When she’d finished packing her clothes and make-up and put the rest of her stuff into a few brown boxes cadged from the Spar around the corner, Sheridan carried them to the Beetle. She went back to the apartment and looked around her. Even though she hadn’t had much to remove, it now looked bare and desolate. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, but she didn’t know whether they were from sadness at leaving a place where she’d enjoyed living, or frustration at the way she was being forced to move to somewhere she didn’t want to go, no matter how much of an opportunity she told herself it could be.
She sniffed loudly, told herself not to be a fool, left the keys on the kitchen table and walked away.
The drive to Ardbawn was far more pleasant than on the previous occasion, because this time the air was warm and the sun was shining in a milky-blue sky. She had no problem seeing the turn-off from the main road and stopped outside the guesthouse earlier than she’d expected.
Nina answered her ring at the bell and smiled in welcome.
‘Would you like a cup of tea before I show you to the studio?’ she asked.
‘That’d be lovely,’ replied Sheridan, following Nina into the lounge and settling once again into one of the comfortable armchairs.
‘It’s not so much of a drive from Dublin these days,’ Nina remarked when she returned with a tray and poured tea for both herself and Sheridan. ‘People find it much easier to visit us than before.’
‘I feel bad about thinking that Ardbawn was in the middle of nowhere,’ confessed Sheridan. ‘When I first heard about the job I was sort of horrified at the idea of moving out of Dublin. Well, it’s still a bit of a stretch for me, to be honest. But at least here I have a job. Since the Scope laid me off I’ve felt like a total waster and I’m not really. I have plans for while I’m here.’
‘The Scope?’ Nina looked puzzled.
‘City Scope,’ said Sheridan. ‘I was a reporter there.’ She’d been going to say that she was a sports reporter but changed her mind. She didn’t want to pigeon hole herself here in Ardbawn.
‘On the City Scope?’ Two pink spots appeared on Nina’s cheeks.
‘It was a great paper to work on,’ said Sheridan. ‘Everyone pulled together and we were a good team.’
Nina remembered the innuendo-laden article written by one of the City Scope’s feature writers about Sean and Lulu and she felt her jaw tighten.
‘To be frank, I was hoping to get a . . . a bigger job than the one with the Central News,’ continued Sheridan. ‘But it’s tough out there at the moment and anything’s better than nothing. DJ seems a nice enough guy and hopefully we’ll get on together. Are you all right?’ She’d noticed that Nina was staring straight ahead of her, her eyes fixed on the wall, and didn’t seem to be listening to a word she was saying. ‘Are you all right?’ she repeated.
Nina blinked, exhaled sharply and gave Sheridan a small smile.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I lost track of things there for a moment.’ She stood up. ‘If you’re ready, I’ll bring you to the studio now.’
‘Right. Great.’ Sheridan put her half-empty cup on the coffee table.
Nina led the way out of the house and across the gravelled space in front of it to a small building. It was grey stoned, and had a similar slate roof to her parents’ house in Doonlara. There was an identical building a few metres away.
‘They were both originally garages,’ said Nina. ‘It made more sense to convert them, and because you can directly access the river from the studios, the fishermen love them.’
Sheridan couldn’t help noticing that the other woman’s voice was clipped and tight. She wondered if Nina was regretting agreeing to the longer-term stay, thinking that perhaps she might have done a better deal with fishermen instead.
‘The one on the left is yours,’ said Nina.
She took a key from her pocket and inserted it into the lock of the honey-coloured wooden door. She pushed the door open and motioned Sheridan to step inside.
Despite the photo DJ had shown her, Sheridan’s expectations for the studio had been low, almost entirely based on the fact that she’d imagined being greeted by a lingering smell of old fish, and not the distinctive scent of the orange lilies in the vase on the round table in the centre of the room. She’d also expected something spartan and utilitarian, dedicated to men with angling gear. But the studio was pretty in a chintzy sort of way, with delicate mauve curtains that matched the plump cushions on the cream sofa. The paintings on the walls were soft-focus scenes of anglers standing on riverbanks. It was also more generously sized than she’d anticipated, with a small kitchen area containing an impressive array of cooking utensils set to one side of the living area, and a double bed hidden behind a bamboo screen. There was a compact bathroom too, cleverly tucked away off the sleeping area.
‘It’s very pretty.’ And totally suitable for my pink teddy, she added to herself, just as well I brought it.
‘The sofa can be turned into a bed,’ Nina told her. ‘Let me know if you’ve got anyone coming to visit, and I’ll make it up for you.’
It was highly unlikely that anyone would want to visit her in Ardbawn, Sheridan thought as she continued to look around her. There was a small TV on a low sideboard, an iPod docking station beside it.
‘There’s plenty of storage space.’ Nina indicated a tall pine cupboard as well as giving a general wave in the direction of the sleeping area, where there was a wardrobe and dresser.
‘Excellent,’ said Sheridan. ‘I’m glad DJ put me in touch with you.’
‘Hopefully it will work out for both of us.’ Nina cleared her throat. ‘Obviously it’s self-catering, but if you want to eat at the house that’s fine, once you let me know in advance. There’s more information on the guesthouse and the town in the welcome booklet. You might find your phone signal is a bit weak here. It’s usually OK for calls but not if you want to download information. We have Wi-Fi in the house, which you’re welcome to use.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sheridan. It would be a pity if she couldn’t access her emails and the net from the studio. She wasn’t exactly sure how welcome she’d be in the guesthouse itself. Nina had definitely seemed friendlier the last time they’d met.
‘I’ll leave you to settle in,’ said Nina. ‘There’s milk in the fridge as well as tea and coffee in the kitchen.’
‘OK, thanks.’
‘Right then.’ Nina let herself out of the door. ‘I hope you have a pleasant stay in Ardbawn.’
I hope you have a pleasant stay in Ardbawn. A ridiculous thing to say, thought Nina as she strode back to the main house. The girl is here to work, not to have a pleasant stay. And not that I’d be letting her stay here at all if I’d realised she’d been involved with that rag, the City Scope. Nina gritted her teeth. What if Sheridan had been one of those reporters who’d followed Sean and Lulu around? What if she’d been instrumental in exposing his infidelity? What if she was an undercover reporter, here to try to find out more about Sean’s former life and the woman he’d left?
She told herself not to be so bloody silly. The woman had lost her job at the City Scope. She was working for DJ Hart. DJ would never let her write anything horrible about Nina. DJ was a decent person and he’d printed as little as possible about Sean and Lulu’s relationship. The local paper had always been circumspect in writing about the private life of any local person, no matter how shamelessly it might trumpet a public success.
Would it have made a difference, Nina asked herself, if the City Scope had never reported it in the first place? Would his affair with the young actress have petered out when he realised that she was just a flighty airhead? (Nina didn’t know if Lulu was an airhead or not, but she was convinced that she must be.) And if she’d never found out about it, would their lives have gone serenely on? Or would there inevitably have been someone else? Someone as beautiful as Lulu Adams? Someone who would have taken a greater hold of his heart?
Lulu had doubtless appealed to h
is ego. What man wouldn’t like a gorgeous twenty-one year old lusting after him, reminding him that he was strong and handsome and virile, instead of a forty-eight-year-old wife reminding him to unload the dishwasher? Sean enjoyed making a fuss over women and women making a fuss over him. Nina understood his need to feel as though he could still attract the opposite sex. That was why he flirted with all the female guests. That was undoubtedly why he’d flirted with Lulu, too. But she couldn’t help thinking that it wouldn’t have gone much further if it hadn’t been splashed all over the damn papers, making him feel like someone important.
All of Ireland wouldn’t have known either. And no one would have taken a picture of Nina looking like Lulu’s grandmother as she stood in the grounds of the guesthouse one day, her hair unwashed and wearing her faded three-year-old parka.
In some ways, running the guesthouse then had been a blessing, because she couldn’t go to seed entirely. Even after her most sleepless, sobbing nights she’d had to get up and dressed and make a bit of effort for the guests. She’d got through more tubes of concealer and tinted moisturiser and blusher in the weeks immediately after his departure than in all of the years of their marriage put together. Sean had never cared about her wearing much make-up. He’d always told her that she didn’t need it. Now, she thought, without the aid of Touche Éclat and Max Factor she simply looked haggard.
She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on again. It freaked her out that she was becoming the sort of woman who made a cup of tea every time she felt upset. It had been something her mother had done and Nina had always associated constant tea-making with an older generation of people. Now she’d turned into a tea-maker herself.
And, of course, she was that older generation. The fact that her husband had run to the arms of a woman less than half her age only went to prove it.
After Nina left, Sheridan unpacked her case and hung her clothes in the pine wardrobe. Then she arranged her bits and pieces around the studio so that it resembled, at least slightly, the flat in Kilmainham, albeit a softer, gentler version. Finally she boiled the kettle and made herself a cup of extra-strong coffee.
She was standing at the window sipping it when her mobile rang and she saw that it was her ex-flatmate calling.
‘How’s it going?’ Talia asked when she answered. ‘Have you taken to country life yet?’
‘I’ve only just arrived,’ Sheridan told her. ‘It’s a bit weird, to be honest, because I’m here in my little studio and all I can hear is the rustle of trees outside.’
Talia laughed. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘Hopefully. Ah well, I guess I’ll just spend a lot of time watching TV.’
‘Aren’t you going to be a fearsome investigative journalist?’
‘Of course.’ Sheridan didn’t allow even a trace of irony into her voice. ‘But I guess I’ll also be investigating the best way to bake bread or help a sheep give birth. God, what’s that called? Lambing, of course! Jeez, I’ll be a laughing stock if I have to write some agricultural sort of piece and haven’t a clue what I’m talking about.’
‘I’m sure your landlady will bring you up to speed on the appropriate terms,’ Talia assured her.
‘I’m not sure landlady is exactly the right word for her,’ said Sheridan. ‘I think I’m somewhere between a guest and a tenant.’
‘Huh?’
‘Well the studio is part of a guesthouse,’ she explained.
‘You didn’t say that when you rang me last week,’ said Talia. ‘You said you’d got a studio apartment and I told you that Ardbawn couldn’t be that backward if it had apartments.’
‘Every last town in Ireland has apartments these days,’ Sheridan reminded her. ‘Even if half of them are empty. I hadn’t seen it myself then. It’s a converted garage in the grounds of a guesthouse. It’s not bad, to be honest.’
‘Sounds different.’
‘It’s lovely if you like the whole back-to-nature sort of thing,’ said Sheridan. ‘Though the owner is a bit weird. She was very friendly when I enquired about it first, but she was a bit stand-offish today.’
‘Probably suddenly worrying about having the fearless journalist snooping around her guests.’
Sheridan chuckled. ‘You never know what goes on in these guesthouses. I could crack a cow-smuggling ring or something and the next thing Nina Fallon will be headline news.’
‘Nina Fallon!’ exclaimed Talia. ‘You’re staying in her guesthouse?’
‘Well, like I said, in a studio—’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Sheridan Gray, do you not read your own newspaper?’
‘Which one? Given that I’m now the ace at the Central News.’
‘The Scope, you eejit.’ Talia went on to remind Sheridan of the previous year’s exposure of Sean Fallon as a cheating husband.
‘Oh my God!’ Sheridan couldn’t believe she’d forgotten (although, she thought, tracking soap stars and their lives wasn’t really her thing and she didn’t watch Chandler’s Park so she couldn’t really blame herself). ‘Nina’s his wife?’
‘Yes, you clot!’
‘Poor woman,’ said Sheridan. ‘It must be horrible to have your husband’s stupidity plastered all over the paper. Who broke that story? Elise?’ Elise had been one of the Scope’s lifestyle journalists.
‘Of course it was Elise,’ replied Talia. ‘You know what she’s like. Loves digging the dirt. She’s got a job now, by the way.’
‘Has she?’
‘With one of the tabloids.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Sheridan couldn’t help the dart of envy that went through her. She’d been in touch with the tabloids and they’d told her they weren’t hiring. She’d been gutted by that. Sport was as big a deal to most of them as cheating husbands. Of course sometimes they were the same story . . .
‘You didn’t want to work on a red-top, did you?’ asked Talia.
‘They would’ve paid better than the Central News,’ said Sheridan. ‘And I’m not snobby about it. OK, so they’re light on actual writing, but they do have their fingers on the pulse. Whereas here . . .’ she picked up the copy of the Central News that she’d taken from the café when she’d come for her interview, and looked at the story about new stalls being available for the weekly farmers’ market, ‘here the pulse is pretty slow.’
‘You’ll speed it up,’ promised Talia. ‘I know you will.’
Sheridan wasn’t so sure about that. As far as she could tell, the pace of life was going to be glacial. Just like, it seemed, the owner of the Bawnee River Guesthouse.
Chapter 13
Sheridan woke early the next morning and was at the offices of the Central News before nine. She wasn’t sure there’d be anyone in before her. There had always been someone in the Scope’s offices no matter what time of day it was, but she assumed that the Central News had a more laid-back sort of approach to punctuality and sniffing out important stories. So she bought herself a coffee in the deli before ringing the bell at the commercial centre. Almost at once the buzzer on the door sounded and she pushed it open. In the shadows at the top of the stairs she saw a figure leaning over the rail
‘Sheridan Gray?’
She nodded.
‘Myra Clarke,’ said the figure. ‘Delighted you’re here.’
Sheridan had already built up a mental picture of Myra Clarke. In her mid-thirties, she’d imagined. A bit bossy, because she was an admin person and they were always bossy. The ones at the City Scope had driven the journalists mad asking for receipts and time sheets and holiday rosters and all sorts of rubbish and getting narky when they didn’t hand over what they wanted straight away. Myra was probably the same, she’d decided, and possibly looking a bit tired given that she was so far advanced in her pregnancy.
Her mental image bore absolutely no relation to the person she was looking at now. Myra was a tiny woman who appeared barely out of her teens – although that might have been something to do with the fact that her hair, in a feathery pixie cut, wa
s shocking pink and she had the smoothest, clearest skin Sheridan had ever seen in an adult. She was dressed in a black silk smock that came down to her knees. She was also wearing black leggings and black biker boots. Her pregnancy bump was enormous.
‘Come on in,’ said Myra. ‘We’ve loads to talk about before I head off and Genevieve gets a move on.’
‘Genevieve?’ said Sheridan uncertainly.
‘My baby.’ Myra sat down behind her desk. ‘I can’t wait for her to come along. I feel like a flipping rhino at the moment. I mean, you can see for yourself.’
Sheridan nodded, not really knowing the appropriate response.
‘And those feckers DJ and Shimmy, well, they spend their time laughing at me because I waddle around the place. I tell them that I’ll sue their sorry arses for discrimination and harassment, but sure they’re nothing but big lumps of eejits themselves.’
‘Right,’ said Sheridan.
‘I’m the one that keeps the show on the road,’ said Myra cheerfully. ‘They’ll natter on about their editing skills and their IT skills and their sales skills and whatever, but they’d be nowhere without me to keep an eye on them.’
‘I see.’
‘So you have to be on the ball the whole time with them or they’ll run rings around you and nothing will get done. Now to be fair to Shimmy, he’s great at the aul’ website stuff and he’s an absolute demon of a salesman, but pure useless at getting the money in, which is the most important job you have in the whole place.’ Myra’s big blue eyes looked earnestly at Sheridan. ‘Paudie – Mr O’Malley – has a minimum amount of revenue he expects us to bring in, and if we don’t, well, we’re up the creek without a paddle ’cos he could close us down in an instant. You have to balance his ads against the proper paying ones. Not that he needs to advertise and not that he couldn’t afford to keep the Central running anyway, but he says everything has to have a commercial bias and so that’s important.’ Myra paused for breath and then began talking again. ‘So, the way it is, Sheridan, no matter what you think, it’s vital to get that ad money in. I have a system set up on the computer and I’ll show it to you. After that, it’s the pieces from our contributors. Naturally we need to keep them coming, but it’s not a crisis if one of them makes a total mess of it because we can always write something ourselves. DJ is great at it, but sure you’re a proper journalist so you’ll be able to do it no bother at all.’
Better Together Page 13
