Brett asks me what she was like when she was younger.
I’m like, “Who?”
He goes, “Our mother.”
And it’s random because I’ve never thought of the old dear ever being – like he said – young.
Honor is staring at Brett like he’s an ATM and she’s sitting in a JCB, trying to work the levers
It’s finally here, the day that I meet my brother slash half-brother
‘That picture The Last Supper is weird. They’re all sitting on the same side of the table’
Honor goes, ‘I’m editing the school yearbook photographs of anyone who pissed me off’
Of course, there’s a lot of things I could say in answer to his question. I could tell him that she never forgave me for her waters breaking in the Turner Exhibition Room in the National Gallery. I could tell him that she brought me back to Holles Street after a month and told them they’d accidentally given her the wrong baby (“This one’s stupid,” being her exact words). I could tell him that when other mothers were teaching their children to read, she was teaching me how to mix the perfect vodka mortini.
But I don’t – because that’s the softie in me.
“Yeah, no, she was fine,” I go, “when she wasn’t doing evil. I suppose I’ve always thought of the woman as a sort of Lord Voldemort in Chanel No 5, if you can imagine such a thing.”
The dude looks shocked.
Sorcha’s there, “This is my husband’s idea of a joke – you’ll get used to it.”
He laughs and goes, “Hey, I’m told I have something of the Irish sense of humour myself!”
This is us having dinner in Honalee, by the way. Sorcha’s done her famous Marry Me Chicken and now we’re having dessert. As usual, she’s out to make an impression.
She’s there, “Honor? Boys? No devices at the table.”
Honor’s like, “Er, since when?”
And – yeah, no – the girl has a point. We discovered long ago that Apple make the best tablets for sedating kids.
Sorcha goes, “Since always – remember?” and she’s suddenly trying to communicate something to Honor with her eyes; in other words, let’s just pretend we’re other people – better people.
Dude, you haven’t even been here a day. Wait until you’ve been exposed to us for a week
— Ross
Sorcha goes, “Ross was saying you have kids, Brett.”
The dude’s there, “Well, I wouldn’t describe them as kids any more. They’re both in their 20s now. Molly’s at Columbia and Dorian’s at Princeton.”
“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “there was talk of me going to Horvard at one stage – although I decided not to in the end,” and she shoots me a look across the table to remind me that this is somehow my fault, as if her old man doesn’t already bring it up four or five times a year.
He whips out of his phone, calls up a photograph, then hands the thing to Sorcha.
“Oh my God,” she goes, “I can actually see Fionnuala in them!”
“Poor fockers,” I go. “Gimme a look?”
She’s like, “My husband’s sense of humour again,” and she hands the thing to me.
They’re a ringer for her all right. Weak chins and cruel eyes.
I’m there, “What hotel is that in the background?”
And the dude goes, “That’s not a hotel, Ross – that’s our house.”
I’m like, “Fock off!”
Sorcha goes, “We don’t swear in this house, Ross, remember?”
“Gimme a look,” Honor goes, snatching the phone from me. “Oh! My God! What the fock do you do for a living?”
I’m glad she asked. He’s already told me twice but I found it boring and stopped listening mid-explanation.
He goes, “I’m an ophthalmic surgeon.”
See what I mean? I’ve no idea what that even is – in fact, I’ve already forgotten what he said again.
Honor’s like, “So are you, like, loaded?”
Sorcha goes, “Honor, that is such a rude question to ask.”
I’m there, “But it’s out there now, Sorcha, so why don’t we just let the man answer?”
Brett laughs and goes, “Angela, my wife – she sold two start-ups.”
Again, I’ve no idea what that even means and I’m sure I’ll forget it instantly. But not the gaff. It’s the size of the Powerscourt Hotel. Honor is staring at the dude like he’s an ATM and she’s sitting in a JCB, trying to figure out how to work the levers. I’m guessing I’m looking at him the same way.
He goes, “Honor, you should come over and stay some time.”
I’m there, “Jesus, I wouldn’t wish that on you, Brett,” because he is my half-brother after all. “Genuinely.”
Sorcha’s like, “It’d be great for you to experience the States, Honor, like I did when I was your age?”
Honor goes, “I’m not focking chambermaiding in Cape Cod. Anyway, I doubt if I’d be let into the States because of my conviction for criminal damage.”
Jesus, talk about a conversation stopper. Luckily, Johnny breaks the tension by smashing Leo across the face with his iPad, then me and Sorcha end up having to separate them and send them to their rooms.
Sorcha goes, “I’m so sorry, Brett. They’re not usually like this.”
Her ability to lie with a straight face would have Sr Austrebertha spinning in her grave like Simone Biles on the parallel bors.
He goes, “Are you kidding? I love the way you all are with each other!”
I’m like, “Dude, you haven’t even been here a day. Wait until you’ve been exposed to us for a week.”
He’s there, “No, I mean it. I sometimes think that Angela and I were too hard on our kids. We never allowed them to express themselves.”
Just as I struggle to think of her as a young woman, I find it impossible to think of her as no longer here
I’m like, “You can have ours if you want them.”
He laughs like he thinks I’m joking.
I’m there, “I actually mean it?”
“Fock you!” Leo shouts down the stairs.
Brett goes, “I just love the way you all say whatever’s on your mind.”
“Speaking of which,” Honor goes, “I’m thinking of going on the pill,” and Sorcha ends up nearly choking on her double cherry semifreddo. When she’s finally coughed it up, Brett does a big yawn and says he’s pooped and Sorcha suggests that I show him to his room.
On the stairs, he goes, “So do you want to go and see Fionnuala together – maybe tomorrow?”
I’m like, “Er, yeah, no, whatever.”
He goes, “I think it’d be nice for her to see the two of us together before, well, you know.”
I’m there, “Before what? No, I don’t know.”
“Ross,” he goes, “Fionnuala is going to die.”
I feel my mouth fall open. Because just as I struggle to think of her as a young woman, I find it impossible to think of her as no longer here.
“Not at all,” I go. “That woman will live forever – to spite me, mainly.”
But he’s like, “Ross, it’s coming. Very soon. She’s knows it too.”
