‘I stick my hand in my pocket and whip out my phone. I’ve had the thing on silent, so it’s only then that I notice the 34 missed calls. All from either Sorcha’s number or the old man’s. Fock’
FIONN LAUGHS. He says I’m more nervous that he is and he’s the one supposedly getting married today.
JP tries to be the funny man then. “Even when Ross found out that him and Erika had the same father,” he goes, “I don’t think he ever gave up hope that he’d be standing where you’re standing today.”
This, for some reason, is considered hilarious. Even Christian and Oisinn end up red in the face from laughing.
This is all of us, standing at the altar in Donnybrook Church, by the way.
“Maybe I’m just nervous,” I go, “about the whole speech thing.”
Oisinn’s there, “Give us a flavour.”
I’m like, “What?”
“Of what to expect. What stories are you going to tell?”
Christian goes, “What about the time Charlie Bird turned up at the school on the day of the Leaving Cert results to interview the Castlerock student who got maximum points. And you pretended you were Fionn . . .”
I have to admit, that actually happened? I even ended up on the Six One news, going, “I don’t understand it myself, Chorlie. I’m usually a total dipshit.”
All the goys are laughing. Even Fionn. I’m thinking, is he going to be still laughing in, like, 20 minutes time?
“She’s late,” I go.
Fionn’s like, “Who?”
“Who do you think? Who are we waiting for?”
“Ross, it’s only five past one. The bride is traditionally late. You should have taken a Valium or something.”
Fionn’s old dear comes over then and storts fussing with his buttonhole and telling him how handsome he looks.
What time is it now, I wonder? I stick my hand in my pocket and whip out my phone. I’ve had the thing on silent, so it’s only then that I notice the 34 missed calls. All from either Sorcha’s number or the old man’s. Fock.
“I, er, need to go for a hit and miss,” I go.
Fionn just shakes his head. He’s like “The third since we got here. I don’t remember you being this nervous on your own wedding day.”
I stort walking down the aisle with an honestly sick feeling in my stomach. I step outside into the church corpork and ring the old man’s gaff. It’s he who answers. He sounds in a total panic as well.
He goes, “Have you heard from your sister?”
I’m like, “What?”
“She’s missing, Ross.”
I’m like, “What do you mean missing?”
“The cars are here, Ross. Waiting outside. And no sign of her. The woman came to do her – what’s this it’s called, Sorcha?”
In the background, I hear Sorcha go, “Fake tan.”
Fake tan. The greatest trick the devil ever taught women.
“We had to send the woman on her way,” the old man goes. “Had to tell her. No one’s laid eyes on the bride since 10 o’clock this morning. Told her mother she was popping out for five minutes. Never came back. I’ve phoned all the hospitals. Just a moment, Ross. Sorcha wants a word.”
He hands the phone over.
“Ross,” she goes, “what’s going on?”
I’m like, “Why is everyone asking me that question?”
“I came over here to the house last night. We were supposed to have, like, a girlie night in? Erika seemed – oh my God – miles away?”
“Sorcha, I said it from the beginning. She was punching well below her weight with Fionn – and I’m saying that as his best man. There was no way she was ever going to marry him, especially when this so-called friend from her past appeared back on the scene.”
“Why do you automatically presume it’s something to do with Jesus?”
“Because he’s not in the church.”
“What?”
“I’ve spent the last 20 minutes, scanning the congregation looking for his ugly mug. He’s missing too.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. That’s why I’m sweating here like Josef Fritzl on MTV Cribs.”
She goes, “But I can’t believe she’d take off without saying goodbye to anyone.”
And that’s when I hear the beep of a cor horn. I look up and spot Erika’s Subaru Forester porked at the entrance to the church. She winds down the window and storts gesturing towards the little bus bay on the actual dualler, where she then pulls in.
I tell Sorcha that I’ll have to bell her back.
Erika looks incredible – and I mean that in, like, a brother-sister kind of way. She’s not wearing her wedding dress – that’s one of the first things I cop. She’s wearing her Louboutin riding boots that apparently cost two Ks in Saks in New York, then just jeans, a black blazer and a white tee.
And she’s not driving, by the way. He is.
The first line out of her mouth is, “I’m sorry, Ross.”
I’m there, “Why are you saying sorry to me? I was the one who said you wouldn’t go through with it.”
“I’m sorry for leaving you to clean up my mess . . . Fionn. Dad. Sorcha.”
I’m there, “Where are you going to go?”
She goes, “Maybe Buenos Aires for a while.”
I’m like, “Is that a real place or are you just trying to throw me off the scent?”
She smiles. See, she has always liked me on some level. “No,” she goes, “it’s a real place.”
I just nod.
I’m there, “So how did it happen? As in, you two?”
She goes, “It doesn’t matter, does it? All that matters is that I realised in time where my heart truly was.”
I give him a big stare then. “I’m not going to shake your hand,” I go, “because you’ve hurt a goy I played rugby with and that still means something to me, even in a world that is turning to shit under our feet. But I’m going to say good luck. To both of you.”
Erika kisses me through the window. On the cheek. She’s wearing Candy by Prada, which I’ve always had a definite thing for.
She goes, “Goodbye, Ross.”
I’m there, “Is it goodbye, though?”
She just nods. “I think it’ll be a long time before I can show my face around here again.”
She gives me one last smile, then Jesus puts the cor into drive and they’re suddenly gone. I wander back into the church to break the bad news to Fionn.
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twitter.com/rossock