Rhino What You Did Last Summer

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  This would certainly explain the five missed calls from Trevion this morning. Sorcha’s pretty much hysterical, going, ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this to me! Oh my God, I can’t believe you’ve done this!’

  I turn, as the cover suggests, to pages two and three and I skim through the story.

  ‘Irish book sensation Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly has blasted her wildchild son for giving his baby daughter coffee. The bestselling author branded Ross an “idiot” after he was photographed outside a Hollywood Starbucks feeding espresso to eighteen-month-old Honor, his daughter by his estranged wife. Asked how she believed former girlfriend Lauren Conrad would react to the photographs, Fionnuala, who is due to arrive in LA this week for the latest leg of a coast-to-coast publicity tour, agreed that the Hills star would feel she had a lucky escape. “It was a stupid, irresponsible thing to do,” she said during a publicity event at a Barnes & Noble in Boulder, Colorado. “He is very immature and has little or no common sense.” Fionnuala looked stunning in a belted D&G dress with Neil Lane gems…’

  I can’t believe she’s done this to me.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this to me,’ Sorcha goes.

  I’m there, ‘Okay, I admit it – I’ve been giving her the odd coffee.’

  ‘That’s why she’s been like a demon,’ she goes.

  I’m like, ‘Yeah. But I suppose another way to look at it is – thank God it’s nothing more serious.’

  She loses it then in a big-time way. ‘I got a text alert half an hour ago to say that Oprah Winfrey has called for you to be jailed.’

  I’m like, ‘Jailed?’

  ‘Jailed! For giving drugs to a minor.’

  ‘Drugs? It was a coffee, Sorcha. It was the odd coffee. And Oprah Winfrey should mind her own focking business.’

  Shit. There’s more on pages four and five. It turns out that Lauren Conrad has strenuously denied that we were ever an item. In fact, she’s denied ever even meeting me? A spokesman said that the day we were photographed together, she actually had lunch with pals Frankie Delgado and Doug Reinhardt and that I just happened to step into the photograph.

  ‘I’ve got a newsflash for that girl,’ I go. ‘She’s been with way bigger orseholes than me.’

  Sorcha’s like, ‘Well, I’ve got a newsflash for you. I’ve spoken to my dad and I’ve spoken to Cillian and they’re both of the view that I should get a court order to keep you away from us.’

  I’m like, ‘What? Sorcha, you can’t do that!’

  But she’s just like, ‘Congratulations, Ross – you’re a real celebrity now.’

  One of the people I feel sorriest for in all of this is, like, Ginnifer. The magazines all ran the photographs of us out together, except there wasn’t a mention of the graphic frock by Alice + Olivia that showed off her enormous chesticles. The story was all about me and basically what an idiot I am?

  The headline in People was ‘Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Double-D’.

  I phone her the second it appears, portly to apologize, but also because I’m genuinely interested in, like, seeing her again? And, I admit it, getting in there.

  Except she says that Trevion doesn’t think it’d be good for her career to be seen with me. ‘He thinks that Tweedle Dumb thing will stick,’ she goes. ‘And, let’s be honest, it’s not exactly Brangelina.’

  Of course, I’m nothing if not persuasive, especially when it comes to the opposite sex. Twenty seconds later, I’ve talked her into coming out with me again – my treat, her favourite restaur ant, which happens to be Le Petit Greek in Larchmont.

  By the time our main courses arrive, we’re actually laughing about what happened, if you can believe that. I’m telling her that Sorcha’s never out of Buckys herself and that Honor actually took her first steps in the one in Dundrum Town Centre.

  ‘But do you think Sorcha’s going to accept her share of the blame?’ I go. ‘Er, I don’t think so?’

  By the time the Harry Hill arrives, she’s telling me that I’m actually a really, really nice goy, which obviously I know, although it is nice to get the recognition, and when I suggest heading on for a drink, she’s actually John B.

  Which is how we end up in S Bar, on, like, Hollywood and Vine?

  The place is hopping. I order a beer and Ginnifer has, like, a maple anjou and she asks me if I saw Entertainment Tonight. It turns out that Nicole Richie and Annette de la Renta have also called for me to be jailed. And Ozzy Osbourne.

  I’m actually laughing about it now. Think of the drugs that focker took over the years – and he’s criticizing me for giving a baby coffee?

  ‘What’s Trevion saying?’ she goes. ‘Has he told you how he’s going to spin it?’

  I’m there, ‘To be honest, I’ve been ignoring his calls. I’m too scared to even listen to his voice messages.’

  ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘you’ve got to talk to him,’ and then all of a sudden she stops, roysh, and screws up her face. ‘Jesus! What is that smell?’

  ‘I don’t smell it,’ I go.

  ‘I got it in the restaurant earlier and I wondered whether it was the spanakopita…’

  What I obviously can’t tell her, of course, is that the smell is actually me. To cut a long story short, I couldn’t make my mind up in the end which diet pills to buy. I had them whittled down to the ones with the night-time fat-burner, the ones that heat your body and help you lose it through, like, thermogenesis, and the ones that contain the most pivotal thermogenic agents internationally studied.

  Then I thought, what the fock, and for the last couple of days I’ve been taking all three. The upshot of that is that I smell like a dead mouse rotting behind a skirting board and as I’m standing here I’m having to clench every muscle in my lower body to keep my orse shut.

  Moussaka probably wasn’t the smortest idea in the world either.

  The next thing, roysh, Ginnifer spots a friend of hers from reiki and it’s weird because it’s at that exact moment that I spot, of all people, Cillian, up at the bor. I’m there, ‘I’ll tell you what, you go talk to your friend,’ giving her the guns, but without taking my eyes off him, ‘and I’ll come looking for you later.’

  It turns out that Cillian’s with Josh and Kyle. Josh is telling some bullshit story that involves the line, ‘We’re being raped on these derivatives,’ and you can tell he loves saying the word.

  Cillian doesn’t even realize it, but he’s, like, ten seconds away from being decked. I’m there, ‘Who the fock are you telling Sorcha to get a court order?’ but he actually shushes me, roysh, without saying even hello first, then tells Josh to continue, which of course he needs no invitation to do. ‘I told him, “Hang tough, Dude!” Which he did.’

  Cillian’s there, ‘And?’

  He just smiles, then just goes, ‘Fourteen fucking million,’ and makes, like, a whooping sound. Then he turns around and bumps chests with Kyle, then with Cillian, then with a fourth dude who’s there – a big fat focker with greased-back hair – who turns out to be Bob Soto, as in Cillian’s boss at PwC.

  I’m just, like, staring at Cillian. He’s still got his swipe card from work attached to his belt loop. No one ever got laid wearing a swipe card – Rossism number two hundred and twelve.

  I’m there, ‘I asked you a focking question.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ this Bob Soto dude goes, sticking a big sausage finger pretty much in my face. ‘Who the fuck is this guy?’

  What I should do is grab his focking finger and snap it back – but I don’t. It’s nice to be nice.

  ‘It’s Sorcha’s ex,’ Kyle goes and he’s got, like, a little smile playing on his lips.

  ‘This is him?’ Bob Soto goes. ‘This is the guy?’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, what the fock is it to you?’ and he sort of, like, pats me on the back and goes, ‘Nothing. Really,’ like there’s shit he could say, but he’s not going to?

  I turn back to Cillian. ‘Of course, you’re loving it,’ I go. ‘The whole Starbucks thing. It’s y
our chance to get me off the scene. Well, I can tell you this for a fact – it’s not going to work. Honor’s my daughter and nothing can change that fact.’

  ‘You ever heliski?’ Josh suddenly goes.

  It totally throws me. I’m like, ‘What?’

  ‘We’re going heliskiing next weekend,’ he goes. ‘Up to the Bugaboos,’ and then he holds his hand up for Kyle to give him the least deserved high-five I’ve ever focking seen.

  ‘Oh, I ski,’ I go, ‘don’t you worry about that.’

  Josh is like, ‘I thought rugby was your thing,’ and Bob Soto’s immediately there, ‘Rugby? Isn’t that the game George Bush played in college?’ and it’s obvious what he’s doing – he’s trying to make out that I’m automatically a dipshit as well.

  I just point at Cillian and tell him that if he thinks I’m going to let an actuary come between me and my daughter and, I suppose, my wife as well, he’s got another thing coming.

  Then I wander back to Ginnifer. She’s still talking to her friend, who it turns out is called Suzette and who seems cool enough, even if she’s not the best looks-wise. When Suzette heads for the shitter I bring up the subject that’s been hanging around the edge of the conversation all night. I tell Ginnifer I like her dress. She says it’s a Kate and Kass halter. I tell her I’d love to see how it matched the corpet in my penthouse back at the Viceroy.

  ‘Nice,’ she goes, smiling, obviously appreciating a goy who knows how to talk the talk. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve got to check on Picasso, my pygmy cat?’

  ‘Oh,’ I go, thinking it’s an excuse.

  She smiles. ‘What I’m saying is, why don’t we go to mine?’

  I don’t need to be asked twice. She doesn’t even stick around to say goodbye to Suzette. Five minutes later, we’re in an Andy McNab on the way to Whitley Heights.

  Now, I’ve had my share of beautiful women over the years – and a lot of other people’s share as well – but I have to tell you, I’ve never been so gagging for someone in my entire life. Even though all we’re actually doing is holding hands, I’ve a nightstick on me that could put manners on a G7 protest.

  I’m also clenching my orse cheeks like my life depends on it.

  I suppose I should know how this evening’s going to end when I hop out of the cor and pay the driver and get a sudden savage cramp in the old Malcolm.

  There’s one in the post – that’s as sure as my eyes are focking watering here. I consider trying to maybe squeeze it out before we go inside, but Ginnifer’s standing right next to me.

  She puts the key in the door and shows me in. The gaff is actually a really nice little house – I remember what she said about being into, like, interior design? – and I realize it would be, like, the height of disrespect to open my lunch in here.

  ‘Have you got, like, a jacks?’ I go. ‘In other words, bathroom?’ thinking I could drop it in there, then open the window and sort of, like, waft it out?

  She’s there, ‘You’ll have to use the upstairs one. I’ve just got through painting the one down here.’

  She points up the stairs. ‘It’s the door immediately in front of you.’

  The door immediately in front of me. I’m staring up at it. All I’ve got to do is get to the other side of that and I’m suddenly free from pain. I take the steps two at a time. But of course, in all the excitement, I let my orse muscles relax halfway up and without warning a fart nearly rips my orse in half.

  There are no words you can say in that situation.

  But there’s also no way to describe to you the shock I get when I turn around to see Ginnifer lying in what would have to be described as a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘No!’ I end up shouting. It’s all very The Young and the Restless. ‘No!’ and I leg it downstairs to check, I suppose, if she’s still alive.

  As luck would have it, she is – she’s still breathing, even though she’s out of the game. I whip open the front door and the cab driver is just turning the cor around. I call out to him and I tell him not to move. Ten seconds later, I come out of the house, carrying Ginnifer in, like, a fireman’s lift. I lie her down on the back seat and I sit there cradling her head the whole way to the hospital, going, ‘Hang in there, Baby! Don’t you dare die on me!’

  The driver asks me what happened and I tell him it’s a long story.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ he goes.

  I’m there, ‘Just put your focking foot down, will you?’

  When we get to the hospital, there’s nothing but questions. They put Ginnifer onto, like, a trolley and as they’re wheeling her along they’re going to me, ‘Did she take something? Drugs, maybe?’

  I’m there, ‘No.’

  ‘Alcohol?’

  ‘One or two cocktails. Three at the most.’

  ‘Is she pregnant?’

  ‘All I know is not by me?’

  ‘Is she a diabetic? Is she allergic to anything? Penicillin?’

  I stop walking with them and I’m suddenly like, ‘Enough with the questions already! I know what happened. I… I farted and knocked her out.’

  It’s, like, the entire focking hospital goes quiet, then suddenly bursts out laughing. Everywhere, roysh, people are repeating what I said, then Ginnifer’s taken through a set of double doors that I’m not allowed to pass through, but I’m told she’s in, like, the best possible hands.

  I wander over to the waiting area. I ring Trevion, but he doesn’t answer. It is the middle of the night. I leave him a voicemail saying sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’m in, like, the emergency room of the Cedars-Sinai. Ginnifer’s been taken in, blahdy blahdy blah.

  Then I get chatting to this really cool homeless dude with cirrhosis and I end up spilling my guts out to him, a total stranger. ‘She played, like, a nurse in House,’ I’m going. ‘I’m not sure if that’s actual irony, but it certainly feels like it should be. Jesus, she had, like, her whole life in front of her…’

  After maybe twenty minutes, half an hour of this, Trevion comes bursting through the doors into the emergency room. He totally flips, which I knew he would. ‘What happened?’ he wants to know.

  I shake my head. ‘I knocked her out cold with one of my farts.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hard and all as that is to believe. I’m rancid at the moment.’

  ‘She’s out cold?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He shakes his head. ‘She’s fucking narcoleptic, you idiot.’

  I’m like, ‘She’s what?’

  ‘It’s a sleeping disorder. I told you before you took her out the last day.’

  He did mention something, now that I think about it. ‘Oh. I thought narcoleptics were the ones who can’t stop stealing shit.’

  He looks mad enough to put me through the focking wall. ‘What are you two doing out anyway?’ he goes.

  ‘We went out on, like, a date?’

  ‘A date? I told her to stay away from you.’

  ‘Look, I’m sure she tried. But I rang her up and asked her out, just to say sorry for, like, ruining her career as well as my own. I actually really like her.’

  ‘Oh, you do?’ he goes, cracking on that he’s actually happy for us. ‘Aw, ain’t that something.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I go. ‘And I very seldom get serious about birds…’

  His expression suddenly changes. He goes, ‘Life’s a fucking party for you, huh? Big focking jamboree…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You eat tonight?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You take her for a meal?’

  ‘Yeah, as it happens. Le Petit Greek.’

  ‘What you have?’ he goes, looking at my, I suppose, midriff. ‘Tell me it was stuffed grape leaves.’

  ‘To stort I had, like, hummus, but then also Greek meat-balls because there wasn’t a lot in it. If I’m being honest, I would have had some – probably most – of Ginnifer’s feta salad as well,’ and as I’m rhyming off all of this stuff, roysh, he’s doing, like, calcul
ations in his head, presumably working out the calories. ‘For the main, I would have had moussaka, then one or two lamb kebabs, which I can never resist.’

  Whatever bottom line he arrives at, he’s not a happy camper. ‘What are you, Elvis?’ he goes.

  I actually don’t know what to say. I end up going, ‘So who are the ones who can’t stop stealing shit, then?’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck!’ he goes, then marches over to the nurses’ station. I hear him say Ginnifer’s name, then the nurse mentions some shit about tests. ‘She don’t need no fucking tests,’ he goes. ‘She gets attacks of sleep. Mystery fucking over. Now go get her.’

  He whips out his phone. He dials a number and the next thing he’s going, ‘Marty, it’s Trev. Hey, I’m sorry for waking you. I got a story and it’s all for fucking you, Bernstein… Yeah, that’s it – you go get your fucking laptop…’

  He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and tells me, totally out of the blue, that he doesn’t give a shit about me anymore because today he signed a new star – a real star.

  I’m there, ‘Who?’

  He just goes, ‘Fyon Hoola O’Carroll-Kelly!’

  Then he’s back on the phone again. ‘Yeah, Ginnifer Battles, you know her? One Tree Hill. House. You got it, Starsky! I’m here in the emergency room with her… Yeah, she nearly fucking died tonight. Choked on a Kalamata olive – can you believe that? Le Petit Greek… Larchmont, that’s right… Hey, I’ll find out…’

  I’m beginning to think he was only ever using me to get to the old dear. It was probably him who told her to call me an idiot.

  He turns to me. ‘What was she wearing?’

  I’m still in, like, shock, although I still manage to go, ‘A red Kate and Kass halter dress.’

  ‘You get that? Kate and Kass… Yeah, red…’

  He turns to me again. ‘Shoes?’

  I shrug. ‘It never came up.’

  ‘Fornarina red heart peep-toe courts,’ he goes, without skipping a beat. ‘And the bag was a white Mulberry Alana… Friends said she’s happy just to be alive – all that shit. Write it up…’

  When he gets off the phone, I go, ‘My old dear? How the fock did that come about?’