Better Together (45 page)

She looked at some of the photos too, before realising that they were all of Nina’s family. She didn’t know whether the other woman had wanted her to include them or not, but there were so many that she didn’t have time to go through them all. Anyway, she thought, it was something Nina should do herself. She had put almost everything back into the box before noticing that the envelope she’d left until the end was bigger than the others and didn’t easily fit in. She was going to fold it but was afraid that it might contain larger photos, which she didn’t want to bend, and so she shook the contents on to the table, realising as she did so that there was something hard inside. Even as it fell out of the envelope she told herself that she probably didn’t want to know what it was – one of Nina’s children’s teeth, perhaps. Or maybe Sean Fallon’s gallstone (she’d no idea if Sean had ever had gallstones removed, but when the thought came into her head she couldn’t shift it).

In fact, the object was a ring. A delicate hoop of silver with a single small amber stone in a simple setting. Although plain, it was dainty, and Sheridan almost automatically tried it on. It was too small to fit on to her ring finger, so she
tried it on her little finger instead. An old ring of Nina’s, she thought, one she kept for sentimental reasons.

As the rest of the contents of the envelope emerged, she realised that they weren’t photos at all, but small watercolour paintings. Some were landscapes, but then she saw one of a man sitting on a riverbank, his shirt open. It was a sensual painting even though his pose was relaxed and casual; a painting that made you take a second look. Sheridan studied it more closely. The man seemed vaguely familiar. She looked through more of the paintings. The same man appeared in many of them, even more sensual than the first. But there were others too, hearts with daggers through them, in bold blocks of colours that were utterly different to either the peaceful landscapes or the sensual portraits. She looked for the artist’s signature, but all she saw was a vague squiggle that could have been anything. And then she picked up the pink notepaper that had also fallen from the envelope.

Sean: I hate you. But I’ll always love you too. I’m leaving these for you. Remember the good times. Remember me. Elva
.

Sheridan sat immobile on the chair. And then she read the note again. And again.

Of course! She hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. The man in the paintings was Sean Fallon. A younger Sean, but definitely the guesthouse proprietor turned soap star. And the painter of the pictures was a woman called Elva. The only Elva in Ardbawn that Sheridan knew was Elva O’Malley. Paudie’s wife. Who had been a painter, according to her son, and whose work this obviously was.

I’ll always love you
. Sheridan’s brow furrowed. When had Elva written this note? When had she sent all these things to Sean? How much had she loved him. Or hated him?

Remember me
. Was Elva breaking up with Sean? Or was she saying goodbye more permanently? Had she written the note just before she died?

Sheridan’s heart was thumping in her chest. Sean and Elva had been lovers. Elva had died in tragic circumstances. Had anyone else known about their affair?

Did Paudie know? Did Nina know?

Well of course Nina knew! These boxes were hers, after all. But why had she kept her husband’s lover’s paintings, and the note? And . . . Sheridan picked it up and looked at it again . . . the ring. Which she was sure now must have belonged to Elva.

When had Nina found out? Before or after Elva had died?

Poor Nina, thought Sheridan, her husband had an affair before and he’s having another one now. Why did she forgive him the first time? And is she really thinking about forgiving him again?

She heard the sound of a door closing and Nina’s footsteps in the hallway. She was sure Nina would be embarrassed if she thought she had seen the contents of the envelope, and she tried to push the paintings back inside, but they caught in the flap and she dropped some of them. Panicking slightly as the footsteps approached, she picked them up and pushed all of them, including the note from Elva, into her own big canvas bag.

The door opened and Nina smiled at her apologetically.

‘We’d better leave it for today,’ she said. ‘D’you mind dropping by again tomorrow?’

‘Sure. Sure. No problem.’ Sheridan knew that her voice was too bright.

‘OK, then,’ said Nina. She looked at Sheridan, who realised
that she was expected to leave. She slung the canvas bag awkwardly over her shoulder.

‘I’ll be off, so,’ she said.

‘Thanks. See you tomorrow.’

‘See you tomorrow.’

It was only when she’d got back to the studio and taken the paintings out of her bag to smooth and fold them properly again that Sheridan realised that she was still wearing the amber ring on the little finger of her left hand.

She removed the ring and placed it carefully on the table. Then she looked at the paintings again. The more she studied the ones of Sean, the more erotic they appeared. As for the others, they made uncomfortable viewing. She supposed they reflected Elva’s state of mind at the time. Which, from what she could see, was very disturbed.

She studied the note again. Raw emotion leapt from the page, not only from the words but from the way that the pen had been pressed hard into the paper. Hate and love. Elva O’Malley had hated Sean Fallon. She’d loved him too. And both her love and her hate were reflected in the paintings she’d sent him.

Had Paudie found out? Had he discovered the paintings, realised they were of Sean, and guessed that they were having an affair? How would he have felt? Mr Slash-and-Burn, the ruthless businessman, suddenly realising that his wife loved someone else. But he hadn’t become a ruthless businessman until after she died, had he? So . . . so . . .

The thought flashed into her mind and she dismissed it again straight away. After all, Vinnie Murray had said that Paudie had a cast-iron alibi for the time his wife had died.
And cast-iron meant cast-iron as far as Vinnie was concerned. But still – a wronged husband. An angry husband. A vengeful husband. What might he have done?

It was, she supposed, a bit much to suspect Paudie of having hired a hit man to do away with his wife because he was angry with her. It would’ve made a great story, though, one that even DJ couldn’t spin. Yet it was also very coincidental (or convenient) that Elva O’Malley had died when she did. Without her death, Paudie wouldn’t have got the insurance payout, and Nina and Sean . . . well, what would’ve happened with Nina and Sean? Clearly Nina had forgiven Sean. But had she forgiven him before or after Elva had died? When had she learned about the affair? If she’d discovered it before, maybe she’d confronted the other woman. Maybe there’d been an argument and . . . OK, Sheridan admonished herself, you’re letting your imagination run away with you here. Because the notion of Nina accidentally pushing Elva out of the window in some crazy catfight was definitely a step too far.

Martyn Powell had once told her to look at the facts as they were and not as she imagined them to be. It was when she’d been writing a story about the sudden retirement of a high-profile soccer player from the Irish international team and she’d come up with twelve different reasons why the player had decided to hang up his boots, none of which were the fact that he simply felt too worn out to continue. Speculation is fine, Martyn had said, but keep it within the bounds of possibility.

So she could speculate as much as she liked about Elva’s death, but it was utterly impossible that Paudie had been involved and highly unlikely that Nina had anything to do
with it either. But how about Sean himself? What if he’d grown tired of Elva and had wanted to get rid of her? What if . . .

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she exclaimed out loud. The woman fell out of a window. Just because I didn’t want it to be an accident when I heard about it first doesn’t mean it wasn’t. Her affair with Sean complicates things, but if anything . . . she looked at the note again . . . if anything this is a damn suicide note and Elva O’Malley killed herself. Which perhaps everyone in Ardbawn knows but nobody wants to say. Because it’s a small town and they all care about each other and nobody wants to admit that one of them might have taken their own life.

But boy was it a more interesting story than appeared in the papers back then. She thought back to the reports, most of which had been dry and factual, even those that had posed questions about the tragedy. She wondered, if she’d been reporting on it back then, would she have dug any deeper? In any event, leaving aside her wild fantasies about murder, it was still a story of passions hidden in a small town. It was a human-interest story, and Sheridan knew that it was the kind of story that the
City Scope
would love.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t realise how late it had become. When she looked at her watch she gasped in dismay, remembering (though she couldn’t believe that she’d forgotten, even for a short time) that she was to meet Joe O’Malley in less than half an hour. She did a quick change into another, more flattering, pair of jeans, and a navy blue shirt that brought out the flame-red of her hair and the soft brown of her eyes. As she left the studio, she saw Nina
standing on the steps of the guesthouse talking to one of her guests. Nina raised her arm and waved at Sheridan, who waved in return then climbed into her car, hoping that she’d get the opportunity to return the paintings and the ring before Nina noticed they were missing.

Once again Joe had arrived before her. He was sitting at a table beside the wall, and he looked up the moment she walked in. She felt the jolt that seeing him always seemed to give her, the feeling that he was the most important man in her life.

He stood up and kissed her on the cheek.

‘It’s great to see you,’ he said.

She wanted to say something witty in return, but the touch of his lips on her cheek was sending tremors through her body and she could do nothing but smile at him.

‘Have a nice day?’ he asked.

Ever since I saw you at the football match my day has been monumental, she thought. Not entirely because of seeing you there, though mostly. But learning more about Elva and Sean and Nina . . . Suddenly she caught her breath. In all of her speculation about Elva’s death, she’d somehow managed to push the fact that she had been Joe’s mother out of her head completely. What did Joe himself know about it? Anything? Or everything? It suddenly occurred to her that she might know more about his mother than he did himself, and the idea unsettled her.

She dragged herself away from the thoughts swirling around in her head and told him that her day had been fine. ‘How about yours?’ she asked.

‘I took Josh home to his mum,’ he replied. ‘It was very
relaxing for about ten minutes while he lay on the sofa and played with his Nintendo DS. Then he got his breath back and wanted to go outside again. I think he gets his energy from his dad. It certainly isn’t from me or Sinead.’

‘It must be hard on him to have his father away so much.’ She was astonished at how calm she sounded, at how she was managing to function as a perfectly rational being when there were so many things going around in her head. Although the most important was that she wanted him to kiss her on the cheek and on the lips and in a million other places too.

She focused her attention entirely on Joe, who was saying that Michael’s absences worked for him and Sinead. They were both very independent people, he told her, they needed their space and Josh accepted that.

‘I’d find it tricky but they don’t,’ he added. ‘And of course she has a lot of support from Dad when Mike’s away.’

His mention of his father reminded her again of his mother and Sean and Nina. And then suddenly she wasn’t able to help herself putting a question to him, even as she told herself it wasn’t the time or the place.

‘Did your dad have lots of support when your mum died?’

Joe said nothing for a moment.

‘You don’t have to answer that,’ she said, annoyed at herself for allowing her mouth to run away with her. ‘It’s none of my business.’

‘Why don’t we get everything you ever wanted to know about my dad out of the way,’ suggested Joe. ‘Then we can forget about him and enjoy ourselves.’

‘I didn’t come out tonight to ask you about your dad.’

‘No?’

‘Sometimes asking unwanted questions is an occupational hazard with me,’ she said apologetically. ‘I ask things I don’t even want to know the answer to.’

‘In that case can I ask you something instead?’

‘Of course.’

She had no secrets. Her family had no secrets. He could ask her whatever he liked.

‘What would you like to eat?’

She laughed and felt herself relax. They both ordered pasta, and Joe asked for a large bottle of sparkling water, which she said she’d share with him. After the waitress had left them, Joe asked about Sheridan’s life before Ardbawn. She told him about growing up in her family of massively high achievers, and of feeling the odd one out because she didn’t regularly bring home gold medals or trophies and because winning at all costs didn’t matter to her.

‘You’re too nice,’ he said. ‘You don’t have a ruthless streak.’

‘I can be ruthless when I have to be,’ she said.

‘And when is that?’ he asked.

There was only one time in her life when she’d been utterly ruthless. Although not perhaps in the way he was expecting.

‘When I started working on the
City Scope
,’ she told him finally. ‘I was the only female journalist in the sports department and the lads were giving me a bit of a hard time. The normal sort of hard time that guys give each other. You know, the whole alpha-male thing.’

Joe nodded.

‘And they asked me to the local pub for a few pints, to kind of prove myself, I guess. We Irish are shocking like that,’ she added. ‘Ability to knock back alcohol is practically defining, you know.’

‘We’re growing out of it,’ said Joe.

‘Not everywhere,’ she said. ‘Anyhow, we went to the pub and it was all very macho and they were making lots of comments designed to make me feel girlie and stupid.’