‘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.
‘Up we get.’ Fintan heaved his feet out of Sandro’s lap. ‘Things to see, people to do. Do you want to go to Katherine’s later?’
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.’
13
That evening Tara was almost afraid to go out, reluctant to leave Thomas while things were still tense and weird. It felt like an admission of failure. But once she was out of the front door and in her car, she found she was nearly hyperventilating. The relief of being out of that flat! Away from that terrible claustrophobic atmosphere of tension and fear.
‘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 ow
n 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.