Better Together (3 page)

‘I never met anyone as knowledgeable as you,’ he’d said. ‘You can even explain the offside rule in a single sentence.’

‘The offside rule is usually overly complicated by men who like to make it mysterious,’ she’d told him cheerfully. ‘As is most stuff about sport.’

‘If you write as clearly as you talk, I think you could have a good future at this paper,’ Martyn remarked.

Sheridan couldn’t help smiling at his words. She’d been told that she was pretty when she smiled (Decco Grainger, three dates and a lot of kissing practice, had been the one to offer the compliment), but Martyn often said that when Sheridan smiled she reminded him of a happy cocker spaniel, with her glossy hair framing her generous face, and her big golden-brown eyes alight with enthusiasm. Sheridan herself wasn’t quite convinced that being likened to a cocker spaniel was a compliment, but she supposed it was better than being compared to a Jack Russell. She’d suckered him at the interview with her smile, Martyn told her, even though she lacked the experience that other candidates had. But there was something about her that made him think he’d found the perfect addition to the team.

And Sheridan definitely was.

At first she was sent to cover local events that nobody else wanted to bother with. She never minded, even when she got lost looking for a small club in the middle of nowhere.
She drove her two-year-old VW Beetle all over the country and found herself once again on the sidelines of windswept pitches, although this time, instead of cheering herself hoarse, she was making notes on the game.

Afterwards, though, it was her opinion that counted, her words that people read and sometimes reacted to, by emailing the newspaper and sharing their own views.

‘I always knew you’d find your niche one day,’ Alice told her one evening as she read the piece Sheridan had written about a League of Ireland football match between rival clubs Shamrock Rovers and Shelbourne. ‘This is a great report.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You see – all those times we took you to the football were worth it.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sure the goalie was sick when he gave away the penalty.’

‘So were the supporters.’

‘Did you enjoy the match?’

‘Of course. It’s kind of nice to watch and not care who wins.’

Alice looked horrified. ‘You always have to care who wins.’

‘I’d be exhausted if that was the case,’ Sheridan told her. ‘You can’t pick a side every time. People don’t want to know who I want to win, they want to know what the game was like.’

‘Hmm.’ Alice didn’t sound convinced.

‘If you were a Hoops supporter, you wouldn’t want to think I was writing from a Rovers point of view, would you?’

‘No,’ conceded Alice.

‘Anyway, Martyn Powell is very happy with me,’ said Sheridan.

‘Good.’ Alice sounded pleased. Then she took a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Sheridan.

‘Cutting out the report,’ replied Alice. ‘It’s the first one they’ve put your name on.’

‘I know.’ Sheridan hadn’t wanted to make a big deal of having her byline in the paper, but the truth was she was very excited about it. And the fact that her mother was too wrapped her in a warm glow of self-satisfaction.

Over the following years at the paper there had been more and more pieces with her byline. So many that Alice stopped cutting them all out. Sheridan didn’t mind. She’d found her place. And finally she felt like a winner in the family too.

She stopped reminiscing when Ernie Johnson walked into the room. From the look on his face she could see that he didn’t have unqualified good news to share. The rest of the staff could see it too, and a quiet murmur of anxiety rippled through them before he held up his hand for silence.

He spoke about the newspaper’s iconic status over the past thirty years and about the great stories it had broken. Then he went on to remind them that times were tough, that the print media in particular was suffering, that competition was fierce and that they couldn’t go on losing money.

The journalists were expecting the worst. The picture Ernie had painted was so bleak that they couldn’t see how the paper could possibly last another day. But then Ernie smiled.

‘Up to last week it was looking very much like the
City Scope
would fold,’ he said. ‘But I’m pleased to say that we’ve had a cash injection from an investor who has taken a stake in our business.’

The ripple broke through the journalists again. Of course there had been talk of new investors, but they’d been doubtful that anyone would be interested in the ailing newspaper.

‘That’s the good news,’ said Ernie. ‘The bad news is that costs are still an issue. I’m sorry to say that even with a cash injection there will be some redundancies.’

The ripple had become a buzz now as people turned to each other, each immediately worried about his or her own future, but equally worried about the ability of the newspaper to live up to its ideals with a further decrease in the number of reporters.

‘I’ve already had numerous consultations with our investor,’ said Ernie. ‘We’ll be in touch with you all before the end of the week about the redundancy packages.’

‘So what d’you think of all that?’ asked Talia Brehon as they walked back to their desks. Talia was every inch a fashion editor, with shoulder-length, honey-blond hair, a tall, slender body, impeccably made-up face, and a size zero capsule wardrobe.

Sheridan knew it often surprised people that as well as working together on the
City Scope
, she and Talia also shared an apartment in Kilmainham, a few kilometres from the newspaper offices. Talia had been looking for someone to share with her at around the same time as Sheridan had needed somewhere to live. Pat had retired and was keeping his promise to Alice to move back to Kerry, where she was originally from. By that stage, all of their children were working and self-sufficient, so they’d decided to sell their house in Dublin. When Sheridan had seen the email Talia sent round the paper looking for a flatmate, she’d replied
straight away, although at that time she hadn’t known the fashion editor very well.

They’d met for coffee to talk it over. In her small-ad days, Sheridan would’ve put Talia in the same category as the Samanthas, and she would certainly have been right as far as her glamour was concerned. But although Talia shared her looks with the models she so frequently wrote about, she was also one of the most down-to-earth people Sheridan had ever met. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help thinking that sharing an apartment with someone as feminine as Talia would be the ultimate in life-changing experiences.

It hadn’t entirely been like that, because at home Talia liked sloping around in comfortable tracksuits and trainers rather than designer clothes (although her sports gear of choice was Stella McCartney for Adidas), and the apartment was cool and chic rather than pink and girlie; but she did introduce Sheridan to the joys of concealers and pore minimisers, while Sheridan reciprocated by demonstrating how to change the filter in the washing machine and mend the leaky shower. Both girls enjoyed each other’s company and the flat-share worked out better than either of them had anticipated.

‘I wonder who the investor is?’ mused Sheridan.

‘Paudie O’Malley,’ replied Talia promptly. ‘I’ve just been talking to our esteemed business editor, who has the inside scoop. Apparently Paudie expressed an interest a while back but they rebuffed him. Now he’s in on better terms.’

‘God Almighty.’ Sheridan felt slightly sick. ‘Slash-and-Burn O’Malley’s finally got his claws into us. We’re toast.’

‘He has a hard nose when it comes to business all right,’ acknowledged Talia.

‘He makes Scrooge look like Santa Claus!’ wailed Sheridan. ‘Our first story will have a picture of him cracking the austerity whip.’

Talia laughed. ‘According to Alo, he’s only taken a twenty-five per cent stake. His influence will be limited. And he’s reclusive. I don’t think there’s been a picture of him in the papers for years.’

‘Just ’cos people don’t see him much doesn’t mean he can’t be ruthless.’ Sheridan nibbled anxiously at her thumbnail. ‘What d’you think about our jobs?’

‘Ah, you’ll be fine, the
Scope
is famed for its sports coverage.’

‘Hmm. I’m not sure that sport is an O’Malley priority. He’s into business and politics, isn’t he?’

‘He’ll still need good sports reporters, and you got that great interview with our latest Italian manager, didn’t you?’

Sheridan grinned. ‘I was lucky. Con was going out with an Italian girl who knew his interpreter at the time.’

‘You make your own luck,’ said Talia.

‘True. Oh well, I’ll just keep my fingers crossed.’

‘Me too,’ Talia told her. ‘Whatever Paudie feels about sport, I’m pretty certain he’s not that interested in fashion.’

‘He won’t be able to resist you,’ Sheridan told her friend. ‘You can twist men around your little finger. C’mon. Let’s go for a drink. We could do with something to take the edge off today.’

‘Aren’t you meeting love’s young dream?’ asked Talia.

‘Nope. Griff is at his mother’s house tonight. It’s her birthday, so they’re having a family dinner.’

‘And you weren’t invited?’ Talia arched an eyebrow.

‘Quite frankly, even if I had been, I wouldn’t have wanted
to go. I’m scared of that woman! And as for his sisters – five of them – they’re just too much for me. It’s like being on the set of
Pride and Prejudice
when they start yammering on like excitable sparrows.’

‘While you’re the intellectual Elizabeth and Griff is the irresistible Mr Darcy?’

‘Not entirely,’ said Sheridan. ‘I’m not exactly famed for my intellect, and thankfully Griff isn’t all brooding and sulky – I did think Darcy could’ve done with a good slap myself. But I’m lucky to have a boyfriend who’s so great and who remembers things like birthdays and anniversaries and all that stuff.’

‘You guys must be coming up to an anniversary soon,’ said Talia.

‘One year next week.’ Sheridan sounded smug. ‘I never would’ve thought that I’d land myself someone like him, to be honest. He’s so good looking and I’m so . . . so . . .’

‘Sheridan Gray! What have I told you before? You’re a very attractive woman and he’s lucky to have you for a girlfriend!’

Sheridan smiled at her friend. ‘And you say the nicest things. But I’ve got to be honest. I can scrub up OK when I make a big effort, but I can’t do the whole slinky-dress routine or wear high heels. You know that.’

‘High heels are overrated,’ said Talia darkly. ‘I nearly broke my ankle wearing the Manolos I brought back from Milan.’

‘I love having a friend who talks about Manolos and Milan,’ said Sheridan. ‘It makes me feel very cosmopolitan.’

‘Well I love having a friend who can get me freebies to the footie and the rugby,’ said Talia. ‘It makes me feel part of the sporty set.’

‘You’re such a fool, Brehon.’

‘So are you. Right. Let’s get to the pub before the news department does. You know what they’re like. They’ll have it drunk dry in an hour.’

When Sheridan went in to work the following day, Martyn immediately asked her to see him in the conference room. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest as she followed him; his face was even gloomier than usual and he sounded dispirited. She wondered how hard the axe had fallen on the sports department, and she wondered even more how it would affect her.

Ten minutes later she was sitting in the chair opposite him trying hard not to cry. Martyn had been as sympathetic as she’d ever known him to be; he’d told her over and over how sorry he was that Paudie O’Malley had insisted on the redundancy programme in return for his investment. The businessman was looking to cut the overall staff on the paper by thirty, and every department would have to let someone go. The sports desk would lose two people, and Sheridan was one of them. Martyn said that it was a sad day for the
City Scope
and that even though the paper had been saved, the cost was catastrophic.

Catastrophic was a word Sheridan never used in her reports. Nothing about sport was catastrophic. A great loss was still just a loss in a game, after all. She always tried to keep that
in mind even as she acknowledged that for many people sport was more than just a game.

But today’s news was a catastrophe for her. From the moment Martyn had told her he was sorry but that there wasn’t a job for her any more, she’d felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. She couldn’t believe that she was being let go. She was a good member of the team. She worked hard. She pulled her weight. Hell, she even more than pulled her weight sometimes. Hadn’t her vast knowledge of winners and losers in All-Ireland finals stopped Martyn from giving the OK on a report in which he’d reversed the result of the 1987 match, giving the win to Cork instead of to Meath? Something that would have made the paper look very stupid. He’d been relieved when she’d pointed it out to him, and stunned too – surely, he’d said, she was too young to remember it?

‘I was four,’ she’d told him. ‘And I don’t remember the game, but we had a big wall chart at home with the draw on it, that’s how I know.’

All the wall charts in the world were irrelevant now. The department was being downsized and she was being let go.

‘Is it because I’m a woman?’ she asked.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Martyn. ‘Legally that’d be a minefield! Besides, we’ve never treated you like a girl here. You know that.’

That was true. She’d fitted in with them because she was relaxed around men and the sort of person who could hold her own in a sporting conversation. She also had the ability to drink a pint of beer as quickly as any of them. (Not something she did very often these days, because it usually went to her head, but it had been very effective in getting her accepted
into the macho fold.) They hadn’t made any concessions to her femininity. She wouldn’t have expected them to either.

‘It was on seniority.’ Martyn sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Sheridan, I really am.’

‘Who else is going from sports?’

‘Ronan Kearney.’

She nodded. Ronan had joined around the same time as her.