AGAINST THE ODDS:AT ONE level, living the lie had been straightforward enough for Vinny Fitzpatrick. No one in his Dublin Bus workplace had a clue about his domestic predicament, while his appearances in Foley's, more regular than usual, raised glasses rather than eyebrows.
For a bit, Vinny kidded himself that he could get used to the life of a bachelor again, to come and go when he pleased, have a pint here, a punt there.
It helped that he was insulated from his quandary both by work and by the pub. It meant he had less time to think of the huge issue which stalked every step – his shock eviction by Angie and the seven-day warning to get his head right or risk losing everything.
Vinny being Vinny decided there was no point addressing such a major concern straight away. Far better, he reckoned, to allow for a period of mature reflection, best served supping a pint of porter or two. He would, in time, get around to addressing the problem as the clock counted down to his Angie summit.
Other men in his situation might have thrown themselves at the mercy of their better half; begged for forgiveness and vowed to turn over a new leaf. Not Vinny, at least not yet. He had been given a week to sort himself out and a week he would take. Heck, he might as well enjoy some of it.
Angie had texted him to report “home” on Sunday at 1pm. With that in mind, he felt he should address his plight that same morning, ideally with a clear head. No need to do so any earlier, he reckoned.
Vinny’s capacity to divide his life into compartments surprised him but he knew, deep down, it was naked fear which was causing him to blank out Angie and the twins, for as long as possible. It was fear, too, which spurred him on at the garage where he was the project manager for the introduction of realtime timetables for the buses.
There was an unofficial race among the garages – Clontarf, Harristown, Phibsboro, Summerhill, Conyngham Road, Ringsend and Donnybrook – for bragging rights, and Vinny was determined to be first past the bus stop.
Few things gave him greater pleasure than knocking haughty Donnybrook off their bloody perch.
In tandem with an IT whizz kid called Chip, Vinny had drawn up a blueprint which was almost ready to roll. Soon, all stops served by Clontarf would have the time and number of the next bus due.
Even Socket Twomey, the pernickety controller of the Clontarf depot, had been impressed. “We’re ahead of the other garages and will phase it in from November 1st. No one else will be ready for Christmas. Fair play to ye, Vinny,” he said.
That had been on Thursday afternoon, after which Vinny had decided to pop into Foley’s for a tea-time tipple. It was, after all, Arthur’s Day, a crafty gimmick by the Guinness PR folk which had already caught on quicker than anticipated.
Vinny had a dual purpose for his visit. Apart from treating himself to a pint, the Ryder Cup sweep was open and he was eager to hand over €20 in good time for the fun and games in the Welsh valleys.
The competition called for a correct score and in the event of there being more than one winner, there were two tie-breakers – the highest points’ scorer over the three days and the winner of the number one singles match.
Vinny reckoned Europe would win 16-12 and that Rory McIlroy would be both top scorer and also Sunday’s lead-out man.
Foley’s, which had a restrained atmosphere at the best of times, was curiously raucous as Vinny pushed in the swing door. Approaching the packed bar counter, he saw a familiar broad-shouldered figure, complete with tight crew-cut and square head, Fran.
His old friend was not alone. Darina, his luscious Lithuanian girlfriend and 25 years his junior, was sitting on a stool beside Fran. The pair looked love-struck and Vinny could see how content his old mucker was. He seemed stress-free and looked younger than his 51 years.
Since leaving Marilyn, his childhood sweetheart after more than 20 years of marriage, Fran was like the cat which got the cream. Full-fat, not semi-skimmed.
“Vinny!” hailed Fran. “You in here again? That wife of yours allows you some rope, you lucky devil.” With that he turned to Dial-a-Smile and ordered four pints.
“Who’s the fourth for?” asked Vinny before the penny dropped. Making her way from the ladies’ toilet was platinum blonde Petra, wearing jeans that looked like they’d been sprayed on. Lads went silent as the six-foot vixen from Vilnius, who worked in Fran’s launderette, Bubbles On The Bull, glided past.
It was almost two years since the paths of Vinny and Petra crossed at the FAI Cup final at a freezing RDS where they’d kept each other warm by knocking back hip flasks of Lithuanian fire-water. They’d met a couple of times since and Petra’s feelings towards Vinny were as crystal clear as the liquid they’d lorried into that Arctic afternoon in Ballsbridge.
That she was a dinger; drank like a fish, and was an authority on football in the old Eastern Bloc, made her enchanting to Vinny’s slightly rheumy eyes. But he was spoken for and had never played away from home since hooking up with Angie. For better or for worse, he was Angie’s faithful husband, still.
Petra planted a warm kiss on Vinny’s cheek, embraced him with an octopus-like hug and pulled her stool up tight beside his. “Vinny, I was going to call you, so this meeting is good, no?” she smiled.
“I have two tickets for the Russia game, in with the Russian supporters, and hope you can come. I think you would appreciate seeing the game from the Russian perspective. In return, I ask you for a favour,” she said suggestively.
Vinny blushed and gulped. Given his fragile emotional state, he felt vulnerable to ambush. “Yes, Petra, if I can help, I will,” he croaked.
“Vinny, I never forget the time we see Bohemians win the cup, and what it meant to their supporters. They play Shamrock Rovers soon and I want to be there. Would your wife mind if you bring me? If you want, I will ask her permission. I don’t want to make it awkward for you,” said Petra.
Vinny let out a deep sigh of relief. He had been pulled back from the brink of temptation; had somehow dodged a bullet of sexual inducement. “Petra, that won’t be necessary. I’ll tell her myself. Leave those tickets to me. I’ll try and make the Russia game, thanks,” he said before calling a round.
It was the beginning of a long session. At one point, Vinny could remember raising a pint of stout for the umpteenth time and crying out “To Petra”, who’d laughed and smothered a kiss on his wrinkly forehead. After that, it had all been a bit of a blur.
BETS OF THE WEEK
1pt Europe to win the Ryder Cup 16-12 (12/1, Paddy Power)
2ptsRory McIlroy to be Europe's top points scorer (11/2, Boylesports)
VINNY'S BISMARCK
2ptsLay Tiger Woods to be top Ryder Cup wild card (2/1, Ladbrokes, liability 4pts)
