“Daddy long-legs,” Leo goes, pointing at quite literally nothing. “It’s a focking daddy long-legs.”
I’m like, “For the fifteenth time, Leo, it’s not a daddy long-legs. It’s a crack in your glasses from when Johnny hit you across the face with the griddle pan.”
But he’s absolutely, I don’t know, adamant, if that’s a word? He goes off chasing the thing around the grass, trying to stamp on it, with Johnny and Brian running after him, going, “Kill the daddy long-legs! Kill the daddy long-legs!”
I’m like, “God, our kids are focking idiots.”
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Sorcha’s there, “Ross, that’s a terrible thing to say.”
I’m like, “Hey, I’m just calling it, Sorcha. The triplets got my brains — and it gives me no pleasure whatsoever to say it. Still, at least we got one kid who turned out okay.”
We’re both watching Honor, as she gets ready to walk out on to the court. Yeah, no, it’s the quarter-finals of the Joshua Pim Shield in Glenageary Lawn Tennis Club and I haven’t seen the girl look this nervous since Sorcha’s Nissan Leaf broke down on the Stillorgan dualler one morning and she was told she’d have to get the bus the rest of the way to school.
Sorcha goes, “Do you think she’s okay.”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, it’s a big match for her, that’s all.”
She’s playing Natalia Rovelle, the number three seed, who was in the year behind Sorcha in Mount Anville — and, for once, Honor couldn’t find any dirt on her.
Yeah, no, she spent a week going through the girl’s various social media accounts, trying to find anything — an injury, a missed promotion at work, a family bereavement — that she might use to give her a psychological edge, slash, sledging opportunity, but she came up with literally fock-all.
And, like I said, Natalia is the number three seed. She very nearly qualified for Junior Wimbledon back in the day, which is why Honor looks so nervous. It could end up being a bloodbath here.
Natalia walks out. She’s in love with herself. You can see it. Her and Honor stort warming up, hitting balls backwards and forwards across the net to each other. And you can see that this Natalia one is in a totally different league to her.
“I suppose she could always fake a hort attack,” I go, “like she did that day when you told her to take the bus to school.”
Sorcha goes, “The thing is, I actually feel really bad.”
I’m there, “In terms of what, Sorcha?”
“Well, I actually know something about Natalia.”
“What? Why didn’t you give it to Honor?”
“Because, Ross, it’s very personal and it’s not the kind of thing anyone should use just to try to gain an advantage in a sporting contest.”
“Yeah, let me be the judge of that, Sorcha — someone who’s actually won things.”
Honor serves to get the match under way and loses the first point. Then she double-faults on her next serve.
I’m like, “So? What is it?”
Sorcha’s there, “Ross, you can’t tell Honor about this, okay? I mean, it would go totally against the code.”
“What code?”
“The code that says Mount Anville girls never do anything to undermine each other.”
Yeah, I got off with six of her classmates on the night of her debs. Obviously, I don’t mention that. But there’s her code.
I’m there, “Just give me the goods on this woman.”
She goes, “You have to swear you won’t say anything.”
“Okay, I swear — blah, blah, blah.”
Sorcha lowers her voice and goes, “She having an affair, Ross — behind her husband’s back.”
“Great shot, Natty!” a girl to our right shouts, then there’s, like, a smattering of applause. Yeah, no, the woman has brought a few fans along with her.
I’m like, “An affair?”
“With Barry Diamond,” she goes. “You know, he owns that cold press juice company — do you remember I used to get them delivered when I was trying to fit into my Hermès dress for mom and dad’s thirty-fifth wedding anniversary porty in the Shelbourne?”
“Er, vaguely — so how do you know about her and Juice Barry?”
“Erika saw them together in Inchydoney — she said they looked very loved up.”
“Jesus, Sorcha, how could you not give your daughter this information? She could totally destroy this woman’s head.”
“Ross, I told you, it would be against the code.”
“But she’s getting absolutely slaughtered out there.”
Yeah, no, she’s just lost the first two games and she can barely win a point.
Sorcha goes, “Ross, you swore that you wouldn’t say anything.”
To my right, I can suddenly hear giggling. Leo is still chasing the non-existent daddy long-legs around, with the other two dopes running after him. One of Natalia’s mates goes, “His glasses are smashed, look — and he thinks it’s a daddy long-legs!” and they all have a good guffaw about that.
I’m like, “Sorcha — ”
But she’s there, “No, Ross.”
Honor is, like, 15-30 down in the third game and she’s looking up at me for answers — as not only her father but as someone who proved consistently that he had the big-match temperament back in the day. And I’m happy to say that I prove I have it once again.
I turn around and I go, “Sorcha, I got off with six of your mates at your debs.”
She’s there, “Excuse me?”
I’m like, “Hey, we’ll get into the who’s, the why’s and wherefore’s another day. The point I’m making is that there is no code.”
She just, like, stares into space for a good, I don’t know, five or six minutes, saying absolutely nothing, a lifetime of illusions shattered into a million pieces. Honor loses the third game and the fourth.
Then, totally out of the blue, just as Natalia is returning her serve at the stort of the fifth, Honor goes, “I’d say your portial to a nice smoothie, Natalia, are you?”
Natalia just freezes — as in, she literally can’t move her feet — and it’s suddenly, like, 15-0.
I turn to Sorcha and I go, “Oh my God, you texted her! Between games!”
“I feel awful,” she goes.
And I’m like, “Don’t.”
Honor serves again. Natalia makes a big effort to get it and lets out the most random noise.
Honor goes, “I’d say you grunt like that for Barry, do you?”
And I know in that instant that she’s heading for the semi-finals.
