The front door slams and the entire orangerie – built without planning permission at the height of the Celtic Tiger – shakes to its foundations. Sorcha’s eyes meet mine. Ten seconds later we hear Honor’s bedroom door slam too and we both silently wonder whether the structure will stay standing for what’s left of our daughter’s teenage years.
“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “what is wrong with that girl now?”
I’m there, “Who knows? I suppose one of us should probably go and check on her,” and that’s followed by, like, 10 seconds of silence. “It’s hopefully one of those things that a daughter can only talk to her mother about.”
Sorcha’s like, “Honor and I don’t have that kind of relationship, Ross.”
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After a further 10 seconds of silence, I stand up and go, “Fine, I’ll see to it, will I?”
And Sorcha’s like, “Thanks, Ross.”
So – yeah, no – up the stairs I tip and then I’m standing on the landing outside her room.
I’m there, “Honor, I just wanted to check was this door definitely shut.”
Because I can be very funny at times.
She goes, “Fock off and leave me alone.”
I’m there, “I’m coming in, okay?” and I slowly push the door.
Honor is in bed with her head under the duvet and I can hear her – yeah, no – sobbing her hort out?
“You were shit at rugby,” she goes, which is something she says when she’s lashing out. “That’s why you never made it in the game. You were useless. That man, something Gatland, knew what he was doing when he said you would never play for Ireland as long as he was the coach.”
I’m there, “I could point out some of the things that were said by other critics who saw me in my prime, including the likes of Matt Williams and George Hook. But I’ll choose to ignore what you said instead.”
“You’re also a shit father,” she goes. “Your sons are out of control and your daughter is coming home pissed on a Tuesday night.”
Actually, now that she says it.
“Honor,” I go, “are you jorred?”
She doesn’t even, like, try to deny it?
She’s like, “What focking business is that of yours?”
I’m there, “I suppose none.”
She goes, “Then you suppose right,” because she has an answer for everything.
I sit down on the side of her bed and I’m like, “Honor, what happened?”
She’s quiet for ages, then she pulls back the duvet and finally shows her face.
“I got dumped,” she goes.
Her make-up is all over the shop – like Claudia Winkelman after a water balloon fight.
I’m there, “Dumped? By, em–”
She’s like, “Yes, Dad, by my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.”
I can’t imagine what my life would be like without you in it. A lot quieter, probably
— Ross
I try to dig down into my well of experiences for something to tell her. But the truth is I’ve never been dumped in my life. Thankfully, I’ve always been the dumper rather than the dumpee.
She goes, “Well, aren’t you going to say something?”
I’m there, “Look, I know what you’re going through.”
She’s like, “No, you don’t. I bet you’ve never been dumped in your life.”
I’m there, “I’m sure I must have been. I’d have to rack my brains.”
She buries her face in the pillow then – it’s going to definitely need a wash – and she goes, “I wish I was never born.”
I’m like, “Don’t say that.”
She goes, “It’s true.”
I’m there, “I can’t imagine what my life would be like without you in it. A lot quieter, probably.”
She laughs, in fairness to her.
I’m there, “All I can say is, if she dumped you, Honor, then she’s a fool.”
Which isn’t strictly true. It’s just one of those things you say. I said from the very stort that the girl was way out of Honor’s league in terms of looks.
I’m like, “Did she give you a reason?”
She goes, “I know the reason. She’s totally out of my league in terms of looks.”
I’m there, “Well, I’m calling bullshit on that one – straight away.”
She goes, “Dad, how can I make her like me?”
I should tell her the truth – that you can’t make someone like you.
But I’m there, “Have you considered trying to be with one of her friends to make her jealous?”
She’s like, “I’m not into any of her friends. And they’re not into me. It’s all right for you – you can have any woman you want.”
It’s a lovely thing for me to hear – even though I know this conversation isn’t technically about me?
I’m there, “Do you really think?”
She goes, “You’ve always been able to get women. Like, look at Mom. How has she stayed with you for all these years when you’re such a wanker and a terrible husband?”
I’m there, “Okay, you can’t give someone a compliment and then go taking it back.”
There’s, like, silence between us then.
I’m there, “Honor, the drinking–”
“Dad,” she goes, “I don’t want a lecture.”
“–it can’t go on like this.”
“I know, okay?”
I hold her hand and I’m like, “The right girl is out there for you, Honor. And I’m being serious.”
She smiles at me and goes, “I’m sorry I said you were a shit father.”
I’m like, “Hey, it’s cool.”
“You’re an amazing father,” she goes. “In fact, you’re more like a best friend than a parent – a best friend who lets me do whatever the fock I want.”
I’m there, “That’s given me a huge boost, Honor. What about the shit you said about my rugby?”
She laughs.
She’s like, “Fine – you were a great rugby player.”
I’m there, “The likes of Gordon D’Arcy and Shane Jennings have said it on the record.”
She goes, “Even though you never actually achieved anything in the game.”
I’m like, “There were factors. There were definitely factors.”
Me and Honor, we just, like, get each other?
She goes, “Dad, can you please not tell Mom that I came home drunk?”
I’m there, “I don’t know, Honor. What kind of husband would I be if I kept a secret like that from my wife?”
She’s like, “The kind of husband I saw giving his phone number to one of the waitresses in the restaurant three nights ago.”
And I’m there, “Your secret is sealed in the vault, Honor. It’s sealed in the literally vault.”
