The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years

by Paul Howard

  I just get up and walk off. It’s, like, last orders at the bor and I still haven’t copped off yet and though that wouldn’t usually bother me, roysh, tonight for some reason I don’t want to go home on my own. I spot Fionn chatting up Fiona, this Mountie who all the goys say is SO thick she carries ID around just to, like, remind her of her name. He’s going, ‘Personally, I lean more towards Jung than Freud,’ which I must remember to slag him about later. I walk around the boozer a couple of times, roysh, and realise my options basically boil down to either Kelly, this complete psycho who I’ve been with twice, or Treasa, this total focking bunnyboiler who’s only really here tonight because she knew I was going to be here. I end up going for Treasa. She might be flaky as fock but she’s the image of Jennifer Connelly. She goes through the motions of pretending she’s not interested, of course. She tells me I’m a total dickhead and bastard when it comes to women, but by the time she finishes her vodka and diet 7-Up, I’ve got her eating out of my hand. I head back to where we were sitting, roysh, to grab my jacket, and Oisinn goes, ‘I see you’ve pulled Miss Cacharel again,’ and I’m like, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

  Claire is asking Aoife what Mass she’s going to on Wednesday morning, roysh, and Aoife and Erika just, like, look at each other and Aoife goes, ‘Mass?’ Claire’s like, ‘Yeah, Mass. Hello? It’s, like, Christmas Day.’ And Erika goes, ‘We’ve got loads of money, Claire. We don’t need to be praying.’

  I’m on the way into work, roysh, feeling pretty shabby after last night, I have to say, and all of a sudden my phone rings and it’s, like, this goy Eanna. He goes, ‘Ross, I’ve got something to ask you. Don’t bullshit me, man.’ I’m like, ‘Shoot.’ He goes, ‘Did you make a move on Melanie in Soho last week?’ I’m like, ‘Melanie as in LSB Melanie?’ He goes, ‘Melanie as in my FOCKING girlfriend Melanie.’ I’m like, ‘Hey, Eanna, I didn’t know you two were married.’ He goes, ‘Asshole. You’re supposed to be a mate of mine.’ I’m just like, ‘Deal with it,’ and I snap my phone shut and turn up the radio. I focking love this song.

  She doesn’t know who I am.

  And she doesn’t give a damn about me.

  Cos I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby.

  Yeah I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby.

  Listen to Iron Maiden maybe, with me.

  Treasa ends up doing a total focking Fatal Attraction on me again and we’re pretty much talking TOTAL here. It’s, like, three o’clock on Friday afternoon, roysh, and she’s already rung me five times on the mobile and, like, three times in the office. Wouldn’t mind, roysh, but she’s not the only one whose calls I’ve been avoiding. The Timmonses, the couple I focked over with the house in Drimnagh, sorry Crumlin, have called, like, twenty times in the past three days, roysh, obviously trying to get me to change my mind, trying to shame me into selling it to them just because I agreed to. But the other goy offered more, roysh, and that’s allowed. It’s in the rules. Loaded, this goy was. Wanted it for his daughter as a Christmas present. He goes, ‘It’s so handy for the tennis club. I’ll pay two hundred and fifty-five thousand for it.’ I’m like, ‘I don’t know if I can. I’ve already given my word to …’ He’s like, ‘Go back on it and there’s five grand in it for yourself.’ I’m there, ‘Five grand?’ He goes, ‘I’ll write you a cheque now. Do I hyphenate your surname?’

  Five grand is five grand, roysh, lets me pay off my credit cord bill and I’ve still got two grand left over to basically have the best Christmas ever, on the major lash. And just because it’s Sale Agreed doesn’t mean you’ve actually, like, agreed to sell the house to someone. But I am SO not in the mood to explain that to Alan and Margaret focking Timmons. I can do without the hassle.

  Another Friday, another nightclub queue. This bird who I don’t recognise comes over, roysh, and says hi to Aoife and Amanda and it’s, like, hugs and air-kisses all round and when she’s gone, roysh, Amanda goes, ‘Oh my God, that girl is such an asshole,’ and Aoife’s like, ‘Hello? Who are you telling? I was at the Horse Show last year as well, remember?’

  Fionn tells me he met my old pair in town today, roysh, and they gave him a Christmas cord to give to me. I think about ripping the focking thing up straight away, roysh, but then I realise it isn’t actually from them. There’s, like, an Australian stamp on it, roysh, so I presume it’s from Sorcha. I just, like, slip it into my pocket for later and we all move a couple of steps closer to the door.

  One of the bouncers, roysh, he asks Erika how old she is and she just gives him this total filthy, roysh. He goes, ‘Are you over twenty-one?’ She goes, ‘I was in Annabel’s last night. I was in Lillies the night before. I wasn’t asked for ID. What makes this place so special?’ He goes, ‘Jesus, love, don’t lose the rag’ – he’s a total knacker – ‘I have to ask you your age. It’s door policy.’ Erika goes, ‘Have you been doing this job for long?’ The goy’s like, ‘Eh, no. Me second night, love.’ She goes, ‘Well, you obviously don’t know it very well. Bouncers only ask for ID to draw you into a conversation, to find out if you’re working class. I think it’s quite clear that I’m not working class, don’t you?’ He’s like, ‘Eh, yeah.’ She goes, ‘So let me in and stop making a focking nuisance of yourself.’ And in she goes. Me and the goys are, like, breaking our shites laughing, roysh, when all of a sudden I become aware of this woman who’s standing, like, next to me and just, like, staring at me. I’m like, ‘Have you got a problem?’ She goes, ‘So this is the great Ross O’Carroll-Kelly, is it?’ I’m like, ‘Look, you’re a bit old for me. Have you tried Leggs?’ She goes, ‘You don’t have the first notion who I am, do you?’ and I’m like, ‘Nope,’ and she goes, ‘I’m Treasa’s mum.’ I’m like, ‘Oh.’ She goes, ‘Oh is right. I thought I told you to stay away from my daughter.’ I’m just like, ‘Takes two to tango.’ She’s there, ‘I don’t know what it is she sees in you. But she’s promised me she’s not going to go near you again.’ I just laugh and I’m like, ‘Hey, the girl can’t help herself.’

  She goes, ‘Oh you’re very clever, aren’t you? All the answers. Well I can tell you if you ever come near her again you won’t be dealing with me. You’ll be dealing with Mister Penniworth-Brown.’ All the goys are breaking their shites laughing at this, roysh, so I sort of have to play it real Jack the Lad. I’m like, ‘Who?’ She goes, ‘Treasa’s father. Of course, why would you know Treasa’s second name?’ I just shrug and go to walk off and she goes, ‘Yes, off you go, into your nightclub. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve got one very sad girl at home.’ I’m like, ‘I already knew that,’ and basically she has no answer to that, so she just tells me I’m a creep and she focks off, roysh, and everyone in the queue behind us storts, like, cheering and then, like, chanting, ‘LE-GEND! LE-GEND! LE-GEND!’ I head inside and have a couple of vodka and Red Bulls and get chatting to this bird Carragh, who used to be, like, deputy head girl in Dalkey. But I’m not in the mood anymore. After, like, half an hour, I fock off back to the gaff without telling anyone.

  Fionn is out. The six loneliest words in the English language are Marks and Spencers’ Meals For One.

  JP’s old man drops my post on my desk, roysh, and it’s basically the usual old stuff until I come to this one which has, like, the address handwritten on it, roysh, and PERSONAL written in the top left-hand corner and I don’t recognise the writing. I open the envelope and pull out this, like, letter, which I unfold and go immediately to the signature at the bottom. And my blood runs cold, roysh, when I see that it’s from Sophie.

  I don’t even read it, roysh, just lash it into my drawer and carry on opening up the rest of my post. It’s mostly shite from solicitors, a bit of junk mail and a few letters of interest in the house on Stradbrook Road, which only went up for sale yesterday. But I just can’t concentrate on my work, roysh. I’m just there thinking about the letter in the drawer and eventually I pull it out, roysh, and stuff it into the pocket of my suit and tell JP’s old man I’m heading out for a coffee. He goes, ‘Can you bring me b
ack a cappuccino? And two chocolate muffins.’ I’m like, ‘Cool,’ and he takes a long pull on his cigar, roysh, and he goes, ‘Oh, and the little cute one with the blonde hair who works there. Bring me her.’ And I make this noise, roysh, sort of like, ‘Corrrr,’ and I hate myself for doing it.

  I head in for the coffees and the blonde one’s not on, just this Chinese goy, and I order a large Americano and sit at this, like, table in the corner, switch off my phone and take out the letter, and it’s like,

  Dear Ross,

  I’ve been planning to write this letter ever since that time in the hospital a few weeks ago, but I didn’t know what it was I wanted to say. My counsellor said that the best way to start is to tell you how you made me feel. I suppose the answer to that is: two inches tall.

  I have an illness that’s called Distorted Body Image Syndrome. The leaflets that the doctors gave me say it’s a psychological disturbance that manifests in different ways, sometimes it’s an aversion to food, other times it’s just hating the way you look.

  I’ve hated the way I looked since I was about fourteen. I thought my chin was too fat and my thighs as well. I hated the lines around my eyes and I hated my nose. I thought I knew the answer and I asked Mum and Dad to get me aug. for my 21st.

  So there I was all bandaged up the night you and Oisinn came in to laugh at me – I knew it was you two, I recognised your voices. Imagine it, Ross. All your deepest little secrets and insecurities are laid out in the open for people to laugh at and then gossip about with their friends. I had to be sedated that night, you know.

  I spent a week in hospital. And do you know what I discovered? When I took off the bandages and looked in the mirror, I still hated the way I looked. I still hated myself. In a way I should be thanking you, Ross, because that’s when I decided that my problems weren’t outside at all, they were inside. That’s when I started seeing Jenny, my counsellor, who’s helping me to get things in perspective.

  I said I should be thanking you, but I’m not because I’m incapable of feeling anything but hate for you. Jenny says I should work on that too, because hatred is a negative emotion and those who feel it will never know anything other than bitterness. And bitterness just eats you up.

  So I’m trying not to hate you, but I think you must be a very, very unhappy person to do what you did. I told Jenny that you treat everyone this way and she said that deep down you must be very, very sad.

  I know you’re probably going to show this letter around in the pub, but I don’t care anymore. I’m learning to be happy with who I am.’

  And at the end she’s just signed it, ‘Sophie’.

  I fold it back up again really, like, carefully, slip it back into my inside pocket and I get up and leave. It’s only when I’m back at my desk that I realise I didn’t touch my coffee and I forgot to get JP’s old man his. He doesn’t notice, though. Too busy leching after Fionnuala, the new bird he hired this morning. I spend the afternoon basically spacing. At four o’clock I turn on my mobile and there’s two messages. Michelle from Ulster Bank was wondering whether I’ve ever heard of Reserve 30. And Emma from Sutton wanted to tell me that she knows I took her Hootie and the Blowfish CD and I know damn well which one, she goes, we’re talking Cracked Rear View, and she says she knows because JP told her and that makes me an asshole.

  Saturday morning I’m on Grafton Street, roysh, four days before Christmas and nothing bought. I’m walking out of, like, BT2 and who do I walk straight into, only Alan and Margaret focking Timmons. Big faces on them. I actually try to do a legger, but the goy’s fast – wouldn’t be surprised if he, like, played rugby – and we end up having this huge row on O’Connell Bridge. He’s like, ‘You double-crossing …’ and I’m like, ‘Hey, I’m not working today. I don’t have to take this …’ He goes, ‘You sold our house to someone else.’ I’m there, ‘First of all, it was not your house. And second, no, it’s not sold yet. It’s still Sale Agreed.’

  He has me by the scruff of the neck, roysh, and he goes, ‘We’ve nowhere to live,’ and I’m like, ‘Look, the goy’s coming in on Christmas Eve to sign. Midday. You up your offer to two hundred and sixty, throw ten in for me and it’s yours. Can’t say fairer than that.’ He goes, ‘WE DON’T HAVE THAT KIND OF MONEY.’ I can hear Cliff Richard’s voice coming out of Carroll’s. I’d forgotten how much I focking hate Christmas music. The goy’s like, ‘Please. We’ve already given our notice in the place we’re renting. We’ve got to be out tomorrow. We’ve nowhere to go for Christmas.’

  All of a sudden, roysh, his wife catches up. She’s all out of breath. The goy’s like, ‘Margaret, be careful. You shouldn’t be running.’ Then he looks at me, roysh, playing the sympathy cord, and goes, ‘My wife’s pregnant.’ I’m just like, ‘Well, I’m not taking the blame for that.’ She’s like, ‘You bastard. We’ve nowhere to go. For Christmas.’

  I’m wondering whether I should buy a new Helly Hansen fleece now or wait for, like, the sales. I’m there, ‘Look, I’m actually shopping for my Christmas clothes. And you’re making a bit of a show of me here.’ He’s there, ‘Look at me. Look me in the eyes. You can’t, can you? There’s nothing in yours. They’re dead.’

  I hit the road, totally gone off the idea of shopping. Stop at the Shell garage on the Rock Road to, like, get petrol. There’s this, like, massive queue and this bird comes in and tries to skip, going, ‘I’m just paying for ten pounds worth of petrol. I’ve got the exact money.’ I tell her to get to the back of the focking queue and she goes, ‘Merry Christmas to you, too.’ I get back on the road, roysh, and when I hit, like, Blackrock, I remember the cord from Sorcha that I got a few days ago and I pull into this, like, bus bay, get it out of my pocket and open it. It’s like,

  Dear Ross,

  Well here I am, my first Christmas in Oz. It actually feels so weird to think that it’s Christmas and I’m not going to see you. Alright, I’m a sap but that’s my way of telling you that I miss you and am thinking about you. Merry Christmas.

  I’ve been hearing so many good things about you. My dad said he met your mum in the Merrion Shopping Centre and the job is going really well for you. Are you still living with Fionn? Things are really happening for you and you so deserve it. You must be so proud of yourself.

  Lots of love, Sorcha xxx.

  I go back to the gaff and drink half a bottle of brandy.

  It’s Christmas Eve morning and I’m, like, sitting at my desk, roysh, and basically the only thing I have to do today is, like, the paperwork on this gaff in Drimnagh, sorry Crumlin, and then it’s, like, off on the major lash for me. There’s a mountain of papers to be signed and, as we’re going through it, I’m looking around the office, noticing that JP’s old man, the complete lech, has got mistletoe hanging all over the place. There’s a big, like, clump hanging over the photocopier, which the birds in the office are avoiding using. It takes about half an hour to get through all the paperwork and the signatures and then, finally, the house is sold and I don’t have to, like, worry about it anymore.

  I hand over the keys and I’m like, ‘It’s a really nice Christmas present for you.’ Alan Timmons looks at me funny and he goes, ‘Why did you change your mind? I mean, when you phoned us this morning, we thought you were trying to, you know, extort more money out of us.’ I’m like, ‘Well, we agreed a price and I’m a man of my … no, forget that … you’re not going to be able to move in for a few days. Have you thought about where you’re going to go? For Christmas Day?’ Margaret goes, ‘We haven’t thought. A friend of mine from work’s minding all our stuff. What there is of it. We might try and get a B&B. We’re pretty stretched moneywise. Baby and everything.’ I’m watching the door. JP’s old man isn’t in yet. I’m like, ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I phoned around a few hotels this morning. See could I get you something. Most of them were full. The Four Seasons. The Burlington. I tried Jurys and they’re, like, chocker as well, but, em … there is room at the Inns.’ Alan’s like, ‘We couldn’t possibly affor
d …’ I pull an envelope out of my pocket and hand it to him. It’s, like, the two grand I have left from the five I got from the dickhead who wanted the house for his daughter. I’m like, ‘Don’t argue. I owe it to you. Probably more as well. Merry Christmas.’

  They get up and they’re both like, ‘Merry Christmas,’ and JP’s old man comes in, roysh, just as they’re leaving, and I spend the next, like, half an hour staring into space, wondering what I’m going to tell him and this other penis who’s coming in at twelve. Don’t know what I’m going to tell him about his money either. JP’s old man is saying to Sandra, one of the birds in the office, ‘I’m an organ donor, you know. Do you want one?’ And everyone in the office cracks up except me and eventually, roysh, he comes over to me and he’s like, ‘How’re you doing, Ross?’ I’m like, ‘Good … em …’ He goes, ‘You don’t have to lie to me. I know what you’ve done.’ I’m like, ‘You do?’ He takes out a cigar and lights it. He’s like, ‘Conscience. It’s a bad, bad thing to have. In this game anyway.’

  I’m like, ‘You don’t sound, like, pissed off. I thought you’d go ballistic.’ He goes, ‘I blame myself. Should have watched you more closely. Especially this time of year. Christmas does funny things to some people. I’m going to have to let you go, you know that?’ I’m there, ‘I think I’m glad.’ He goes, ‘You’re no good to me now. Like a champion racehorse with a broken leg. And you were. A champion racehorse, I mean. You were the best. You were Nijinsky, Ross. Nijinsky.’ I’m like, ‘There’s one thing I’ve still got to do.’ He goes, ‘You’re talking about your twelve o’clock, aren’t you? Go on, get out of here. I’ll handle him.’ I’m like, ‘He gave me five grand.’ He goes, ‘I expected as much. Don’t worry. I’ll cover it. We’ll call it your redundancy.’ I take a quick look around the room and as I’m walking out the door, roysh, he calls me back and goes, ‘Hey, we sold houses together. We’ll always have that, kid.’