Sorcha’s old man needs my actual help – I’d almost gloat if I wasn’t so hungover
I WAKE UP the other morning underneath a DBS Diploma in Internet Marketing student called Abhlach – with dhá cinn orm, as they say in parts of the country where cabbage is sacred, and someone beating out a morse code message on the doorbell.
I roll her off me, throw back the old Outlaw Petes and my feet somehow find the floor.
I check the little CCTV screen. It's Sorcha's old man and straight away I'm wondering what the fock hewants. It's like, yeah, he's made one or two attempts to pretty much maim me in the past, but I haven't done anything to upset his daughter in practically weeks.
Then I’m thinking it mightn’t be anything major. Sorcha’s having her 30th birthday porty in two weeks’ time – maybe he just wants to serve me with a restraining order.
"Who is it?" Abhlach goes – another hungover grover. I'm there, "A dude called Edmund Lalor. The father of my Bag for Life. Well, soon to be ex-Bag for Life. I'm going to crack on not to be in – he's an orsehole of the highest echelons."
Of course what I don't realise is that, while I'm saying all of this, I've got my finger on the intercom button. I really amthick sometimes? He puts his face right up to the camera lens and goes, "Let me in, you little tidemark," which is a thing he calls me. I'm like, "Er, just push the door, Mr Lalor," already bricking it.
In he walks. No greeting. No pleasantries. Nothing. I end up going into verbal diarrhoea mode, as I always do around him.
“She’s just a friend in there,” I go, flicking my thumb in the direction of the bedroom. “Just in case you’re wondering. There’s talk – believe it or believe it not – of me going back to college, furthering my education, blah blah blah. Abhlach’s been giving me grinds in there.” Grinds mightn’t have been the cleverest word to use – luckily, he doesn’t pick up on it.
I give him the guns. “Coffee?”
"No," he just goes. "Sit down. I want to talk to you," which is exactly what I do. He takes, like, a deep breath. "You know I despise you, don't you? I despised you from the very first day that Sorcha brought you home . . ." I'm there, "Can I just say in my defence, that wasn'tactually a hickey on the neck. I got hit by a ball at the driving range. I thought you might understand that – as a pretty decent golfer yourself."
“And yet,” he just continues, “I find myself this morning in the invidious position . . . of having to ask you for a favour.” I’m there, “A favour?” He’s like, “Unfortunately, yes.” I feel a sudden smile erupt all over my basic face. I actually relax for the first time and sit back in the chair.
“Oh,” I go, really loving the power, “this is a turn-up for the books, isn’t it? You, all of a sudden, needing something from me?” He, I don’t know, glowers at me – if glowers means the same as looking at someone like you want to rip their manhood out by the roots. “Don’t get comfortable with this,” he goes. “You take a tone with me and I will snap your neck like a twig – and you know I’m not speaking figuratively, don’t you, Ross?”
That’s me back in my box. I’m there, “Er, yeah.”
"I want to talk to you about Sorcha's shop," he goes. "As you probably know, it's been hit pretty hard by the economic downturn." I'm like, "Are you saying it's not making any money?" He actually laughs, in fairness to him – although I think it's more atme? "It's never made any money," he goes. "It was only ever a tax write-off for me. Andto give her something to take her mind off you . . ."
“Didn’t work,” I nearly end up saying it. I must have, like, a death wish or something.
"But last week I took a look at the books," he goes, "and things are worse than Mrs Lalor and I suspected. Frankly, she hasn't sold a stitch of clothing since the first week in May." I'm like, "May? Jesus! And she'd huge hopes for those Olivia Morris pumps – as in the patterned silks ones that, like, Celia Birtwell designed?" He just continues like Ihaven't even spoken. "Mrs Lalor and I love Sorcha. And – all things being equal – we'd be happy to bankroll her indefinitely. Her happiness is paramount to us . . "
There’s a but on the way – that’s as sure as I’m putting Abhlach over the jumps again as soon as this dude’s gone.
“But, well, the simple fact is that we can’t afford to sustain the losses anymore. I retire next year. My pension, frankly, is a fraction of what I thought it would be. And one or two of my investments have . . . well, I’m sure you read the newspapers.” I let that one go.
I’m there, “Can I just ask, are you working your way up to telling me that my maintenance is going up? Because I’m pretty much Keith Flint as well. I mean, yeah, I’m doing the odd bit of work for the old man, nothing mental, but Honor’s in creche now – and that Little Roedean’s is, like, five grand a term . . .”
He goes, “I would disembowel then throw myself from the top of Liberty Hall before the day arrived when I had to ask you for financial help,” he goes. “No, what Mrs Lalor and I would like you to do is to persuade Sorcha to close the shop down.” I’m obviously there, “Why me?” He goes, “Because she listens to you. God knows why, but she does. And, if you’re sensible, you’ll see that it’s in your interests. Closing up this financial black hole – should ease the alimony burden on you when the divorce is final.” Even I can suddenly see that.
He stands up to leave. I stick my hand out for a handshake – nice to be nice – but he slips, like, a pink sheet of A4 paper in it. “It’s Sorcha’s 30th birthday in two weeks’ time,” he goes. “You’ve seen one of these before, haven’t you?”
rossocarrollkelly@irishtimes.com
