Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Come on, give it up. Who is she?”
“Why, Fin. You’re practically frothing at the mouth.”
“Yeah, yeah. Creamin’ in my panties too.”
My answer is to borrow Oliver’s glower.
Fin continues to poke. “Am I not allowed to be happy for my friend getting back on the proverbial horse, Mr. I’m-not-interested-in-women?”
“When did I ever say that?”
“When you were in New York in October, and things haven’t changed since. Frankly, I’ve been worried you might be considering the church.”
“Be fair, Phineas,” Oliver says with a wave of his glass. “After a day spent in the company of ex-girlfriends, we might all consider becoming men of the cloth.”
I frown again, Oliver’s way this time. It’s very fucking clear these two have been talking about me.
“So imagine my surprise at what my darling wife had to tell me after the theater this afternoon.”
“I said I wasn’t interested in casual sex,” I retort, pointing a finger Fin’s way.
“Please let’s get this over with,” Oliver adds almost wearily. “I would like to eat dinner sometime this evening.”
“Are we eating here?” is Fin’s only (complaining) response. To be fair, the food here is atrocious—like something served out of history. I’m convinced they’re still using Mrs. Beeton’s cookery book. Tough beef and soggy veg, but at least the whiskey is good.
“I wouldn’t,” another voice puts in. “It’s duck à l’orange. Or the Dover sole. Again.”
Oliver gives a pained expression. “Thank you, George, but we aren’t dining in this evening.”
“Thank God,” Fin mutters.
“You are, however, just in time to furnish Matías here with a drink.”
“Right you are, sir,” the waiter replies happily.
“Howya, Cyril,” I greet him, ignoring the dictums of this arcane establishment, whereby all members of staff are referred to by the name of George. Every one of them. So yeah, fuck that.
“Hello, sir. I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Busy times.” I’ve been avoiding these evenings, mainly because Mila and Evie often meet us for dinner. Though my friends’ wives are great, I can’t help feeling like a spare prick at a wedding when sitting with the four of them.
“What can I get you?” Hands behind his back, Cyril leans onto his toes and back again, like an old-fashioned policeman.
“I’ll have a pint of the black stuff and a whiskey chaser, thanks.”
“The Bushmills 21, sir?”
“That’d be grand.”
Cyril retreats, and I find myself shifting uncomfortably in my seat. There are only so many excuses a man can make to avoid hanging out with his friends and their wives, but right now, I need to be here. I need their help in finding Ryan. “Right, so,” I begin. “Not that it’s got anything to do with you, but I haven’t gone off women.”
“Oh, we know,” Fin says with relish as he leans back in his chair. “Tell Daddy Fin all about it.”
“I think I’ve just been sick in my mouth.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Oliver crosses one leg over the other like a declaration.
“There was a woman. Is a woman.”
Fin’s brows rise high on his forehead as though to say, No shit, Sherlock. And though neither man says anything, they exchange a look.
“What the fuck is going on between you two?”
With a pained sigh, Oliver reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out his wallet. He places two fifties onto the table before pushing them Fin’s way.
“Nice doing business with you,” Fin says, holding one of the notes to the light. It’s an act of showmanship rather than checking for counterfeits. “Ryan, wasn’t it?”
I make a noise, part dismissal, part get fucked.
Fin positively beams. “So tell us all your news,” he says like some teen drama queen as he slides the money into his top pocket.
I hold up a forestalling finger as Cyril returns with my pint of Guinness and single malt.
“Who won?” the waiter asks, setting them down.
“Not you as well,” I complain.
Cyril gives an apologetic half shrug.
“I did,” Fin replies.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Cyril turns Oliver’s way. “No offense, Mr. Deubel.”
“None taken,” he returns with equanimity.
“Well, I’m very glad to hear the news,” Cyril adds. “And I hope to serve the lucky lady a drink or two very soon.”
“We’ll see,” I mutter, lifting my pint. Cyril retreats almost soundlessly. God knows what Ryan would think of the place, but I’m getting ahead of myself. “So.” I put my pint down, turn it thirty degrees or so to the right. “I met her in New York,” I say, studying the condensation on the glass. “The night of the wedding.”
“Perhaps you ought to give me my money back,” Oliver murmurs. “Sounds like I was right.”
“He hasn’t finished yet,” Fin says with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Go on.”
“After the wedding, and after I hung up on you, I more or less bumped into her.” Which is better than the truth: that she accosted me.
“That’s what’s called a meet-cute,” Fin says for Oliver’s benefit. “No need to kidnap a woman from her own wedding.”