Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [112]
‘Maybe,’ the others agreed, and for once they weren’t trying to fool themselves. If Fintan got the all-clear on his tests, he could have his lymph glands treated as an outpatient.
And, as luck would have it, he was better that day than he’d been in a while. Though the lump on his neck was still in evidence, he wasn’t so listless or yellow-looking, and he was managing to eat and keep food down. The mood eddied and rose. Everything was going to be all right.
‘When’s Thomas coming to visit me?’ he mischievously asked Tara.
‘I don’t know.’ She blushed. ‘He’s very busy, you know, with his work and his football…’
‘Tell him I’d like to see him.’ Fintan grinned. ‘I think it would help me get better.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Ask him to do it for you,’ Fintan urged. ‘The woman he loves.’
‘OK,’ Tara promised, embarrassed and confused. Of course she’d asked Thomas to come with her to the hospital, or even to meet the O’Gradys, but he’d stubbornly refused to. ‘I’ll not be a hypocrite,’ he’d said, and that was that.
And what was Fintan up to? He hated Thomas.
Tara’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud, ‘Hi there!’ and she looked up to see Fintan’s friends Frederick, Claude and Geraint swoop excitedly into the room, weighed down with goodies. Everyone budged up to make room. But a short while later Harry and Didier arrived. And then Butch and Javier.
Fintan constantly had so many visitors that they often overflowed into the corridor outside, where conversations were lively, spirits were high and networking was in operation. Already someone called Davy, a friend of Javier’s, had slept with Harry’s friend Jimbob, whom he’d met at the door of Fintan’s ward.
‘Ward seventeen,’ Fintan was amused, ‘where love stories begin.’ He joked that some of his friends were coming to the hospital and not even bothering to visit him, so attractive was the party atmosphere in the corridor. In fact, he went so far as to suggest that some of the people coming didn’t actually know him.
Eventually, to make a bit of room, Liv, Tara and Katherine repaired to the day room where Liv opened up a line of inquiry that she’d been keen to pursue for some time. ‘Timothy is married, isn’t he?’ she asked, oh-so-casually.
‘Yes.’
‘And Ambrose is married? And Jerome?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why isn’t Milo? Is he gay too?’
‘No,’ Tara said. ‘But he was disappointed by a girl once.’
‘Disappointed?’ Liv exclaimed. ‘What on earth do you mean? Is that another of your strange Irish euphemisms?’
‘It means dumped,’ Katherine explained. ‘He was engaged to be married to Eleanor Devine, they had what we’d call an “understanding”, and she did a runner.’
‘Why?’
‘She didn’t want to be a farmer’s wife. She went to San Francisco and became a conceptual artist.’
‘What did she look like?’ Liv sounded slightly choked. ‘Ugly? Fat?’
‘Good-looking, I suppose,’ Katherine said.
‘How good-looking?’ Liv pounced. ‘On a scale of one to ten?’
‘Five.’
‘Four, three even.’ Tara nudged Katherine. ‘Tell us, Liv, why are you so interested anyway?’
‘He’s six foot two,’ Liv said, dreamily, ‘built like a fridge-freezer, has long, black, shiny hair…’
Katherine stiffened at the mention of shiny hair.
‘… navy-blue eyes and a beautiful smile.’ Liv came out of her reverie. ‘No reason, really…’ and they all laughed.
‘You’re not serious, though?’ Tara asked.
‘Of course I am.’
‘But,’ Tara said, uncomfortably, ‘but you’re Swedish, you’re stylish, you’re an interior designer, he’s… Well, he’s Milo O’Grady.’
‘He wears dungarees,’ Katherine threw in her twopence-worth.
‘He’s never heard of Tricia Guild.’
‘And you’ve never heard of liver fluke. How could it work?’
‘He’s a man of the land.’ Liv had a glint in her eyes. ‘Creating new life, with his hands, reaping and sowing. What could be more worthy than that?’
‘A brain surgeon,’ Katherine suggested.
‘A social worker,’ Tara said.
‘An accountant.’
‘A shoe designer.’
‘He works with his hands. His big, strong, sexy hands. Can’t you see how beautiful he is?’
‘No,’ Tara said bluntly.
‘Liv, you’re upset,’ Katherine soothed. ‘None of