Sorcha is unpacking her collection of Lladro figurines from a cordboard box. She says she’s worried about Honor.
I’m like, “Honor? In terms of what specifically?”
“Ross,” she goes, “the girl hasn’t spoken for, like, a week.”
I’m there, “A lot of parents of teenage girls would consider that a good thing. At least she’s not saying hurtful things to us – slagging off my, very nearly, rugby career and, of course, your efforts in the kitchen. If the rest of her teenage years play out this way, you won’t hear me complaining.”
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Sorcha goes, “Well, I want you to know that I’m blaming you for this.”
I’m there, “Me? You were the one who thought it was a good idea to move to Terenure.”
Talk about lines you never thought you’d hear yourself say.
I watch her remove the figurines from the bubble wrap and place them on the mantelpiece. The ballerina. The Japanese woman with the parasol. The child releasing the dove. They look ridiculously out of place in this house – like us on a staycation holiday in Wexford.
She goes, “Ross, I’m not getting into this again. There’s nothing wrong with Terenure. It’s only a 10-minute drive from Honor’s school – it’s even less to Ranelagh. Which, by the way, has a Soul Cycle now and literally two sushi bors.”
I’m there, “It could have 200 sushi bors, Sorcha. Still wouldn’t change the fact that it’s in Dublin 6.”
She’s like, “It’s actually Dublin 6w?”
I laugh. I’m there, “Was there ever a more desperate use of a letter from the alphabet?”
All of a sudden, we hear the front door slam. Ten seconds later — speak of the devil — the girl herself walks into the kitchen.
I’m there, “Hey, Honor.”
And Honor’s like, “Whatever.”
“You sound in better form,” Sorcha goes, very much a glass-half-full kind of person. “Well, you’re speaking to us at leas–”
Sorcha stops mid-word — because she’s seeing presumably what I’m seeing, which is the cigarette that’s burning between our daughter’s fingers.
I’m like, “Jesus Christ.”
Sorcha decides not to acknowledge it and goes back to work.
“What?” Honor goes, casually putting the thing to her lips and sucking a good half-inch out of it. “Oh, this? Yeah, no, I forgot to tell you – big news! I smoke now! Have either of you got a problem with that?”
I’m there, “I certainly don’t,” because I’m terrified of the girl. “You’re nearly 16. As far as I’m concerned, you can do whatever you want.”
Honor looks at her old dear, who’s placing a woman with angel wings and humungous baps on the sideboard.
“What about you?” Honor goes. “Are you not wondering where I managed to get cigarettes?”
Oh my God, she’s waving an entire pack in our faces.
Sorcha’s there, “No, Honor, because I know you’re only doing it to try to shock us.”
She goes, “I got them from a girl named Kourtney.”
I’m like, “Kourtney?” and I can hear the panic in my own voice. “She doesn’t sound like she goes to Mount Anville.”
“She doesn’t go to Mount Anville,” Honor goes, blowing smoke in my face. “She’s just a girl I met. She hangs around outside the off-licence, asking people if they’ll buy drink for her.”
I’m like, “Jesus Christ, are you listening to this, Sorcha?”
“Although she’s not drinking at the moment,” Honor goes, “because she thinks she might be pregnant.”
I’m there, “Sorcha, I don’t know how you’re staying so calm here.”
“Because she’s just doing it to get a reaction out of us,” Sorcha goes. “And I, for one, am not going to take the bait.”
She gives Honor a big fake-smile and walks out of the room. As soon as she’s gone, I watch Honor’s face turn quickly green, then she runs across the kitchen, leans over the sink and storts spewing her guts into it.
I’m like, “What the fock?”
“Take it,” she manages to go between heaves and I grab the cigarette from between her fingers.
I’m there, “So, what, you don’t really smoke?” and I hold back her hair so that she can borf again.
She’s like, “I focking hate smoking. I’m just trying to bring that stupid wagon to her senses.”
I’m there, “That is such a good thing for me to hear. Although I think I need to have a word with this Kourtney person.”
“Dad, there is no Kourtney person. I made her up.”
“Thank God for that — she sounds like a real piece of work.”
She goes, “I thought if I could make you two think that I was going off the rails, you might blame yourselves for moving here.”
I’m there, “That’s very clever, in fairness to you,” because I’m a big believer in overpraising my children. Never did me any horm as a kid.
She goes, “We lived on, like, the best road in the country — with a view of the sea. Now we’re living in Dublin 6 — focking W!”
“The W is hilarious,” I go. “I remember my old dear and her mates threatened to go on hunger strike when it was accepted as a thing.”
She’s like, “So how come you’re okay with it?”
I’m there, “I’m not okay with it. I’ve said terrible things about Terenure over the years — and I meant every word of it.”
“Then why aren’t you doing something to get us back to Killiney?”
“The thing is, Honor, when it comes to your old dear, you have to play the long game. Take it from a master tactician who’s won things both as a player and a coach.”
“Oh! My God!” she goes, wiping sick from her mouth with the back of her hand. “You have a plan!”
I’m three, “Yes, I do. Well, actually, I don’t? But if you and me put our heads together, I’m sure we can come up with something more subtle than you taking up smoking.”
“Okay, let’s do it.”
“In the meantime, just promise me you’ll stay away from this Kourtney.”
“Dad, there is no Kourtney. She doesn’t exist.”
“I don’t know why I can’t get my head around that fact. I think she’s gotten to me on some level.”
Honor moves away from the sink.
“Subtle,” she goes. “I can do sutble,” and then, with her elbow, she sweeps Sorcha’s angel with the big thrups off the sideboard and on to the floor, where it smashes into about 1,000 pieces.
And then she just goes, “Oops!”
