Something in Common by Roisin Meaney

him a coronary.
    She stood waiting on her side of the hedge. His house probably stank of that ratty old cat of his, no sign of a window open. Come to think of it, the milk might well smell of cat too. She should have gone to the shop, might still have to. What was keeping the old goat?
    Eventually he reappeared and offered her a half-full blue and white striped cup. Broke his heart, barely enough for two refills.
    ‘Thanks, appreciate it.’
    ‘I’ll need the cup back,’ he said.
    As if she’d want to hang on to anything that belonged to him. ‘You’ll get it,’ she said tightly. ‘I have plenty of my own.’
    ‘And keep that music down,’ he added, as she turned away.
    She made no reply. Just her luck to end up living beside such a grump.
His bark’s worse than his bite
, Cormac had said,
just give him a chance
, but the less Helen saw of him, with his threadbare jumpers that smelt of Zam-Buk and his baggy grey vests strung across his washing line, the better.
    Back in the kitchen she turned on the news. A British soldier and a woman civilian shot dead in Belfast by gunmen posing as Rag Week students in fancy dress. Charlie Chaplin’s body snatched by grave robbers in Switzerland.
The Spike
, RTÉ’s big new drama, shot down in flames after just five episodes because it haddared to feature a nude actress playing the part of an art class model – now
there
was something to get her teeth into, once Joe Dolan was out of the way.
    As she brought her mug to the table, the letter she hadn’t got around to opening before the school run caught her eye. She slid her finger under the envelope flap and pulled out the notelet. The front image was a watercolour of a vase with masses of daisies stuck into it. Maybe not a letter of complaint after all, maybe one of the very few she got with something positive to say.
    The handwriting inside was rounded, with giant loops under the
ys
and
gs.
The ink was the same purple as on the envelope.
    Dear Miss O’Dowd
    I am writing to protest in the strongest possible terms at your review of
To Kill with Kindness
in today’s newspaper. I feel you dealt far too harshly with this book, which I admit I haven’t read, but surely you could have been a little less blunt in your criticism, particularly as it’s a debut novel. Imagine how hard the author must have worked on it. I especially thought your remark about him keeping a diary was unnecessarily cruel. Perhaps you could choose your words more carefully in future. I’m sure you won’t object to a little constructive criticism.
    Yours sincerely
,
    Sarah Flannery (Mrs)
    She dribbled some of Malone’s milk into her coffee, hovering between amusement and annoyance. Seemed like Pollyanna was alive and well, living forty miles down the road and worried that Helen might have upset the poor little author with herhorrible review. Sarah Flannery (Mrs) must have time on her hands. Probably delighted with the chance to use one of her twee little notelets.
    And naïve enough to admit that she hadn’t even read the damn book.
Imagine how hard the author must have worked on it
– how the hell did she know he’d worked hard on it? If she’d bothered to scan even the first few pages she’d have seen that he’d put precious little work into it, but she’d been too busy writing to the nasty lady who’d offended him.
    I’m sure you won’t object to a little constructive criticism
– what was so constructive about telling Helen she didn’t like her review? Another cliché whose meaning had clearly escaped her. The woman was laughable.
    She could just imagine Sarah Flannery in her country cottage with roses growing around the door. Married to Mr Flannery with a square jaw, who treated her like a queen and never got sick.
    The perfect little housewife – no working outside the home, she bet, for Mrs Sarah Flannery – waving hubby goodbye in her frilly apron as he went off to work each morning. Cooking dinner for him and their two perfect