Last Chance Saloon by Marian Keyes Page A

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 theleaflet 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