Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [150]
As they left the house, Tara glanced furtively up and down the road.
‘Who are you looking for?’
‘Ravi. I wouldn’t put it past him to cosh you on the head, steal your clothes and impersonate you to get your ticket.’
‘It’s that big a deal, is it?’ Katherine was pleased.
Fintan had been invited to Katherine’s for the great preparations, but had unpleasantly declined to come. So, hoping it would cheer him up, they decided to show him the fruits of their labours before Katherine met Joe.
Sandro answered the door, white and worried, swathed in a miasma of oppression. Silently, tight-lipped, he nodded towards the front room.
Fintan was thrown on the couch wearing a Diana Ross and the Supremes beehive wig. The first sight of him and his wasted grey appearance was always a jolt. Even though it could be put down to the after-effects of the chemo and the drop in his white blood cell count, it was impossible to avoid the impact that they were staring death in the face. But the shock receded quickly – they’d been told he had to get worse before he got better.
‘How are you?’ Tara asked him.
‘Shite!’ he declared.
‘But no worse?’ Katherine asked.
‘No,’ he conceded, grumpily.
Even a couple of weeks before, they’d have devoted half an hour to discussing his health but, reassured that there were no new tumours, or swellings, or inexplicable pains, things seemed almost normal.
‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ Tara asked, building dramatic tension.
‘No. My arse has all but disappeared.’
‘Listen to him showing off. Are you ready, Katherine?’
At her nod, Tara declared, ‘Da-dah! I give you Katherine Casey, überbabe, sex-kitten and Joe Roth fancier. This girl is on a promise, and no mistake.’
Katherine rushed into the middle of the floor and did a dance, modelling her new clothes, opening her jacket and sticking her pointy little hips this way and that.
‘You were always a crap dancer,’ Fintan said, startling Katherine into stunned, hurt immobility.
Just then Tara noticed the open can of Sapporo on the table in front of him, and fear lunged at her, dropping her temperature. Her eyes met Katherine’s. She’d noticed too.
‘Katherine’s off on her date with Joe Roth today.’ Tara couldn’t avoid using the slow, patronizing way that people speak to the mad or afflicted.
‘Don’t bother on my account, dear,’ Fintan said, bitchily.
‘But aren’t you glad?’ Tara faltered, while Katherine became very still. ‘Aren’t you excited? I mean, you made it happen. In a way, sort of…’
‘I think you’re confusing me with the cancer patient who gives a shit.’
‘But she’s done it for you.’ Tara was suddenly dying for a fag.
‘No, she hasn’t,’ Fintan retorted. ‘She’s done it for herself.’
‘I did do it for you,’ Katherine insisted, croakily.
‘Well, you can stop now.’
‘It’s a bit late.’
‘Not at all. Better late than never. You’re off the hook. In fact, I don’t want you to meet him, I’m asking you not to,’ Fintan threw like a dagger at Katherine.
‘You can’t do that.’ Tara yelped. ‘She’s bought a Dolce and Gabbana jacket. And Agent Provocateur underwear. And boots from Prada – show him the boots, Katherine, pull up your jeans, look at those heels, Fintan. And though the jumper only came from French Connection…’
As Katherine obediently pulled up her jeans her face was a plea of horrified beseechment. The thought of not going on the date with Joe was unbearably disappointing.
‘You see,’ Fintan said, his mouth twisted in a bitter smile, ‘you want to meet him. This has nothing to do with me. I was just a catalyst.’
Conflict raged in Katherine. She hadn’t wanted to have anything to do with Joe. Well, she had, but she’d never have done anything about it. And she had been genuinely afraid that Fintan would deteriorate if she didn’t do what he asked. But she was forced to admit that there was a part of her which had welcomed the excuse to come on to Joe. And she didn’t want to stop now. She felt it no longer had anything to do with Fintan.
Perhaps, other than his illness being