Free Something in Common by Roisin Meaney Page B

her choose her words more carefully in future. She can still tell the truth, but in a kinder way.’
    ‘Well, if you feel that strongly, go ahead.’
    ‘I will.’ She nestled into himagain. ‘Imagine if it was my book she was talking about.’
    He laughed. ‘You’d be inconsolable – probably want to top yourself.’
    She slapped his arm lightly. ‘Don’t joke about that, it’s not funny. But I
would
be devastated. I’ll be terrified to even show it to a publisher, in case they turn me down.’
    ‘I know you will,’ he said, folding his page in two, ‘but let’s not worry about that until you finish it.’
    ‘No.’ She turned her head to see the clock. ‘Damn, I’d better get up. I
hate
working on Sunday. Why did I ever agree to it?’
    ‘Because they asked you to, and you’re incapable of saying no.’
    She sighed as she pushed back the eiderdown. ‘They said it was temporary, just until they replaced Austin.’
    ‘Of course they did, because they know you won’t complain.’
    She searched with her feet for slippers. ‘Well, they might be short of funds or something. I wouldn’t like to put them under pressure.’
    ‘Perish the thought that you’d ever upset them like that.’
    Standing in the shower, she imagined the book’s author opening his Sunday newspaper and discovering what Helen O’Dowd thought of his first book. Probably slaved over it for months, years even. His wife going out to work to support them maybe, both of them hoping he’d make it as a writer. The excitement when he’d got his publishing deal – they’d probably gone out to dinner to celebrate – and now this.
    Oh, she knew there were plenty of bigger things to worry about: the Lebanon torn apart by war, the IRA still planting their bombs, horrible racial prejudice in South Africa – but this mattered too, it mattered a lot to the author.
    She pictured herself in his shoes, her book out there for all the Helen O’Dowds of the world to say whatever hurtful things they felt like saying about it. She’d die – she’d be completely destroyed if a book she’d written was slated like that.
    Then again, at the rate she was going, Helen O’Dowd would probably have retired long before Sarah’s book got finished, let alone published. Over two years sinceshe’d begun plotting it, and less than fifty thousand words written – about half as many as she needed, according to any writer’s guide she looked at. So hard to get it right, her plot constantly changing as she ran out of steam with a storyline, but she was determined to keep at it.
    She rinsed shampoo from her hair. She’d write to Helen O’Dowd when she got home from work, before she had a chance to forget. Her letter would probably be tossed into the nearest bin – book reviewers probably didn’t take kindly to criticism, despite being well able to dish it out themselves – but the act of writing it would make Sarah feel better. She’d have spoken out against an injustice; she’d have taken a stand.
    And starting tomorrow she’d get back to her own book, write for at least an hour a day, rather than hopping in and out of it at random. It didn’t even have a title yet – or, rather, it had had a succession of titles, all of which she’d rejected one by one.
    She towelled herself dry and reached for the talc, thinking of the five-hour shift that lay ahead of her in the nursing home’s stuffy kitchen. Sunday lunch of roast chicken for twenty-seven, roast and boiled potatoes, peas, mashed carrot and parsnip. Apple tart and custard for dessert, a batch of raisin scones for their tea later on, after their Sunday visitors had gone home.
    Poor Martina, the only resident with no visitors at all. She’d never married, never had children, but there had to be a niece or nephew, or a cousin maybe, who was aware of her existence. How sad to think that nobody in the world cared enough about her to come and see her. You could hardly blame her for being a bit