Better Together (22 page)

‘Didn’t you go yourself?’ asked Sheridan.

‘I . . . no.’

‘Why not?’

‘It was the summer,’ said Nina. ‘We were very busy with the guesthouse.’

Sheridan’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her. ‘But surely . . .’

‘I didn’t feel the need to go and look at the house,’ said Nina. ‘I knew it well before. I’ve lived here all my life.’

‘Are you friends with Paudie?’ asked Sheridan.

‘He’s twelve years older than me,’ said Nina. ‘I know him but I was never close friends with him. He didn’t own the house when I was younger. The Farrellys did. Tina Farrelly was in school with me, that’s how I knew it. He bought it from them after he got married, even though it needed some work done to it.’

‘Right.’

‘He was always ambitious, but he wasn’t a rich man then. He couldn’t afford to do the house up until much later.’

‘Was that the reason his wife fell out of the window?’ asked Sheridan. ‘Because it was rotting away or something.’

‘Of course not,’ said Nina. ‘They’d long since made it habitable.’

‘I’d love to see it.’

‘You can drive by,’ said Nina. ‘It’s hidden by trees, but you can make out the chimney stacks.’

‘Not very interesting.’ Sheridan laughed. ‘What I’d want is to see the window his wife fell out of.’

‘Why?’ Nina looked annoyed. ‘Why would you want to?’

‘It’s the reporter in me,’ admitted Sheridan.

‘You don’t want to go raking all that up again.’ Nina looked anxious. ‘We leave Paudie alone here. He deserves it.’

‘What was his wife like?’ asked Sheridan.

Nina didn’t reply straight away. Sheridan could see that she was back in the past, remembering.

‘She was beautiful,’ she said eventually. ‘She was easily the loveliest woman in Ardbawn.’

‘Did you know her?’ asked Sheridan.

‘Yes.’

‘Friends?’

‘Not really. She was older than me too. Not as old as Paudie, but out of my circle. They came to the guesthouse a few times, though. Sean and I did Sunday lunches for a while. Elva and Paudie used to come.’

‘It must have been a real shock to everyone when it happened.’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t like talking about it.’

‘It’s a private matter,’ said Nina. ‘It was a sad time for the town. For Paudie.’ She swallowed. ‘For everyone.’

‘Was she popular?’ asked Sheridan.

‘She was Ardbawn born and bred,’ said Nina.

‘Did you like her?’

‘I hardly knew her.’

But, thought Sheridan, as Nina got up and put the kettle
on, there’s something about her that bothers you. That you envied. Or disliked. Because whenever you talk about her, there’s a hesitation in your voice. And I’d really like to know why.

She watched Nina as she took tea bags out of a cupboard. I’ve upset her, thought Sheridan. Though that’s probably because of her own marital troubles, not because of anything to do with Paudie O’Malley and his dead wife. Maybe it’s because she’s afraid I’ll go nosing around and upset Mr Slash-and-Burn. It’s clear that everyone in Ardbawn thinks the sun shines out of his arse. But I’m not so certain. And I’m not entirely convinced that his wife’s death was the accident everyone says it was either.

She smiled to herself. She knew she had a vivid imagination and she knew she was letting it run away with her. But she still wanted to know more about the ambitious Paudie and the beautiful Elva.

Nina put the teapot on the table.

‘I’m sorry if I was asking too much,’ Sheridan said. ‘My friend Talia tells me I’m missing the sensitive gene. Comes with having been raised in a testosterone-filled household.’

‘There wasn’t a whole heap of sensitivity in my upbringing either,’ Nina told her. ‘My mother was a “you’ve made your bed now lie in it” sort of woman and she didn’t have much time for tears or tantrums.’

‘She’d have got on well with mine, so.’ Sheridan grinned. ‘Mum was sympathetic about me losing my job, but she wants me to look on it as an opportunity.’

‘It is.’ Nina gave her a slight smile. ‘It’s an opportunity to leave the rat race for a while and find a gentler way here in Ardbawn.’

‘I don’t think life is gentle no matter where you live,’ said Sheridan. ‘It has an unending capacity to bite you on the bum when you’re least expecting it.’

‘You’re right,’ agreed Nina. ‘And I suppose that, after a period of feeling sorry for yourself, you just have to get on with things.’

‘Exactly.’

‘It’s hard sometimes.’

‘I know,’ said Sheridan. ‘But Nina, you’re running the guesthouse on your own and you’re coping. Maybe you need to get out more, but I understand why you want to keep to yourself for a while. When my boyfriend split with me just after I was made redundant, it totally shattered my confidence.’

‘We’re a pair of right old losers, so,’ said Nina.

‘Never!’ Sheridan spoke fiercely. ‘You’re not a loser, and neither am I.’

Nina looked surprised.

‘I’m not allowed to be,’ explained Sheridan. ‘It’s practically mandatory in my family not to give in to anything.’

‘So are you and I going to be cheerleaders for positivity?’ asked Nina.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Fair enough, so.’ Nina nodded. ‘I’ll try to keep that in mind.’

After they’d had another glass of wine, and kept the conversation well away from Ardbawn, Sean Fallon and the O’Malleys, Sheridan left the guesthouse and walked a little unsteadily back to the studio. She was glad that she and Nina had talked and that they’d forged some kind of friendship.
She liked the older woman even if she was a mercurial character. She seemed to know everyone in Ardbawn, which could be useful in the future. Sheridan wondered if she was acquainted with the handsome stranger and his tousle-headed footballing son. She wanted to know more about him. Even though she already knew the only thing that mattered.

He wasn’t available.

She arrived before DJ and Shimmy on Monday morning, but because she didn’t have any keys to the office she waited in the deli, sipping her freshly brewed coffee, until DJ turned up, swinging his Range Rover into the space directly in front of the door. She hurried outside and stood beside him as he opened up the office.

‘It’s going to be weird without Myra,’ he said.

‘I’ll do my best so’s you don’t miss her too much,’ Sheridan told him.

‘I’m sure you will,’ said DJ as they went upstairs. ‘It’s just that she’s been with us a long time. And she’s good at looking after us.’

‘You’re grown men,’ said Sheridan. ‘You can look after yourselves.’

DJ grinned and filled the kettle.

‘I take it you don’t want a cup,’ he said, ‘seeing as you’ve already shelled out a ridiculous amount of money on that muck they make next door.’

‘It’s nice coffee,’ she said defensively. ‘And I had to buy something while I was waiting for you to turn up.’

‘I’ll give you keys,’ said DJ.

‘Thank you.’

She sat at the desk and logged on to the computer. There were a surprising number of emails for the paper, ranging from letters to the editor to notices of upcoming events. There was also an email from Des, the sports reporter, which included a piece about the under-9s match that she’d seen on Saturday, in which he praised the courage and determination of the Ardbawn team and called Josh Meagher a leading light, which Sheridan thought was a bit over the top. In fact Des’s entire piece, while wooden and laden with unnecessary detail, was over the top for a report about a kids’ match, but she supposed that a bit of hyperbole was OK in small-town reporting. She wished she’d seen him there so that she could have introduced herself, but she hadn’t spotted anyone who looked like they were taking notes on the game.

She’d work on his report later. Meantime she skimmed through the postbag for Sarah, the agony aunt, and added the letters to the folder that Myra had left her. She would have to pick the one to answer and already she was in a total quandary. She didn’t know what to say to the woman who was contemplating an affair with her brother-in-law, or to the girl who didn’t have a boyfriend. And as for the man who’d written in saying that he was trapped inside a woman’s body – well, if she said the wrong thing, surely she’d damage his psyche for ever? Yet Myra, younger than her and with no qualifications at all, would probably have had all the answers. Or at least she’d have known what to say.

‘We don’t pretend to give them professional advice,’ she’d told Sheridan. ‘We give them places to go to. All we are is a sympathetic ear.’

But that was part of Sheridan’s problem. She’d never had
to be a sympathetic ear before. Although she always tried to show the positives in her sports reporting, when it came to everyday emotional issues her parents had always told her to exploit people’s weaknesses, not empathise with them.

‘You OK?’ asked DJ at lunchtime, while she was once again looking at a report from Des (this time on a men’s soccer match). It was the dullest piece of sports writing she’d ever had to read and she was wondering how much editing she’d be allowed to do.

‘Not bad,’ she told him.

‘Want to go for a sandwich?’

‘I was going to have one at my desk.’

‘Ah, leave the desk, why don’t you?’ He stood up. ‘C’mon. I’ll take you to the pub. They do a very decent lunch there.’

The Riverside Inn, on the main street, was bright and airy, with a clearly popular menu, because it was very busy when DJ and Sheridan arrived. They sat at a window seat overlooking the plaza (the pub owners had taken a bit of licence with the name, because the river itself was only visible through a high window in the ladies’ loo).

As she still hadn’t got to grips with cooking in her studio, Sheridan took the opportunity to order some hot food, and asked for a burger and chips while DJ opted for a steak.

She’d expected DJ to quiz her over lunch about her thoughts on Ardbawn or her expectations about the job or how she was getting on, but there was very little time to talk because they were constantly being interrupted by people coming over to speak to him. Many of them already knew who she was too, and DJ introduced her to those who didn’t. She realised that the editor was a popular figure in the town
and that many people seemed to think of him as their public representative.

After hearing a woman offload on him about the problems she was having in getting planning permission for an extension to her house, Sheridan said this to him and he laughed good-naturedly.

‘Nobody in Ardbawn has much time for the local councillors or politicians any more,’ he said. ‘Not that all of them are a bad bunch, but there’s too much infighting for them to be really effective. No matter how idealistic they are at the start, it all goes horribly wrong for them in the end. So people use the newspaper as a way of expressing how they feel. Which is what all newspapers should be about.’

‘And getting the facts right,’ she added. Martyn Powell had always told her to write with passion but to get her facts straight too.

‘Sure,’ agreed DJ and then turned away from her. ‘How’ya, Robbie? What’s the news?’

The pinched-faced man with straggling hair who’d come up to DJ chatted for a while about cattle (a conversation that went totally over Sheridan’s head) and then said that he had to go because he had a flight to London later that day.

‘He’s our resident celebrity,’ DJ told her as Robbie left. ‘Used to be in a rock band, Dunston Death Stars, sold a few albums that went platinum, did the drink-and-drugs thing but now embraces healthy living and the country life. He lives in a big house off the Carlow road. Owns a prize-winning herd of Charolais cattle.’

‘I didn’t recognise him,’ said Sheridan. ‘Is he famous?’

‘A bit before your time, pet. And he looks nothing like he did back in the day. The recreational drugs take a bit of
a toll. But he’s all cleaned up and into the whole organic lifestyle now.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Not at all.’ DJ grinned. ‘All life comes to Ardbawn, you know.’

He was distracted again, this time by a woman who stood for a moment in the doorway and then walked over to them and sat down. She was stunningly beautiful, with long blond hair, wide baby-blue eyes and flawless skin.

‘This is Ritz Boland.’ DJ introduced her. ‘She’s the manager of the hotel spa, and every so often she invites me in to lose a few pounds on some mad personalised programme that I never stick to. Ritz, this is Sheridan, our new ace reporter.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Ritz nodded at Sheridan.

‘So what’s new, Ritzy?’ asked DJ. ‘D’you want anything to eat?’

Ritz shook her head and then told DJ that she was interested in doing an advertorial in the paper for some new treatments in the spa but that she wanted a better rate than the last time.

‘Why?’ asked DJ.

‘Because times are tough.’

‘For me too,’ said DJ.

‘Ah, go on.’ Ritz fluttered her long lashes at him. ‘We’re old friends, aren’t we?’

‘You always do your best to twist me round your little finger. But it’s Shimmy you need to talk to,’ said DJ. ‘At least as far as the rates go. Sheridan here will look after the text for you.’

Ritz turned an appraising look towards her. ‘Maybe we could do it as a before-and-after piece on you,’ she said
thoughtfully, and Sheridan spluttered into her water. ‘The aromatherapy wrap would be ideal,’ Ritz said. ‘It takes inches off your thighs.’

‘Why would she want to do that?’ demanded DJ. ‘Women these days are obsessed with looking like sticks. She’s fine the way she is.’

‘Thanks, DJ, but Ritz is right about my thighs.’ Sheridan knew there was no point in being offended. The spa manager was making a professional observation, after all. ‘I’ve always thought they were a bit on the bulky side.’

‘I prefer women with a bit of meat on them,’ said DJ. ‘That’s why me and Ritzy didn’t last the pace, eh, Ritz?’

Sheridan’s eyes widened but Ritz laughed.

‘That and the fact that you had too
much
meat on you. And ate too much of the damn stuff too,’ she said equably. She stood up again. ‘Have a think about the ad, DJ. Give me a call.’

‘Did you really date her?’ asked Sheridan as Ritz left the pub.

‘For three glorious months,’ said DJ. ‘I was the envy of the town because, let’s face it, she’s a cracker. But we have very different views on life.’