She sat at the desk and logged on to the computer. There were a surprising number of emails for the paper, ranging from letters to the editor to notices of upcoming events. There was also an email from Des, the sports reporter, which included a piece about the under-9s match that she’d seen on Saturday, in which he praised the courage and determination of the Ardbawn team and called Josh Meagher a leading light, which Sheridan thought was a bit over the top. In fact Des’s entire piece, while wooden and laden with unnecessary detail, was over the top for a report about a kids’ match, but she supposed that a bit of hyperbole was OK in small-town reporting. She wished she’d seen him there so that she could have introduced herself, but she hadn’t spotted anyone who looked like they were taking notes on the game.
She’d work on his report later. Meantime she skimmed through the postbag for Sarah, the agony aunt, and added the letters to the folder that Myra had left her. She would have to pick the one to answer and already she was in a total quandary. She didn’t know what to say to the woman who was contemplating an affair with her brother-in-law, or to the girl who didn’t have a boyfriend. And as for the man who’d written in saying that he was trapped inside a woman’s body – well, if she said the wrong thing, surely she’d damage his psyche for ever? Yet Myra, younger than her and with no qualifications at all, would probably have had all the answers. Or at least she’d have known what to say.
‘We don’t pretend to give them professional advice,’ she’d told Sheridan. ‘We give them places to go to. All we are is a sympathetic ear.’
But that was part of Sheridan’s problem. She’d never had to be a sympathetic ear before. Although she always tried to show the positives in her sports reporting, when it came to everyday emotional issues her parents had always told her to exploit people’s weaknesses, not empathise with them.
‘You OK?’ asked DJ at lunchtime, while she was once again looking at a report from Des (this time on a men’s soccer match). It was the dullest piece of sports writing she’d ever had to read and she was wondering how much editing she’d be allowed to do.
‘Not bad,’ she told him.
‘Want to go for a sandwich?’
‘I was going to have one at my desk.’
‘Ah, leave the desk, why don’t you?’ He stood up. ‘C’mon. I’ll take you to the pub. They do a very decent lunch there.’
The Riverside Inn, on the main street, was bright and airy, with a clearly popular menu, because it was very busy when DJ and Sheridan arrived. They sat at a window seat overlooking the plaza (the pub owners had taken a bit of licence with the name, because the river itself was only visible through a high window in the ladies’ loo).
As she still hadn’t got to grips with cooking in her studio, Sheridan took the opportunity to order some hot food, and asked for a burger and chips while DJ opted for a steak.
She’d expected DJ to quiz her over lunch about her thoughts on Ardbawn or her expectations about the job or how she was getting on, but there was very little time to talk because they were constantly being interrupted by people coming over to speak to him. Many of them already knew who she was too, and DJ introduced her to those who didn’t. She realised that the editor was a popular figure in the town and that many people seemed to think of him as their public representative.
After hearing a woman offload on him about the problems she was having in getting planning permission for an extension to her house, Sheridan said this to him and he laughed good-naturedly.
‘Nobody in Ardbawn has much time for the local councillors or politicians any more,’ he said. ‘Not that all of them are a bad bunch, but there’s too much infighting for them to be really effective. No matter how idealistic they are at the start, it all goes horribly wrong for them in the end. So people use the newspaper as a way of expressing how they feel. Which is what all newspapers should be about.’
‘And getting the facts right,’ she added. Martyn Powell had always told her to write with passion but to get her facts straight too.
‘Sure,’ agreed DJ and then turned away from her. ‘How’ya, Robbie? What’s the news?’
The pinched-faced man with straggling hair who’d come up to DJ chatted for a while about cattle (a conversation that went totally over Sheridan’s head) and then said that he had to go because he had a flight to London later that day.
‘He’s our resident celebrity,’ DJ told her as Robbie left. ‘Used to be in a rock band, Dunston Death Stars, sold a few albums that went platinum, did the drink-and-drugs thing but now embraces healthy living and the country life. He lives in a big house off the Carlow road. Owns a prize-winning herd of Charolais cattle.’
‘I didn’t recognise him,’ said Sheridan. ‘Is he famous?’
‘A bit before your time, pet. And he looks nothing like he did back in the day. The recreational drugs take a bit of a toll. But he’s all cleaned up and into the whole organic lifestyle now.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Not at all.’ DJ grinned. ‘All life comes to Ardbawn, you know.’
He was distracted again, this time by a woman who stood for a moment in the doorway and then walked over to them and sat down. She was stunningly beautiful, with long blond hair, wide baby-blue eyes and flawless skin.
‘This is Ritz Boland.’ DJ introduced her. ‘She’s the manager of the hotel spa, and every so often she invites me in to lose a few pounds on some mad personalised programme that I never stick to. Ritz, this is Sheridan, our new ace reporter.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Ritz nodded at Sheridan.
‘So what’s new, Ritzy?’ asked DJ. ‘D’you want anything to eat?’
Ritz shook her head and then told DJ that she was interested in doing an advertorial in the paper for some new treatments in the spa but that she wanted a better rate than the last time.
‘Why?’ asked DJ.
‘Because times are tough.’
‘For me too,’ said DJ.
‘Ah, go on.’ Ritz fluttered her long lashes at him. ‘We’re old friends, aren’t we?’
‘You always do your best to twist me round your little finger. But it’s Shimmy you need to talk to,’ said DJ. ‘At least as far as the rates go. Sheridan here will look after the text for you.’
Ritz turned an appraising look towards her. ‘Maybe we could do it as a before-and-after piece on you,’ she said thoughtfully, and Sheridan spluttered into her water. ‘The aromatherapy wrap would be ideal,’ Ritz said. ‘It takes inches off your thighs.’
‘Why would she want to do that?’ demanded DJ. ‘Women these days are obsessed with looking like sticks. She’s fine the way she is.’
‘Thanks, DJ, but Ritz is right about my thighs.’ Sheridan knew there was no point in being offended. The spa manager was making a professional observation, after all. ‘I’ve always thought they were a bit on the bulky side.’
‘I prefer women with a bit of meat on them,’ said DJ. ‘That’s why me and Ritzy didn’t last the pace, eh, Ritz?’
Sheridan’s eyes widened but Ritz laughed.
‘That and the fact that you had too much meat on you. And ate too much of the damn stuff too,’ she said equably. She stood up again. ‘Have a think about the ad, DJ. Give me a call.’
‘Did you really date her?’ asked Sheridan as Ritz left the pub.
‘For three glorious months,’ said DJ. ‘I was the envy of the town because, let’s face it, she’s a cracker. But we have very different views on life.’
‘I can imagine.’ Sheridan looked at his almost empty plate.
‘Ah, it was a bit of fun for both of us. But she has her sights set on bigger and better things and I’m free and single.’ He winked at her.
‘Are you hitting on me?’ she asked.
‘I’m being friendly,’ said DJ. ‘That’s all. I hate this bloody PC life where you can’t make jokes to women without them thinking you’re trying to—’
‘I wasn’t thinking anything,’ said Sheridan. ‘Just trying to set boun
daries. You’re my boss, after all.’
‘You could probably buy and sell me,’ he said in amusement. ‘Give you a few more weeks and you’ll be running the Central News.’
‘I’d be a shockingly bad editor,’ she said. ‘I don’t know enough about the town or the people or how things work. But I do want to do my best while I’m here.’
‘You’ve a good heart,’ he told her. ‘I’m glad you’re with us.’
She felt unaccountably pleased at his words, although she was perfectly sure that he would’ve said the same to whoever had joined the paper.
‘And who knows, maybe you’ll break a big story for us and get us national recognition,’ he joked.
He probably wouldn’t like the fact that she hoped her big story would be about Paudie O’Malley, even if it was a story that would never get printed in the Central News. She said nothing while DJ finished his steak and chips and ordered some peach pie and ice cream. Sheridan, who hadn’t planned on dessert, felt her resolve weaken when the plate was put in front of DJ and she ordered some too.
When both of them had finished, she decided to ask DJ a few casual questions about the owner of the Central News. She said that she was interested in knowing about the man who was ultimately paying her salary, and she was also curious to see if DJ’s account of him would be the same as Nina’s.
It didn’t differ very much, though DJ added a few extra snippets. He told her the story of Paudie’s most recent renovation of his house, and added that keeping cattle was an occupational hazard among the rich and famous of Ardbawn, because, like the rock star, Paudie also had a herd, although in his case they were Limousins.
‘Does he look after them himself?’ asked Sheridan.
‘Not at all. He has a stockman. But he could, I’m sure. Paudie comes from a farming family. He knows his cattle.’
Sheridan couldn’t help laughing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just never thought that I’d be in a position in my life where I’d be talking about cattle.’
‘There you go,’ said DJ. ‘Ardbawn is broadening your horizons already.’
‘How about Paudie?’ she asked, returning to the topic of the businessman. ‘Is there anyone in his life?’
Nina might not think so, but maybe DJ would have a better idea.
‘He has a very busy life,’ said DJ. ‘There’s a lot of people in it.’
‘I meant romantically.’
‘Oh. There was someone briefly, shortly after his wife died. But not at the moment, not that I know of.’
‘I heard all about Elva.’
DJ’s smile was knowing. ‘I thought you’d check up on him,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Paudie is Ardbawn’s best-known resident. I’d have been surprised if you didn’t do a bit of digging.’
Sheridan shrugged. ‘Naturally I looked him up.’
‘It was big news when Elva died,’ said DJ. ‘She fell out of a window.’
Everyone was very keen to emphasise that Elva fell out of the window, thought Sheridan. She told DJ she’d already heard about that. ‘Although there isn’t much material on the web. Too long ago, I guess.’
‘He threw himself into his businesses afterwards,’ said DJ. ‘His way of getting over it. He did a lot for the town. So we’re very supportive of him here.’
‘I know,’ said Sheridan.
DJ looked at her curiously.
‘Nina told me.’
‘Ah.’
‘It seemed to me that there was some kind of history there,’ said Sheridan. ‘She wasn’t entirely comfortable talking about him.’
‘Nina isn’t a gossip,’ DJ told her. ‘She respects Paudie and so should you. After all, he owns the paper you work for, no matter what might have happened before. C’mon, ace reporter, we’d better get back. You have some horoscopes to write.’
Sheridan wished he hadn’t reminded her of the horoscopes. She was dreading them. And she still hadn’t a clue what she was going to do about the Ask Sarah agony column either. She followed him out of the pub. He told her that he wasn’t going directly back to the office, that he had to call in and see the local councillor first (a piece we’re doing about car parking charges, he said) but that he’d catch up with her later.
Sheridan headed towards the Central News, realising that she was starting to recognise more and more people in the town, even though she didn’t yet know all of them by name. By the end of my stint here, she thought, I’ll be practically a native. And maybe I won’t want to upset the Paudie O’Malley apple cart either. So I’d better get a move on with it.
There was a silver Audi convertible parked in front of the entrance to the Central News. Sheridan’s first thought was that it might belong to Paudie, that Mr Slash-and-Burn himself had come to check up on the temporary reporter on his newspaper. But she dismissed the idea as being ludicrous – Paudie probably didn’t even know that Myra was on maternity leave. And then she saw the man walking out of the deli and she recognised him straight away.
Immediately she felt as if she were in a high-speed lift shooting upwards, leaving her stomach behind. It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. She told herself that she was being beyond silly by allowing herself to be attracted to Josh Meagher’s father. But she simply couldn’t help the way her heart was fluttering and the sense of expectation that enveloped her. She looked away as he opened the car door, but it was he who said hello to her.
‘Hi.’ She gave him a friendly smile and took out the office door key. She put it into the lock and opened it.
‘Do you work here?’ The man sounded surprised.
‘Yes. With the Central News. I’m a temp,’ she added.
‘Oh, right. I didn’t know they had one. Well, nice to meet you again.’
‘You too. Hope Josh enjoyed his lunch after the match.’
‘He sure did. That child could pack away an entire buffet and not even notice.’ There was a note of admiration in his father’s voice.
‘A growing boy.’
‘Indeed.’
‘He’s a good footballer.’
‘He’s good at anything that works off energy, which is just as well, because he’s got so much of it. Totally exhausting. I don’t know how his mum puts up with it.’
‘In a few years he’ll be a moody teenager who doesn’t get out of bed,’ Sheridan said. ‘And you’ll be complaining about that too.’
The man laughed. ‘I guess you’re right. His energy should be embraced and we should make the most of it.’
‘You should. Well, good talking to you, but I’ve got to go.’
‘Good talking to you too. The name’s Joe, by the way.’
‘Sheridan.’ She gave him a quick smile and then let herself into the office. She couldn’t quite believe that she was trembling. She didn’t know why she was feeling what she was feeling. But she knew she was head over heels in lust with a man named Joe who had a son who was a good footballer.
She hoped she’d never see either of them again.
Chapter 17
During her time at the City Scope, Sheridan had always met her deadlines with considerable ease. But near the end of the week she was panicking as she typed, glancing between the notes on her desk and some open web pages on the screen in front of her and hoping desperately that she’d get everything done in time. She’d managed to lick Des Browne’s sports reports into shape, had written two pieces about local events from notes that DJ had emailed her, plus a column on the latest in winter fashions (having asked Talia for some hints), and was now struggling through the last of the horoscopes. She’d finished the Ask Sarah advice piece the day before, telling the writer that having an affair with her husband’s brother probably wasn’t going to work out well in the long run. She’d become quite animated as she wrote the advice and had ended up cutting half of it when she realised that she’d gone way over the word count necessary.
By the time she got as far as the horoscopes, she was exhausted. I suppos
e I should have something nice happen for me, she thought, as she contemplated her own sign, Leo. Like a lottery win. Only that would mean buying a ticket, which I always forget to do. Besides, nobody ever forecasts lottery wins. That’s the thing about astrologers. I’d believe in them if someone accurately predicted a lottery win!
Meeting someone new. Horoscopes were always talking about meeting new people. A stranger to bring love into your life. She closed her eyes and saw Josh’s dad again. A classic tall, dark and handsome stranger. She felt her stomach flutter in the disconcerting way it had done on the two occasions she’d met him. She was at a complete loss to understand why a man she’d barely spoken to was having such a profound effect on her. It was bizarre. And strangely pleasurable. She opened her eyes again and looked at the blank screen in front of her. No strange men bringing love into her life. Especially, she reminded herself, strange married men. That wasn’t what she was here for. She needed to focus. She needed to remember that her job was to churn out words, not get involved in feelings.
A win of some sort, she decided eventually. She needed to be a winner as far as her job was concerned, and that was what Pat and Alice wanted for her too. Maybe telling herself that she was one would make it happen. So she typed that Leos were back to winning ways, and she hoped that her own prediction would come true.
When she’d finally finished, she leaned back in her chair and sighed deeply.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked DJ.
‘I’m knackered,’ she told him. ‘I’ve never had a more stressful week at a paper. Except maybe last week.’
‘Get used to it,’ Shimmy warned her, although his tone was cheerful. ‘You cosseted Dublin hacks haven’t a clue when it comes to real pressure.’
‘You’ll be grand once you’ve got another few days under your belt,’ said DJ. ‘And I have some more things in mind for you next week. The drama society are starting rehearsals for their latest play, and I thought it’d be good to interview the chairwoman to get a sense of where they’re at. It’s a good group, and talented too.’
‘That’s how Sean Fallon got his break,’ remarked Shimmy. ‘He stepped in at the last minute after a panicked call from Hayley Goodwin and got them out of a hole. It was all total chance, but I bet half of Ardbawn are hoping to be as lucky!’
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