Better Together (20 page)

Sheridan couldn’t help laughing. Boys had so much energy, she thought. And they were so damn competitive!

The game ended in a win for Ardbawn, which led to a great cheer from the home supporters and a lot of high-fives on the pitch. Then the boys ran to the sidelines, where they were congratulated by their proud parents. The boy who’d tripped was patted on the head by a tall, dark-haired man wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the club’s logo. He had an athletic build and Sheridan thought he might be a coach too.

‘Never mind, Josh. Anyone could trip.’ His tone was sympathetic but not patronising, and Josh’s face brightened.

‘It was my own fault,’ he admitted. ‘I was looking at the goal and I forgot that the pitch can be bobbly.’

The man patted him on the shoulder. ‘You made a great run. Next time you’ll keep your concentration.’

‘As long as Mr Reid doesn’t drop me.’

‘I’m sure he won’t.’ The man glanced down the pitch to where the coach was chatting to the referee. ‘You played well and the team won.’

‘I s’pose so.’

‘You were very good.’ Sheridan, standing close to them, couldn’t help adding some praise of her own. ‘I haven’t seen anyone as fast as you in a long time.’

‘I do lots of running.’ He looked pleased.

‘And jumping and screaming and shouting,’ the man with him said benevolently, and then turned to Sheridan. ‘Josh is a demon in disguise. It’s just as well he can get rid of some of his energy on the pitch.’

The boy chortled and punched him gently. The two of them wrestled for a bit while Sheridan thought about a possible piece about junior football in the town. Maybe linked to a story about pushy parents. Not that Josh’s father seemed to be a pushy parent, quite the opposite, but Sheridan knew they existed, and the screeches of the angelic-looking woman seemed to put her in that category. She’d once covered an under-13 rugby game in which an enraged father had punched the coach when his son had been substituted. She’d been astounded by the man’s actions but Martyn Powell had told her that assaults on referees in all sorts of team sports were more common than anyone would believe.

‘But it’s only a kids’ game,’ she’d said in total disbelief, and Martyn had said darkly that the kids’ games were the worst.

She supposed she’d better check the paper’s archives before she wrote a story, see if Des had already beaten her to it. She glanced around her, wondering if he was at this match, but she didn’t see anyone who looked like a reporter.

‘I’m starving.’ Josh abandoned the wrestling. ‘Are we going home? Will lunch be ready?’

‘I’m sure your mum has something lovely waiting for you. Doesn’t she always feed you up after a match?’

‘Yes.’ Josh looked pleased. ‘I think she’s doing burgers today.’

‘Excellent. Well, say goodbye to the nice lady who thinks you’re a fast runner, and let’s go.’

‘She’s just telling the truth,’ said Josh complacently. ‘I am fast. Everyone says so.’

‘Yes, but it’s polite to say thank you when someone says something nice about you.’

‘Thank you.’ Josh’s tone was serious, and Sheridan had to bite back a smile.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said.

‘We’d better head off.’ The man put his arm around the boy’s shoulder, and to her utter astonishment, Sheridan felt a lump in her throat. She couldn’t believe that she was getting sentimental about the camaraderie between a father and son at a football match, but there was something about the gesture, so warm and so easy, that touched her.

Then Josh’s father looked up and smiled at her. And this time she felt more than a lump in her throat. This time she felt a surge of electricity race through her, like a physical force. She’d never felt anything like it before. Her heart began to beat faster, her mouth was dry and there was a pleasurable, yet nerve-racking fluttering in the pit of her stomach. On a subliminal level she knew that around her people were talking and laughing about other things, but she didn’t know what those things could be. She couldn’t imagine that there was anything more important than standing here, looking into the eyes of the man in front of her. No man in her life had ever had this effect on her. No one had ever made her feel as if they’d reached into her body and grabbed hold of her heart and soul. She wanted to stay opposite him for the rest
of her life. For time to stand still so that she could be here with him, feeling this way for ever. She was utterly spellbound.

And then the spell was broken.

‘Goodbye.’ His voice was normal and friendly and seemed to come from a million miles away.

‘See ya.’ Josh was already hurrying away.

‘Goodbye. Nice to meet you both.’ She was surprised that she could speak and that the words were sensible.

He turned away from her and hurried after Josh. She stood looking after them, unable to move. She wanted to call out, to make him stop. She wanted to put her arms around him and bury her head in his chest. She was horrified that she felt like this and yet overcome with a desire to do it anyway.

But, of course, she didn’t.

The man and his son were going home to a woman who would have their lunch waiting for them. He had a life of his own in a world of his own, and she could never be a part of it. Her feelings were irrational and irrelevant. She wasn’t the sort of person who was overcome with lust or desire or whatever it was that had so unexpectedly engulfed her.

Besides, she would never have been the right person for him or for Josh. She wasn’t the cooking sort. If they’d been coming home to her expecting food on the table, they would have been sorely disappointed.

She knew it was ridiculous but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. All during the day, as she drove back to the guesthouse and flopped onto the sofa in her studio, as she flicked through the channels of the TV or just stared into space, the man’s face continued to hover in her consciousness. His wide
smile as Josh came off the pitch. The way his black hair stood up in spikes. His dark blue eyes, which had softened whenever he looked at the boy . . . Sheridan didn’t know why she was thinking about him so much and why she was envying fiercely the woman who’d been left at home to do the cooking. But she was.

There was no Sky Sports on the TV, so she couldn’t watch the football, and she didn’t want to go up to the guesthouse itself and ask if it was available there. So she connected up her Wii and began to play World Cup soccer on the tiny TV in the studio. But for the first time in ages she couldn’t get into the game. After a while she abandoned it and flicked through the channels. RTÉ was showing a repeat of
Lost in Translation
with Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson. Sheridan had never seen it before. She sympathised with Scarlett’s character, adrift in Japan, looking for someone and something to make her feel at home. Despite the friendliness of the people she’d met, she was feeling that way herself. Even if she hadn’t had to leave the country for it to happen.

There were no guests booked in for the week ahead. This was normal for a time of the year when bookings were sporadic, but Nina was feeling anxious all the same. Although she had enough money in the bank to weather the quiet times, she wished that the guesthouse was full. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about being alone for the first time in over twenty years. Living on her own hadn’t bothered her after Dolores died. Back then she hadn’t been the sort of person who allowed her imagination to run riot, and she’d never felt that the spirit of her mother (or indeed her father)
was watching over her. Not that Dolores would actually have watched over her, of course; her mother would’ve been a lot more likely to have sent criticism from the grave, telling her that she didn’t need to renovate the house or change the fry-ups to lasagnes or any of the things that Nina had so enjoyed doing. But the point was that she’d been too busy and too optimistic to feel alone. Besides, such an occurrence had been rare. There had been fishermen staying in the house two weeks after Dolores’s death because they’d already booked and there was no way she was going to let them down. Sean had come along shortly afterwards. Her solitary moments had been few and she’d been able to savour them.

Not any more. Being on her own now just ratcheted up her stress levels. And it was another reason why she questioned her motives whenever she considered taking Sean back. Would it be because she still loved him or because she was afraid of being alone?

She went into the kitchen. It was the place where she felt most comfortable, most secure. It had been part of her original renovations so was now a bit dated, with its huge pine cupboards and dressers, although the Belfast sink and the Aga were back in vogue again. But it was warm and welcoming and Nina felt safer there than anywhere else in the house. From the wide window behind the sink she could see the entire length of the garden as it sloped down to the river. She could also see the yellow light in the window of the studio room occupied by Sheridan Gray.

Did the young reporter like being on her own? Did she think it was wonderfully peaceful after a day out and about interviewing people to sit alone in silence? Though Nina
couldn’t imagine her having to do much interviewing in Ardbawn – it was hardly a bustling metropolis. Nevertheless, the
Central News
did do profiles of local people and businesses from time to time, and they covered council meetings and stuff too, so perhaps that was what Sheridan was doing now. And maybe getting involved with the sports coverage, which Sean had always said was risible. ‘How Des Browne can make an exciting hurling match sound like a sedate game of croquet is beyond me,’ he’d once raged after reading a report of a game he’d gone to see. ‘Honestly, the man is a plonker.’ Nina, who wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in sports, had dismissed Sean’s rant, but she wondered if there would be a noticeable difference in the reports as a result of Sheridan’s arrival at the paper.

She sat down at the table and picked up the latest edition. She’d already skimmed through it, but she saw that Des was still doing the sports reports and that so far, at any rate, Sheridan didn’t seem to have written anything at all. She stopped at the problem page. She always read Ask Sarah, up to recently with a sense of superiority that she didn’t have the kind of problems that necessitated writing to a perfect stranger, and with a certain self-satisfaction that she had always managed to overcome things on her own. The issue that Sarah was dealing with this week was a woman who wanted to leave her husband but who didn’t know how she would cope afterwards.

The future is always a blank slate
, she had written in conclusion to her supportive reply.
We are all stronger than we think. We have more support than we think too
.

‘I wish,’ muttered Nina to herself.

She glanced up from the paper and looked out of the
window again. The light in Sheridan’s studio had gone out. She looked at her watch. It was only ten thirty. It seemed awfully early for Sheridan to have gone to bed, but she would have heard a car starting up if her guest tenant had gone out.

Maybe Sheridan was lonely too. Maybe it would be a nice gesture to ask her to come to the house for dinner. She’d seemed a pleasant enough sort of person, despite her allegiance to the
City Scope
and her views about journalistic ethics. And Nina supposed she couldn’t blame her for those.

Perhaps we could have coffee together from time to time, she thought. It doesn’t make sense that the two of us should be sitting in on our own when we could at least share some time together. I’ll ask her tomorrow. And if she doesn’t want to come, at least I’ll have tried.

Sheridan decided to go for a jog the following day. Both her acknowledgement that she was getting lazy and seeing the boys running around on the sports pitch had reignited her desire to do something active again. Besides, she tended to put on the pounds when she was sedentary, and she couldn’t really afford to let that happen.

She was a little nervous as she started out, being more used to city streets than country roads, but eventually she got into the rhythm of it and enjoyed the sound of birdsong as her feet covered the easy eight-kilometre distance she’d set herself. She’d just arrived back when the internal phone rang, startling her so much she nearly knocked it from the table. It had never rung before – anyone who wanted to contact her had her mobile number; she doubted she’d even given a landline one to Alice.

‘Hello,’ she said tentatively, and then realised that of course Nina Fallon would use it to ring her and she was particularly stupid not to have guessed that. She listened in surprise as Nina extended an invitation to the house – nothing exciting, just a bite to eat, she said. Sheridan was uncertain at first about accepting, but then, thinking that the other woman was clearly trying to be friendly after the awkwardness of the other night, she said she’d be delighted.

A few hours later she was sitting in Nina’s aroma-filled kitchen and removing her fleece because the heat from the Aga made it totally unnecessary.

‘It’s just roast chicken,’ said Nina, who’d decided that it would be nicer to invite Sheridan for food rather than just a cup of coffee. ‘Not very challenging, but Brian, the butcher, was doing a great deal on them this week and so I thought it would be nice. Then I realised I’d be eating it alone.’

‘No better woman than me to make a dent in food,’ Sheridan told her, which made Nina laugh.

She set to work on the chicken with enthusiasm, hungry from her run earlier, rueing the fact that her own limited skills in the kitchen were being sadly exposed by the cooking facilities of the studio, and also thinking that if she didn’t want to gain weight, she shouldn’t take up Nina’s offers of food too often, because the guesthouse owner was a very good cook indeed. She’d also uncorked a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, from which she’d poured them both a generous glass.

‘I wanted to apologise to you for the night you were here before,’ she said quickly to Sheridan. ‘I offloaded on you about my marital troubles, which was very unprofessional of me.’

‘Not if you were blaming them on me,’ said Sheridan.