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.Isa 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, partget 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.”
