'Holly Willoughby said it was one of her favourite places to shop'

It's strange seeing Sorcha's shop, like, empty, and her looking so defeated – seems like only yesterday we were beating away the customers, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY

I CAN SEE her through the glass, sat slumped on the floor with her back to the wall, looking totally defeated, her fingers playing with something, which turns out to be a buckle that Honor pulled from a pair of Mary Jane five-strap peep toes – the only evidence left of what this place used to actuallybe? I give the window another tap.

"Come on, Sorcha," I go. "Let me in," which is when she finally peels herself up off the floor and walks to the door. She looks horrendous, by the way, like she hasn't slept in two nights. It turns out she hasn'tslept in two nights. She unlocks the door and opens it, except only an inch or two, not enough to let me actually in. She's like, "Go on, say it – as in, I told you so," but now is not the time for gloating, even though I actually didtell her? I go, "Look, I was here for you the day the shop opened – I want to be here for you the day it closes." There's something about it that appeals to that bit of her that loves Grey's Anatomy, because she suddenly opens the door wide enough to let me in.

It's, like, sorandom seeing the shop like this? It's weird the way our voices echo off the walls, with everything but the corpet stripped out of it. I tell her I thought she might have had, like, a closing down sale but she says she couldn't have faced it. "Sell those new Robert Sandersons, for instance, for, like, 50 per cent off? I was the first shop in Ireland to get them after BTs, Ross – I literally couldn't do it . . ." She sits back down on the floor and I plonk myself down beside her. We're both quiet then.

“Holly Willoughby said it was one her favourite places to shop when she was in Dublin,” she suddenly goes, looking sad and distant. I tell her I know. I remember. “And Michelle Heaton.” I tell her I remember that, too. She’s holding a bottle of champagne. It’s, like, good shit as well. She says Pia Bang dropped it into her last night. You’d have to say fair focks to her.

“I asked her, er, what am I supposedly celebrating, Pia? It felt weird because I still think I’ve – oh my God – failed? She said I should be celebrating the fact that I ran one of the best clothes shops this city has ever seen . . .” I ask her if she wants me to open that bottle, then she, like, hands it to me. I peel away the foil, twist off the metal cap and pop the cork. It’s a sound that I haven’t heard in a long time. I dare say I’m not the only one.

It’s only then that I realise we’ve no glasses. I take a good gobful straight from the neck and fizz ends up coming out my nose. I hand the bottle to Sorcha and she does the same. My eyes do a quick sweep of the place, which only two days ago was wall-to-wall with Madison Marcus and Lauren Moffat and Jodi Arnold and Helmut Lang. It was KLS. It was AC C. It was BCBG and CC Skye. It was Mulberry, Blueberry, Strawberry and Blackberry. Orange, Banana and Shabby Apple. Mike Chris, Paul Joe, Sass Bide. Westwood Red and Graeme Black. It was Citizens of Humanity. Daughters of the Revolution. Spoiled Little Mamas . . .

And how easily it all tripped off her tongue: A peplum is the ruffle or overskirt that's going to be jutting out of every waist this autumn . . . Add interest with translucent fabrics . . . And don't discount hot pinks and reds. They're going to be providing a bold contrast to pastel shades everywhere this year . . .How long will it be before everyone's forgotten what that shit even means? Before they've forgotten that she had the first shop in Ireland to do jeans by Gold Sign, Earnest Sewn and Kitson Own. Miu Mius, Jimmy Choos and Jason Wus. 291 Venice, 3.1 Philip Lim and 7s For All Mankind. Belmain, Bertin, Cardin. Susana Monaco. Shoshanna and on it goes – Moshino, Malandrino, Valentino. Yamamoto, Takemoto, Kishimoto. Jelly Cat. Baby Phat. No Added Sugar. Rich and Skinny . . .

It's no wonder her actual hort is broken. I hand her the bottle. She's seriously tanning it as well. I ask her what's going to happen to the unit and she says it'll probably end up being another Caddles Irish Gift Shop. I tell her not to think like that. It won't be allowed to happen. The Powerscourt Townhouse Centre is still the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre, even if the world around it isgoing to shit.

She shakes her head, like she’s no longer certain of even that. She says she doesn’t want to come across as, like, a snob or anything? But no one ever went into liquidation by overestimating the public’s desire for Guinness fridge magnets, jester hats in county colours and songs about dead IRA men.

The worst thing is, roysh, deep down, I know it’s probably true. But I try to keep things jollying along. I take another knock from the bottle and tell her I remember the weekend the shop actually opened. She smiles then. “We had champagne then as well,” she goes, “And we drank it this exact same way . . .” No glasses then either – that’s right.

“I remember when the stock was delivered,” she goes. “Oh my God, there must have been, like, 50 or 60 boxes? It was, like, Friday lunchtime and I was supposed to be opening the following day. So you and my mum came in . . .”

“The three of us worked right through the night . . .”

“Nine o’clock in the morning we finished setting it up. Then we opened the champagne – do you remember that?”

"Yeah, the people were already queuing up outside. We didn't open the doors until we'd finished the bottle." She laughs. "See, you could actually dothings like that in those days? As in, you knew the people would come back."

I ask her what she’s going to do now, wondering is she going to finally pursue her dream of becoming an ambassador for the Rainforest Alliance, liaising with the likes of Storbucks on their sustainability programmes. But she doesn’t mention it. In a weird way, I think even that dream has died.

“I’m going to take some time out,” she goes, “to make sure I connect with my grief . . .”

I tell her that sounds heavy but she doesn’t answer. Then I turn my head to find her sleeping soundly on my shoulder.

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