Last Chance Saloon (9 page)

Perfectly in tune with each other, they barely needed to speak to communicate.

‘Did you read –’

‘– Michael Bywater?’

‘Mmmmm. Funny.’

‘Mmmmm.’

A long comfortable silence followed.

‘Do you think –’

‘– a shag-pile rug? I do. We could look –’

‘– next weekend. We will.’

Another blanket of hush.

Sandro folded up the Culture bit of the
Independent
and opened his mouth to ask Fintan to pass the Real Life section, but Fintan had beaten him to it and was already proffering it.

The day Sandro had moved into the flat across the hall,
Fintan took one look at his small, jaunty frame, his elfin face, his shaved head and round glasses, and fell in love. He was ripe for it. For about a year he’d been complaining, ‘I’m tired of playing the field. I’d like to settle down. I want a significant other.’

They knew from his mail that the new boy’s name was Sandro Cetti. He was always smiley and friendly if he met any of them in the hall, so one morning Tara brazenly questioned him and established that he was an architect, originally from Rome.

‘An Italian stallion.’ Fintan said later.

‘Hardly a stallion,’ Tara said. ‘An Italian pony is more like it.’

And the name stuck.

‘I just don’t know if he’s gay,’ Fintan agonized. ‘I’m not picking up any signals.’

‘But neither am I,’ Tara said. ‘I’m not sure he’s straight either.’

‘Maybe he’s an alien,’ came Katherine’s voice from the bathroom.

‘He’s going out, he’s going out,’ Tara yelped, and Fintan rushed to the window and discreetly watched Sandro walk buoyantly down the road, neat and dinky in his trendy little suit and shiny Doc Martens.

‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ Fintan sighed. ‘As cute as all get out?’

As the weeks passed, everything Sandro said and did simply served to increase Fintan’s devotion. One night there was a car crash outside their house and Sandro was full of dancing-eyed excitement by the front door the following morning.

‘I was lying in my sleep and BOOM!’ He lifted both hands as if conducting an orchestra. ‘I hear a big, big noise so I run to my window and I see glass in all the places!’

Later Fintan repeated every word that Sandro had said. ‘ “I see glass in all the places.” How could anyone resist that? “I was lying in my sleep.” The boy’s an angel.’ He sighed, love-sick. ‘This is getting worse.’

Time went on and Fintan continued with his high-octane life: pubs, partying, clubbing, always with one eye out just in case Sandro showed up in any of the gay clubs. But he didn’t and the vitality continued to drain out of Fintan, until he began to remark, ‘Life has lost its taste.’

The crunch came late one night when Fintan was on his way home, wearing his white Katherine Hamnett neo-bondage trousers. He hobbled off the night-bus, taking tiny little geisha-girl steps on account of the fact that his legs were strapped together, when he was set upon by a crowd of thugs, overburdened with prejudice and too much free time. Fintan tried his best to escape. Because he was unable to run, he began hopping frantically, like a person in a sack race, all the while trying to undo the straps. But it was too late and he was beaten into unconsciousness. It had happened before, but never as badly.

After three days in hospital he arrived home, and that was when Sandro came into the picture. He said he would call in on Fintan when the girls were at work during the day. Fintan looked like a train crash but was so weepy and depressed after being attacked that he couldn’t be bothered with vanity.

Sandro made Fintan tea and soup and in order not to disturb his dislocated jaw, helped him drink them through a straw. Then, because Fintan could barely see through his black, puffy eyes, Sandro offered to read to him.

‘Yes, please. If you could pick a magazine from that pile there.’

Fintan flailed his hand, and Sandro tentatively made his approach, wondering what kind of magazines they were. They were travel brochures.

Fintan’s depression lifted as he lay in delicious torment, within touching distance of the object of his desire, who poured sweet words into his ear. ‘… a swim-up bar, landscaped gardens, air-conditioning, tea and coffee facilities and a supervised play area.’

‘Half board?’

‘Room only. But it say there is three restaurants. “The casual beachside grill, the child-friendly Harvey’s and the more formal Cochon Gros.” ’

‘Not that I’ll ever get to go to any of these places,’ Fintan murmured. ‘But it’s nice to dream. What’s the average temperature this time of year?’

Sandro consulted the chart at the back of the brochure, then suddenly flung it on the floor. ‘I am so angry with these peoples, these
animals
, that do this to you,’ he said fiercely.

‘Are you… really?’ Fintan choked.

‘I am angry that they do it to the gay man and I am angry that they do it to you!’

But what did that mean? Fintan wondered. Was Sandro just a bleeding-heart liberal? A
straight
bleeding-heart liberal?

Luckily, no. Sandro was as gay as the next man. (Fintan.) When pressed it all came out, and Sandro admitted that two years previously his boyfriend had died of ‘the virus’.

‘And I feel I can never again care for anyone. But I see you coming in and out of your flat,’ Sandro ducked his head in embarrassment – not that it made any difference because Fintan was still, to all intents and purposes, blind, ‘and I think, he’s… he’s good-looking. Then you bring me my letters and the
leaflet about pizzas and window-cleaning and I think you’re very kind.’

Very gently, taking care not to dislocate Fintan’s jaw any further, they had their first kiss and Fintan experienced such a surfeit of happiness that he thought his heart would split open – just like his lip had. From that day forth, Sandro and Fintan were an item and it was a match made in Heaven.

They were mad about each other. Sandro was overwhelmed with happiness at falling in love again and Fintan had met his long-awaited Mr Right.

‘I understand now why they talk about your “other half”,’ he admitted. ‘That’s what Sandro is to me.’

Both had been wounded – Fintan by the trauma of being beaten up and Sandro by the death of his previous boyfriend – and they were tender and mindful of each other. At the same time they both had bags of energy, an enormous circle of friends and a great love of socializing. Sandro’s English improved greatly. The only thing was he now spoke with an Irish inflection and peppered his conversation with ‘grand’ and ‘feck’.

Six months later they bought a top-floor flat in Notting Hill and Sandro used his architectural skills to take out so many ceilings and walls and put in so many mezzanines, portholes and polished concrete floors that it appeared in
Which House?
and
Elle Decoration
.

Sandro nodded enthusiastically. That was another reason that Fintan and Sandro worked so well. Fintan came as a package deal with Tara and Katherine – love me, love my friends – and Fintan had once dumped a potential love interest because he’d
taken violently against Katherine, exclaiming, ‘She’s so
anal
.’

‘After Katherine’s will we go out for a drink and a dance?’ Sandro asked.

‘Sure. So we’d better get you organized for Norwich now, because you’ll be too tired in the morning.’ Fintan bustled: the following day Sandro was going to Norwich for a week, doing major work on a house there. ‘Bring me your shirts to be ironed.’

‘You know you don’t have to do that,’ Sandro protested. ‘I could try.’

‘Pah, no. You never make them as nice.’

‘Okay,’ he said shyly. ‘Thanks.’

Fintan got out the ironing-board and Sandro gave him five shirts.

‘What do I need to pack?’ Sandro called from the beige Japanese-style bedroom, his case flung open on the raised platform bed.

‘Five pairs of knickers, five pairs of socks, toothbrush, smellies, charger for your mobile, you forgot that the last time…’

‘Can I have your jean jacket?’

‘If you don’t mind it being too big.’

After Fintan had lovingly removed every crease from Sandro’s shirts, he carefully laid them in the case, smoothing them flat. ‘Right, you’re all set. Now I’d better ring my mother.’

Every Sunday without fail he rang his mother. For a seventy-something, Irish-Catholic mother JaneAnn was pretty cool. She knew Fintan was gay and seemed to have no great problem with it. The only fly in the ointment was the question of Fintan’s ‘flatmate’. Fintan had never quite known how to bring the conversation around to the fact that he was living with his
boyfriend, and as time had gone on, and no mention had been made, it had seemed harder and harder to broach the subject. Fintan picked up the phone and he and JaneAnn chewed the fat for ages, JaneAnn doing most of the talking. For a small town, Knockavoy had an awful lot of drama. Three heifers had escaped from Clancy’s bottom field and destroyed a shrub in the parish priest’s garden, and now the priest’s housekeeper was refusing to speak to Francie Clancy. Delia Casey was organizing a benefit gig for Rwanda, ‘whatever the heck a benefit gig is. Might it be something like a sale of work?’ And the hottest news of all – they were after getting Pop-tarts into the Spar.

When Fintan hung up he suggested to Sandro, ‘Why don’t you come to Ireland with me at Christmas?’

Sandro giggled nervously. ‘I am afraid. What if they didn’t like me? Your mother and your brothers?’

‘They would. Ah, Sandro, five years is too long to not have met each other’s family. It’s time we dealt with it.’

‘You’re right, and we could go to my family for New Year’s Eve.’

Fintan paled. ‘Or we could forget the whole idea and go to Lanzagrotty.’

‘Again?’

‘We’ll see. Let’s get ready for Katherine’s.’

‘Did you take your vitamins today?’

‘Oh, I forgot. I’ll take them now.’

‘Fintan, you must stop forgetting. It’s important that you take them.’ Sandro sounded annoyed.

‘Sorry, Mum.’

‘Are you OK?’ Katherine asked, when she opened the door.

Tara nodded, lighting a cigarette. ‘Sorry about the SOS phone call at the crack of dawn. I’d my morning-after-the-night-before head on me, where the world seemed… ominous, I suppose. That’ll teach me to drink too much gin.’

‘Whatever,’ Katherine said. Tara wasn’t telling – yet.

‘Oh, no,’ Tara exclaimed, demonstrating her cigarette, which had a ring of lipstick around the filter. ‘My new indelible lipstick isn’t indelible after all! The girl said I’d need paint-stripper to budge it.’

‘Typical,’ Katherine condemned.

‘Why do they always lie to me?’ Tara demanded, sadly. ‘Why do they always let me down?’

‘Have a drink,’ Katherine consoled. ‘Beer or wine?’

‘Beer. I’m going to knit Thomas a jumper.’

Katherine had an instant of being utterly nonplussed. Quickly she managed to say enthusiastically, ‘Good girl yourself!’

‘I was good at knitting at school, j’remember?’ Tara pointed
out. ‘Remember the lovely pink scarf I knitted for Fluffy the cat?’

‘Yeeess,’ Katherine said, faintly. ‘And does it matter that it was twenty-six years ago when you were only five?’

‘Ah, knitting’s like riding a bike,’ Tara pointed out. ‘Although,’ she said, suddenly anxious, sucking at her cigarette and inhaling down to her toes, ‘do you remember the way Fluffy pulled and tore at the lovely scarf until he got it off? He didn’t have a moment’s peace until he’d got rid of it.’

‘That’s cats for you.’ Katherine smiled encouragingly.

‘That’s cats for you, indeed,’ Tara agreed, bitterly. ‘Ungrateful swine. Dogs, now. They’re a different kettle of fish, they’re affectionate and loyal. But cats would sell you down the river, eat your last Rolo, double-cross you just for the fun of it. They’d shop their own granny if they thought it would be to their advantage, blacken your good name –’

‘Maybe pink just wasn’t Fluffy’s colour.’ Katherine felt she’d better interrupt.

Tara looked at Katherine as if she didn’t quite recognize her. ‘Er, maybe it wasn’t,’ she muttered. She looked around as if she wasn’t sure where she was. ‘Oh, Katherine, what’s
wrong
with me?’

Your hideous boyfriend? Katherine refrained from asking.

‘It could be hormones,’ Tara answered herself. ‘It’s a bit early but it would account for a lot of how I’ve felt today. All I needed was to fall down a flight of stairs and spend a month’s salary on a cute yellow corkscrew for the full complement of symptoms to be present. PMT gets worse as you get older, doesn’t it?’

Katherine agreed. ‘Except it’s PMS now,’ she corrected.

‘I didn’t know how lucky I was in my twenties,’ Tara said dreamily. ‘All that happened then was that for ten days a month
I ingested a four-stone sack of sweets and cried if anyone so much as asked me the time, but in my thirties it’s mutated into full-blown
psychosis
! Roll on the menopause.’

‘You’re fine,’ Katherine told her compassionately. ‘And don’t forget I’ve a spare room if you ever need somewhere to sleep…’

Tara felt dreadful again. And she’d just been starting to feel better. Oh, well.

‘I rang Fintan,’ Katherine was saying, ‘and he said himself and the pony will come over.’

Tara’s spirits leapt. Fintan could always cheer her up and she felt her own personal dense grey cloud, which had dogged her all day, move away from being so close to the crown of her head.

‘I rang Liv too,’ Katherine said, ‘but Lars is in town. He arrived unexpectedly.’

Lars was the Swedish married man who Liv was walking out with. Or, rather, staying in with. He came to London every couple of months, always keeping the gap between visits just the right length to drive Liv mad with loneliness, yet not quite long enough for her to get over him. On account of the brevity of his visits, they spent most of their time in bed.

The bell rang, indicating that the boys had arrived. Katherine buzzed them in through the front door, then waited at the open door of her flat. Fintan thumped up the stairs, decked out in a horrifically expensive-looking pistachio-green sheepskin coat. He was all of a dither. ‘Come on, come on,’ he commanded, refusing to step into the flat. ‘Quick, girls! Just outside the gate I was nearly knocked to the ground by the
überbloke
to end all
überblokes
. Striding along like a Viking. Sandro’s keeping watch.’ He grabbed Katherine’s hand and tried to drag her towards the stairs. ‘He was huge,’ he related, ‘like a brick
shithouse with – and I know you’ll find this hard to believe – gorgeous red hair. Red hair! I ask you. But he was delish… what’s up with you, Katherine? You’ve a face on you like a robber’s dog chewing a wasp.’

‘Nothing’s up.’

‘Come on out for a gawk at your man, so. Before he’s gone.’

‘But it’s raining.’

‘Have it your way, you miserable Margaret. Come on, Tara.’

‘Not tonight, Josephine,’ Tara said. She loved Fintan but she couldn’t be bothered to go out into the cold night and admire some fool with red hair. ‘Settle yourself. Come in and show us your fantastic coat!’

‘
Et tu
,
Brute?
I don’t know what’s up with you pair of moaning Minnies,’ Fintan complained. But he realized his Viking was probably out of sight by now, so he stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. There was the sound of running feet and Sandro appeared up the stairs.

‘The love-god is escaping,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘If we don’t hurry –’

‘Forget it, Sand,’ Fintan said. ‘They’re not interested.’

Sandro stared in horror and Fintan murmured, ‘I know.’ Then Sandro threw his eyes to heaven and Fintan murmured, ‘I
know
.’

Then Sandro said, ‘Girls!’ and Fintan murmured, ‘I
know
.’

Katherine scolded, ‘Get in here, the pair of you,’ and both men jumped with fright.

Meekly, they did so.

‘So, what are you doing chasing after men in the street and you two practically married?’ Tara interrogated Sandro and Fintan as they sat on the sofa, Fintan still wrapped in his pale-green coat.

‘What problem is there to look?’ Sandro grinned. ‘We didn’t kidnap him.’

‘Only because we’d left our big net at home.’ Fintan nudged Sandro and they both gave big, dirty laughs, leaning into each other.

‘Benders,’ Tara sighed. ‘You’re dead lucky. Don’t you ever get jealous or insecure?’

‘No.’ They looked at each other and shrugged.

‘How come?’ Tara asked.

‘Why go out for a hamburger when you’ve steak at home?’ Fintan said, in a sing-song voice.

‘That’s so sweet,’ Tara squeaked, on the verge of tears. A rosy glow crept around the room, until it got to Katherine. Where it lost its nerve, turned tail and ran.

‘Except,’ Sandro broke the quiet by saying shamefacedly, ‘sometimes it’s nice to have a hamburger.’

‘There’s certainly no harm,’ Fintan nodded carefully, ‘in just looking at them.’

‘If Thomas tried to throw a net over a good-looking woman in the street, I’d cut his balls off,’ Tara admitted. ‘And I know you all hate him, but –’

‘We don’t all hate him,’ Katherine interrupted.

‘I do,’ Fintan said baldly.

‘And so do I,’ Sandro added. ‘And so does Liv.’

‘And so do I,’ Katherine admitted. ‘Sorry, Tara, you’re absolutely right. We
do
all hate him. Carry on.’

Tara looked bleakly as the other three killed themselves laughing.

‘I’m joking,’ Katherine backtracked hastily. Unlike Fintan, Katherine usually managed to hide her contempt for Thomas. She walked a narrow line – while it was her duty to let Tara
know that she deserved better than Thomas, it was also her duty to be Tara’s sounding board. If Tara realized how much Katherine despised Thomas, she’d never tell her anything, and that wouldn’t be good. At least, not for Tara. On the other hand it would be very good for Katherine – her blood-pressure soared sky-high every time she heard What Thomas Did Next.

‘I know you all hate him,’ Tara reiterated. ‘But you don’t see what I see.’

‘Of course,’ Fintan murmured, unable to look at any of the others in case they all started laughing again.

‘I know he’s sometimes… difficult. But that’s only because of his mother leaving him. He loves me and he’d never be unfaithful,’ Tara said. ‘That counts for a lot. Especially after…’

Everyone waited.

They knew the script.

‘Especially after…’ Tara gave an ominous little hiccup.

‘Especially after…’

‘… Alasdair left you…’ Fintan supplied gently.

‘… and married someone else…’ Katherine finished.

Tara looked at them suspiciously. ‘Have I been going on about it too long or something?’

‘Ah, no,’ Fintan said, kindly. ‘Two years is nothing.’

‘If you’re sure.’ Tara brightened up.

‘Sure we’re sure,’ they chorused.

It was time to inspect Fintan’s clothes.

‘May I touch the coat?’ Tara asked, reverentially. ‘Is it really yours or just a loaner?’

‘I borrowed it from the stockroom. Carmella would have my guts for garters if she knew.’

‘Clothes look beautiful on you.’ Tara sighed enviously. ‘Even better since you lost the bit of weight.’

Fintan always dressed in character. As the coat was part of the Manchester look, he also wore baggy jeans, a baggy top and cobalt desert boots. ‘I feel nostalgic tonight,’ he said, just in case anyone might think that he thought the Manchester look was still in. His finger was superglued to the pulse and he was keen that people knew it. ‘I thought we’d go a bit retro. Have a nineteen-ninety-seven revival.’

‘The only thing I’m missing is…’ Fintan said slowly, eyeing Sandro’s spectacles.

Sandro adopted a defensive position. ‘No! I won’t give them.’

‘Five minutes, that’s all I ask,’ Fintan beseeched. ‘I feel naked without them. You can’t do the Manchester look without John Lennon glasses. Pleeeeeeeease.’

‘OK.’ Sandro reluctantly handed over his little round glasses, and Fintan put them on.

‘There!’ he said. ‘Finally, I feel fully dressed. Holy Jesus, though, they’re strong.’ He tried to focus on the others. ‘God, this is great. I wish I’d known about them before. Talk about hallucinations! I could have saved myself a
fortune
in drugs over the years.’

‘Can I have them back now?’ Sandro begged. ‘Without them I’m blind.’

‘But you go out and get blind drunk every Sunday night, anyway,’ Fintan pointed out. ‘Consider this a head start.’

Tara waved away Fintan’s offer of a ‘go’ of Sandro’s glasses. ‘When I wear glasses I look like an owl.’

‘An oul’ what?’

‘An oul’ eejit.’ Tara laughed.

‘So how do you manage? Contact lenses?’

‘Yip,’ said Tara.

‘How about you?’ Fintan asked Katherine. ‘How’s your eyesight?’

‘Twenty-twenty,’ she said.

Everyone erupted into laughter, even Katherine.

‘Yours would be,’ wheezed Tara. ‘Little Miss Perfect.’

‘Sometimes I even make myself sick,’ Katherine agreed, her face contorted with mirth.

‘Bumlickers Anonymous,’ Tara advised. ‘That’s where you need to be going.’

‘Ouch, ouch,’ Fintan complained, putting his hand beneath his ear. ‘Oh, damn it, ouch. My glands! I’ve an awful pain in my neck.’

‘That’s no way to talk about Sandro,’ Tara said.

‘Ah, no, it’s not funny. My neck, my stomach, I’m a crock! That bloody E-coli. I was grand all day, thought I’d shaken it.’

Katherine opened her mouth to scold, then shut it again when she saw the worried look that Sandro gave Fintan.

Fintan turned to Tara. ‘How are
you
this weather? What ails you today?’

‘Malnutrition,’ Tara sighed. ‘I’m at the stage where your stomach bloats up from no food. I’ve a very advanced form of the disease, where my thighs and bum and the rest of me has blown up too.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Katherine said smoothly, ‘are we ringing for pizzas?’

‘Food?’ Fintan said airily. ‘Never touch the stuff. Us fashion types never eat.’

‘But you have to have something.’

‘I couldn’t!’ Fintan shrieked, pawing his stomach. ‘I had an Anadin last Tuesday and I put on a gram. I’m almost four stone now. That’s what I have to listen to every day at work, you
know,’ he said gloomily. ‘They’d make you boke. OK, give me a large Four Seasons with extra cheese, tomatoes, mushrooms, pepperoni, ham…’ Everyone waited for him to say, ‘Feck it, make it
two
large Four Seasons, and be done with it!’ Like he always did. But he didn’t, and when Katherine reminded him, he said, ‘I’m not that hungry. One will do.’

‘A large deep-dish
Quattro Formaggio
for me,’ Sandro said firmly. He was one of those whippety little men who ate like a pig, and never put on weight.

‘I’m so hungry I could eat the hind leg of the Lamb of God,’ Tara said. ‘But I can’t have anything, I’m on a diet.

‘You know,’ she continued, ‘when I’m on a diet I eat as much as I usually do, the difference is that I think about food incessantly. Although I think about food incessantly, anyway. I’m always hungry. Stand on my toe and my mouth opens!’ Her voice began to increase in pitch. ‘When I’m nervous I want to eat. When I’m excited I want to eat. When I’m worried I want to eat. Even when I feel sick, the only thing that settles my stomach
is food
. My life is a NIGHTMARE.’ She finished on a shrill note, her words reverberating into sympathetic silence.

Then Katherine said, ‘So, the usual, then?’

‘How about some extra garlic bread with cheese?’ Tara suggested.

Katherine made the phone call, then all four of them settled down to watch
The Ambassador
.

‘This is great,’ Fintan observed, when the first lot of ads came on. ‘Good, clean, old-fashioned fun. Just like the old days.’

‘I really shouldn’t have ordered all that food,’ Tara interrupted, in a low voice, talking to herself. ‘I really shouldn’t.’ Her
voice was getting louder. ‘I wish I hadn’t. Oh, God, I really wish I hadn’t.’

‘You don’t have to eat it,’ Katherine offered half-heartedly.

‘I have no choice,’ Tara hooted, hysteria putting in an appearance. ‘I have no bloody choice. Now that I’ve ordered it I won’t be able to stop myself from eating it. I haven’t an iota of willpower. But my entire future depends on it. Oh, my God.’ She choked. ‘What’s going to become of me?’