Rhino What You Did Last Summer

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  That, as it happens, takes, like, an hour and I’m thinking a single shot of espresso probably would have done her, especially that close to bedtime.

  Sorcha eventually arrives back down and I can’t help but notice that she’s changed into something skimpier, which turns out to be an Ed Hardy tattoo-print bikini, which she’s wearing with Girls Two Doors Down flip-flops, the exact same ones, Sorcha says, that Jessica Alba was wearing two weeks ago while shopping in Whole Foods on North Crescent.

  ‘You were a big hit,’ she goes, sucking a cherry on the end of a cocktail umbrella in a way that’s really doing it for me. ‘Especially with Emmy.’

  I’m like, ‘Emmy?’

  ‘Puh-lease, Ross! She couldn’t take her eyes off you.’

  I’m there, ‘And that bothers you?’ playing it cool like Huggy.

  ‘No,’ she goes, obviously not wanting to give me the pleasure. ‘You’re a free agent. She’s actually a really, really nice girl. Be careful, though. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her.’

  ‘I’ll, er, bear that in mind.’

  ‘And tote bags? Hello? Oh my God, they went out with, like, Rachel Zoe. Tiny clutches are going to be in this year. Although, having said that, I’d always bring my Saskia leather tote if I was going to, like, an interview?’

  I ask her if she fancies getting into the pool and she says yeah.

  Of course, I famously can’t swim, but Sorcha, in fairness, stays down the shallow end with me? She does, like, one or two widths, then stops and tells me I was amazing with Honor earlier. ‘I think that is why she’s finding it so difficult to settle at night,’ she goes. ‘Now that you’re here, she just wants to be around you – oh my God – every waking minute.’

  I’m there, ‘I feel the same.’

  She stares into the distance and says she never believed the human spirit was capable of loving the way she loves Honor and I’m thinking how much I love it when she says shit like that, even though I’m always meaning to make it my Google Mission later to find out is she getting her lines from, like, Gilmore Girls or one of those.

  She looks unbelievable in the blue light thrown by the little spots along the side of the pool and I can see her nipples through the cotton of her bikini top.

  I ask her how Cillian feels about us being out here alone. She doesn’t answer, but there’s, like, the tiniest hint of a smile on her lips, which I don’t think I’m imagining?

  ‘Cillian’s actually a really, really nice guy,’ she eventually goes. ‘And he’s good to me, which I thought you’d be pleased about.’

  I’m there, ‘I am. But why does he have to be so, I don’t know, full of it? Full of talk. All that subprime mortgage ask-my-hole. I mean, it’s not going to affect our lives, is it?’

  She’s like, ‘Of course it isn’t.’

  I’m there, ‘So why was he banging on about it, then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she goes. ‘You’re suddenly over here and maybe you’re right, maybe he does feel threatened by you. I’ve tried telling him that you’re no threat.’

  ‘Aren’t I, though?’

  ‘No. It’s like I told Cillian – you and I have this amazing connection, even though it’s just, like, friendship?’

  I’m thinking, yeah? Well, I’ve a pole on me here you could hang a stars-and-stripes from.

  ‘I just think you need to, like, bond,’ she goes. ‘Maybe if you went out together…’

  ‘Er, no thanks.’

  ‘What about tomorrow? He goes out every Saturday night with Josh and Kyle. Usually to, like, Big Wangs – you know, where Whitney had her first date with Jarett in Series Three?’

  ‘You’re pulling the piss! Josh and Kyle?’

  ‘They’re actual nice guys,’ she goes. ‘Anyway, it’s not about them. This is about you and Cillian getting to know each other, which – if you’re both going to be in my life – is something I would like to see happen.’

  I get the impression that she’s secretly loving playing us off each other.

  I’m there, ‘Anyway, I’m driving up to see Christian tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, just agree one Saturday – if I mention it to him.’

  I just, like, shrug my shoulders, not commiting myself either way.

  ‘Hey,’ I suddenly go, ‘let’s do the swan dive from Dirty Dancing.’

  She’s there, ‘No!’ going suddenly all shy on me.

  I’m there, ‘Come on!’

  ‘No,’ she goes, ‘because we always end up nearly drowning,’ which is true. It’s happened a few times, roysh, that I’ve tried to hold her above my head, but the momentum of her jump always sent us both toppling into the water. Happened in Bali. Happened in Brook Lodge. Happened in practically every pool we’ve ever been in. In fairness, she’d a lot more weight on her in those days, probably because she was on the Jack and Jill, and I actually fancy my chances of being able to hold her now.

  ‘Come on,’ I go, ‘Swayze and Gray – let’s see can we rework that old magic.’

  So she suddenly storts walking backwards in the water, smiling and shaking her head, like she can’t believe she’s actually about to do this.

  I give her the line. ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner,’ and she sort of, like, clenches her face, like a true Mountie about to take on any job. She runs through the water towards me and I’m sort of, like, studying her body, in much the same way that you weigh up the speed and trajectory of a pass in rugby before you receive it.

  I reach out, roysh, and I grab her by the hips, just as she jumps into the air and my hands follow her upwards as she spreads her orms and it’s immediately obvious that I’ve got the centre of gravity absolutely bang-on and I’m suddenly holding her above my head, her body, like, frozen in a perfect swan dive, so perfect, in fact, that it’s a good ten seconds before she can even say anything.

  ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’ she eventually goes, like we’re having actual sex.

  Then the next thing I hear is this, like, applause coming from up above us. I look up and I cop Cillian, out on the balcony, clapping – except, like, sarcastically?

  ‘Very good!’ he’s just going. ‘Very good!’

  It’s arrived – the jukebox, the pool table, everything – and I’ve honestly never heard Ronan happier.

  ‘You’d want to fooken see me,’ he’s going. ‘I’m in the jacuzzi, with a doorty big cigar, watching Scarface on the plasma. What do you think of that?’

  I’m like, ‘Well, firstly, you shouldn’t be smoking. Because a) it’s bad for you and b) you’re ten. And secondly, how the fock have you got signal down there?’

  ‘Buckets of Blood put up a transmitter,’ he goes. ‘He’s after doing all sorts, Rosser. I think he’s really going to make a go of this going-straight lark. He did all the plumbing, electrics, surround-sound, the fooken lot. Here, he’s even putting a ramp in – make it wheelchair-accessible for Bla.’

  In other words Blathin, Ronan’s girlfriend.

  ‘He’s after making shit of your ma’s garden but.’

  I laugh. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Ro. She’s over here making a focking disgrace of the family name.’

  ‘What’s the story with your voice?’ he goes.

  I’m like ‘Yeah, I’m using one of these hands-free speakerphone jobs. I’m heading up to a place called Nicasio – here, I wouldn’t have believed there’s actual countryside in the States.’

  ‘Mad.’

  ‘I know. I’m heading up to see Christian and Lauren.’

  ‘Here, when’s he’s casino opening?’

  I’m there, ‘We’re talking, like, June, July? I can’t wait for it as well.’

  ‘Oh,’ he goes, ‘are you staying in America that long?’

  He sounds disappointed, which is actually really nice to hear.

  ‘I was going to,’ I go. ‘I can head back sooner if you want.’

  ‘No, no,’ he goes, suddenly playing the tough man. ‘You’ve a lot of catching up to do over there
– you’re moostard.’

  But then I’m suddenly thinking about my old man and how he basically never had time for me and I find myself going, ‘I’ll tell you what, Ro – how do you fancy coming over to Vegas for, like, Christian’s opening night?’

  He’s there, ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘As a hort attack,’ I go. ‘What do you think?’

  Now, I can’t tell you how unbelievable it feels, roysh, to be bombing along some random Californian freeway in a big fock-off BMW 650 convertible, top down, sunnies on, wind in my hair, with my son on the phone telling me that I’m practically the best father who ever lived.

  But – not for the first time in my life – what seems like the perfect moment is interrupted by the sound of a police siren.

  There’s suddenly a speedy in my rearview, signalling for me to pull over. Which I do. Because you’re supposed to.

  I’m like, ‘Ro, hang just on a sec…’

  The cop takes his time getting off his bike, just to make me sweat.

  ‘Who is it?’ Ronan goes.

  I don’t answer.

  He approaches the cor from the passenger side. He takes off, like, his helmet. He doesn’t look like the kind of dude who’d take shit from anyone, not like the cops at home.

  ‘Sir,’ he goes, ‘let me see your licence and registration,’ and I’m there, ‘Fair enough,’ deciding to play it straight. I open the dash and stort fluting around, looking for them.

  ‘Who is it?’ Ronan goes again.

  ‘It’s, em, a cop,’ I go, looking at the dude as if to say, basically, sorry. I find my driving licence tucked into the rental agreement.

  ‘Tell him to fook off, Rosser,’ Ronan goes.

  I watch the dude stare at the speaker, his eyes going wide.

  ‘That’s my, er, kid,’ I go. ‘He’s a bit…’ and I tap the side of my head with my finger.

  I hand him all the shit. He studies the licence for what seems like ages. ‘This you?’ he eventually goes.

  I’m suddenly shitting it. I tell him it is.

  ‘JP Conroy?’

  I’m there, ‘The one and only!’ but I can feel my hort actually quicken? You can do jail time for carrying fake ID over here.

  ‘Smell the fooken bacon from here, I can,’ Ronan goes.

  I’m there, ‘Ro, you’re not exactly helping me here.’

  The cop stares at me, then at the photograph, then at me again. ‘Your nose doesn’t match,’ he goes.

  I’m like, ‘What?’

  He’s there, ‘Your nose is, well, pretty enormous. But in the picture…’

  ‘I actually broke it,’ I end up having to tell him. ‘Playing a certain game called rugby.’

  ‘And you’re from out of town?’ the cop goes.

  I’m there, ‘Yeah – as in, Ireland?’

  Which doesn’t seem to impress him. I don’t know why I thought it would.

  ‘Let me see your international driving licence.’

  I know straight away where that is – tucked into the inside of the sun visor. I hand it to him.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re taking shit from him,’ Ronan goes. ‘A.C.A.B., Rosser. A.C.A.B.’

  The cop stares at the speaker again for, like, ten seconds, maybe more, then he finally looks at the licence.

  ‘Why does he call you Rosser?’ he eventually goes and I end up nearly shitting myself.

  ‘It’s, em, a nickname,’ I go.

  ‘How does he get Rosser from JP Conroy?’

  I can’t even look the dude in the eye. It’s, like, somehow he knows?

  ‘It’s, like, Gaelic?’ I finally go. ‘As in, the language? It’s Gaelic for, em, Legend.’

  He stares at me for, like, ages, then eventually hands me everything back.

  ‘Well, Legend – you keep to the speed limit in future and you and your boy there will be hearing a lot less from us, you understand?’

  I’m there, ‘I do. I will. I swear.’

  He gives me another long look, then walks back to his bike.

  I sit there for, like, five minutes after he’s gone, still trying to, like, compose myself.

  ‘You were fooken bricking it,’ Ronan goes. ‘It’s, like, Gaelic for, like, Legend? Man, you wouldn’t last pissing time in Pelican Bay.’

  ‘Okay, young padwan,’ Christian goes, ‘you are now one of the priviliged few who can say they’ve set foot inside Skywalker Ranch…’

  I’m a bit whatever about the whole thing, but I play along, roysh, so as not to hurt the focker’s feelings.

  ‘None of this is open to the public,’ he goes. ‘For Star Wars fans, this is our Area 51.’

  I pull another interested face – I’d do it all day long for this dude – that’s how much he means to me.

  The next thing, roysh, he’s handing me a piece of paper, which I take from him with all the, I suppose, wariness of a man who’s been served injunctions ordering him to stay away from four debses.

  ‘What the fock is this?’ I go, after giving it the quick left to right.

  He’s there, ‘It’s a confidentiality agreement.’

  ‘A confidentiality agreement? Er, saying what exactly?’

  ‘Come on, Ross,’ he goes, ‘it’s standard.’

  I’m there, ‘Not between goys who’ve been best friends since they were basically twelve.’

  ‘It’s just saying you won’t reveal any secrets you might hear here today.’

  ‘Dude, I’d be seriously hord-up for conversation if all I had to talk to people about was focking Star Wars…’

  He looks around, obviously embarrassed by my voice echoing through the big entrance hall.

  ‘Anyway,’ I go, ‘whatever happened to honour among Rock boys?’

  He looks downwards, like even he can’t believe what he’s about to say. ‘It’s, er, not recognized over here.’

  I actually lose it then. ‘It’s recognized everywhere!’ I go. ‘All over this focking planet, which we call basically Earth. Can I remind you of a certain story that Father Fehily used to tell us?’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘About being in, I don’t know, Botswana or one of those? About being out in the bush and meeting this little pygmy dude?’

  ‘Ross…’

  ‘He asked Fehily where he was from and Fehily said a place called Dublin. The little focker had never heard of it. So he said it was in a country called basically Ireland. Again, he might as well have been talking about another planet. Then he mentioned that he went to a school called Castlerock College. And the pygmy just went, “Ah! Rugby!”’

  ‘Ross,’ Christian goes, ‘I think that story might have been apocryphal,’ which, from the way he says it, obviously means the same thing as horseshit.

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ I go, pushing the confidentiality agreement into his chest. He takes it from me and I just, like, proceed with the tour. I tip into the room to my immediate right, where there’s a humungous – and I mean humungous – Jabba the focking Hutt, as in the actual one they used in whatever movie. Big and slimy. I go, ‘Looks like the photographs I’ve seen of my old dear after she had me.’

  Christian laughs, but it’s like it’s a major effort? See, he’s sulking now.

  I’m there, ‘So this was, like, a puppet, was it?’

  ‘Er, yeah,’ he goes, ‘Took five people to operate it…’

  ‘Cool – presumably that includes one in the tail…’

  He nods. Big mopy face on him. I move on to the next room. Again, it’s seriously impressive. We’re talking full-size models of Boba Fett and Jar Jar Binks and all sorts of other shit I’ve never heard of.

  ‘And you work in this actual building?’ I go. ‘I don’t know how you get any work done with all these focking toys down here.’

  I pull one of those laser swords down off the wall, switch it on, then stort swinging it at Christian, missing his nose by, like, an inch – on purpose, obviously.

  ‘Ross,’ he goes, ‘I really w
ould feel more comfortable if you just signed this. I mean, they are paranoid about this kind of shit…’

  I’m there, ‘Dude, where’s George Lucas’s actual office?’

  He pulls a face, like he’s telling me to keep my voice down. ‘Mister Lucas works upstairs,’ he goes in this, like, hushed voice.

  There’s a fly buzzing around just in front of me. I hold the laser sword up, very focking steady, then – with a speed you wouldn’t believe – I cut through the air with the thing, catching the fly straight in the mush.

  I might actually be a Jedi. I should at least get it checked out.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I go, ‘if you want, I can go up there and tell him to his face where he can stick his confidentiality agreement.’

  He’s there, ‘Ross, I could lose my job.’

  ‘Whoa! Who the fock is that?’ I go, pegging it over to this big freaky-looking focker with – honestly – red eyes, a snake coming out of its head and a mouth like a box of smashed Denby.

  ‘Bib Fortuna,’ he goes, like he’s in no mood to entertain me now.

  I’m there, ‘Oh, yeah, he’s Jabba the Hutt’s butler. Here, I’ve seen Oisinn with worse.’

  This time he doesn’t even smile.

  It’s at that exact point, roysh, that Lauren walks into the room. She’s huge, roysh, and I don’t mean as in fat. I mean as in pregnant. I’m straight over to her, giving her a pretty amazing hug, telling her how great it is to see her, hope she’s looking after my little godson in there, blahdy blahdy blah.

  I notice a certain, I don’t know, unresponsiveness about her – if that’s even a word. She’s a bit, I suppose, rigid.

  I ignore it, of course – nice to be nice – and go into, like, verbal diarrhoea mode about the drive up here, the size of the States and how this is place is basically fantasy land.

  Somehow she knows about the issue with the confidentiality agreement. Either Christian, like, gestured to her in some way while I wasn’t looking or she saw the thing in his hand, copped his miserable face and put, like, two and two together.

  ‘Have you signed that?’ she goes to me – her first words to me, remember.