Rhino What You Did Last Summer

by Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

  He’s there, ‘History. Ah, all about the Celts, so it was.’

  ‘The Celts?’ I go. ‘You mean the race whose culture developed back in the Late Bronze Age, who went on to inhabit much of Europe and Asia Minor in pre-Roman times and who came to Ireland in approximately 700 BC?’

  ‘Er, yeah,’ he goes, literally unable to believe what he’s just heard. ‘And then a bit about Brian Boru.’

  I’m there, ‘Which Brian Boru would be that be? The fearsome warrior who became High King of Ireland in the tenth and eleventh centuries, who drove the Vikings out of Ireland but was killed by a retreating Norseman at the Battle of Clontorf?’

  There’s, like, silence on the other end. ‘Are you reading that, Rosser?’

  I laugh. ‘Actually, no.’

  ‘You fooken are,’ he goes, ‘you doorty-looken doort boord. You’ve Wikipedia there on yisser phone.’

  I’m there, ‘Ro, I’m honest to God just sitting outside a café called Toast, eating a short stack with bacon. It’s all shit from school that’s suddenly in my, I suppose, brain. Don’t worry, though, I don’t know what any of it means. Anyway, you heard about us all being on TV over here, did you?’

  ‘Me ma said there was a bit in the paper…’

  ‘Well, it’s all true. We’re pretty much stors. And you’re going to be as well when you get over here,’ and as I’m saying it, roysh, I’m thinking, wait’ll they get a load of this kid over here. They’re going to love him.

  ‘Word of warning,’ he goes. ‘I’m going to be having one of me wurdled famous schemes going down.’

  I’m there, ‘That’s great, Ro,’ pretty much humouring him. ‘What kind of scheme are we talking?’

  He’s there, ‘Roulette, Rosser. I’m after been telling Buckets of Blood here about it.’

  ‘Hey, say hello to Buckets for me, will you?’

  ‘See, people think it’s random, Rosser – what number’s going to come up. But it’s not. If you can measure the speed of the ball, then take into account the friction and drag of the wheel, it’s possible to predict the precise number into which the ball is most likely to land.’

  Of course, I’m left there going, ‘Errr, cool. Anyway, tell your old dear to book the flight. I think the easiest route is, like, Dublin–JFK, then JFK–Vegas. She has my credit cord details.’

  ‘Ah, I’d have luven to see LA,’ he goes. ‘I says to Bla the utter night, says I, “One day I’ll bring you shopping on Rodeo Drive.” Be like that Pretty Woman, Rosser.’

  I’m there, ‘Yeah, I can just picture you going, “We’re going to be spending an obscene amount of money in here,” then slapping your Credit Union book down on the counter.’

  He cracks his hole laughing, in fairness to him.

  I ask him if he’s sure he’s okay taking the flight by himself and he says he’s moostard. Then I tell him good luck with the rest of the exams and we say our goodbyes, except he doesn’t actually hang up, as in he thinks he has? But he obviously hasn’t hit the button properly.

  So I hear him tell Buckets my line about the Credit Union and he’s laughing, roysh, as in laughing so much he’s actually losing it. ‘Can you believe that?’ he’s going. ‘He’s a funny fooker, isn’t he?’

  Sorcha has nothing to wear, although her idea of nothing to wear is different from, I’d imagine, most people’s?

  After long and careful negotiations that lasted well into the early hours of this morning, Cillian agreed to let her into her walk-in wardrobe for, like, twenty minutes to grab anything she really needed. She took Erika in with her and they went through that room like, I don’t know, me through the Orts block in UCD.

  So now, roysh, her new room looks like the Prada Epicentre after a focking earthquake. But being a glass-half-empty kind of girl, all she can think about are the things she had to leave behind. Her L’Wren Scott cocktail dress. Her Juicy striped cardigan and her City of Others jeans. Her berry-coloured Gucci with statement collar. Her Vuitton monogrammed patchwork bag and her Vuitton Multipli-cité tote. Her brocade Valentino frock. Her stormy grey Alberta Ferretti that Claudia Schiffer was spotted wearing in Locanda Veneta. Her vintage Bottega Vaneta sunglasses with intrecciato detailing.

  She says she begged – oh my God, begged! – Cillian to let her back in, if even just to get her Sharkah Chakra organic cotton trousers, but he was like, ‘Sorcha, you’ve got to do something about your obsession with material things,’ which she’s obviously taken personally, because she storts reminding me of all the shit she’s done for charity in her life?

  I’m there, ‘Where is he anyway?’

  She goes, ‘He’s in our room, writing a letter to George W. Bush.’

  You can imagine my reaction. I actually laugh. ‘As in…’

  ‘Yes,’ she goes, ‘the President?’ like she’s actually defending him.

  Honor smiles at me from her high-chair. She’s definitely her daddy’s girl. I break her off a bit of my Butterfinger, but Sorcha notices and ends up just, like, snatching it out of her hand.

  I’m there, ‘Oh, so that’s a drug now as well, is it?’

  She’s there, ‘We don’t give her chocolate. That’s why we have the carob,’ and I end up having to point out that the carob tastes like shit, which it does, and I shake my head, roysh, thinking that between her and Cillian, there’s actually a pair of them in it.

  I head for my room, which is no longer just my room, of course. Johnny and the cameraman follow me. MTV, I should say, love the new living arrangements. Fewer rooms means it’s easier to keep an eye on us, seven-eleven.

  I lie on my bed. Ten seconds later, Erika comes out of the Jack Bauer, dripping wet, with just, like, a towel around her.

  ‘I still can’t believe we’re living like this,’ she goes, dragging a comb through her wet hair.

  I’m lying there, thinking, ‘Chicken stock cube, chicken stock cube…’ but at the same time, I also slip under the duvet, just in case.

  She’s there, ‘What is she still doing with this guy?’ which is nice for me to hear.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ I go. ‘If you remember, I never understood what she saw in him.’

  She whips open her underwear drawer, then lays out various bras and I suppose knickers on the bed, trying to decide which to wear.

  ‘I’m a cathedral,’ I’m thinking, which is another line Hugo taught me, ‘housing a single spork of divinity.’

  She eventually chooses a matching pair – nice ones as well.

  ‘He’s sick in the head,’ I go. ‘You know he’s writing to George Bush now – as in George W. Bush?’

  With the bath towel still around her, she steps into her knickers, one leg, then the other. Then she sits on the side of her bed and checks herself out in the full-length mirror, paying – I can’t help but notice – close attention to her skin.

  ‘We’re going to have to keep a close eye on her,’ Erika goes, then she smiles at me and it’s an amazing moment, roysh, because it’s the first time I’ve felt like we’re a proper brother and sister.

  She rubs the cream up and down her orms, then into her long, I suppose, slender neck.

  I tell her that’s what happens when you get involved with an actual psycho.

  ‘Good afternoon, Hook, Lyon and Sinker – JP Conroy speaking…’

  I laugh.

  ‘Dude,’ I go, ‘I never thought I’d hear those words in that exact order again.’

  He’s like, ‘Hey, Ross!’ genuinely delighted to hear from me. ‘I presumed you’d forgotten about us. I hear you’re a big star now.’

  I’m there, ‘Don’t you worry about me, JP. I’ll never forget my roots,’ meaning Foxrock obviously. Sallynoggin’s long gone. ‘So you’re back selling gaffs for your old man – how’s that working out?’

  ‘Ah, it’s not like the old days,’ he goes, getting all nostalgic on me. ‘Mountmellick – A Dublin Suburb with a Country Prefix…’

  I laugh. ‘I’ll never forget that court case,’ I go. ‘I still can
’t believe you convinced the jury. They were the glory days, though – anything went.’

  ‘It’s different now.’

  ‘Different, as in?’

  ‘Well, it’s definitely slowed down. Ah, the rate they were throwing apartments up, it was always going to happen. Supply outstrippng demand…’

  I’m there, ‘Hey, by the way, listen to this – acetylcholines are chemical messengers that pass an impulse from the synaptic knob of one neuron to the dendrite of another across a synapse…’

  ‘Wow!’ he goes. ‘What does it even mean?’

  I’m there, ‘Haven’t a clue. I’ve just storted to remember loads of shit from school. At the moment, it’s just a good porty piece. And speaking of porties, you’re coming over, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he goes. ‘Two weeks. How’s Christian?’

  I’m there, ‘You’re asking the wrong buachaill. I can’t even get him on the Wolfe.’

  He goes, ‘He must be up the walls.’

  I’m like, ‘Yeah, he must be – if he can’t find time in his busy schedule to talk to his best friend.’

  He seems to take my point. ‘By the way,’ he goes, sounding kind of, like, wary? ‘Have you heard from Oisinn?’

  I’m there, ‘Er, yeah, I spoke to him the other day?’

  ‘How did he sound to you?’

  ‘Well, now that you mention it, like he had something on his mind.’

  ‘No one’s really seen him for a couple of months. Someone said he’s playing a lot of online poker. I met his old dear in Terroirs – she said he’s practically nocturnal.’

  I’m there, ‘Fock! I wonder is Vegas a good idea for him?’

  ‘You should do it in my black Miu Mius,’ Sorcha goes. ‘They’re high heels, but – oh! my God! – they’re so comfortable, they could actually be flats?’

  She’s talking about the California High-Heel-A-Thon, which is a, basically, race they have in Santa Monica every year for, like, charity – this year it’s to provide a Sony Vaio for children in developing countries.

  Well, more than one, you’d hope.

  But they basically invite all celebrities to do it, roysh, and the biggest laugh is that they’re obviously so hord up for people, they’ve had to ask the old dear.

  Erika tells her she’s certainly in good company this year. Sally Jesse Raphael and Kelly Ripa have both said yes. I have to say, I’m storting to think I much preferred Erika when she was an actual bitch?

  ‘Okay,’ Cillian goes, ‘what do you think of this?’

  This being his letter to that dude, what’s-his-name. He’s, like, pacing the kitchen, giving it, ‘Dear Mr President,’ even though no one’s actually listening?

  ‘I am an Irish-born auditor working on secondment with PricewaterhouseCoopers in the area of international risk assessment. I hope you will permit me just a few minutes of your time to point out a few observations – or inconvenient truths – that will help you see why I believe that the world is on the verge of an economic catastrophe…’

  Erika goes on flicking through her magazine. Sorcha says there’s, like, an amazing Hale Bob dress in there – ‘the next page, no the page after’ – and that she loves busy prints because you can wear them with, like, minimal accessories?

  ‘The growth of Western economies has, it should be obvious to everyone, become overly reliant on speculation and not reliant enough on production. Over the course of the past thirty years, we have seen the financialization of the world’s major economies happening hand in hand with their de-industrialization. Since the fall of Communism, the political consensus has been that the free movement of capital, free trade, deregulated labour markets and low taxation will deliver stability to the world economy. It is my contention that they have left it more vulnerable to collapse than at any time since the Great Depression…’

  Erika says that Matthew McConaughey and Camila Alves have put a conservatory onto the back of their Malibu home using lime putty and no tropical hardwoods. Sorcha says that an amazing name for a clothing label would be Ethical Elegance.

  ‘Unfettered capital markets were supposed to deliver lower interest rates and inflation, as well as increased employment and productivity. Instead, the slow erosion of any contol over the activities of the financial sector has allowed it to engage in increasingly risky activities. Alongside this, a largely media-inspired cultural shift in attitudes towards consumerism and credit has allowed this sector to sell hundreds of millions of people into a lifetime of indebtedness for things they don’t need and can’t afford…’

  That’s a dig at Sorcha – and she knows it. ‘Cillian,’ she goes, ‘oh my God, can you not just read it to yourself?’ then she actually looks at me for back-up. I honestly feel like giving her the old Judge Judy line – ‘Hey, you picked him!’

  ‘The strength of the US economy is built on the principle that rising house prices support increased borrowing, which supports economic growth, which pushes up house prices. The circulation is maintained as long as people keep borrowing money against the cost of ever-increasing assets. But it can’t go on indefinitely. Eventually, even a chain letter runs out of subscribers. Soon, the US economy – and then the entire world economy – will arrive at that point…’

  Sorcha asks the old dear where Trevion is today and the old dear says she doesn’t know. ‘He’s being very secretive,’ she goes.

  Sorcha’s there, ‘I have to say, Fionnuala, you’re actually glowing these days?’ and the old dear just blushes. Then Sorcha’s like, ‘Oh my God, you looove him,’ like a focking sixteen-year-old would say to her mate.

  The old dear laughs. ‘Yes,’ she goes. ‘I do, Sorcha. I really do. I’d never have imagined I could feel like this again.’

  ‘But he’s focking ancient,’ I hear myself go. ‘I’m still trying to work out what your actual angle is.’

  ‘When it happens,’ Cillian goes, ‘there will be devastation and it will stretch far beyond Lower Manhattan. Markets will fail, but so, too, will banks. Financial titans will go to the wall. Tens of millions of people, not only here, but all over the world, will lose their jobs, their homes, their pensions…’

  Sorcha says she would – oh my God – kill for a set of those CC Skye bangles that LC wears – they’re, like, crystal-studded? And they make yours orms look – oh my God – so thin? Hilary Duff wears them as well.

  ‘PST!’ Erika suddenly goes, which is a thing they do. Means Poppy Seed Teeth. Sorcha sort of, like, licks her front teeth, then wipes them with a napkin and Erika goes, ‘Gone.’

  ‘The effects will be so cataclysmic that the financial elite who demanded that the markets be freed of the cold hand of the state will become socialists overnight. Leading bankers and CEOs, who took a market view of rewards and seven-figure bonuses, while scarcely concealing their disdain for Government, will come looking for public money to bail them out…’

  Erika mentions that florals are, like, everywhere this year.

  ‘Not back home,’ the old dear goes. ‘Charles was saying they’re having a terrible summer – rain every day.’

  ‘Who are you,’ I automatically go, ‘Evelyn Cusack? Why the fock were you talking to him anyway?’

  ‘He phoned me,’ she goes. ‘A couple of times this week, if you must know.’

  I’m there, ‘Oh, very cosy. I’m sure Helen won’t be happy to hear that. Or your new boyfriend. Even though I think it’s only fair that I tell them.’

  She just blanks me and reaches for, like, Erika’s hand. ‘I spoke to your mum as well,’ she goes. ‘She’s very worried about you too, Darling.’

  Erika says fock-all, but her eyes fill up.

  ‘What are you, all focking mates?’ I hear myself go. ‘She’s his other woman. The reason you’re actually getting divorced. Can you not behave like normal people for once in your lives?’

  Sorcha’s giving me serious filthies across the table, although she just blanks me again.

  ‘Yours sincerely, Cillian Mongey.’
>
  Erika sort of, like, shakes her head. She’s there, ‘I can’t forgive her,’ and in this really gentle voice, the one she’d use to talk to me when I was, like, a kid, the old dear goes, ‘You just take some time. I told them both that I’d mind you – is that okay?’

  Erika just, like, nods, like she knows if she opened her mouth, she couldn’t trust herself not to burst into tears? Then the two of them just, I don’t know, spontaneously hug each other, if there’s such a thing. Sorcha looks at me with this really happy smile on her face.

  ‘Oh my God, Fionnuala, you’re, like, a mother to all of us over here!’ which for some reason makes me want to puke.

  She’s all delighted with herself, of course. You can see her secretly thinking, that’ll look great on the old Liza Minnelli.

  ‘What does everyone think?’ Cillian goes. ‘Of the letter?’ but no one even answers him.

  I get up, roysh, and walk over to the knife block. I check that no one’s looking, then I grab the big bread knife, with the really, like, jaggedy edge? I hold it sort of, like, upside-down, so my orm is hiding the blade. I check again that they’re not looking. Then I slip out of the room.

  Johnny and the cameraman follow me. See, they know who the real stor of the show is.

  I find Sorcha’s Miu Mius easily enough. I’m thinking, it’s a good thing Cillian’s gone mental, otherwise there’d be, like, three or four hundred pairs of shoes to look through. As it is, roysh, there’s only, like, fifteen or sixteen. There’s actually two pairs of Miu Mius? But I decided it has to be the black patent leather ones, roysh, because I know my wife and there’s no focking way she’d let anyone run in her coral satin ones on a dusty running track.

  I pick up the left one, sit down on the edge of the bed and, using the bread knife, stort sawing off the heel. As I’m doing it, roysh, I’m thinking there are birds in the world who would probably tear my orms off for what I’m doing here.

  It only takes, like, ten seconds to saw it completely off. It’s an unbelievable knife, like one of those ones you see advertised on TV that come with, like, a pen that writes in outer space.