Better Together (47 page)

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked again. ‘You’ve gone really quiet and you’re awfully pale.’

‘I . . .’ She didn’t want to believe that his concern wasn’t genuine. She didn’t want to believe that she was so wrong about him. That he wasn’t the person she thought he was. She thought of the first time she’d seen him, cheering Josh on on the football pitch, his honest, open enjoyment in his nephew’s success. Joe O’Malley was a good man, she told herself. I have to tell him. Everything.

‘I know you brought your car, but would you like me to drive you home?’ asked Joe. ‘You seem a bit distracted.’

‘That would be great.’ She would tell him about Alo’s story as he drove. She would give him the chance to explain himself. And she’d believe him.

Joe put his arm around her shoulder as they walked the short distance to his car. She sank into the passenger seat, thinking that she could get to like luxury cars, with their walnut trims and leather smell. When Joe got in on the other side, she wondered for a moment if he was going to lean over and kiss her, like Matt or Con’s friends had done in
the early days when they’d used her to practise their seduction skills. If he kisses me here and now, he’s a fake, she decided.

Joe simply started the car and drove smoothly towards the guesthouse. But she couldn’t find the right words to say what she wanted. Which was ironic, she thought. She was a reporter. She wasn’t supposed to be lost for words.

‘D’you want to come in for coffee?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

OK, so that whole coffee thing is sort of naff, she told herself as she led him inside. But it’s a better environment in which to tackle thorny issues.

Joe sat on the sofa and flicked through the
Central News
while she busied herself with the kettle and cups, suddenly feeling like a teenager again. Right, she said as she poured boiling water on to the granules, cards-on-the-table time. Open and honest. That’s what he is, that’s what I’m going to be.

She felt him standing behind her. She turned around.

And then he kissed her.

And she knew that the discussions could wait. Because this moment was more important than anything that had ever happened to her before.

She didn’t realise she’d fallen asleep until she suddenly jerked awake. Joe was sliding his arm from beneath her neck.

‘I’m so sorry for waking you,’ he said as he flexed his wrist. ‘But I’ve lost all feeling in it.’

She moved her head. ‘It was a lovely sleep,’ she told him. ‘I haven’t conked out like that since I came here. It’s too quiet, you see.’

He kissed her and she felt herself dissolve beneath him.

Later, when she came up for air, she wondered if it would always be like this. If she would always love him. If he would always make her feel this way.

‘Would you like anything to drink?’ she asked as she sat up and ran her fingers through her tousled hair.

‘I’m drunk on you,’ he said, and then looked shamefaced. ‘Sorry, that’s so clichéd and awful, you probably want to hit me.’

She punched him gently on the chest and told him that she was an expert in awful clichés.

‘A game of two halves, sick as a parrot, the boy done good . . .’

‘Stop, stop!’ he laughed. ‘Water would be nice.’

She clambered out of the bed and pulled her long sweatshirt over her naked body. She went to the fridge and took out two bottles of Vittel, handing one of them to him.

‘That was – amazing,’ she told him.

‘I know.’ He drank some water. ‘You make me feel . . .’

‘. . . like dancing,’ she finished for him with a smile.

‘Not quite.’ He grinned. ‘I’m a hopeless dancer. Desperate sense of rhythm.’

‘Your rhythm seemed damn good to me,’ she told him.

He laughed and then kissed her. And kissed her again. And it was still amazing.

Later, she finished her water and left him sitting on the bed while she went to the bathroom. She hardly recognised the face that looked back at her from the mirror. There was a glow to her cheeks that she’d never seen before, a certain lift to her mouth that made her look slightly wanton and definitely sexy. She’d changed. Because of Joe.

She’d never realised that love could be like this. So intense, so deep, so absolutely perfect. She couldn’t have imagined it could happen to her here, in Ardbawn, where she hadn’t even wanted to be.

Nina had spent most of the day working. Her guests had arrived over the course of the afternoon and early evening, not leaving her any time to get back to looking at the photos and cuttings for Perry’s exhibition. She’d seen the small pile of photos that Sheridan had thought might be of interest, and she decided to look through them when the guests were settled and she had some time to herself.

But it had taken longer than she expected, especially as six of them had decided to eat in and she’d had to prepare a meal and clear up afterwards. She didn’t mind that at all. She enjoyed looking after her guests, and besides, six for dinner was good money.

She left them sitting in the residents’ lounge after the meal, and was about to go into the sitting room when the phone rang. It was Sean.

‘Just checking in on you,’ he said.

‘Checking in on me? In what way? Making sure I haven’t run off or something?’

‘I know you’d never do that,’ he said. ‘Your heart is in the house.’

‘You’re right.’

‘Have you been thinking about me?’ he asked.

‘I never stop thinking about you.’ Her tone was dry, but he said he was glad to hear it.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘It was a busy day today, lots of guests staying, and I have things to do.’

‘Of course it should all be looking up from here on in,’ he said. ‘The festival will bring more punters to the town. How are the preparations going for that?’

Even though she didn’t really want to spend time talking to him as though everything between them was back to normal, she told him about the exhibition, and he said that was a good idea and that he’d love to come home for it. For the whole festival, he said. He missed the Ardbawn community. He missed his life there.

‘You used to say we were in a backwater,’ she told him.

‘But
our
backwater,’ he said, and despite herself, she felt her heart warm towards him. They’d shared so much, she thought. They’d come through bad times before. Perhaps she should give him another chance.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Come for the festival. Stay here. We’ll talk then.’

‘You mean it?’

‘I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.’

‘That’s wonderful.’

‘How’s the recording for the new show you’re doing coming along?’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Fun. Different to
Chandler’s Park
, though.’

‘How long are you going to be in the coma for?’

‘God knows,’ he said. ‘Hard to tell. They’re trying to save money on the production at the moment. Have you noticed
that all the scenes are just the main characters, people who’re still in contract? There aren’t any extras.’

She hadn’t noticed because she hadn’t been watching. But she didn’t tell him that.

‘I can’t wait to see you,’ he told her.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing you too.’

Which was sort of true. She wished she didn’t feel so damn conflicted where Sean was concerned. She sat down at the kitchen table and stared into space. It was important to get it right this time, she thought. She was older now. She couldn’t afford to make any wrong choices.

It was late by the time she abandoned the kitchen and went into the sitting room, bringing a glass of wine with her. She pulled up a chair and picked up the photos that Sheridan had chosen. The reporter was right, Nina thought. She had an excellent eye for a shot, and each picture that she’d put in the pile was, in some way, quirky or clever or evocative of time and place. Nina knew some of the people in the black-and-white photos because they’d been friends of Dolores or John. But many of them were strangers to her, and she wondered about them as she gazed at their faces with their fixed expressions or camera-ready smiles. She wondered if she knew their sons or their daughters, if they were still living in Ardbawn or if they’d moved on.

It’s all so transient, she thought as she studied a photo of an elderly woman standing outside what had once been Meagher’s Bakery but was now the Centra. In fifty years, sixty, would someone see a photograph of her and wonder who she was and what her life had been like? Or would they simply look on the internet and see that she was the
ex-wife of Sean Fallon, the heart-throb actor, who’d left her for an actress called Lulu Adams? Or – the thought made her smile very faintly – would they say that he was the heart-throb actor who’d been thrown out of his home by his ex-wife?

Suddenly her eyes narrowed. She looked at one of the boxes, its lid slightly askew, and she swallowed hard. She hadn’t meant to put that box out. It must have been because she’d been looking through it before. It was the personal box, filled with family photos, the children’s school reports, silly tokens from Christmas crackers that she’d kept to remind her of fun times, communion and confirmation medals . . . and everything else. Her heart thudded faster as she thought of what it contained. She opened the box. The envelope was sitting on the top. And it was empty.

There was an oblong of orange light coming from the window of Sheridan’s studio. Even though it was now very late, Nina pulled on a cardigan and walked towards it, trying not to make too much noise on the gravel. But when she got there, she realised that Sheridan’s Beetle wasn’t outside. She didn’t know who the silver convertible belonged to.

She stood hesitantly beside the front door, unable to hear any sounds from within, and uncertain of her next move. As the light was on, she assumed that there was someone inside. If she rapped at the door and a stranger answered it, what on earth would she say? I’ll ask them what the hell they’re doing in the studio, she told herself firmly. Because only Sheridan Gray should be there.

She took a deep breath. She couldn’t stand here all night
dithering. She had to act. She formed her hand into a fist and rapped loudly on the door.

Sheridan jumped in fright when she heard the knock. She came out of the bathroom and stood in the centre of the studio. Joe had already pulled on his jeans and jumper.

‘It must be Nina,’ said Sheridan. ‘Though why she’s here this late . . . Something must be wrong.’

‘I’ll open it,’ Joe said.

‘Not till I put on some more clothes.’ Sheridan grabbed a pair of tracksuit bottoms to cover her naked behind and wriggled into them.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘You can go ahead now.’

Nina blinked in the light spilling out from the open door, then blinked again in surprise at seeing Joe O’Malley standing there. When Sheridan had told her that she was meeting Paudie’s son for dinner she’d been shocked, but she’d never for a moment expected that he’d come back to the studio with her.

‘Is everything all right, Nina?’ asked Joe.

She stared at him wordlessly.

‘Has something happened at the house? Do you want me to check it out for you?’

She still couldn’t speak.

‘Are you all right yourself? Do you need help?’

‘Hi, Nina.’ Sheridan appeared behind Joe. Her expression was one of acute embarrassment. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No. No.’ This was turning into an even worse nightmare than she’d thought. Nina had come to accuse Sheridan of taking something that didn’t belong to her. But if she started
hurling allegations around now, she’d seem like a deranged, narrow-minded countrywoman throwing a strop because two grown adults were having sex in the studio. Even if they were the two unlikeliest candidates for getting it together that she could’ve imagined.

‘Come in,’ said Joe.

Nina stepped over Sheridan’s carelessly abandoned shoes as she walked inside. Sheridan scooped them up and threw them into the wardrobe.

‘Would you like tea?’ she asked.

‘I’m not here for tea,’ said Nina.

‘Is there a problem?’ Sheridan’s voice was anxious. ‘It’s OK for Joe to be here, isn’t it? You said I could have people to stay.’ Actually, Sheridan realised, Nina had told her to let her know if she was going to have guests so that she could make up the sofa bed. She hadn’t mentioned anything about bringing men back to the studio for mind-blowing sex.

Nina brushed her hand through her hair as she wrestled with what she wanted to say.

‘What’s the matter, Nina?’ asked Joe. His voice was calm and measured. ‘Is it something to do with you or with us?’

The way he said ‘us’ startled Nina. As though he and Sheridan were more than just people having casual sex. As though there was more to their relationship than that. But there couldn’t be. He was Paudie’s son. Sheridan hated Paudie. She wouldn’t have anything to do with his family.

Oh my God, she thought suddenly, had Sheridan had a grand plan when she’d come to Ardbawn? Get close to Paudie’s son? Find out about the past? Put together an exposé of things that were better forgotten?

I thought I knew her. I thought I liked her. But she’s way more devious than I could ever have imagined.

Despite Nina’s comment that she wasn’t there for tea, Sheridan had boiled a kettle of water and was making some anyway. She couldn’t believe that the older woman was getting into a state about Joe being in the studio. How had she found out about it anyway? Had someone from the town seen Sheridan getting into Joe’s car? Had they phoned Nina to say so? Was Ardbawn far more of a backwater than she’d ever believed? What business was it of anyone’s that she was with Joe?

She poured tea for Nina into a brightly coloured mug and handed it to her. Nina took it automatically and wrapped her hands around it.

‘So, do you want to tell us what this is all about?’ asked Joe.

‘You should ask her.’ Nina looked at Sheridan. ‘Everything’s to do with her. The lying, scheming, thieving—’

‘Nina!’ Joe interrupted her.

Sheridan felt the blood drain from her face. It was almost inconceivable, she thought, that everything to do with Paudie, Elva and Sean had been utterly and completely driven from her mind by the time she’d just spent with Joe O’Malley. But it was true. Nothing had mattered more to her than being with him, exploring his body, talking to him, realising that the electricity was real, but more than that, discovering that she loved him . . . She put her mug on the table beside Joe’s. If she hadn’t, she would have dropped it.