“I remember when you got your Leaving Cert results,” Sorcha’s old man goes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of you, Dorling.”
He’s talking to Sorcha, not me – I probably don’t need to tell you that.
“Oh, you were so convinced you’d failed,” he goes. “Do you remember? And you ended up getting maximum points!”
Her old dear – who’s nearly worse – goes, “One of only three people in the country that year!”
Sorcha goes, ‘The Dalkey Lobster Festival is this weekend. How am I going to show my face?’
‘I think you should have a conversation with Honor about her drinking,’ Sorcha goes
‘I got thrun out of Amedica,’ Ronan goes. ‘Me visa was revoked’
Zealous book bans and brilliant writers forged strong Irish Penguin links from the start
And my old man is like, “Did you hear that, Kicker? One of only three!”
And I’m there, “Yeah, no, it’s a brilliant story. Especially the way they tell it. Real edge-of-your-seat stuff.”
Yeah, no, we’re sitting in the private diningroom in The Ivy, which Sorcha has booked to celebrate Honor’s Leaving Cert results – we’re talking Sorcha’s old pair, my old man, Christian, who’s, like, her godfather, and Sorcha’s sister, who’s, like, her godmother, even though I don’t know her name.
There’s still no sign of her, by the way – as in, like, the girl of the moment.
Sorcha goes, “Has she even texted you, Ross?”
I check my phone.
I’m like, “Er, nothing, no.”
Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, I am dying to find out what she got. Ross text her.”
“What?”
“The suspense is – oh my God – killing me!”
Sorcha’s sister, by the way – I think it begins with a D or an M – has kicked off her shoe and is doing her usual trick of rubbing her foot up and down the inside of my leg.
“Ross, are you sure you don’t know something?” Sorcha goes. “Your face is all red.”
They’re some family. They make the Lannisters look normal.
I’m there, “Sorcha, I’m as in the dork as you are.”
The old man goes, “I’m sure she did wonderfully well, Sorcha. With your brainpower and Kicker’s brainpower, well, she won the genetic lottery, didn’t she?”
I’m tempted to go: Yeah, wind your neck in – your daughter got a focking orts degree
— Ross
Sorcha’s old man goes to say something – I’m presuming it’s about my so-called brainpower – but in the end he decides not to.
“What has she applied for in terms of college?” Christian goes.
I’m thinking, ‘Dude, seriously? You’re setting her up for some fall here – her so-called godfather.’
Sorcha goes, “Business studies and French – in Trinity College.”
She’s more likely to end up in Trinity Court.
“That was her first choice,” she goes. “She also put down law in UCD.”
Sorcha’s old man goes, “Of course, Sorcha could have gone to Trinity if she’d wanted to.”
I’m there, “Another great anecdote. You’re on fire tonight, Dude.”
The old man goes, “Is that so, Edmund?”
Sorcha’s like, “Yeah, all my friends were going to UCD and I decided that I wanted to have the proper, like, college experience?”
“I knew she’d excel,” her old man goes, “wherever she went.”
I’m tempted to go: Yeah, wind your neck in – your daughter got a focking orts degree.
The waitress asks us for, like, the third time if we want to order and I’m about to go, Yeah, no, let’s fire ahead – I’m storving, when Honor finally shows her face.
“So?” Sorcha goes, trying to read her face – except she might as well be trying to read, I don’t know, Greekish?
Honor’s like, “So what?”
“So what did you get?” Sorcha goes. “In your exams?”
Sorcha’s old man – who hates Honor almost as much as he hates me – is like, “Why does everything have to be a performance with this girl?”
I’m smiling – I very nearly say to Sorcha? – because your sister has her toes wedged into my undercrackers
— Ross
Speaking of which, Sorcha’s sister now has her foot jammed between my legs and she keeps mentioning how well I look with a tan and asking me if I’m back in the gym.
“I got nothing,” Honor goes – as casually as that.
Sorcha’s there, “Excuse me?”
Honor’s like, “Are you deaf or just hord of understanding? I said I got nothing.”
“You couldn’t have got nothing,” Sorcha goes. “You get morks for, like, writing your exam number on your booklet.”
I’m there, “And ruling your pages,” because it’s what boosted me from an NG to an F in one or two subjects.
“I got nothing,” Honor goes, “because I didn’t sit the exams.”
As shocks go, this is right up there with the time she found out that Claudette, the French pen pal she shared intimate secrets of her life with as a teenager, was actually a death row inmate in Texas.
Sorcha’s there, “What do you mean you didn’t sit the exams?”
Honor goes, “Exactly what I said – aren’t you supposed to have a degree or something?”
“Yeah, no, an orts degree,” I accidentally say out loud.
Sorcha bursts into tears.
She’s like, “Oh my God! Oh! My actual? God!”
Sorcha’s old dear is like, “And this is how you tell your mother the news? You let her arrange this wonderful celebratory lunch and then you humiliate her in front of everyone?” and then she turns to me and goes, “Aren’t you going to say something to her?”
I’m there, “I’m still trying to process it.”
Honor’s like, “Dad’s known for a week,” letting me down in a big-time way.
Sorcha’s there, “You knew? Oh my God, Ross, why are you smiling?”
I’m smiling – I very nearly say? – because your sister has her toes wedged into my undercrackers.
“The Dalkey Lobster Festival is this weekend,” Sorcha goes. “How am I going to show my face?”
My old man’s like, “Oh, come on! You don’t need exams to get on in the world! There’s plenty of private colleges out there she could go to!”
“Oh, you mean throw money at the problem?” Sorcha’s old man goes.
And my old man’s like, “Precisely!”
Honor goes, “There’s no need. I have zero interest in going to college.”
Sorcha’s there, “All the dreams I had for you, Honor! What are we going to tell people?”
“We could say she was sick,” Sorcha’s old dear goes.
And Sorcha’s like, “That’s an amazing idea! We could say she had, like, mono slash glandular fever!”
“Any-hoo,” Honor goes, “I have to go. I’m meeting Iarlaith. She’s my girlfriend, by the way.”
“Girlfriend?” Sorcha goes. “Ross, are you even following this conversation?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no – again, it’s a lot to take in.”
“Dad has known for a month,” Honor goes. “Anyway, enjoy your celebratory lunch.”
