‘It’s not that. It’s just . . . I don’t want to be overwhelmed by you, Sean.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘That’s what you do,’ said Nina. ‘You take people over. You get into their heads and their lives and you make them think that they’re the most important person in the world to you. And then you move on, and they’re not.’
‘You’re talking absolute bullshit,’ said Sean. ‘I didn’t do that to you, Nina. You’ve always been a strong person, with or without me.’
‘Maybe I’m stronger without you.’
He stared at her. ‘You can’t mean that.’
‘I used not to think so. But now . . . I feel like we were living a lie before. That the only reason you were with me was because you and your dad thought it was a good idea. There was the house, after all, and—’
‘Oh my God, you’re not banging that old drum again, are you? It’s a long, long time since you thought I married you for some bricks and mortar.’
‘It felt like it when I got your solicitor’s letter,’ she told him. ‘The one where you said you wanted to come back or you wanted your share.’
‘I told you, I needed to send you something to make you think.’
‘What it made me think was that the house mattered more to you than I did.’
‘That’s not true, Nina,’ said Sean. ‘It isn’t. You’re the constant thing in my life. The person who matters to me the most.’
‘Am I?’
He looked at her warily. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Absolutely nothing. I just want to be sure that whatever choice I make, it’s for the right reason.’
‘There is only one choice, Nina. You and me. We’re a team. We always have been, no matter what.’
They sat in silence for a moment. A group of people came into the bar. To her surprise, Nina recognised JJ O’Malley among them. His tall frame towered over the others, reminding her of Paudie. Now there was a man with real inner strength, she thought. After Elva’s death he had been a rock for his children. And he’d lived his life in a focused way ever since.
She wondered if he was happy.
She wondered how easy he found it to forgive.
Sheridan was hyperventilating. She was telling herself to stay calm, but she was finding it difficult, because the deadline for getting the paper to the printer was drawing closer and closer, and she was on her own in the office, trying to get everything done. The reason she was alone was that DJ and Shimmy had both called in unwell that day.
Shimmy had phoned first, a couple of minutes after nine, telling her that he had some kind of bug and had been sick all night. He shared some graphic descriptions of how ill he’d been, until she told him to stop, that she believed him. He said that everything was up to date and she didn’t need to worry because DJ knew what needed to be done, but that he simply couldn’t come in, he was as weak as a kitten and had a blinding headache. Sheridan assured him that she wasn’t a bit worried and that he should look after himself. Then she’d got on with her own work and waited for DJ to arrive. It had been half an hour later when he’d called, with the exact same symptoms as Shimmy. She knew that they’d both been in Kilkenny the previous evening, meeting with an IT expert (something to do with their website hosting, the details of which had completely passed her by), and at first she thought that they must have been on the total lash and were both suffering from alcohol poisoning, but DJ assured her that he’d only had a couple of pints.
‘We were a bit silly,’ he conceded groggily. ‘We got spice burgers on the way home. I should know better, I always get sick after spice burgers. Fortunately Shimmy has a cast-iron stomach and can eat anything.’
She didn’t tell him that Shimmy hadn’t come in either, and that he’d sounded even worse than DJ himself on the phone. There was no point in the editor getting stressed about the newspaper as well as being ill. So she said the same as she’d said to Shimmy, that she hoped he’d feel better soon and that he should take care of himself, then she applied herself to getting the paper ready.
She’d been quietly confident, because although she hadn’t had to do it all before, she understood the processes now. It wasn’t complicated. But it was all taking so much more time than she’d expected, and for some inexplicable reason the phone kept ringing, with people wanting to give information about local events or ask questions about placing small ads for the weekend’s edition. Usually the small ads were all done by email, and she couldn’t understand why the one day that she didn’t have time to talk, so many of Ardbawn’s residents seemed to want to chat instead of simply getting on with things.
She was rearranging a page layout when the buzzer sounded. She groaned softly.
‘I’m here to see DJ.’ The voice through the speaker was brusque.
It was easier to buzz the visitor in than try to explain over the intercom where her boss was. Besides, in the few seconds it took him to come up the stairs, she managed to drag an article to the correct place on the page and anchor it there.
She looked up as the door opened. She recognised the man immediately, even though he was older and his hair was greyer than she’d expected. But there was no mistaking the tall, well-built frame, or the blue eyes in the slightly weathered face. She felt her stomach lurch.
‘Paudie O’Malley,’ he said. ‘Where’s DJ?’
She’d often thought about how she’d feel if and when she came face to face with Mr Slash-and-Burn. Angry, she thought. Resentful. Perhaps slightly intimidated. Right now, although she felt all of those things, her overriding emotion was annoyance that he was interrupting her when she was so busy.
‘Not here,’ she said succinctly. ‘Off sick.’
‘Today?’ Paudie’s eyes darkened. ‘When the paper is going to press?’
‘Yeah, well, a dodgy spice burger holds no respect for deadlines,’ said Sheridan.
‘Spice burger?’ Paudie looked appalled. Sheridan supposed that the millionaire businessman wouldn’t be seen dead in a chipper getting a greasy burger and chips. Paudie O’Malley was more of your fine-dining sort of person.
‘Him and Shimmy both,’ she said.
‘Seamus is off too? You’re here on your own?’ This time he sounded horrified.
‘I can cope,’ she said. ‘Once I don’t have to spend too much time on things that don’t matter.’
‘Like talking to me?’ asked Paudie.
Sheridan felt her face redden. She hadn’t meant to sound rude or stroppy, but she knew she must have.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly nervous again. ‘It’s been a busy day.’
‘I understand. So . . . you’re Sheridan Gray?’
‘Yes.’
‘We meet at last.’ His tone was dry, and she knew she was still blushing.
‘Um . . . yes. Nice to meet you.’ The lie was blatant. She would’ve preferred to meet Paudie O’Malley at a time of her choosing, and when she wasn’t sweating buckets over meeting impossible deadlines.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk.
She couldn’t concentrate with him standing there, his blue eyes boring into her. She wondered if he was going to lay into her about her supposed taxi-driver impersonation. She didn’t have time for all that right now.
‘Do you need help?’ His tone was slightly less abrupt than previously.
‘I think I can manage.’
‘Would you prefer it if I wasn’t here?’
She winced. Was she making her feelings that obvious?
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘If you’ve been involved in getting it all together, maybe there’s something you can do. But if not . . . well, I don’t have the time to explain stuff.’ She managed to stop herself adding that she wasn’t entirely sure that she didn’t need someone explaining it to her again too. She’d thought about ringing Myra, but
she hadn’t wanted to drag her away from Genevieve. Besides, there was a part of her that relished the challenge. Even if it was stressing her out completely.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Paudie. ‘But I’ll call them at the printing works. Tell them that there might be a delay on the files.’
‘There won’t be,’ said Sheridan.
‘Never make impossible promises,’ advised Paudie. ‘Give yourself a bit of leeway. Allow me to say that things might be a little later than usual.’
That didn’t sound very Slash-and-Burn to her. She glanced at him. His eyes had softened and he was looking at her thoughtfully.
‘I can manage,’ she repeated.
‘I don’t want you just to manage,’ he said. ‘I want everything to be as perfect as it always is.’
‘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.
Chapter 28
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.
Better Together Page 34