. And, controversially, fifty different positions. Can I just read out a line from one of my favourites, which is Alaska? This is the scene that ends with the kneeling lotus.
‘He said he was a whale fisherman. She looked at him askance, studying his leathery face, his commanding, callused hands, his entire bearing, straight as a longboat. Her resistance melted like the polar ice cap. Soon, he was exploring her Inside Passage and she was groaning like an age-worn sled dog.’
The audience claps – they actually clap. ‘You’re a focking shambles!’ I’m going.
Suddenly there’s, like, a loud knock on the door, then it bursts open before I get a chance to even get out of the sack. There’s all of a sudden a man stood at the foot of my bed – black, if the truth be told – and he’s wearing, like, a uniform. At first, roysh, I think he’s a cop, but then he says he’s, like, hotel security.
‘Sir,’ he goes, ‘we’ve had a complaint from one or two guests about a ruckus coming from this suite.’
‘A ruckus?’
‘A ruckus, Sir.’
I nod in the direction of the old Savalas. ‘Well, can you actually blame me?’
He turns around, looks at the screen. ‘Regis and Kelly,’ he goes. ‘My wife never misses it. Though I gotta tell you, I think she preferred Kathie Lee…’
‘I’m talking about her, the guest – fock
ing so-called – they’ve got on…’
He sits on the end of the bed. ‘She’s kinda pretty,’ he goes. ‘She Irish?’
I’m like, ‘Pretty? You’ve got to be shitting me – that’s a double-bagger if ever I saw one.’
He’s there, ‘Got nice pins, too. What you got against this lady?’
‘What I’ve got against her is that she happens to be my old dear.’
‘Old what?’
‘It’s, like, our word for mother? And it’s, like, how would you like to see your mother up on the wall there talking filth?’
‘I wouldn’t, I guess. But I gotta tell you, you gotta keep it down, my man. You in the Viceroy now – not the Y. You hearing me?’
I tell him I am.
‘I’m Carl,’ he goes.
A high-five in LA, I’m happy to say, is exactly the same as a high-five back home.
‘No more ruckus – know what I’m saying?’
I’m there, ‘Kool and the Gang, my friend. Kool and the Gang.’
Then he’s suddenly gone.
My phone beeps – a text from, like, Sorcha: OMG ur mum is on live with regis n kelly! u must be omg SO proud.
‘Because I think it’s our duty,’ the stupid hound’s going, ‘and I don’t use that word lightly, as writers to challenge norms, be they sexual, be they… whatever.’
‘Yeah,’ this Kelly one’s going, ‘back in the, er, Emerald Isle…’
‘The Old Sod,’ Regis or whatever he’s called goes.
‘… you’re considered something of an Irish Catherine Millet – would that be fair to say?’
‘I think it would,’ the old dear goes, ‘insofar as we’re both libertines. We both believe in free expression in a sexual context. And in all its forms, whether that’s nihilism, sadomasochism, autoerotic asphyxiation…’
I can’t actually listen to any more of this. I reach down, grab one of my Dubes off the floor and fock it straight at the TV. It bounces off, roysh, and I’m lying there thinking, it’s a good job I don’t wear John Lobb custom brogues, otherwise it would have probably cracked the…
The next thing, roysh – pretty unexpected, I have to say – the TV just, like, falls off the wall and there’s what would have to be described as a loud explosion, we’re talking sparks everywhere.
I’m like, ‘Holy fock!’
I pick up the phone, dial zero for reception. I’m there, ‘Listen, tell Carl not to bother his orse coming back up – every thing’s cool. By the way, I’ve pretty much broken the TV. Is that likely to show up on the Harry Hill?’
I was convinced that Sorcha was shitting me when I saw them first.
Stilettos for babies.
I asked her was it not, like, dangerous, but she said that girls eventually have to learn to wear designer heels and it’s best if they stort young.
I could have pointed out that Chloe back home has been told she has to have both hips replaced, the result of a lifetime wearing designer heels, but it’s, like, no – I’m actually over here to chill. So I said nothing while she put on Honor’s little red patent pumps – ‘so like my actual Roger Viviers’ – and warned me not to let her walk more than a few steps unassisted.
So we’re sitting in, like, Bornes and Noble in Santa Monica – in the little Storbucks in there? – and it’s nice, roysh, just the two of us, me and my daughter, spending some QT together, watching all the comings and goings.
Sorcha, I should mention, feels it’s important for Honor to get a good grasp of conversational Spanish and Mandarin while she’s still young. She said I wouldn’t believe how important multi-ethnicity is over here. Every time someone passes our table, Honor’s either like, ‘Hola,’ or she’s like, ‘Ni hao,’ and the thing is, roysh, I haven’t heard her say a word in actual English yet.
I’m there, trying to get her to say, ‘Daddy,’ going, ‘Can you say, “Daddy”? “Daddy”! “Daddy”!’
‘Ni hao,’ she just goes. ‘Ni hao ma.’
She’s also, by the way, trying desperately to get her hands on my grande triple shot dulce de leche mocha and I’m thinking, she’s definitely my daughter. I end up giving her one or two little sips, thinking, you know, coffee can’t be any worse for a baby than Toms that cut off the circulation in her feet.
So I’m sitting there, roysh, basically chilling, taking in the whole California experience, when all of a sudden there’s a bird, we’re talking one or two tables away – a ringer for Mandy Moore and that is not an exaggeration? – staring over, which is no big deal actually, because I am looking well at the moment and, as we all know, every bird is a sucker for a man with a baby.
‘Oh my God!’ she goes at the top of her voice. ‘I love her!’ which is always nice for a father to hear.
I’m there, ‘Thanks. She’s basically eighteen months old now – maybe a little bit more.’
It’s only when she goes, ‘She is such an inspiration to me,’ that I realize that who she’s actually talking about is Ayaan Hirsi Ali and the book I’m considering buying for Sorcha but am currently using as a coaster. ‘Have you, like, read it?’ she goes.
‘Yeah,’ I go, thinking on my feet as usual. ‘Matter of fact, I’m re-reading it? It’s just I was talking to someone the other day about her whole, I suppose you’d have to say, struggle and I was thinking, Dude, you owe it to yourself to re-read it. And maybe re-read it again after that.’
She smiles at me. She’s got teeth like Chiclets and she’s interested in me – that much she’s making pretty obvious. ‘The bit where she’s forcibly circumcised,’ she goes, ‘I was thinking, oh my God, if I could get my hands on those tribal elders…’
‘Don’t get me storted,’ I go, then of course I haven’t a clue what to say next – I don’t know what the book’s even about? – so I flip it over subtly and stort feeding her lines off the back cover.
‘My own personal feeling,’ I go, ‘is that she has an open mind that has released itself from the old straitjacketed frame of reference of Right and Wrong. I mean, there’s no doubt she is instinctively, deeply anti-authoritarian and – you’d have to say – unlikely to stick to straight ideological themes and shit? She will go on asking difficult questions. I could be wrong – that’s just what I think.’
I thump the table then, just for effect.
No bird has ever looked at me the way she looks at me then – not even Sorcha on our wedding day. She wants me, and she wants me in a major way.
She goes, ‘I know a guy who’s hoping to turn her story into a Broadway musical. I would so love to play her.’
She sort of, like, indicates the chair beside me to ask if she can join me. I’m there, ‘Yeah, coola boola,’ because, like I told you, she’s hot – and wearing half-nothing as well.
‘I’m Sahara,’ she goes, offering me her hand, the one that’s not holding her frap?
I’m there, ‘Sahara? What a beautiful name,’ which it’s not, of course – it’s the name of a casino.
‘It’s actually Sarah?’ she goes. ‘But my agent thought it would help get me roles.’
I tell her I know a bird called Sophie who started spelling her name Seauphie as a way of, like, pissing off her old pair when they were getting divorced. It helps to get, like, a rapport going? Then I’m like, ‘Hang on – did you say agent?’
‘I’m an actress,’ she goes.
I’m like, ‘An actress?’ showing an actual interest, which is something I’m going to stort doing more of. ‘What are the chances! Well, without blowing my own trumpet here, I’m a pretty big deal myself back home.’
‘Back home?’ she goes. ‘You mean you’re not from California?’
I’m there, ‘Er, my accent?’
She’s like, ‘You don’t have an accent.’
‘Are you shitting me?’
‘No – where are you from?’
‘I’m, like, Irish?’
‘Oh my God, that is so random. I would never have known. So what are you, like, famous for in Ireland?’
‘Rug…’
‘Rugby?’
‘I don’t think so.’
I crack my hole laughing. ‘Now I know you’re shitting me.’
She has un-focking-believable Jakki Deggs, in fairness to her, smooth and tanned, and the way she’s dangling her Havaiana on the end of her foot is doing it for me in a big-time way.
I’m there, ‘Would it be rude of me to ask you for your number?’
She opens her mouth, only cracking on to be shocked. ‘I’ll say this for you,’ she goes, ‘you’re confident,’ and I’m there, ‘It has been said,’ flirting my orse off majorly.
She’s there, ‘I bet it has. I only stopped by your table because I’ve just finished reading the same book,’ playing the innocent, of course.
‘You stopped by my table because you were attracted,’ I go. ‘You liked what you saw and you went for it – no one’s judging you.’
She slaps me, sort of, like, playfully? You always know you’re in when they do that. I’m there, ‘So, what are doing Friday night?’
‘What am I doing Friday night?’ she goes, actually embarrassed. ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. I’m having some of my girlfriends over. It’s, like, my television debut? This thing I worked on… I don’t know, do you want to come over?’
I’m there, ‘Well, I’ve no other plans – plus I’ve broken the TV in my hotel room.’
I whip out my phone and she gives me her digits. She says it’ll be me and, like, three girls there and I tell her I like those odds. She laughs. I put my hand on her knee, then she’s suddenly serious again, fanning her face with her hand and saying oh my God over and over again, unable to believe her actual luck here.
But, like I said, think Mandy Moore.
I tell her I hoped she didn’t get the wrong idea when she saw me with my daughter. ‘Don’t worry,’ I go, ‘I’m happily separated – on the way to being divorced. Yeah, she’s with, like, a complete tosser now – he’s, like, an auditor.’
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