The Women of Primrose Square

by Claudia Carroll

  Praise for

  ‘Beautiful . . . a stunning book full of wonderful characters that you grow to care about so deeply. The story is so perfectly paced and I loved the twist. It made me laugh and made me weep. It is layered, tender, warm, funny and heartbreaking. A truly wonderful book by an immensely talented writer’

  SINÉAD MORIARTY

  ‘A warm, insightful novel’

  WOMAN AND HOME

  ‘A wonderful read dealing with all of our human frailties through a prism of warmth and compassion. This is such an appealing story . . . Funny, smart and thoroughly engaging’

  LIZ NUGENT

  ‘A wise, warm and witty gem, that will make you weep as you uncover the truths of the residents of Primrose Square. This is a special novel and I loved it’

  CARMEL HARRINGTON

  Praise for

  ‘It bubbles and sparkles like pink champagne’

  PATRICIA SCANLAN

  ‘Modern, warm, insightful and filled with characters that felt like friends at the end’

  EMMA HANNIGAN

  ‘Original, poignant and funny . . . [full of] wit and humour’

  SHEILA O’FLANAGAN

  ‘Full of warmth, humour and emotion . . . I guarantee you’ll love it’

  MELISSA HILL

  ‘Claudia Carroll is a master of creating a great story . . . A brilliantly readable, funny novel. Highly recommended’

  FABULOUS

  ‘An emotional roller-coaster . . . Hilarious, effervescent, heart-warming’

  IRISH INDEPENDENT

  ‘Brilliantly funny stuff’

  SUN

  Contents

  Chapter 1 – Frank

  Chapter 2 – Emily

  Chapter 3 – Gracie

  Chapter 4 – Violet

  Chapter 5 – Frank

  Chapter 6 – Emily

  Chapter 7 – Violet

  Chapter 8 – Frank

  Chapter 9 – Emily

  Chapter 10 – Frank

  Chapter 11 – Emily

  Chapter 12 – Violet

  Chapter 13 – Gracie

  Chapter 14 – Emily

  Chapter 15 – Violet

  Chapter 16 – Frank

  Chapter 17 – Emily

  Chapter 18 – Violet

  Chapter 19 – Emily

  Chapter 20 – Francesca

  Chapter 21 – Gracie

  Chapter 22 – Violet

  Chapter 23 – Emily

  Chapter 24 – Frank

  Chapter 25 – Violet

  Chapter 26 – Emily

  Chapter 27 – Gracie

  Chapter 28 – Violet

  Chapter 29 – Emily

  Chapter 30 – Violet

  Chapter 31 – Gracie

  Chapter 32 – Amber

  Chapter 33 – Violet

  Chapter 34 – Gracie

  Chapter 35 – Violet

  Chapter 36 – Emily

  Chapter 37 – Gracie

  Chapter 38 – Violet

  Chapter 39 – Frank

  Chapter 40 – Violet

  Chapter 41 – Emily

  Chapter 42 – Violet

  Chapter 43 – Gracie

  Chapter 44 – Violet

  Chapter 45 – Emily

  Chapter 46 – Gracie

  Chapter 47 – Emily

  Chapter 48 – Francesca

  Chapter 49 – Emily

  Six months later

  Two years later

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Letter from Author

  Copyright

  Frank

  Imagine if it was your fiftieth birthday party and absolutely no one wanted to come. That on its own would be bad enough, but even worse were the excuses Frank Woods was given, most of which bordered on pathetic.

  Time and time again, he was told, ‘Aww, thanks for asking me to your fiftieth, Frank, but . . . hang on a minute, did you mean the twenty-ninth? Nah, can’t make it, I’m afraid. I’ve got to . . . emm . . . babysit that night. No childcare. Sorry!’

  More watery excuses flooded in thick and fast.

  ‘Yeah, fifty is a big deal and all that,’ said Phil from next door, snapping on his bike helmet as he and Frank left their respective houses on Primrose Square for the dawn commute to work. ‘You know I’d really love to be there, but the match is on that weekend and I’ve got tickets. Cost me a fortune too and it’s the final, you know how it is.’

  Frank smiled quietly and said he understood. But the thing was, he didn’t really understand at all. The big match was on in the afternoon; surely it was possible to go to both? He sighed and said goodbye to Phil, who just grunted and cycled off, wobbling his way into the early morning traffic.

  Before he got into his car, Frank took a moment to breathe in the mild, fragrant spring air. It was May and he’d always thought that Primrose Square looked its absolute best at that time of year, when all the buddleia and camellia lining its well-tended pathways were in bloom and when you could smell the fresh, scented air the minute you stepped out your front door. The party was to be held at number seventy-nine, the fine Victorian townhouse where he lived with his family – a house big enough to hold about a hundred guests at a squish, except now it looked like there’d barely be enough people to fill his downstairs loo.

  At the company where Frank had worked calmly and efficiently for over twenty-five years, it was exactly the same story, with slightly different variations.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ said Florence from finance, clamping her hand over her mouth when Frank handed her a neatly written invitation. ‘Is it really your fiftieth birthday? I’m so sorry, but I’m going to be away playing golf that weekend. Can you believe it, the very same shagging weekend?’

  ‘Can’t make it, Frankie boy,’ shrugged Joe, the sales director who went to so many company functions, the running gag was that he’d turn up to the opening of an envelope. ‘But I’m sure you’ll have loads of other mates to have a few beers with; sure you’ll hardly even notice I’m not there!’

  Frank sighed quietly and took off his glasses to give them a little rub. Then he took a good, long look around at his work colleagues.

  He thought of all the vouchers he’d shelled out for, for their thirtieths and fortieths – even when no one had bothered to invite him. He remembered all the office weddings that he hadn’t been asked to, but had still chipped in for a present anyway, never once complaining. He just did it because it was the right thing to do, the kind thing to do.

  He thought of countless work dos where he’d invariably end up being the designated driver for his colleagues, ferrying everyone home at all hours without as much as a thank you. How he’d nurse fizzy water for the whole night, while everyone around him partied like there was no tomorrow. Not to mention all the nights out after work, which somehow everyone would forget to include him in.

  Frank had often overheard the younger staff members chatting about him behind his back like he wasn’t even there. He knew perfectly well that his nickname was Mr Cellophane – from the musical Chicago – because no one ever seemed to notice whether he was in the room or not. Not that he minded, really. He’d always assumed it was an affectionate nickname, given fondly.

  Now, though, he wasn’t quite so sure.

  Was it really possible, he wondered sadly, that not a single one of his workmates would come along to his fiftieth birthday party?

  Even his nearest and dearest were at it.

  ‘Oh Frank, does it have to be on the twenty-ninth?’ his wife Gracie had sighed. ‘You know I’m in court that day and it’ll be insane. Sorry, love, but this case is m
ake or break for us and I can’t just drop everything to organise a birthday party in the middle of it all. Tell you what; why don’t we do something when it’s all over? A family dinner, anywhere you like? I’ll even pay, and I’ll let you pick the poshest restaurant you like. How about that?’

  Frank had two kids – a teenage son and an eleven-year-old daughter – who told him in no uncertain terms that they’d both be off doing their own thing the night of the birthday.

  ‘I’m going to an end-of-term party that night, Dad,’ Ben, his eldest, told him, pulling out an earbud and momentarily glancing up from his phone, as Frank uncomplainingly drove him to school. ‘All my friends are going, and I can’t cancel now, just to go to some lame-o fiftieth.’

  ‘But this is a very special occasion,’ Frank said, as his heart sank. ‘It would mean so much to me if you were there, son. Surely just this once—’

  ‘Come on, gimme a break, Dad,’ Ben interrupted. ‘You and Mum never let me out, like ever. I don’t even bother asking anymore, because you keep saying: “Not until after the Leaving Cert”. But you both swore blind to me that if I got good grades in the mocks and mowed the lawn for a full month that I could go to this party. And now you seriously expect me to give up the chance of a night out with my own gang, just to go to some old people thing where I won’t even know anyone?’

  ‘Don’t be so mean; he’s sitting right beside you!’ Amber, Frank’s daughter, piped up from the back seat of the car.

  Frank smiled fondly at her through the rear-view mirror. Amber was his little princess. Eleven years old and the light of his life. His ally at home. The one person who didn’t treat him like he was a complete pushover.

  ‘So, what about you, Amber, love?’ Frank asked her, as she munched into a granola bar she’d grabbed on her way out of the house, somehow managing to get more fruit and nuts all over the car seat than anywhere else. Frank’s car was barely a year old and it was his pride and joy, but he still didn’t utter a word of complaint. Instead he caught her eye when the car was stopped at lights and gave her a little wink. ‘At least I can count on you to celebrate with your old dad, can’t I?’

  ‘Oh Dad,’ Amber said, biting her bottom lip. ‘I’d really love to, but I can’t. Your birthday is on a Friday night and you know I always have piano lessons on a Friday.’

  ‘But just this once, can’t you make an exception?’ Frank said. ‘It wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t there, love . . .’

  ‘You know I’d far rather be at your party,’ Amber said, looking a bit guilty, ‘but my piano exams are only two weeks away and I’m on Grade Two now, and that’s a really big deal and I might fail my exam if I miss class.’

  ‘Okey dokey,’ Frank said quietly from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Jesus, Dad,’ said Ben, rolling his eyes, ‘do you really have to say “okey dokey”? That is like . . . seriously embarrassing.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Frank, in a small little voice.

  He probably should have been an awful lot sterner with Ben for being so rude, especially in front of Amber, but he knew he’d be wasting his time. Ben wouldn’t have listened to him anyway. No one ever did.

  I’m about to be fifty, he thought, inching his way through bumper-to-bumper traffic. He was about to hit the half-century. The Big One. Never once in the entire course of his life had Frank ever thrown a birthday party for himself, and now the one time he actually wanted to mark the day, there were absolutely no takers.

  So he swallowed his disappointment and let everyone at home and at work buzz about him, ignoring him, as usual. Mr Cellophane.

  But, he thought calmly, if that’s the way it’s going to be, then it’s not the end of the world.

  I’ll be fifty this Friday and I’ll have the whole house to myself.

  Time to execute Plan B.

  *

  The day of the Big Birthday turned out to be a Nothing Special Day in the life of Frank Woods of number seventy-nine Primrose Square. Gracie seemed particularly preoccupied and tense that morning, barely pausing to give him a quick kiss at breakfast as she gathered up a mound of court briefs and documents, stuffing them into her briefcase.

  ‘Happy birthday, love,’ she’d said, gulping back a scalding cup of tea he’d made for her, then pulling her coat on. ‘We’ll celebrate properly soon, OK? When this case is over.’

  ‘Whatever you want, love,’ Frank said, quietly loading up the dishwasher, completely understanding why she hadn’t made much of a fuss. Gracie was a lawyer and was working on a high-profile financial corruption case just then, so she was bound to be a bit preoccupied.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said from their little hallway, ‘when I’m a bit less stressed, we’ll do something.’

  Except, Frank thought, that was never. These days, Gracie was stressed all the time. She didn’t even take holidays anymore, her job was so pressurised. The best thing he could do, he knew of old, was to keep the housework ticking over, keep well out of her way and try his best not to get on her nerves.

  ‘Just don’t take the M50,’ he called after her. ‘There’s a road closure at junction ten and a seven-minute delay, according to Google Maps. Take the N11, you’ll be far quicker.’

  For some reason, though, Gracie didn’t thank him for this useful nugget of information. Instead she stopped in her tracks, gave him an apologetic smile, then banged the hall door behind her.

  Ben seemed to have almost forgotten what day it was too. He barely even thanked his dad as Frank passed over the sourdough and avocado sandwich he’d painstakingly made for his lunch.

  ‘Happy birthday, Dad. See you over the weekend,’ was all Ben grunted as he grabbed the sandwich and bolted out the door, late for school as usual.

  But what stung Frank most of all was Amber, his little princess, who normally went to such particular bother over everyone else’s birthday. This was the girl who once threw a party to celebrate the cat being ten years old. She’d invited in a few neighbours on Primrose Square – Susan Hayes and her daughter Melissa, who were both noted cat lovers – she’d even moulded a birthday cake for the cat out of tins of Whiskers. Yet Amber just gave him a quick hug as she grabbed an apple to eat on the bus.

  ‘We’ll make a big fuss of you very soon, Dad,’ she promised, rushing out the door. ‘When my piano exams are over, OK?’

  Never mind about a big fuss, Frank thought, scrupulously clearing up the mess his family had made in the kitchen, even though they’d only been in it for approximately five minutes between them. Just a little fuss today of all days would have been nice.

  He walked to his car – a neat, practical little Prius – and waved across Primrose Square at Jayne Dawson, a lovely neighbour who’d lived on the square since Old God’s time and who seemed to be out for an early morning jog.

  ‘Happy birthday, Frank!’ Jayne called over cheerily, as Frank smiled and waved back at her, marvelling that someone of Jayne’s age – she had to be seventy if she was a day – could still seem so youthful and energetic.

  Then he stopped in his tracks. How did she know it was my birthday? Jayne was the sweetest soul you could ever meet, but they weren’t exactly close friends. There was no way he’d have expected her to know that the day was special for him.

  Odd, he thought, strapping himself into the car and waving at Jayne as he drove off to work, taking the correct lane and staying well within the speed limit, as always, punctual to the dot.

  No one at the office remarked on the day, not even at lunchtime when Frank slipped out and bought a fresh Victoria sponge for the staff to share.

  He wondered if it seemed a bit sad that he was left to go out and buy his own birthday cake by himself. Then he wondered if it was even sadder that not a single soul in the office took a single slice when he offered it around. Instead, there was a whole chorus of excuses.

  ‘Oh, cake! A lovely thought, but you know I’m gluten free right now . . . Sorry.’

  ‘What class of a fucking idiot b
rought in cake,’ griped Florence from finance, ‘when I’m trying to stick to a sugar-free diet? Are you shower of bastards trying to torture me or what?’

  Even kind-hearted Tracey, the office receptionist, joined in. ‘No, take that vile thing away from me!’ she yelled theatrically, like it was made of nitro glycerine and not just a humble cream sponge. ‘I’m doing the Slimming World plan and I’ve already had all five of the sins I’m allowed for today!’

  ‘Rightio, sorry about that,’ Frank said apologetically, lifting the offending cake safely out of harm’s way. He nibbled at a tiny slice of it himself on his own at his desk, then threw the rest of the cake into the brown bin – the correct bin, as he was constantly having to remind the others, for food waste disposal.

  Oh well, he thought. Never mind. Chin up. After all, what did it matter really? It was only a bit of cake. Besides, he’d already silently made his own plans for that evening and a full, bloated stomach certainly wouldn’t be of any help to him. Not with what he had in mind.

  *

  Ordinarily, you could set your watch by the time Frank’s spotless Prius would trundle up Primrose Square at the end of a working day. The neighbours often said that the only two things you could depend on around there were bin day on a Monday and that Frank Woods from number seventy-nine would arrive home at 7 p.m. every night, punctual to the dot, parking in his usual spot, with the correct resident’s permit prominently displayed against the dashboard.

  But that particular night was different. If you were watching Frank’s movements closely, you’d know that something was up. For a start, it was later, far later than normal, well after 9 p.m., when Frank finally did get home. He’d purposely waited until dark, when he hoped Primrose Square wouldn’t be too busy with neighbours coming and going. Less chance of being seen, he figured, a mix of excitement and anxiety bubbling away in his belly.

  The weather had changed dramatically, and the mild spring day had given way to a miserable, rainy night. Still, though, you could never fully count on privacy around the square, whatever the weather. You’d often see hardy late-evening joggers puffing their weary way around the perimeter, or Becky from number forty-two out walking her yappy little terriers that barked a lot and always went for your ankles.