Better Together (43 page)

‘OK, then. Maybe an extra hour. Or two.’

‘Sure,’ said Paudie.

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll see you later, then,’ he said.

‘Today?’ She couldn’t help sounding appalled. She didn’t want to see Paudie O’Malley again. He’d be sure to want to
talk about her incursion into his home, and God only knew what else.

‘Depends on how well you get on,’ he said, which made her feel even more appalled. Would he throw a complete wobbler if she didn’t manage to get the paper to bed in time? Was he testing her? And then the horrible thought – were they all testing her? Was the spice burger story a complete fabrication? Were they putting her under pressure for no apparent reason . . . did they want her to fail?

I won’t fail, she told herself, as she dragged and dropped another article into the right place. I absolutely won’t. And this is going to be a great edition of the
Central News
. She grimaced as she turned her attention to the horoscopes. She’d finished them that morning. She’d instructed Leos not to hold back. Which meant, she thought, that she should be a bit firmer with Mr Slash-and-Burn. She looked up from the desk.

But he’d already gone.

It was the strident ringing of her mobile phone that eventually woke Sheridan the following morning. It took her a few seconds to find it, underneath the bed where it had somehow ended up the previous night. Despite her optimism, the newspaper file had been over an hour late in reaching the printer, and by the time she’d left the office she was tense and drained. She’d kept an eye out for Paudie O’Malley but hadn’t seen him, and so she’d hurried into her car and back to the studio as quickly as possible. She realised, as soon as she got home, that she was absolutely ravenous, so she’d called the local Chinese takeaway, which had delivered an enormous portion of kung-po chicken and rice. She ate in front of the TV, watching an episode of
CSI: Miami
, still vaguely anxious about the paper and hoping that she hadn’t made some mind-blowing mistake that would only be revealed when it hit the news-stands. She’d washed the food down with a can of beer, thinking that a late-night takeaway plus beer plus telly had turned her into a clichéd sports journalist. But the most important thing, she’d told herself, was that she’d got the job done. The
Central News
would be in the
shops the following day. She’d been thrown in at the deep end and she’d survived.

She spent the rest of the evening with her feet up, treating herself to another beer, which had the effect of making her so sleepy that she crawled into bed without bothering to tidy away the empty cans and dirty plates.

It had given her a bit of a hangover too, she thought as she finally answered the phone, yawning.

‘Hi, Sheridan, it’s me.’

‘DJ, how’s it going?’ She hauled herself into an upright position and looked at her watch. No wonder I’m still feeling ropey she thought. It’s only eight o’clock in the morning.

‘I heard you were on your own yesterday,’ said DJ. ‘That plonker Shimmy never turned up.’

‘No more a plonker than you,’ she retorted. ‘Honest to God, DJ. Spice burgers. Have you no bloody sense?’

‘I like spice burgers,’ he said defensively.

‘Yeah, well, they didn’t do either of you much good. Anyway, Shimmy called in first, so he was perfectly entitled to stay off. He said he was sick as a dog. Sounded it too.’

‘I wasn’t much better myself,’ admitted DJ. ‘Listen, pet, I’m sorry that you were stuck on your own like that, today of all days. I can’t believe you got everything done.’

‘It wasn’t that hard,’ she said. ‘We had most of the articles ready. It was just layout.’

‘You’ve never done that before.’

‘I know how to do it, though,’ she said. ‘Let’s face it, anyone can pull a paper together with the right computer program. I was just worried I’d make a complete hash of it. I might have yet,’ she added. ‘I haven’t seen the finished product.’

‘I have,’ said DJ. ‘Paudie brought it round to me this morning.’

Paudie! What had he said about her?

‘He thought you did a fantastic job,’ DJ told her, as though she’d spoken out loud. ‘He said that when he called into the office you had your head down and were working full steam ahead.’

‘Mainly because of all the small ads,’ she told him. ‘I know how you feel about the advertising revenue, so I had to make room for them.’

DJ laughed. ‘You’ve become quite the corporate mogul, worrying about revenue!’

‘Oh well.’ She massaged the back of her neck. ‘The bottom line is important.’

‘Anyway, I’m just ringing to say well done, and thanks for not cracking up or walking out.’

‘Why would I do that?’ she asked, truly surprised. ‘It’s my job.’

DJ’s silence reminded her that it wasn’t really. She was still only a temp, no matter how well she’d done. And the truth was that Myra probably would’ve coped just as well, if not better. The chances were she wouldn’t have missed the deadline and had the printing press working late as a result. Sheridan suddenly wondered if Paudie had had to pay overtime to the printers. And if her edition of the paper (she couldn’t help thinking of it as hers) had ultimately cost more money than it would bring in.

Not my problem, she muttered to herself after DJ had congratulated her again before hanging up. I did what I had to do. And from my perspective it worked out OK.

She was a couple of minutes out of the shower when the
phone rang again. This time it was Shimmy telling her that she’d done a great job and that DJ had already been on to him singing her praises. Sheridan couldn’t help smiling. She’d been silly to worry about the printers’ overtime. All that mattered was that the paper was out on time. And it was.

She was feeling so energised after Shimmy’s call that, after she’d tidied up, she decided to go for a run. It shocked her to think that she’d taken so little exercise since coming to Ardbawn, but the truth was her heart hadn’t been in it, and anyhow she was more used to running on city streets than country roads. But this morning, her hangover washed away by her shower, she felt ready to get out there again.

She pulled on her leggings and her fleece and laced up her running shoes. Then she stepped outside into a morning that was bright and clear. She knew that the chill that was still in the air would eventually dissipate. She stretched a few times, then began to run down the driveway, her stride easy and even and her breathing calm and controlled.

She avoided the main turn for Ardbawn and continued to follow the twisty, winding road as it crossed the countryside. There was very little traffic, and the only sound she heard, apart from her own breathing, was the continual chirping of the birds.

I could get to like this, she thought. I could get to like Ardbawn. In fact I do like Ardbawn, although I’m still not sure I could live here my whole life. But there’s something very relaxing about being able to run through the country all on my own.

After nearly ten kilometres she was tiring rapidly. She put it down to the beer and the Chinese food as well as being out of condition, because she’d often run that far without it
taking too much of a toll. To be fair, though, she told herself, the road was on a bit of an incline, so she’d been running uphill the whole time. It also looped around the town, and she figured that it would ultimately bring her back into it, although approaching it from the north rather than the south. Which would be a good thing, she decided. She could pop into the newsagent’s and pick up a copy of the
Central News
. Maybe more than a single copy. She wanted to send one to her parents to show them that she’d put an entire newspaper together.

As she drew nearer the town, she could hear the sounds of cheers coming from the playing fields. She would be running straight past them, she realised. And even as she approached, she knew she’d stop and see who was playing.

The game had just started and it was, once again, a match between the Ardbawn Under-9s and a rival team from a local town. She recognised Josh Meagher almost immediately. He was making a blistering run up the pitch, keeping control of the ball and watching for the opposition tackle that was certain to come. He managed to evade two defenders and then finally launched a shot, which the keeper tried to block. But the force of Josh’s kick was too much, and the ball ended up in the back of the net.

The crowd cheered ecstatically and, louder than all the rest, Sheridan heard Joe’s voice.

‘Brilliant score, Josh!’ he shouted. ‘Way to go!’

Josh looked up at the stands and waved to his uncle, who was on his feet, punching the air, oblivious to anyone but his nephew. Sheridan couldn’t help smiling. She loved the passion of sport. She loved how enthusiastic the spectators got. She couldn’t help it. It was in her blood.

She stretched her legs as she continued to watch the game. By the end of the first half, the opposition had equalised thanks to a tall, gangly attacker who had managed to shoot over the bar three times for points. The excitement in Gaelic football, Sheridan always thought, was the fact that players could score points as well as goals. With three points equalling one goal, it meant that games could be fast, furious and close even if one team didn’t manage to get the ball in the back of the net.

She had to wait and see how things turned out. It was work, after all. The following week she’d be editing Des’s match report and turning it into something that people wanted to read. (She still hadn’t met Des, and sometimes wondered if he attended any of the matches he wrote about, or if he didn’t just get a rundown from someone else who’d been there.)

Early in the second half, the opposition racked up another five points and maintained their attack with a greater ferocity than before, which left the Ardbawn boys looking tired and dispirited. Then one of Josh’s teammates scored a complete fluke of a goal from an improbable angle, which meant that they were only two points behind. The goal infused them with a new burst of energy and they set about attacking their opponents’ half with fresh enthusiasm. Sheridan was close to the action herself now, shouting encouragement from the sidelines, urging the boys on. With less than a minute to go, Josh got control of the ball once again and raced down the pitch.

‘Go for a goal, Josh!’ Sheridan yelled, although she knew the boy couldn’t hear her. ‘A point isn’t enough.’

The supporters of both teams held their breath as Josh
drew near the goal mouth. The Ardbawn supporters looked anxious because it seemed to them that Josh had totally forgotten that a single point would mean they would lose the match and he was shaping up to go for a shot over the bar. The supporters of the visiting team were shouting at him to kick it high.

Josh steadied himself. The young keeper stretched out his arms, trying to force him to go for the shot over the bar. And then, calmly and decisively, Josh sent the ball past him, where it rolled into the corner of the net.

Everyone in the stands jumped up and down, shouting with joy. Sheridan realised that she was almost in tears. She sniffed a couple of times, telling herself that she needed to get a grip when it came to games. This was just a kids’ league match. Nice to win, of course, but hardly a cup final. And yet the unconfined elation of the team was impossible to ignore. The boys were racing up the pitch to Josh, arms held aloft in delight. The woman standing beside her, the mother of the Ardbawn goalie, slapped her on the back. The two of them embraced. And then the final whistle blew.

‘Hey, Sheridan!’ Josh ran over to her. ‘I saw you there. I heard you yelling at me.’

‘You did?’

‘Everyone heard you.’ It was Joe, who was suddenly by her side. ‘I think you were single-handedly driving the team forward.’

‘Really?’ Even as her heart fluttered at Joe’s proximity, Sheridan blushed at the thought that she’d made a show of herself at the match.

‘Really.’ Joe nodded. ‘You’ve got a proper passion for it, haven’t you?’

‘I like to see people winning,’ she said.

‘Which we did.’ Josh sounded satisfied. ‘And I scored two goals. I’m man of the match. Definitely. I’ve got to talk to the coach!’ He scampered away, leaving Joe and Sheridan standing together, the atmosphere between them suddenly tense.

‘How’ve you been?’ Joe spoke first.

‘Oh, good. Busy. And you?’

‘Busy too. Not so good, though.’

She turned to look at him. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve been wondering how it is we seem to be totally on the wrong foot with each other.’

‘I guess . . . Well, you thought I was one kind of person, and I’m probably not.’

‘I thought you were a nice, fun-loving girl, which I still think you are.’

Sheridan said nothing.

‘I was a bit taken aback when you walked out on me,’ continued Joe. ‘Nothing you said to me that night was so awful that we couldn’t have discussed it further. And then I saw you with Peter.’ His brow furrowed.

‘Ah, Peter.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I like Peter, he’s a good guy.’

‘He breaks women’s hearts,’ Joe told her.

She made a face. ‘All men do that.’

‘Nevertheless . . .’

‘Are you warning me off him?’ she asked.

‘I wanted to,’ confessed Joe. ‘When I saw the two of you together, I was . . . I felt . . .’

‘You were with Ritz Boland,’ Sheridan pointed out. ‘The most glamorous woman in Ardbawn.’

‘She is, isn’t she?’ Joe said. ‘Way too glam for me, though. But good company.’

‘Seems like we were both out with people who were good company. And both entitled to be, because you thought I’d met you under false pretences and you were angry with me and I don’t think I would’ve changed your mind that night no matter what you say now.’

‘I was . . . Oh, look, let’s not do the whole opening-up-our-hearts thing here on the side of a football pitch. It’s hardly the time or the place.’

‘It’s a perfect place,’ she said with a smile. ‘But maybe not a good time.’

‘How about we choose another time?’ suggested Joe.

‘To talk?’

‘To have that dinner,’ he said. ‘To pick up where we allowed ourselves to get distracted.’

She was trying not to allow the smile to break into a large grin. Because she could feel it again. The fluttering stomach, the jelly legs, the feeling that Joe O’Malley was the most important person in her life.