"I say let's drive the entire thing," Sorcha goes, "from Malin Head to Mizen Head. Ross, are you even listening to me?"
I'm not, by the way? Me and the boys are throwing the old Gilbert around the gorden.
Honor is sitting in her egg chair. She's the one who actually cops it. She looks up from her phone and goes, "Are those the names of places in Ireland that you're saying?" and there's the sound of genuine concern in her voice.
Sorcha’s like, “Yes, Honor! I’m talking about us driving the Wild Atlantic Way!”
I’m there, “What?” because I’m definitely listening now. “Why? As in, why the fock?”
"The last few months have been unbelievably stressful," she goes. "On top of the whole lockdown thing, we've got my mom, your dad and Ronan all living under our roof. We actually need a holiday at this stage?"
I’m like, “So what’s wrong with Quinta do Lago?”
She goes, "Quinta do Lago is in Portugal, Ross."
This may or may not be true. Deep as this is going to sound, I've never thought about it being in any specific country? All I know is that my old man has a massive penthouse aportment there and we've stayed there every summer for the past, like, ten years.
“Even presuming what you’re saying is true,” I go, “what’s wrong with Portugal?”
Sorcha’s like, “We’ve been through this already. We agreed that because of the whole, like, pandemic thing, we’d holiday in Ireland this year. Ross, I told you to cancel the flights.”
I’m there, “And Honor told me not to.”
She’s like, “What? Why?”
Honor goes, “I’m not holidaying in Ireland. I’d rather nail my eyelids shut.”
“Honor,” Sorcha tries to go, “Ireland is one of the most beautiful countries in the world!” and then we all wait around for a good sixty seconds for Sorcha to follow up with something. She doesn’t.
We met her coming out of Morton's in <a class="search" href='javascript:window.parent.actionEventData({$contentId:"7.1213540", $action:"view", $target:"work"})' polopoly:contentid="7.1213540" polopoly:searchtag="tag_location">Ranelagh</a> yesterday – she had an actual tan
I’m there, “Er, is it possible to go into, like, specifics, Sorcha?”
And she goes, "I'm not going to go into specifics, Ross. I'm just saying that Keeva Rowell from my Glee Dance Class did the whole, like, Wild Atlantic Way thing in June and it looked – oh my God – ah-mazing, certainly on Instagram! "
Honor sort of, like, sniggers to herself.
“What’s so funny?” Sorcha goes. “If Keeva and her family can staycation in the national interest, then we owe it to the country to staycation as well.”
Honor's there, "If everyone on Instagram who's claiming to be doing the Wild Atlantic Way was actually doing the Wild Atlantic Way, you wouldn't be able to move on it for cors."
I’m there, “Hang on, are you saying she’s lying, Honor?”
“I’m saying everyone is lying.”
“What?” Sorcha goes, “All these people who are on social media talking about – okay, I’m trying to think of something specific – the Blasket Islands, or – yeah, no – the Aillwee Cave . . ?”
“Yes, they’re all in Quinta do Lago.”
“Honor, there’s no way Keeva would lie about something like that.”
"We met her coming out of Morton's in Ranelagh yesterday – she had an actual tan."
“So?”
“Er, it’s been raining in Ireland since the end of May.”
"Yeah, no, she said they had one or two sunny days in Donegal. "
Honor laughs. “Yeah,” she goes, “you keep telling yourself that.”
Okay, let's just imagine for a second that Dad is having another one of his affairs
“But why would she lie, Honor?”
“Because she wants to go on holiday and she doesn’t want people like you being all judgy-judgy about it.”
“You’re so cynical, Honor.”
“And you’re not cynical enough. Okay, let’s just imagine for a second that Dad is having another one of his affairs.”
I'm like, "Whoa, steady on, Honor. I'm on your side, bear in mind?"
“I’m just saying, what does Mom do when she suspects that you’re cheating on her? She goes looking for the evidence.”
That's actually true. She's like Jessica Fletcher when she has the sniff of dishonesty in her nostrils. I watch Sorcha's face turn suddenly serious.
“Well, that’s the port of her brain that she needs to engage right now,” Honor goes. “Because we’ll be eating soup with blankets around us in Drizzle Mór, County Galway next week, while everyone else from South Dublin will be sipping pina coladas, looking at our pictures and saying, ‘Thank fock that’s happening to them and not us!’”
Sorcha whips out her phone and suddenly her thumbs are just a blur of activity.
She’s like, “I still don’t think Keeva would go to the trouble of-” and then she suddenly stops.
"Oh my God, I've just checked the weather app. The sun – literally? – hasn't shone in Donegal for, like, six weeks."
“Told you,” Honor goes in a singsong voice.
"Okay, I'm going into her Instagram account and I'm going to check if . . . There, see, she couldn't be lying, Honor, because there she is in Dingle, having a pint outside Dick Macs – with Breffni, look! And there they are on the boat, with the kids, going out to see the famous Fungie!"
Look at her hair! It's long! Oh! My! God! These pictures were taken last summer!
"Er, those pictures could have been taken any time?" Honor goes.
I’m like, “Well said, Honor,” because I’m a massive believer in positive enforcement. “She’s not so sure anymore – look at her face.”
Because suddenly Sorcha is staring at her phone with her jaw unhinged. “Oh my God,” she goes. “Look at her hair! It’s long! Oh! My! God! These pictures were taken last summer!”
Honor’s there, “Quinta. Do. Lago.”
"So if she's lying about staycationing in Ireland," Sorcha goes, "does that mean Dochara Stephens who I work with is also lying?"
I’m there, “It’s not lying if you’re trying to stop people finding out things you don’t want them to know about you,” as my old man told the judge at his perjury trial.
Sorcha's thumbs go to work again. Thirty seconds later, she goes, "Oh my God, Dochara isn't even in any of these photographs. One or two of them have the Fáilte Ireland logo on them! She's taken these from the Internet! Hang on, there's one here of two glasses of Champagne. 'First day of the holiday,' it says. Oh my God, I recognise that countertop. Ross, that's Flutes in Dublin Airport! They're all lying. Everyone is lying."
I’m there, “Does that mean we’re going to – if you’re to be believed – Portugal?”
And Sorcha’s like, “Too focking right it does.”