Rhino What You Did Last Summer Read online

  As I’m towelling off, I check my phone and notice that I’ve got, like, fourteen missed calls from Sorcha.

  I’m there, ‘Uh-oh.’

  Harvey’s like, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Sorcha,’ I go. ‘You remember her from the shop?’

  He’s like, ‘Yeah, she’s, like, so pretty.’

  ‘Well, she’s talking about getting some kind of court order out against me.’

  ‘A court order?’

  ‘Ah, it’s not as big a deal as it sounds. It’s possibly even for the best. It was all getting a bit weird anyway.’

  He storts rubbing moisturizer into his body. ‘How was it weird?’

  ‘I suppose the big thing is that she doesn’t seem to want me anymore,’ I go, checking myself out in the long mirror. ‘Not in that way.’

  ‘Did you tell me she’s with someone else now?’

  ‘See, that wouldn’t have stopped her in the past. There were, like, loads of times when she tried to move on, but I always managed to get back in there. The thing is, I think this time she really does see us as just good friends?’

  ‘But that’s good, right?’

  I’m there, ‘Is it?’ stepping into my boxers. ‘I mean, you’ve seen us together. All she wants to do is bring me shopping and talk to me about celebrities and fashion. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the odd time her asking me – just for the sake of argument – do these black Balenciaga trousers go with this Stella McCortney tailored blazer? Or even just, do these Kasil jeans suit me? You know, I’ve no problem saying, actually, yeah, the adjustable side buttons help prevent gaping at the back, thereby presenting a longer, leaner leg…’

  Harvey cracks his hole laughing. ‘Yeah, I would say you’ve spent way too much time shopping together,’ he goes.

  Of course, then I have to laugh as well.

  He goes, ‘So who does she usually shop with back home?’ and I feel instantly guilty.

  ‘Her best friend,’ I go, ‘as in her best best friend would have to be a bird called Erika. They’ve been bezzy mates since they were, like, thirteen.’

  He’s there, ‘Maybe she’s just confused. She’s got this new guy, then you’re suddenly back on the scene and she’s still trying to work out how you fit into her life. So she’s trying to turn you into a surrogate for her best friend.’

  ‘No,’ I go, ‘she’s trying to turn me into one of these metro-sexuals. No offence.’

  He looks at me like he hasn’t a bog what I’m talking about. ‘Er, none taken,’ he goes.

  I’m there, ‘See, my whole line on metrosexuals is they’re basically men as women would have created them. As in, they’re sensitive to women’s feelings, carry bags, remember birthdays, never piss in the sink. It took women basically thousands of years to fashion this ideal man – then they discovered they didn’t actually fancy him?’

  Harvey breaks his orse laughing and I mean really breaks his orse. He tells me I’m the funniest person he’s ever met, which is a huge compliment, it has to be said.

  I finish getting dressed, then I tell him I better see what Sorcha wants. From the second she answers, I can hear the panic in her voice. I’m there, ‘Sorcha, what’s wrong?’ but she can barely get the words out.

  ‘I drove up to Tarzana to see that shop – the one that does Susana Monaco, Sass & Bide and Thread Social,’ she goes. ‘And some Elizabeth and James. The one that you were supposed to come to with me…’

  I’m there, ‘Well, I didn’t think we were even talking, what with the thing about the coffee, the court order, blahdy blahdy blah…’

  ‘I heard all this shouting and I looked across the road and these – bastards! – were surrounding this hairdresser’s. They have her trapped in there, Ross…’

  I’m there, ‘Sorcha, who?’

  She’s like, ‘Britney.’

  I’m like, ‘Britney?’

  Harvey even mouths the word, ‘Britney?’ his face full of concern.

  Sorcha’s there, ‘I’m standing looking at her through this hairdresser’s window… Ross, she’s shaving all her hair off.’

  I’m there, ‘Shaving her hair off?’

  Harvey puts his hand over his mouth.

  I’m like, ‘Are you sure it’s her, Babes?’

  ‘I think I’d know what Britney Spears looks like,’ she pretty much roars at me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I go. You have to when they’re like that.

  She’s there, ‘It’s the paparazzi – they’ve driven her to this,’ and then I hear her going, ‘Leave her alone, you vultures! That’s all you are! Actual vultures!’ and it’s obvious that Britney’s not the only one who’s lost it.

  There’s suddenly silence on the end of the phone for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, then suddenly the kind of scream I haven’t heard from her since Saoirse Bannon pipped her for the Mount Anville Student of the Year award thanks to the casting vote of Sister Aquinata.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Sorcha goes, ‘she’s, like, totally bald…’

  ‘She’s totally bald,’ I tell Harvey. He puts his head in his hands. There’s a focking pair of them in it.

  The next thing, roysh, Sorcha must try to push her way past Britney’s security – you’ve got to say that for the Mounties, they’re focking defiant – because I hear her go, ‘Don’t touch me! Do not touch me!’ and I immediately feel sorry for whoever the poor focker is. ‘I’ve been worried about Britney since she tripped and almost dropped Sean Preston coming out of New York’s Ritz Carlton,’ she’s telling them.

  The next thing, roysh, I can hear this noise go up and my guess is that Britney’s coming out of the place.

  ‘Britney,’ I hear Sorcha shout, ‘we share the same birthday!’ which is actually news to me, then a few seconds later, ‘I just want you to know that I’m thinking about you and praying that you get well.’

  When she eventually talks to me again, it’s only to tell me that Britney didn’t even look at her. She’s bawling her eyes out, going, ‘She didn’t even look at me, Ross – not even once.’

  ‘They’re back together,’ Erika goes and I end up nearly dropping the phone.

  I’m there, ‘Who?’ except obviously I already know?

  ‘Charles and my mum,’ she goes. ‘They’ve picked up where they left off.’

  I’m there, ‘Picked up where they left off? What, thirty years ago? That’s focked up.’

  ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘that’s my mother and father you’re talking about.’

  ‘Er, yeah? But that’s, like, ancient history. Back to-fockinggether! What are they, sixteen? Can I just ask, have you actually seen this?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to see her. Dad told me…’

  Again with the Dad.

  ‘He came to the hotel today,’ she goes.

  ‘I take it you’re still in the Merrion. I wouldn’t focking blame you.’

  ‘He says he loves her and she loves him. He says they never stopped loving each other.’

  ‘Never stopped?’ I go. ‘Oh, the things I’m going to throw at that focker next time I talk to him. I’m actually going to sit up all night tonight making a list…’

  ‘Ross,’ she goes, ‘do you think it’d be okay to ring Sorcha now?’

  I’m there, ‘No way. The, er, shit she was saying about you yesterday. I was like, “Whoa, that girl used to be your actual friend.” I think it’d do more horm than actual good.’

  ‘Oh,’ she goes. She sounds pretty devastated, in fairness to her.

  ‘And the next time you’re talking to him,’ I go, ‘is there any chance you could remind him that he’s still married to my old dear? Just in case it’s slipped his mind.’

  ‘Donald Faison loves this place,’ Trevion goes. ‘Jennifer Morrison, too. Jennifer’s here all the fucking time…’

  He’s talking about Republic, this pretty rocking steakhouse in West Hollywood, where the nosebag’s supposed to be incredible. Except I wouldn’t know. I’m having a plate of focking hedge-clippings – thoug
h Trevion’s pork three-ways with truffle fries and cheddar mac does smell incredible, in fairness to it.

  ‘I’m going to have to take out earthquake insurance on you,’ he goes – actually happy with me for once?

  I’m there, ‘Really?’

  He’s like, ‘You better believe it. One or two people already calling you the next Coe Lynn Farrell – how do you like that?’

  I have to be honest with him. ‘Where I come from,’ I go, ‘he’d be considered a bit of a knacker?’

  I’m chopping away through my plate like Indiana focking Jones. ‘Let me tell you something,’ he goes, waving a piece of pork at me on the end of his fork, ‘there ain’t nothing plays like contrition. Addiction counselling was a masterstroke. Martha Stewart’s on the TV this morning – says we ought to show compassion and understanding…’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I go, ‘are you saying that the public love me again?’

  He laughs. ‘No,’ he goes, ‘I ain’t saying they love you. I’m saying they fucking hate you a lot less than they did last week.’

  ‘I suppose that’s something.’

  ‘That internet petition, calling on the Government to put you in Guantánamo…’

  ‘Guantánamo? Isn’t that for, like, I don’t know, terrorists and that whole crowd?’

  ‘That’s right, Carlos. But only three hundred new signatures yesterday. That’s down from seventeen hundred the day before. Just to give you a little perspective here.’

  I nod, trying to see the bright side. ‘It’s hordly hero-worship, though, is it?’

  ‘Hey,’ he goes, ‘you ever spend sixteen days in a trench up to your fucking neck in rainwater?’

  I’m there, ‘No,’ even though he already knows the answer?

  ‘See, that’s why you never learned patience. But you will, Pilgrim. You will.’

  I’m sitting there, staring at the big, scaly head on him, thinking, seventy-five! Maybe I should I stort listening to him more. The shit he must have seen in his lifetime. And I suppose he is entitled to be a bit grumpy, with a face like a focking baseball glove.

  ‘Anyways,’ he goes, ‘I got you some movie work.’

  My mouth just drops open. I’m there, ‘Movie work? Are you serious?’

  ‘Did you hear me laugh?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘It’s a kiddies’ movie,’ he goes. ‘American football.’

  I’m there, ‘Whoa. So what am I – like, the coach? Because I can definitely bring something to that role.’

  ‘Slow down, Sinatra. They’re looking for a body double. No one’s going to see your fucking face. Let me ask you something – you say you can kick a ball, right?’

  I actually laugh. ‘Er, you could say that.’

  ‘Well,’ he goes, ‘that’s all you got to do – they want to film your feet kicking the ball through the posts. The director’s Chubby Waghorne – a personal friend of mine. And speaking of chubby…’

  He sort of, like, looks me up and down.

  I’m there, ‘What?’ genuinely meaning it.

  ‘What are we going to do about you?’ he goes. ‘You’re getting fatter?’

  I’m like, ‘Fatter? Dude, I put in an unbelievable session in the gym yesterday. Look at me, I’m living on plants and focking shrubs here.’

  He’s there, ‘I want to see you walking Zuma Beach, hand in hand with Katharine McPhee, Elisabeth Rohm, Demi Lovato. Friends say she’s never been happier. Thinks she’s found the one…’

  ‘That’s exactly what I want.’

  ‘You take that body onto any beach on this coast, you take my word for it, Big Guy, Greenpeace are gonna drag you in the fucking ocean…’

  ‘That’s horsh.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘But there’s not a lot more I can do…’

  He stares at my body and, with a cheese knife in his hand, draws imaginary cut marks on my chest and stomach. I tell him no way. No focking way.

  ‘Bit of lipo.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Abdominal sculpt.’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘Everyone out here gets work, Friend.’

  ‘There must be another way. Harvey, an actual gay friend of mine, was telling me there’s, like, firming gels?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Kid, forget about firming gels.’

  ‘But they tighten up the blood vessels to give your muscles a more toned appearance…’

  ‘Will you forget about firming gels already?’

  He practically roars it at me. Everyone in the restaurant stops talking and stares in our direction.

  ‘Forget! About! Fucking! Firming gels!’ he goes again, through gritted teeth this time.

  He looks away, roysh, like he’s disappointed with me. Then, totally out of the blue, he goes, ‘You know your mother was photographed in Susie Cakes this morning – yeah, with Marcia Cross.’

  It’s like, holy fock! I’ve a thing for Marcia Cross – a major thing.

  He’s there, ‘That’s right, Kermit. They’re friends now…’

  I know what he’s doing. He’s very subtly letting me know that he has influence in this town.

  ‘Matter of fact,’ he goes, ‘she’s coming to Fyon Hoola’s reading tomorrow night.’

  ‘Reading?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s reading in Book Soup. Famous place on Sunset. Everyone’s going to be there. Not only Marcia. Kim Cattrall. Diane Kruger. Ziyi Zhang…’

  I’m there, ‘It sounds like things are really happening for her.’

  ‘You bet they are. Because she’s prepared to do whatever it takes. She’s had work, you know.’

  I laugh. ‘I know that. She’s had her face lifted that many times, she’s practically wearing her orse as a hat.’

  ‘That’s why she’s fast becoming one of the biggest names in showbusiness…’ he goes.

  There’s no doubt, he knows what buttons to press.

  ‘And you,’ he goes, ‘will always be just her son.’

  ‘Okay,’ I hear myself suddenly go. ‘I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.’

  His face is even uglier when he smiles. ‘We’re going to get you a beautiful body,’ he goes. ‘I’m going to take you to San Sancilio. He’s from Ecuador. He’s a personal friend of mine. He’s not a butcher… He was a butcher, but he ain’t a butcher now. No, now he does plastic – best in the fucking business.’

  She smiles at me through the screen door. ‘Oh my God,’ she goes, ‘I was just about to have my dinner.’

  She’s got one of those, like, Weight Watchers meals in her hand, which presumably is about to go into the microwave.

  ‘Low in calories, high in misery,’ I go, which is, like, an old joke of ours.

  She laughs, then she throws her orms around me and says she’s sorry about the whole Britney thing. I tell her it’s cool. It must have been hord for her to watch – as, like, a fan? Hopefully she’ll get the treatment she needs now that she’s hit rock-bottom.

  ‘Speaking of which…’ she goes. And she smiles, you’d have to say warmly. ‘I heard.’

  She’s obviously talking about me going to addiction therapy. I give her the line that Trevion fed me about having to face up to my actions.

  She’s there, ‘That’s, like, oh my God, Ross – I am so impressed.’

  I’m thinking, after all the shit we’ve been through together, we’re always going to be in each other’s lives – even if it does have to be just friends.

  She tells me to come in, then leads me through the huge hallway down to the kitchen. I can’t help but check her out. She looks incredible in this black-and-white-striped tank top, which I’m pretty sure is the Daftbird one she mentioned Victoria Beckham was wearing the other day coming out of Shizue Boutique.

  I say fock-all, though.

  She puts her Storvation Chicken in the microwave and asks me what I’ve been up to. I tell her I spent the day hanging out with Harvey.

  She laughs.

  ‘Oh, the big bromance,’ she goes. �
�What, did you get, like, a manny-peddy?’

  She is only joking, I should point out.

  I tell her it was nothing as gay as that. We actually went rollerblading on Venice Beach. Harvey was teaching me.

  She says she got a text alert this morning to say I spent the day yesterday playing tennis with Lo Bosworth at the Pacific Palisades Center. It said we were later spotted sipping bellinis in Shutters in Santa Monica, then dancing the night away in Opera on Schrader Boulevard.

  I tell her it’s total horseshit and I presume Trevion put it out there. ‘I’m back in his good books,’ I go. ‘He’s even got me, like, a minor movie role for tomorrow.’

  She says she’d have been surprised if it was true because Lo and Lauren Conrad are, like, Best Friends Forever, maybe even Best Best Friends Forever.

  I think she forgets that the Lauren Conrad story was horse-shit in the first place.

  Honor is sitting in her little play-pen, playing with a toy that’s, like, fair trade, made from fully sustainable materials and completely and utterly boring. She drops it the second she sees me and storts stamping her feet up and down, her little face lit up like Tallaght on Christmas Eve.

  I look at Sorcha, I suppose for permission, and she just nods and smiles, the whole coffee business totally forgotten, and I pick Honor out of her pen and carry her over to the island.

  Honor’s all excited, going, ‘Eee, arr, san, ssuh…’

  I ask Sorcha what’s that she’s saying and Sorcha says she’s counting in Mandarin. ‘Hen hao, Honor,’ she tells her. ‘Hen hao,’ then she checks her dinner to see if it’s hot enough and goes, ‘I’m not sure Lo Bosworth even plays tennis? She’s certainly never mentioned it on the show. Although I heard she gets her highlights done in Juan Juan – the same place as me…’

  I’m going, ‘Honor, can you say, “Daddy”? “Daddy”?’ determined that I’m going to hear her say something in English before her second focking birthday.

  She reaches out her little hand and makes a grab for Sorcha’s copy of Karma Suits You – States of Ecstasy.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ I go. ‘Coffee was one thing – porn is a complete other,’ and, in fairness to her, Sorcha sees the funny side of it.