The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years (23 page)

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.

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 back 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,

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.