Better Together (38 page)

‘Don’t be silly. Of course you can. My brother let you walk and didn’t try to get you back. Foolish man. Though typical of him, I have to say. He’s not good with women. Probably because of the whole boarding-school thing – he never got to meet many of them in his formative dating years. Makes him uptight. So does being the eldest and having an inbuilt sense of responsibility, which happily passed me by. But he’s a decent guy.’

A decent guy. That phrase again. She seemed to be coming off worst in all her entanglements with decent guys these days.

‘I’m sure he is. But it would be weird to meet you instead of him for dinner.’

‘I’m not asking you on an extravagant dinner date to the poshest restaurant in Ardbawn. Which, quite frankly, is so not you. There’s no need to feel weird about it. We can do pub grub if you like.’ Peter made a face at her and then smiled wickedly. ‘C’mon, Sheridan Gray. I’ll give you the low-down on all my father’s business dealings. I’ll be your inside source.’

‘No you won’t,’ she said. ‘And I wouldn’t expect you to either.’

‘Maybe I can give you some family information that will make you see there’s nothing for you to write about.’

‘There’s always something to write about,’ Sheridan told him. ‘The flimsiest of things can be turned into a major story if you play it right.’

‘And is that what you want to do?’ asked Peter.

‘I’d love to have a major story,’ she said. ‘But not about your dad any more.’

‘Because of Joe?’

‘Because of me,’ said Sheridan. ‘I wanted to do an all-guns-blazing story, but even if there is one it would hurt your family. I didn’t think of them before.’

‘You’re more like Joe than I thought.’

‘I’m not a bit like him.’

‘Yes you are. All fair minded and conscience stricken.’

‘Depends on the circumstances,’ said Sheridan.

‘You could write something warm and wonderful,’ said Peter. ‘And I’ll give you the right info if you come to the pub.’

He was insistent. And charming too, although in a different way to Joe.

What the hell, she thought. I might as well talk to all the O’Malleys!

‘OK.’

‘Excellent.’ Peter looked pleased. ‘The Riverside Inn?’

‘Sure.’

He was easier to talk to than Joe. He didn’t make her stomach flip and her legs shake. He was like all the other men she’d gone out with just for fun. That was what she was good at. Being fun and being friends. Not being some kind of sex-bomb in a slinky dress. And not being a hot shot investigative reporter either.

She arranged a time to meet Peter and then went off in search of more owners who looked like their dogs to add to her report for the
Central News
.

She had plenty of time to go home and change before meeting Peter at the pub. There was no need for sexy green dresses, but she wore her most flattering jeans, teaming them with an amber top worn over a white blouse, a combination that always looked well on her. She left her hair loose.

Peter was already there when she walked into the pub, and his face lit up as she approached.

‘I see now why my brother rushed into asking you out,’ he said. ‘You look great.’

Sheridan felt herself blush. She was hopeless with compliments.

‘I love redheads,’ Peter continued. ‘I love their fiery tempers and unbridled impatience.’

‘I’m not your stereotypical redhead,’ said Sheridan as she sat down beside him. ‘I don’t lose my temper easily. Though I’ll admit to the impatience.’

‘It was the red-headed blood that got you sneaking around March Manor trying to find the dirt on Dad,’ he said.

‘No, that was my desire to be a news-hound,’ she said.

‘Ah, well, can’t have everything. What would you like to drink?’

She asked for a non-alcoholic beer, because she’d driven into the town.

Peter ordered it for her, and a pint of Guinness for himself.

‘I hardly ever drink it,’ he confessed as he waited for it to settle. ‘But the Riverside does a lovely pint.’

‘It’s a nice pub.’

‘I don’t come here that often,’ said Peter. ‘It was a different sort of place when I was younger. Darker. Dingier.’ He looked around him. ‘Better now, though.’

‘Tell me about the motorbike racing,’ she said.

Peter talked animatedly about his short-lived bike-racing career and said that he was now working with a motor-sports team in the UK.

‘I’m lucky,’ he said. ‘I’m doing what I always wanted to do.’

‘Did your father ever put pressure on you to join the family business?’ asked Sheridan.

‘No. He knew I’d be hopeless at it. Besides, he had JJ.’

‘How d’you decide whether to call him Joe or JJ?’ she asked.

Peter grinned. ‘Usually Joe at home, JJ for business.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘So now that we know that he fancies you, the question is, how much do you fancy him in return?’

‘Peter!’

‘Well, he asked you to dinner and you said yes, so you can’t find him repellent, despite being an O’Malley boy.’

‘You asked me to dinner too,’ she pointed out. ‘And here I am.’

‘I had to twist your arm to get you here. Are we going to eat, by the way? I’m starving.’

‘Me too,’ she admitted.

‘I’m going for steak and chips, what about you?’

‘Pasta,’ she said.

They ordered the food and settled back in their seats.

‘Ask me,’ said Peter.

‘What?’

‘About my dad. About the business. Any question at all.’

‘No.’

‘Why not? You want to know, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘But nothing. I can give you the whole, unadulterated truth and save you having to skulk around March Manor ever again. Although the truth is boring beyond belief. Our family is boring beyond belief. The only interesting thing about us is that we’re sort of wealthy because my dad is the hardest-working man on the planet. OK, he isn’t great with strangers, he’s wary of them and far too abrupt, but he’s a pussycat at home. He loves his work, loves his businesses and yes, has a ruthless streak, which, if I’m being totally honest, Joe has probably inherited, despite the occasional uptightness. I’m not saying that to put you off him, just to warn you. He’s a stubborn sonofabitch too.’

‘I see.’

‘So if you’ve upset him, he’s not going to come running back to you.’

‘I wasn’t expecting him to, said Sheridan.

‘Which means you
did
only meet him to learn about Dad.’

‘Oh, look, I don’t know why I met him,’ said Sheridan, while still remembering the devastating effect he’d had on
her – the whole butterflies-in-the-stomach, trembling-knees sort of thing that had been so new to her. ‘Anyway, he’s not important.’

‘Pity,’ said Peter. ‘The more I get to know you, the more I think you’d be good for him.’

‘Good for him? Why?’ Sheridan couldn’t help asking the question even though she knew it was pointless.

‘Joe’s very serious, very focused,’ Peter said. ‘Maybe it comes with being the eldest. You . . . well, I get the impression you take a more scattergun approach. Even though I accept you’re focused on your job. Also, you’re more fun than Joe.’

‘You make me sound like therapy for him.’

‘You could be that too.’ Peter winked at her and Sheridan felt her face flame, which caused him to remark that it was now the colour of her hair.

‘Give me a break,’ she said, but she smiled too, because Peter’s laughter hadn’t been cruel, just amused.

‘We’re an OK bunch of people, us O’Malleys,’ he told her. ‘I promise we are. I’m sorry that my dad’s investment in your paper meant you ended up losing your job, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t mark you out personally for the chop. He doesn’t get that involved.’

‘I wanted someone to blame and your dad was an easy target,’ admitted Sheridan. ‘But when I looked him up, I became interested in him.’ She paused. ‘Especially when I read about your mother too. That was a tragedy.’

Peter’s eyes clouded over and she saw his jaw tighten.

‘Yes,’ he said, and his voice was filled with sorrow. ‘Yes, it was. Mum’s accident changed our lives for ever.’

Nina took the big box of photographs from its storage place in the spare room and brought it downstairs. It was a long time since she’d looked through it. She rarely bothered taking photos any more, and those she did were with her mobile phone and consequently never printed, but when she was younger, she’d enjoyed using a camera. Shortly after they’d married, Sean had bought her an expensive Olympus and she’d used it to record their lives together. She’d taken lots of shots of the guesthouse as they’d continued to improve it, and there were plenty of Sean, wielding a drill or a hammer, handsome even with the bad haircuts of the early nineties. Then came Alan and Chrissie’s baby photos, hundreds of them; she hadn’t been able to help herself taking them every single day. Both of her children had been beautiful babies, she thought as she looked at the colour prints. They’d inherited her so-called smouldering eyes, but also Sean’s chiselled features. There were snaps of them as toddlers too, trying to get the attention of the guests, usually succeeding and usual charming them just as Sean did.

Then there were the photos of the Sunday lunches and afternoon teas, the venture she and Sean had offered for a couple of years. It had been a popular thing to do and had raised the profile of the business significantly, although as the children grew older it had become too much trouble. But during the years they’d done it, she’d taken occasional pictures of Sean with the guests, some of which she’d framed and hung in the hallway of the guesthouse.

Now she was looking for a specific photograph. One she’d never framed and hung. She remembered the day clearly, a perfect summer’s day with azure skies and warm breezes. She’d opened the French doors to the patio and set up tables
outside, and every single one had been occupied. Most people had lingered in the garden, soaking up the sun and, in the case of those with an Irish complexion, going a rosy shade of pink. She hadn’t sat out much herself, because she was pregnant with Chrissie and finding any heat exhausting. But later, as the temperatures subsided and the sun slid behind the surrounding trees, she’d joined Sean and the only remaining guests, Paudie O’Malley, his wife Elva and their four children, John-Joe, Sinead, Peter and Cushla. Cushla, the youngest and by far the most stunning in a quartet of attractive children, had spent most of the afternoon playing with baby Alan, while the other three had variously tucked into the additional scones and sandwiches she’d brought out to them and played down by the river.

They were all nice kids. Peter had been a bit of a handful, she remembered, a bundle of energy, struggling to be kept under control. Sinead was friendly and outgoing, while Joe was quiet and watchful. He’d spent a lot of time in the shade of the big apple tree, reading adventure stories while keeping an eye on his brother and sisters. Nina had photographed him and later given the result (a thoughtful, contemplative picture) to Elva. She’d taken other photos of the group too, that day. At one point, when all the children, Joe included, had been messing about on the riverbank, she’d used the camera’s automatic timer to take one of the adults.

She finally found it. There had been two attempts at the photo because she’d made a mistake in the timing of the first one and the shutter had activated before she’d got back to the others. So the photograph in her hand was of Elva, sitting between Paudie and Sean, looking serene and beautiful as she smiled at the camera. The photo in which Nina herself
featured wasn’t as posed because she’d only just made it back to the seat and hadn’t managed to smile. It was still a good picture, though, the four of them framed by the background of greenery and blue skies. Friends and neighbours. Supporting each other as people always did in Ardbawn.

She realised that her fingers were trembling. She had a sudden urge to rip up both photographs. She even started to tear them. But then she stopped. Photos weren’t important. Despite what people said, she knew the camera lied easily. That was why she took so few photographs these days.

The pub had filled up. Several of Shimmy’s friends had arrived, including Roisin and Laura, who stopped beside Peter and Sheridan.

‘Peter O’Malley!’ Roisin hugged him. ‘How’re you? I didn’t know you were back in town.’

‘Only for a couple of weeks,’ he said.

‘Are you staying with your dad?’

Peter nodded.

‘Well tell him he’s looking a bit peaky,’ said Roisin. ‘He was in the office the other day and I thought he needed a bit of TLC.’

Sheridan spluttered. No matter how much his sons would like to paint him as a caring, decent soul, the last man on earth who needed TLC was Slash-and-Burn O’Malley.

‘It’s probably the strain of having me back in the house.’ Peter grinned. ‘But I’ll tell him the staff are concerned. How’re you keeping yourself?’

This is such a village, thought Sheridan as Peter and Roisin chatted for a while. They all bloody well know each other.

‘We were in the same class at school,’ Peter told her after
Roisin and Laura left them to join Shimmy at the back of the bar (the girls had asked Sheridan and Peter to join them, and Peter said that they’d do that after their food). ‘I love Roisin. She’s an angel.’

‘Everybody in Ardbawn seems to love everyone else. Aren’t there any bitter feuds or petty rivalries?’ asked Sheridan. ‘I thought small towns were supposed to be hotbeds of both.’

‘Plenty,’ Peter acknowledged. ‘Kitty Shanahan hasn’t spoken to Lena O’Leary for over fifty years. Something to do with missing cattle, I don’t know the gory details. Jem Baker will never forgive Laurie Kenny for pipping him to the captaincy of the hurling team back in the seventies and then getting him dropped for the final. Stewart Langrishe and Tessa Marks have been living together for forty years but haven’t married, even though they insist that they are husband and wife. I’m sure there’s plenty of more recent stuff too, but I headed off when I was just twenty so I didn’t get the chance to sink into the gossipy morass.’

‘Why did you leave?’

‘For the bike racing, of course,’ said Peter. ‘Besides, I needed to leave home. To be honest, I didn’t like rattling around in March Manor after my mother died. It was never the same.’