So we’re in Morton’s of Ranelagh, doing the big shop, when we run into Rebecca Leahy, the old dear of Honor’s classmate Diva Leahy. Actually, she and Sorcha both reach for the last punnet of kumquats in the shop and I watch Sorcha’s body shape change to fight mode until Rebecca goes, “Sorcha! How are you? Oh my God, look at you! You must weigh nothing!” Sorcha’s there, “I wish! Take a look in the mirror, Rebecca! You look amazing! Do you want the kumquats?”
Rebecca’s like, “No, you go ahead, Sorcha. You put your hand on them first.” Sorcha goes, “I don’t think I did, Rebecca. I’m pretty sure it was you?”
“Honestly, Sorcha, Diva doesn’t even eat the things! I don’t even know why I put them in her lunch box!”
“Well, if you’re sure–”
Sorcha is standing at the island with a boning knife in one hand and an espresso in the other, grinning at us like a serial killer
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
“One-hundred per cent sure, Sorcha. You fire away.”
“Thanks, Rebecca.”
“Actually,” Rebecca goes, and I feel a not-so-subtle change of subject coming on, “I was wondering could you do me a favour? In return for letting you have the kumquats?”
Sorcha’s like, “Er,” because she’s storting to suspect, like me, that her running into us like this is far from the coincidence that we thought it was?
Rebecca goes, “I know that tomorrow is the, em, big day,” meaning presumably the deadline for closed bids to get on the school skiing trip, which Honor is arranging as head girl.
Sorcha’s there, “Rebecca, I have absolutely no influence over who–”
The woman goes, “I’m just trying to get an idea – you know, ballpork – of the kind of bid that would place us among the lucky 50.”
I’m there, “You heard what Sorcha said. We’re her parents – we’re the last to know everything, thankfully.”
“It’s just that Diva really wants to get on that trip,” she goes.
I’m like, “So put in a humungous bid.”
She’s there, “But how humungous is humungous? Are we talking €20,000? Are we talking €100,000?”
Sorcha goes, “That’s the whole point of a blind auction, Rebecca. Nobody knows. It’s whatever people are prepared to pay?”
Rebecca’s there, “And you approve of this, do you? Your daughter using her position to play her classmates off against each other and extort money from them.”
I’m like, “Firstly, Honor has no mates – let’s get that straight. And secondly, we have absolutely no control over our daughter – over any of our kids. They do what they want, no matter what we tell them.”
I’m there, “That’s a very serious allegation you’re making,” which is the O’Carroll-Kelly family motto
— Ross
Rebecca’s face turns suddenly sour. She’s like, “Yes, I’ve heard all about your famous hands-off parenting methods. It’s why your daughter ended up slashing the tyres of hundreds of cars and why your sons are banned from setting foot in Dundrum Town Centre.”
Sorcha goes, “How dare you!” which is basically the Lalor family motto.
Rebecca’s there, “The question everyone is asking, by the way, is how much does she stand to make from arranging this holiday? You know what? I think I’ll take the kumquats after all!” and she snatches the punnet out of Sorcha’s hand, then off is the direction in which she focks.
Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, Ross! Oh my actual God – did you hear that?”
I’m there, “I’m not a major fan of kumquats anyway, Sorcha. Sweet on the outside and bitter on the inside – a bit like Rebecca herself, I’m tempted to say.”
She goes, “No, how much is she going to make out of this? I mean why haven’t we asked ourselves that question – as her parents?”
I’m like, “Because my attitude as a father is very much the less I know, the better.”
“But she’s raking in all this money,” Sorcha goes, “and what’s she doing with it?”
I’m there, “I presume she’s giving it to the old man – yeah, no, for the use of the timeshare villa.”
“All of it?” Sorcha goes.
I’m like, “Presumably.”
We finish our shopping, then we pay for our shit and push the trolley outside to the cor.
“Do you know what I think?” Sorcha goes.
I’m there, “What do you think?” because I have a feeling that I’m not going to like whatever it is she has to say.
She goes, “I think your dad and Honor have cooked this up between them.”
I’m there, “Excuse me?”
She goes, “I think that however much money she gets from the 50 highest bidders, she’s going to pay for the flights and give the balance to your dad – supposedly as the price of their board for the week.”
A leopard can change his spots, Sorcha. He hasn’t done anything dodgy in years. Well, in a year
— Ross
I’m like, “The word is supposably, Sorcha?”
She goes, “Then your dad is going to kick her half of the money back.”
I’m there, “That’s a very serious allegation you’re making,” which is the O’Carroll-Kelly family motto.
She’s like, “I bet you that’s what they’re doing.”
I’m there, “Why do you have such a low opinion of my old man?”
She goes, “Er, I hate to point out the obvious, Ross, but he’s been to prison – for actual corruption.”
I’m there, “So people can’t change, is that what you’re saying?”
She goes, “Him and that solicitor of his are moral eunuchs. Those aren’t my words, Ross. That was one of the main findings of the Mahon tribunal.”
I get in a bit of a snot with her then – yeah, like her old pair are so perfect? – and we end up doing the drive home in, like, total silence.
As I’m helping her take the shopping bags from the boot, I go, “Why are you always so down on my family?”
And she – in fairness to her – goes, “I’m sorry if you were offended by what I said, Ross. What I said was possibly uncalled for.”
I’m there, “A leopard can change his spots, Sorcha. He hasn’t done anything dodgy in years. Well, in a year.”
She goes, “Like I said, I think Rebecca Leahy just had me rattled. I maybe shouldn’t have said it.”
I’m there, “He helped Honor win the election because he loves his granddaughter. He doesn’t have to have anterior motive.”
“Like I said,” she goes, “I was wrong to say what I said.”
I turn the key in the front door and I give it a push. And from the study, I can hear the sound of my old man and my daughter laughing like two complete and utter villains.
