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I didn’t meet my destiny at the ploughing championships. I bumped into someone I had hoped never to see again: Christopher Montgomery—hardly my destiny.
Finola and I were pushing through the packed exhibition area, joking about the dress code at a ploughing championship. She was dressed in a Barbour, jeans, and green wellies, while I had gone for the country house option of a tweed jacket and silk scarf tucked into a white shirt, teamed with dark green trousers.
“Talk about House & Garden,” she teased when she picked me up. “Didn’t think you’d stoop so low.”
“I have to blend, ya know,” I replied. “Now I can sample the best jams and scones and they’ll think I’m one of the judges.”
“They’ll bribe you with cake, and you’ll have to eat it.”
I picked at her jacket. “Barbour? You’ll boil in this. Very Horse & Hound, darling.”
“I borrowed it from Jules. But I think I might have to take it off. Worst thing to wear whatever the weather. I think it must have been designed to be worn only when it’s ten degrees in a soft drizzle. Any other kind of weather and you’re either freezing or roasting.”
“They were meant to be worn by gamekeepers in the 1890s,” I quipped as I scanned the crowd. “Gee, you were right about everyone being here. I just saw the Minister for the Environment being interviewed for RTE News.”
“What did I tell you?” Finola pointed to a broad back. “And look, isn’t that the publisher? Yours, I mean. Wearing a shiny new Barbour. Doesn’t he know they’re supposed to be old and worn to a frazzle like mine?”
“He has no class at all,” I said, trying to hide behind Finola. But I was too tall, and my head stuck up above hers. As if he had heard Finola’s last remark over the din, he smiled and started to approach us.
“He’s coming here,” I hissed. “What’ll I do?”
“Nothing,” Finola muttered. “I’ll take care of him.”
Kit reached us. “Hello there,” he said and moved as if to kiss my cheek.
I stepped back. “Hi. What are you doing here? Networking?”
He smiled. “Just getting a whiff of Irish country life.” His gaze drifted to Finola. “Hello, Ms McGee. We haven’t met, but I recognise you from the pictures in the papers. You’re famous in Ireland.”
Finola nodded. “I spotted you too. You’ve quite a reputation yourself.”
Kit looked at her with false modesty. “Nothing like you, Finola, if I may call you that.”
Finola nodded and made a gesture like the Queen at a garden party. “You may.”
I let out a giggle.
Kit’s gaze drifted back to me. “You look well, Audrey. I like the demure style. So what are you girls up to, here at the ploughing championships?”
I smiled sweetly. “I just wanted to catch up on the latest in sheep shearing and ploughing. For the magazine.”
“And I’m keeping an eye on what’s going down in politics,” Finola said. “I have an idea for a new book about how political propaganda is creeping into newspaper publishing.”
Kit fixed her with a cold stare. “Nothing new in that.”
“Perhaps not,” Finola drawled, “but I’ll have a different slant on it. You might even feature in this one.”
Kit took a step back. “I don’t like the sound of that. What do I have to do to stay out of it?”
Finola laughed. “Just keep your nose clean, my friend. And don’t put anything in writing.”
“I’m getting out of Irish country newspapers,” Kit announced. “Too difficult to deal with.”
Finola smirked. “I bet. If you get involved in politics in Ireland, you’ll soon find yourself up to your neck in a lot of shite. And they won’t obey orders, especially from across the Irish Sea.”
Kit’s face turned red. “Yeah, whatever. In any case, I’ll be signing a deal with the new owners of The Knockmealdown News as soon as they have organised their payment. You’ll have new bosses, Audrey. Two of them, to be precise.”
I gasped. “You know who they are?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve known for a while.”
“So, who are they?”
He shook his head. “Can’t tell you. I promised not to reveal their identities until they announce it themselves. They’re putting out a press release next week.” He directed a thin smile in my direction. “I think you’ll be more than a little surprised. But I must go. Good day, ladies.”
“And good riddance to you,” Finola muttered when he had strolled off. “What a slimy creep. Except he’s kind of sexy.” She looked at me. “I felt a flicker of something between you, to be honest.”
I felt my cheeks burn. “Yeah, well...Maybe. But that was a long time ago. I can’t stand him now.”
“You didn’t—?”
“God, no. It crossed my mind at a weak moment when I’d had a lot of wine, but I slapped myself down pretty quick.”
“Smart move.” Finola looked around the exhibition tent. “Okay, right. Let’s separate. You go for the country journalists, and I’ll mingle with the guys from the main rags and the TV crowd. It’ll be fun to catch up with some of my old colleagues. You could sniff around the farmers’ journals people too. You never know. The new crowd might be buying those as well.”
“I just have to check on the rest of my crew. They went to watch the ploughing. Dan wanted pictures of the tractors and the fields. This is only the first day, but he said they’ll get a good indication of who’s going to win it already. Not that I have a clue about any of that,” I added. “But he does.”
“Thank the Lord for that,” Finola said. “Hey, I see Jerry over there.”
“He and Miranda have a stand here this year. Their organic business is booming.”
“I know. They’re hiring more staff too. But Jerry’s bored. I’ll go and have a chat with him before I get going. Could we agree to meet for lunch at that catering tent we passed on the way here?”
“Okay.”
She touched my arm. “See you later. Good luck.” She was swallowed up by the crowd in seconds.
I went the opposite way, heading for the stand of the Irish Farmers Journal, where I spent a fun half hour chatting with country reporters who gave me the low-down on ploughing, prize heifers, and the size of pigs, but nothing about this elusive publishing group.
I met up with Finola in the catering tent.
“Wow,” she said, laughing. “I now know everything about ploughing, milking, and how to shear sheep. And I got free dog-worming tablets and something for ringworm in horses. But not a thing about this bloody publisher. Maybe they don’t exist?”
“They must. Kit wouldn’t sell out to a phony group. This was a complete waste of time. Talk about barking up the wrong tree.”
Finola looked dejected. “Yeah, I know. But, hey, we had fun, right? And we learned a lot. I also caught up with some of my old colleagues. Boy, am I happy I left reporting. Things are tougher than ever. You get sued if you as much as sneeze in the direction of a politician these days.”
“The Jersean Group seem to be good at hiding their tracks.”
“Looks like it all right. I feel such a failure.” Finola sighed and elbowed herself to the counter. “Let’s get lunch. You’ll find out sooner or later who they are anyway.”
“I hope it’s sooner rather than later. And I hope that surprise Kit mentioned won’t be a horrible shock.”
***
I arrived back late in the afternoon, having left Dan and Sinead to continue taking pictures and notes while I downloaded what they had already to the computer. Since it was Thursday, we had to work hard to have everything in place for the weekend edition. Fidelma announced we had two more advertisers —big names in home furnishings and gardening, which would give us a welcome financial boost. Feeling a lot more positive, I worked late into the evening with Mary and Fidelma until I was satisfied we’d done enough for a final polish the next day.
My phone rang just as we were finishing up. It was Rory.
“Just to tell you he’s here,” he panted. “Nearly three weeks late, the little minx.”
“Who?” I asked, confused.
“The baby. Our baby,” Rory exclaimed. “Dessie gave birth to a boy at Clonmel Hospital two hours ago. Eight pounds five ounces. He has dark hair and brown eyes, and his name’s Kieran.”
I laughed. “Oh wow! That’s great news. Congratulations. When can I see him?”
“Dessie’s going home tomorrow. Give us a day or two, and then she’ll be happy to receive visitors.”
“I’ll be over to inspect him then. Congratulations again. You must be so happy.”
“Oh yes.” Rory sighed. “Dessie was so brave.”
“Give her my love.”
I hung up and shared the news with the girls, who were excited and pleased for Dessie. We put some money together for a baby present and cards. When everyone had gone home, I stretched and yawned. Time to stop. I saved the files, put a few Post-it notes on Dan’s computer screen, and then left, looking forward to a soak in the tub and a glass of wine.
As I left, I glanced at Jonathan’s door across the landing, wondering where he was and what he was doing. Then I saw a strip of light under the door. He was home. Maybe this would be a good time to apologise? Better to get it over with and clear the air.
My knees shaking and my heart pounding, I rang the doorbell. There was no sound from inside. But then I heard footsteps. I wiped my clammy hands on my trousers. The door opened, and I came face-to-face with Jonathan.