I throw my eyes up to heaven, then tip over. She’s fine, of course. She’s got plenty of attention, as in Trevion’s, like, cradling her head, telling her there’s an ambulance on its way, even though she’s already said it’s only a sprain, and the others are all cooing over her as well.
Then Sorcha and Erika arrive and stort giving her all the sympathy she’s looking for.
I end up getting into a bit of a row with this bird who expresses the opinion that the race should be declared void, since everybody knows that Fionnuala is the real winner, and I point out, reasonably, that that’s not what the record books will show.
It’s just as she’s calling me a jerk that it happens.
Trevion goes, ‘I was going to do this tonight, Fyon Hoola. I was going to take you out to dinner, somewhere real nice – Ortolan – have the sommelier bring your favourite champagne… But you know what? Here’s as good a place as any.’
He reaches into his inside pocket and whips out this little black box. Of course, he doesn’t even need to open it for me to know what it is. He goes, ‘I got a hunk of ice here, Fyon Hoola, says I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’
I’m there, ‘Trevion, don’t be a focking dope.’
It’s a six-carat canary focking diamond.
Sorcha goes, ‘Oh! My God!’ In fact, everyone goes, ‘Oh! My God!’ now that I think about it.
He’s like, ‘What do you say? Will you marry me?’
She stares at me, roysh, while she thinks about it, then she turns to him and she goes, ‘Yes,’ like what she’s actually being offered is a look at the focking dessert menu. ‘I rather think I will.’
9. The dreaming days when the mess was made
I leave a message on Harvey’s phone. I’m not sure if the word is, like, garbled? But I tell him that I’m about to get all the bandaging off and that it feels, I don’t know, weird him not being here to see the new bod, but especially the new nose, seeing as he was the one who picked it.
I don’t go as far as to say that I miss him, blahdy blahdy blah, although that is the general vibe?
The nurse sticks her head around the door and asks me if I’m ready yet. I carry on staring at my phone and she goes, ‘You know, it’s been two hours – I don’t think she’s coming.’
I’m like, ‘He,’ and she’s there, ‘Oh,’ and I’m about to tell her that I don’t mean it in, you know, that way. But I don’t.
I stand up. Deep down, I know she’s right. I follow her into the little room.
‘What I can do,’ she goes, ‘is just cut the Band-Aids holding the bandages to your face and body, then leave you on your own.’
I’m there, ‘Why?’
‘A lot of people who have procedures like to see the results in their own time,’ and it’s only then, roysh, that I realize how actually nervous I am?
I whip off my T-shirt anyway and she takes, like, a scissors and cuts the plasters on one side, then sort of, like, smiles at me, as if to say, this is the moment of truth. She looks a bit like America Ferrera looks in real life?
‘Take your time,’ she goes, then she disappears out of the room. I turn around, looking for a mirror. There’s one across the room – above, like, a washbasin? – and I tip over to it and stare hord at my reflection. I’m thinking, I could literally look like anything under here.
I’m thinking, okay, here goes.
I grab the corner of the bandage stuck to my upper chest and I close my eyes and give it, like, a shorp tug. It takes off pretty much all of my chest hair.
‘Aaaggghhh!’ I end up going.
Without opening my eyes, I grab the corner of the bandage covering my pecs and rip it off in the same way, quick and shorp. Then I take, like, a couple of steps backwards and open my eyes.
My jaw pretty much hits the floor. I’m a focking Adonis – and that’s not, like, an exaggeration?
Being honest, roysh, I’ve never looked in the mirror and not liked what I’ve seen? But this is, like, different. I can’t actually take my eyes off myself.
Fair focks to San Sancilio – you could zest lemons on my abs and my pecs are like actual tits.
Then I’m looking at my face, thinking, okay, the old Shiva Rose is next. I’m suddenly kacking it again. My face is my fortune, after all, and I’m thinking, what if it’s a mess, a real focking chewed toffee of an effort? Would I have to go looking for San Sancilio? Where even is Ecuador? And would the VHI even cover me there – if it’s, like, Plan E Options?
Then it comes into my head that, as usual, I’m probably over-thinking here? I decide to just be brave. The quicker you do it, the better, a bit like ripping off a…
I close my eyes, grip the bandage by one corner and just pull. Then, very slowly, I open my eyes again. And I’m left suddenly staring at San’s handiwork.
I’m thinking, Fock! What has he done to me?
It’s magnificent – and that’s not a word I’d ever use.
It’s possibly the most perfect nose I’ve ever seen. It makes me look a good twenty per cent better-looking, if you can believe that’s even possible. I’m trying to be objective here, but I’m quite honestly one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen, although, really, I’d have to leave that for others to say.
Even twenty minutes later, roysh, when I’m heading back to the gaff, I end up nearly hitting a concrete bollard on the freeway because I keep looking at it instead of the actual road in front of me. I’ve got, like, the rearview turned towards me and I can’t stop checking it out. Or touching it either.
Those who said that I couldn’t get any better-looking have been proven well and truly wrong and naturally I’m thinking, maybe I’ll give the old tantric a miss tonight, hit Les Deux instead, or maybe even Goa – have me some non-committal fun. It’s literally ages since I’ve had any. I’ve got balls like focking planets here and, as I’m pulling into the driveway, it randomly pops into my head that gaseous exchange in plants occurs through pores in the leaves called stomata, the size of which are controlled by guard cells. They open wide in daylight when CO2 is required for photosynthesis.
I go into the gaff and through the kitchen door I can hear Sorcha mention that Lindsay Lohan has admitted that she’s not happy with her weight after her skimpy Shoshanna bikini revealed a much fuller figure at a party at the DKNY Beach House last week.
In my head I’m thinking, yeah? You think that’s news? Wait’ll you get a load of my boat.
I push the door and go in. Sorcha is sitting at the island, flicking through a magazine. The old dear is hobbling around on – get this – crutches, looking for sympathy, like it’s something worse than a sprain?
They both look up, roysh, at exactly the same time. I go, ‘Ta-dahhh!’ like a focking magician doing a trick.
I have to say, roysh, I’m not ready for the reaction that I get? Sorcha screams, roysh, and it’s a scream that pretty much bursts my eardrums, as in, ‘Aaaggghhhh! ’
She looks, it has to be said, terrified, though it’s her next line that really throws me. She’s there, ‘Who are you? How did you get in here?’
I look at the old dear, then back at her. I’m there, ‘What are you talking about – it’s me!’
She goes, ‘Just take whatever you want. Don’t hurt us. I have a nearly-two-year-old baby.’
I’m there, ‘Er, I know you’ve a nearly-two-year-old baby?’ and I look at the old dear and I can see that she knows exactly who I am. She goes, ‘Don’t worry, Sorcha, it’s only…’ but then she stops and I watch her eyes look suddenly over my shoulder.
‘It’s…’
I’m there, ‘Go on, tell her…’
But then this, like, evil look crosses her face. ‘It’s some kind of sex fiend,’ she shouts. ‘Do it, Erika!’ and I immediately turn, roysh, to find myself staring not at Erika but down the nozzle of a spray can.
The next thing I hear is, like, a fizzing sound, then I feel the most unbelievable pain in my eyes and I’m straight away blind. I fall to the floo
r and then they suddenly set upon me – Erika with one of her XOXOs, Sorcha with a rolled-up copy of Us Weekly.
I’m lying there going, ‘Not the face! Not the face!’ and of course it’s only when I say that that they realize it’s actually me.
Sorcha says that if she was getting married again, it would definitely be, like, a green wedding? As in, all the invites would be on, like, recycled paper, the dress would be made of organic cotton, the food would be sourced locally and, instead of gifts, guests would be asked to donate money to, like, dolphin charities?
Of course, I’m barely even listening to her. I’m just, like, staring at the old dear, going, ‘Unbelievable! Un-focking-believable!’ and what I mean by that is that she spent the morning shopping for a wedding dress, even though she’s already married?
And all for the cameras, if you ask me.
She blanks me and asks Erika what she’s going to have and Erika says either the salmone arrostito or the zuppa di pesce and I’m left just shaking my head.
Sorcha says her favourite is definitely the Badgely Mischka – I should point out, we’ve moved back to dresses now – and the old dear asks whether it made her hips look big, fishing for a compliment.
I tell her that her hips would look big in a focking circus tent.
The next thing, roysh, my eyes suddenly sting. I ask how long does it take for mace to clear and Sorcha says she doesn’t know, but she’s sure it’s karma for what I did to my mum.
‘Okay, ssshhh!’ Erika suddenly goes and she’s shushing me because Trevion has suddenly arrived and he’s not supposed to know anything about the dress before the big day?
We’re in Il Cielo, in case you care, on Burton Way.
He leans down and the old dear kisses him.
He’s there, ‘So, did you get a dress?’
Sorcha’s like, ‘Yes, she did. And don’t ask any questions about it, Trevion. It’s bad luck to know.’
I’m not sure if that’s true. I knew fock-all about her dress before our wedding and we were in trouble before the bisque arrived.
I’m there, ‘Er, is nobody else going to point out the obvious here? You can’t get married, not while you’re still married to the old man. So what’s the point in even buying a dress? It could be, like, years before you’re divorced. And God knows what size you’ll be by then.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘Ross!’
Trevion looks at me like he wants to pull my legs off and beat me to death with them, and he probably would if there weren’t witnesses. She still orders the scialatielli, I notice.
Then she goes, ‘There’s nothing to say we can’t have a non-legal ceremony to demonstrate our commitment to one another.’
And she’s serious.
I’m there, ‘When? Where? What are you talking about?’
‘Vegas,’ he goes.
‘Vegas? As in Las Vegas?’
‘That’s right, Ginger. You got a problem with that?’
‘When are we talking?’
‘Next weekend.’
I end up just laughing. It’s, like, I have to? ‘Let me guess,’ I go. ‘It just so happens to be the exact same day as Christian’s casino is opening?’
No one answers.
I laugh again. ‘This is all Johnny Sarno’s idea, isn’t it? Ross is going to Vegas anyway. Why not set up, like, a sham wedding for his old dear while he’s there – see how he reacts. Can I just say, I wonder what the old man’s going to think of it?’
She goes, ‘Well, why don’t you ask him? He’s coming.’
I’m there, ‘You invited him?’
Erika looks suddenly worried.
The old dear goes, ‘Don’t worry, Darling, he’s coming on his own.’
Erika just nods, but at the same time she looks kind of sad?
Sorcha’s phone suddenly rings. It must be serious, roysh, because she gets up and walks away from the table to take it.
‘So what do MTV want?’ I go, looking at Trevion. ‘Me standing at the back of the church objecting?’
The old dear’s like, ‘I don’t remember telling you that you were invited, Ross.’
I’m there, ‘Oh, I’ll be there – one way or the other. It’ll be worth it just to watch you hobbling up the aisle on your focked ankle.’
Sorcha arrives back. She’s got a look of, like, total shock on her face. ‘That was… Bob Soto,’ she goes. She looks like she’s not going to be able to get the words out. ‘Cillian…’
I watch Erika make a grab for her hand.
‘Cillian’s… been sacked,’ she finally goes, which comes as no great surprise, although the rest of them crack on that it does?
‘Bob has been – oh my God – so understanding – giving him time off so Cillian could get his head straight. But he said last night’s show was, like, the last straw? That stuff about the major banks and corporations looking for money from the public purse – he said it was Communist talk. He said he could tolerate most things in life – but not Communism…’
‘Some of us fought wars against those bastids,’ Trevion goes, suddenly angry. ‘I died a hundred fucking times fighting them.’
The old dear puts, like, a consoling orm around him.
Sorcha goes, ‘Bob said they’ve revoked his work visa,’ and I’m like, ‘So what are you going to do?’ and she’s there, ‘I don’t know,’ except that, deep down, I think she actually does?
What ends up happening is this. We forget about the meal. The old dear and Trevion offer to collect Honor from the crèche and the three of us – we’re talking me, Sorcha and Erika – drive back to the gaff.
There’s, like, total silence in the cor? It’s like we all know what’s coming. I’m tempted to point out that I was the one who said it wouldn’t work, but for once in my life I keep the old Von Trapp shut.
He’s home as well. The Prius is in the driveway. I automatically laugh. I never thought about it before, roysh, but its emissions are no better than the latest generation of small diesel cor, which cost half the price and are probably cooler to be seen in.
In a weird way, I think, I’m actually looking forward to this?
Johnny Sarno’s already there ahead of us. God, he’s good.
‘Are you sure you want us there with you?’ Erika goes, and Sorcha’s like, ‘I really don’t want to be left on my own with him,’ and with the shit he’s been coming out with lately, you couldn’t really blame her?
He’s in their bedroom, believe it or not, packing.
‘Sorcha,’ he goes, ‘I’ve been trying to get you on the phone.’
She’s there, ‘I already know, Cillian. Bob Soto rang.’
He cops me and Erika standing either side of her, roysh, and it’s like he immediately knows?
You can see him still not wanting to believe it, though.
‘We’ve got to go home,’ he goes. ‘But it’s not the end of the world. I can put the message out just as effectively from home. I was thinking of setting up my own blog…’
I actually laugh out loud. A blog? It’s almost, like, too funny?
He looks at the camera nervously.
‘You need to start packing,’ he goes. ‘There’s a flight at eight o’clock tonight.’
Sorcha’s there, ‘Cillian, I’m not going.’
This he again tries to ignore. He walks over to her, holds her by both shoulders and stares deep into her eyes. ‘I’m especially worried about Ireland,’ he goes. ‘It’s too reliant on a lot of shaky things continuing to support each other…’
She’s there, ‘Cillian, please…’ and suddenly the tears stort to flow from, like, her eyes?
He’s there, ‘Our own economic growth has been sustained by high levels of consumption, which is dependent on high levels of borrowing, which is dependent on continuously increasing property values. But as soon as something happens to that market…’
‘You’re not listening!’ Sorcha goes.
He suddenly stops.
She’s there, ‘Cillian, I don’t
know what’s gotten into you. Or what you’re mixed up in. But I don’t want any part of it…’
‘Don’t tell me you’re staying?’
‘I’m happy here.’
‘What,’ he goes, ‘appearing on some brain-dead TV programme that celebrates superficiality?’
I say fock-all. My attitude is, he’s doing a good enough job hanging himself.
‘I’m over here,’ she goes in that real matter-of-fact way, ‘trying to come up with new ideas for my shop.’
He’s there, ‘Does it bother you that in two or three years time, you might not even have a shop? That Grafton Street could end up being a commercial wasteland?’
She shuts her eyes really tightly and shakes her head. The tears keep coming, though. ‘I can’t believe you’d say that to me,’ she goes.
I take a step forward then. ‘You’d, er, want to be hitting the road pretty soon,’ I go, ‘if you’re going to make that flight. You’re not in the Lamborghini anymore, remember?’
He’s bulling, of course.
I hold out my hand and go, ‘Keys?’ meaning the keys to all the other rooms. Because the second he’s gone, we’re back living in a mansion again.
He tells me they’re downstairs on the kitchen table.
He looks at Sorcha, obviously trying to come in from a different angle. ‘What about Honor?’ he goes. ‘Will you say goodbye to her for me?’
I’m there, ‘We’ll do better than that. We’ll say adios.’
He just nods. He’s an auditor – he knows the bottom line. ‘Well, goodbye,’ he goes.
And then, suddenly, he’s gone.
Sorcha literally collapses into Erika’s orms, crying like I haven’t seen her cry since… well, since I broke her hort. I’m so glad that Erika’s here for her.
I wander over to the wardrobe to see has he left anything behind. There, sitting at the bottom, on their own, are his John Lobb custom brogues.
I sit on the side of the bed and try them on. They’re, like, a perfect fit.
I’m driving home from tantric celibacy when, totally out of the blue, the poem ‘Exposure’ by Wilfred Owen pops into my head. I’m just thinking how it’s structured in eight stanzas of equal length, each of which concludes with a short, emphatic statement or question that emphasizes the utter futility of war. The tone of the poem is depressing and negative. The language of the poem is bleak and Owen uses linguistic devices such as sibilance to help create an atmosphere of tension.
Rhino What You Did Last Summer Page 30