Better Together (19 page)

‘I hope it all works out.’ Sheridan knew that her words were trite. But she meant it.

This time Nina’s smile was more substantial. ‘Thank you.
I’m trying to figure out what having it work out actually means. Divorce or . . .’

‘Would you take him back?’ There was a hint of incredulity in Sheridan’s voice. ‘After making him leave?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Nina. ‘You think things are cut and dried, but they’re not.’ It was a comfort to say the words out loud, to share her feelings with someone else, even if that someone was a person she hardly knew. Maybe, she thought, it was easier to talk to a stranger about Sean than the people closest to her.

‘I’ve never properly done the break-up and make-up thing,’ confessed Sheridan. ‘None of my ex-boyfriends ever asked me to make up.’

‘Would you have gone back if they had?’

‘Depends on the boyfriend, I guess.’

‘And even if you go back, things wouldn’t necessarily be the same. Well, they can’t be, can they?’

Sheridan nodded. She realised that she was having the kind of conversation with Nina that she sometimes wished she could have with her own mother. Talking about feelings, which Alice simply didn’t do. Not, she added to herself mentally, that Nina was a mother figure. She was an attractive woman who, while clearly older than Sheridan herself, was still of a younger generation than Alice. Besides, whenever Sheridan had thought about mother–daughter conversations, she’d assumed she’d be the one getting advice, not giving it.

‘Men are always difficult,’ added Nina. ‘We spend far too much time worrying about them and they don’t worry half enough about us in return.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ agreed Sheridan. ‘In reality, my relationships with men have been pretty straightforward. We
go out, it’s good for a while and then it’s over. The only one I felt bad about was my last boyfriend. I thought there might have been more to it, but . . . I was wrong.’

‘You’re better off without him,’ said Nina.

‘We always say that, don’t we?’ Sheridan said. ‘When a couple split up. We always say you’re better off, but what if you’re not?’

What indeed? thought Nina. If someone asked her now was she better off without Sean, she’d have a hard job answering that she was. Because she wasn’t. Telling him to go had been the strong thing to do. It was just that she couldn’t help feeling it had also been the wrong thing to do.

She picked up the newspaper so that she didn’t have to continue the conversation. Sheridan, seeing that the older woman had said all she was going to say, turned her attention back to her laptop. Interesting though Nina and Sean’s lives were, they were none of her business. Paudie O’Malley and his media empire, on the other hand, definitely were.

Nina didn’t want to get up and walk out of the lounge straight away. Sheridan might think she was scurrying away to sob, and she didn’t want her to think that. She was pretty sure that the younger woman already thought of her as a flake for shouting at the TV and then for being uncertain about whether or not she’d take her husband back. She felt a bit of a flake herself. She couldn’t understand why she’d shifted from being furious with Sean to wishing that he was with her again. She tried to tell herself that it was simply because she was used to having him around, but she was afraid it might be because of the solicitor’s letter. But if that was the case, she wanted Sean home to protect the
guesthouse. Not because she truly wanted him back. After all, she’d been brave enough to make him leave. She couldn’t go back on that choice now, could she?

She glanced across at Sheridan, who was apparently engrossed in her computer. A single woman, Nina thought, and therefore someone with idealised notions of love and marriage and how things should be. It wasn’t Sheridan’s fault that the
City Scope
had blown a hole in Nina’s life. And it had been wrong of her to allow her anger to influence the way she felt towards the reporter. It was also wrong of her to start confiding in her. The girl was a paying guest, for heaven’s sake. She needed to treat her that way.

‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’ she asked.

Sheridan looked at her in surprise. ‘Coffee would be lovely. But there’s no need . . .’

‘I’ll bring some in.’ Nina got up and went into the kitchen. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she glanced through the copy of the
Central News
that had been on the kitchen table all week. At least the local paper hadn’t printed awful things about Sean when the news broke. The
Central News
wasn’t sensationalist. She hoped that wouldn’t change with the arrival of Sheridan Gray.

When she’d read her emails (from Talia, hoping things were going well, and from Alice, telling her to work hard and take no prisoners), and had finished surfing the net and updating her social networking pages, Sheridan closed her laptop. Nina hadn’t stayed in the lounge after she’d brought the coffee but had told Sheridan that she’d things to do and disappeared into another part of the house. Sheridan walked into the hallway and called out that she was leaving, but there
was no reply. She shrugged and let herself out of the front door.

The gravel crunched beneath her feet as she walked back to the studio. Even though it was only ten thirty, she was tired. She’d told Nina the truth when she’d said she was run off her feet. The
Central News
was far busier and less homely than she’d expected, and trying to remember everything that Myra told her had left her feeling overwhelmed. DJ seemed to think that it should be a walk in the park for her, but everything was new and different and she was scared of getting things wrong. She was particularly worried about living up to the other girl’s standards when it came to the paper’s financial controls, about which she knew nothing. At the same time she couldn’t wait to get her editorial hands on some of the stuff the contributors were sending in. Even if the
Central News
was a backwater paper, she thought, there was no reason for the writing to be rubbish. If there was nothing else she could do well during her time here, at least she could up the quality of the writing. Although she also wondered how DJ would react if she managed to dig up a sensational warts-and-all story about Slash-and-Burn O’Malley. Would he react like a proper journalist and have the balls to run it? Or would he feel he had no option but to cave in to the man who paid their wages?

On Saturday morning Sheridan left her car outside the newspaper offices and walked into the town. It was the first opportunity she’d had to wander around Ardbawn – during the week she’d been too busy, because every time she’d had a spare moment, she spent it studying Myra’s financial spreadsheets, trying to clamp down on her feelings of hopeless inadequacy. It seemed to her that everything she’d done the previous week had been littered with mistakes or slip-ups. In tackling the admin, she’d somehow managed to delete a spreadsheet of advertising income, which had left Myra totally panic-stricken (fortunately Shimmy had been able to retrieve it eventually from some hidden location on the hard drive); she’d edited a local-interest article to make it more readable, but DJ had undone every single change, telling her that Perry Andrews was a historian who wrote for his fellow history buffs and they never altered a word; finally, she’d been utterly unable to come up with any horoscope predictions, even though Myra had left her alone to do them for an entire afternoon before taking pity on her and rattling them off in less than half an hour.

It had been a traumatic week and she didn’t expect the
following one, when she’d be dealing with things entirely on her own, to be any better. She told herself that this was a challenge to be overcome, but the fear of making a complete fool of herself threatened to overwhelm her. However, on her day off, she shoved her doubts and fears to one side and told herself to embrace the life of the town. Which today was buzzing with activity.

This was mainly because of the farmers’ market, which was set up in the plaza and from where an aroma of freshly baked bread and hot food wafted down the main street. Sheridan spent time browsing the stalls, where some of the townspeople introduced themselves and wished her luck in her new job, something that utterly astonished her until she realised that Myra was at the market too, and had pointed her out to them.

‘They need to know you,’ said Myra, who was wearing a pink woollen hat and a pillar-box-red coat that didn’t quite close over her pregnancy bump. ‘And you need to know them too. Everyone will be on your side, I promise. And listen to me, don’t let DJ take advantage of you and run you off your feet. You’re a better writer than him, you know.’

‘Not really.’

‘Absolutely,’ Myra told her. ‘I read your stuff. Especially what you did to Pompous Perry’s local history article. It was the first time I was ever able to understand a word he wrote.’

Sheridan looked rueful. ‘But DJ changed it all back again.’

‘Ah, don’t mind him. He likes to have a bit of incomprehensible culture in the paper. Makes him feel upmarket.’

This time Sheridan laughed.

‘All the same, I don’t know how you do it,’ she told Myra.
‘You’re completely on top of everything, whereas I’m totally terrified the whole time.’

‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘You’re great, and DJ’s a big aul’ softie.’

‘I’m not afraid of DJ,’ said Sheridan. ‘Just of messing up.’

‘You won’t,’ said Myra confidently.

‘I’m glad you have faith in me.’

‘You’re Sheridan Gray,’ said Myra. ‘You’re a top-notch proper reporter. You’re great. But if you need anything, just call me.’

She sounds just like my mother, thought Sheridan. Totally positive.

‘Hopefully I won’t need to,’ she told her. ‘I want you to be able to put your feet up and enjoy the last few weeks of your pregnancy.’

‘I’m not sure that enjoy is the right word. I feel like I’m carting around a mule at this point.’

‘You
will
be coming back after she’s born, won’t you?’

‘Are you afraid that I will or I won’t?’ asked Myra in amusement.

‘That you won’t.’ Sheridan’s tone was heartfelt.

‘You might like that spot after a few weeks, all the same.’

‘No. Honestly.’

Myra grinned. ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll be back as soon as I can. But listen to me, now, I meant it when I said call me if there’s anything that’s completely stumping you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No bother,’ said Myra. ‘You don’t think I’d throw you to the wolves, d’you?’

‘I thought DJ was a softie.’

‘Even so.’

‘Thanks,’ repeated Sheridan.

‘While you’re here . . .’ Myra turned and waved at a tall, thin girl. ‘This is Jennifer Boyle. She works on the local council. She keeps me in touch with anything that might affect Ardbawn. Jenny – meet Sheridan. She’s a dote.’

‘Everyone’s a dote as far as you’re concerned,’ said Jenny as she extended her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Sheridan.’

‘You too.’

‘I don’t give out confidential information,’ said Jenny. ‘But you’re welcome to call me any time if you need something clarified.’

‘And Jenny will ring you if there’s anything you should know,’ said Myra.

‘Sometimes,’ added Jenny.

‘You’ll get on fine,’ said Myra. ‘Oh, and Sheridan . . .’ She waved at someone else, this time a man wearing an old-fashioned cap. ‘This is Bill Rutherford. He’s the captain of the golf club.’

Bill shook her hand, as did more people that Myra knew – the local florist (takes ads, lovely person), a garage owner (another great source of advertising revenue), a couple of pub owners and a dressmaker. By the time Myra was leaving the market, Sheridan’s head was in a whirl.

Left to her own devices again, she wandered round a bit more and emerged with a couple of warm blueberry muffins, home-made fudge and a russet scarf that she wound loosely around her neck. Then she went into the newsagent’s and picked up the
Central News
. She’d restrained herself from rushing in before doing anything else, not wanting to seem too eager (even if only to herself) to see how the final product looked on the shelves. Once she had it in her hand, she had
to buy it, even though she already knew almost every word of every story.

She’d intended to read it over elevenses in the Blue Rose café, but when she opened the door she could see that there were no free tables. A woman she’d met a couple of times in the deli said hello, while one of the solicitors whose offices were in the commercial centre nodded to her in acknowledgement. It astounded her that she was already becoming someone people in the town knew and greeted. She smiled at them, murmured something about the place being incredibly busy, and left again. As the day was bright and sunny she decided to walk to the playing fields outside the town (and not far from the troublesome housing estate). It was better for her in any event, she reminded herself, to be walking briskly along the road than sitting down drinking coffee and eating cream buns – especially when she had freshly baked muffins too! She was getting incredibly lazy; she hadn’t been for a run since she’d come to Ardbawn. She picked up her pace as she strode towards the playing fields, though because she was hungry she nibbled at a piece of fudge as she went, her hair blowing around her face in the breeze, her neck warm thanks to the new scarf.

She heard the shouts of encouragement long before she reached the Gaelic football pitch, where, she realised, the players were schoolboys. When she finally arrived she stood to one side and listened to the roars of the parents as they exhorted their sons to do even better. Almost immediately she was transported back to the days when she stood between Pat and Alice cheering on either Matt or Con, wanting them to win while wondering if she’d ever find anything her parents would cheer her on for too.

‘Tackle him!’ roared an angelic-looking woman on the sidelines. ‘Give him a kick! Take him out!’

Sheridan knew why the woman was screeching: a boy from the Ardbawn team was racing up the pitch with the ball, leaving the away players stranded in his wake. Just as it looked as though he was bound to score, he tripped and fell and the ball rolled harmlessly out of play. The boy – Sheridan guessed he was about seven or eight – looked for a moment as though he was about to cry. But as the game had moved on without him, he simply hitched up his shorts and pounded back up the pitch again.