This is Now by Ciara Geraghty

This is Now

This is Now by Ciara Geraghty
English | 2020 | Romance, Contemporary| ePUB | 2.9 MB

An ordinary day. An ordinary bank. An ordinary street in an ordinary town. Nothing ever happens, until, one day, a shocking robbery turns life upside down for five people:

Cillian, a police detective,
Martha, the woman he thought was the life of his life,
Tobias, who came to Ireland after WWII and now lies in a coma, shot in the bank robbery,
Roman, the young Polish teenager who is suspected of pulling the trigger
and his mother Rosa, the cleaner, who dreamed of a better life for herself and her son . . .

. . . and things will never be ordinary again.

Ciara Geraghty’s writing has that rare ability to make you laugh out loud as well as cry. She combines tangled human relationships with humour, romance and warmth to create something truly special.

There was no way of knowing what would happen.

Swords was its usual self that Monday. A steady procession of traffic along the curves of the main street, groups of office workers arguing about where to go for lunch, reggae music floating from the barber’s, the hiss of the number 33 as its doors opened at the bus stop.

As they approached the bank, Tara Bolton’s normally swift gait slowed and slowed until she wasn’t walking at all. She was standing still.

Martha Wilder was a full two strides ahead before she noticed. She turned.

‘Will you hurry the fuck up,’ she said to Tara.

‘Cursing at me is not going to help.’

‘What about whacking you with my bag?’

‘Can’t you be serious?’

‘I am being serious.’

‘This is not a good idea.’

‘You thought it was a good idea yesterday.’

‘But now it’s today.’

‘And the day after is tomorrow. What’s your point?’

‘I just …’ Tara shrugged as passers-by altered their trajectory to pass her by. Martha strode towards her, a long stream of bright red hair tumbling down her back, tamed only by a single clip at the side in the shape of a treble clef, which brought scant order to the wildness of her hair. She folded her arms across her chest. ‘What?’ she said, looking down. She had always towered over Tara but had never considered her friend small. Today she looked small. And pale, despite the immaculate make-up that gave the – false – impression of hours of painstaking application.

Tara worried at a fingernail with her teeth, the polish coming away in long curls. She shook her head. ‘I … I can’t do it.’

‘You can.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Even Tara’s voice was small now. It was difficult to see her as the wildly successful entrepreneur who bought companies the way some women bought shoes, then sold them for exorbitant prices after she’d given them what the financial media dubbed the Tara Touch.

Martha nodded. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘Think of it as a business meeting and you’ll be grand.’

Tara nodded without conviction but began to move forward. Martha did her best to match Tara’s reluctant pace.

The bank had seen better days. The white plaster of its facade was crumbling and, inside, the carpet was worn thin, bald in parts, from the march of so many feet across it over the years. A short line of people shuffled towards a counter, behind which two tellers worked. One of them waved at Tara. ‘I’ll tell your sister that you’re here,’ she said, reaching for the phone on her desk. Martha nodded towards a bench. They sat down.

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