Praise for
‘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
‘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 heart-breaking. A truly wonderful book by an immensely talented writer’
SINEAD MORIARTY
Contents
Winter
Susan
Melissa
Jayne
Nancy
Susan
Nancy
Susan
Jayne
Melissa
Nancy
Susan
Melissa
Jayne
Susan
Melissa
Melissa
Spring
Susan
Jayne
Nancy
Susan
Susan
Jason
Melissa
Jayne
Melissa
Nancy
Susan
Nancy
Susan
Melissa
Dublin Airport
Nancy
Susan
Nancy
Susan
Jayne
Susan
Jayne
Nancy
Nancy
Susan
Nancy
Susan
Susan
Jason
Melissa
Jayne
Nancy
Jayne
Melissa
Nancy
Susan
Melissa
Nancy
Melissa
Summer
Susan
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
A woman is like a tea bag.
You can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water
Attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt
This book celebrates female friendship, so very special thanks to my girlfriends, who’ve been like a life-support system to me over the years.
We’re so much stronger together, ladies.
Always.
Susan
48 THE CRESCENT
Susan didn’t used to be like this. To look at her now, soaked through to the skin on a dark, wintry night as she stood on the street outside an eighteen-year-old boy’s home, staring, just staring up at his bedroom window, you’d think she was some kind of deranged stalker.
It’s eight minutes past eight, she thought, glancing down at her watch. I’ll stay here as long as I can, no matter how bad the rain gets. From bitter experience over the past few months, she knew that an hour was about as long as she could hold out safely for, before someone came out of the house to accost her. To tell her to cop herself on, that she’d a pre-teen daughter at home who needed her.
Haven’t you better things to be doing with yourself, Susan? We know you’re hurting, but hurting us isn’t really going to change anything, now is it?
Worst-case scenario, someone from inside the house would call the Guards (again) and report her (yet again). Then if they weren’t too busy, a squad car would generally arrive between thirty-four and forty-two minutes later, with flashing lights and full sirens blaring, if they really wanted to intimidate her.
Two cops would get out – it was always two – one usually a woman, who’d do a ‘bad cop’ routine with Susan, at least until they heard her side of the story. Then after a good talking to and maybe even the vague threat that she was running the risk of getting herself sectioned if she kept up this carry on, they’d take her back home to Primrose Square. There, they’d usually make her a strong cup of tea and give her the same ‘you want to watch yourself’ speech Susan had already sat through dozens of times.
Generally that’s what would happen, as soon as they realised she wasn’t an arsonist or a stalker or a deranged middle-aged woman in love with a minor. Just an ordinary woman dealing with the unimaginable the only way she knew how.
Time would pass, days, even weeks. Then sooner or later, the cops would try to wash their hands of the whole sorry mess (yet again) with the threat of a restraining order or a visit from a social worker ‘just to check how you are’, and a stern caution to ‘try to be more careful in future, Susan. We know this can’t be easy for you, but this kind of behaviour isn’t doing you any favours. Next time you could end up in real trouble.’
Worth it, Susan thought, as a bus splashed past her, momentarily blocking out her view of the house she was fixated on. Well worth it. What real harm was she doing anyway? All she was doing was standing on a public pavement minding her own business, nothing more. Nothing she wasn’t perfectly entitled to do. Besides, in this city, the cops should be out trying to catch warring drug barons, not hassling innocent women who weren’t bothering anyone. At least, no one who hadn’t bloody well asked for it in the first place.
I can’t forget, she thought. Never, as long as I draw breath, will I ever be able to forget. So why should he? Why should this fucker get to sleep soundly in his bed at night after what he’s done?
Tonight I’ll give it exactly another fifty-seven minutes and forty-five seconds, she decided, squinting down at her watch through the icy cold darkness. Then, providing they didn’t throw her into a prison cell overnight as a cautionary warning, she’d come back again tomorrow at precisely the same time and do it all over again.
Melissa
18 PRIMROSE SQUARE
At exactly 8:08 p.m., Melissa Hayes was at home, in the kitchen extension that once used to be her mother’s pride and joy, heating up a beef stew that no one would touch, and taking care to leave the place spotless behind her, which no one would thank her for. Twelve years of age and desperately trying to keep up some semblance of normality.
Her dad had at least called her from abroad, she thought, picking at a tiny bit of stew. (It had tasted so delicious when she’d made it earlier in Miss Hogan’s home economics class, but it was all dry and salty now, probably because she’d left it in the oven too long.) They’d only talked for a few minutes, but still, it didn’t really matter. At least Melissa could silently thank her stars that her dad was one parent she needn’t worry about.
He was in the army and on active service with peacekeeping troops out in Lebanon, where he worked in the Engineering Corps. It was to be a six-month tour of duty, which he’d signed up for last year, not long after everything that had happened. Escaping, Melissa had thought at the time, though, of course, she hadn’t said a word out loud. Her dad had patiently explained that he had no choice; when you were a Lieutenant Captain in the army, you went wherever you were posted, without any say in the matter.
Still, though. It looked an awful lot like running away from where Melissa was standing.
‘It’s only for a few months, sweetheart,’ he’d tried to reassure her before he left. ‘That’s all. And I’ll call my little princess every single day – that’s a promise.’
Melissa had swallowed back the tears and told him that she understood, even though she didn’t really. It didn’t make sense; her dad was like a rock to her, so why did he have to go and leave them at a time like this? Night after night, when she was meant to be in bed asleep, she’d overheard her paren
ts rowing, and she knew how upset her mum was, so her job was to pretend not to be.
Ever since what happened, Melissa had got good at pretending. Really good. She’d got so good that she could act like she was fine all day long whenever grown-ups were around and save her crying for when she was all alone in her room. Silent tears that no one would ever hear. She could pretend she didn’t mind a bit when her Auntie Betty ruffled her hair and said, ‘You’re to be a brave girl now, pet. Remember you’re all your poor parents have left.’
Melissa even managed a big, bright smile that horrible morning when she waved her dad off, all dressed up in his full uniform. There was only Melissa to say goodbye to him; her mum hadn’t even bothered to get out of bed. Probably because he was running away. She knew it, her mum knew it, they all did. Melissa didn’t even blame him. Half of her even wished she were a bit older, so she could run away too.
‘So where is your mum, then?’ he’d asked down the crackling phone line earlier that evening. ‘Can I talk to her?’
‘She’s just stepped out to do a bit of shopping,’ Melissa said, hating that she had to lie. But then what was the point of worrying her dad when he was thousands of miles away? That was just mean. Better to act like everything was hunky dory at home and hope her mum wouldn’t be gone for too much longer. Better to pretend. Better to keep the truth a tight little secret.
‘And how is she?’ her dad asked, worried.
‘Mum? Oh, she . . . emm . . . she’s cool. Fantastic. We both are. We just really miss you, Dad, that’s all.’
‘All right, princess,’ he said after a long, doubtful pause, his voice wafting in and out of coverage all the way from the Middle East. ‘Well, tell her I called and I’ll call again tomorrow at the same time. And that I love you both very much.’
‘Will do!’ Melissa had forced herself to say cheerily before hanging up. At least he’d checked with her, though, she thought, making herself swallow down a bite of the horrible, chewy beef. Even if she’d just told him a big pack of lies.
The truth was it was almost a quarter to nine and there was still no sign of her mum. She wasn’t answering her phone either; Melissa had been trying it all evening with no luck. So now she’d gone from being a little bit worried to feeling full-on sick, almost like she could throw up.
Unable to stomach the smell of the stew, she shoved it away and picked up her schoolbag from the kitchen floor, so she could at least make a start on tomorrow’s homework. There was a towering pile of ironing and laundry still to be done, but that’d just have to wait till later, along with the rest of the housework.
The kitchen had been like a bombsite when Melissa had come home from school earlier and she’d already lost so much time cleaning it up – or at least trying her very best to. She’d emptied the dishwasher, filled it up again, taken out the bins – which by then were stinking – and wiped down all the kitchen surfaces. It wasn’t much, but at least if the neighbours or social workers called to the house asking nosey questions again, the place looked okay. Well, okay-ish. The bedrooms upstairs were a complete pigsty and Melissa couldn’t remember the last time her sheets had been changed or the towels washed. But that would just have to wait till she had more time at the weekend, wouldn’t it?
She was already dead late with an English essay on Romeo and Juliet and if she didn’t hand something in tomorrow, there’d be big trouble. Sally Jenkins, the school counsellor, would take her aside and start probing her about how things were at home and how they were all coping. It was happening a lot these days and it was mortifying.
‘I don’t mean to put you on the spot with personal questions, Melissa,’ Sally had said just a few days ago. ‘But we do know things can’t be easy for your family at present. I’m just saying, if you ever need to talk, you know my door is always open.’
Melissa knew Sally was a kind woman with a lovely office where there were little bowls of fresh fruit and Maltesers that you could help yourself to, and Sally never minded how many you took to have for later.
‘Just make sure you don’t ruin your appetite for dinner,’ she’d said cheerily to Melissa only last week. ‘Or else your mum will be angry with you!’ Little did she know that the little fun-sized pack of Maltesers and the apple Melissa had stuffed into her schoolbag were her dinner.
Melissa couldn’t remember the last time her mum actually shopped or cooked or did anything normal, like all the other mothers did. And she knew Sally only meant well, but still, how could she possibly tell her what was really going on? That she had to look after herself because her mum just didn’t seem able to any more? How could she tell any adult the real truth, without the threat of being carted off into a foster home?
So Melissa did what she’d trained herself to do over the past few weeks and months: she put on her brightest, bravest face and assured Sally that everything at home was just fantastic, thanks very much.
‘In fact, my mum is really looking forward to the cake sale this weekend.’ She’d beamed, plastering on the biggest, fakest smile she could as she embellished the fib. ‘She’s been baking round the clock. Wait till you see the chocolate biscuit cake she’s made, Sally, it’s so cool!’
All lies, of course. Melissa’s mother hadn’t so much as cooked a single meal in months, never mind baked an actual cake. Chances were that if Melissa even bothered to tell her about the cake sale, her mum would just say something like, ‘That’s nice, love,’ then go back to twiddling with strands of her hair and staring into space, like she did so much these days. But Melissa had to say something to keep up appearances. Someone in this family had to keep the show on the road, didn’t they?
She sighed and looked around the empty kitchen table, which she’d automatically set for four, then felt sad when she remembered she’d never need to do that again. Time was when dinners around the table were full of chat about the day’s news, just like any other normal family. Her mum and dad were always laughing at some private joke, while her big sister Ella held court, usually ranting on about politics or else whatever protest march she was planning on getting to next.
Ella always seemed to have her nose stuck in a book at the table and her mum would have to yank it off her every single time, saying that it was bad manners to read during family dinnertime. The two of them would often have rows, but only pretend-y little ones. Joke rows. Then Ella would sigh dramatically, saying something sarcastic like, ‘Well, excuse me for trying to expand my mind, Mum’. But Ella would always shoot Melissa an exasperated eye roll, as if to say, ‘parents, eh?’, followed by a reassuring little grin to show she was cool about it really.
There was a time, not so long ago, when Melissa never had to tell any fibs about her mother’s baking or about cake sales or about how her family was doing. There was a time when the Hayes were just happy and normal and Melissa never even considered having to set foot inside the school counsellor’s office.
But that was then, she thought, putting the thought out of her mind as she whipped out her copybook, determined to make a fresh start on her essay. And this is now.
By 9 p.m., there was still no sign of her mum. With her schoolwork all but abandoned, the knot of tension in Melissa’s stomach had got far, far worse. Still no reply to any of her texts, even though she’d sent about a dozen at this stage.
MUM, WHERE ARE YOU? PLEASE COME HOME, MUM. PLEASE.
Wherever you are, Melissa thought, rereading the message as she double-checked that it had gone through. That was a laugh. There was only one place her mother could possibly be, wasn’t there?
There was no way she could concentrate on her homework any more, so instead she opened the hall door, went down the three stone steps that led onto Primrose Square and glanced fretfully up and down the street, just in case there was any sign of her mum’s familiar little Nissan zipping around the corner. It was a dark, wintry night and it had started to rain, so she grabbed Ella’s fleece jacket and threw the hood over her head to try and keep dry. It still smelled of
Ella’s good lemony perfume from Lush and somehow that was comforting.
If you can hear me, Melissa prayed to her big sister, then send Mum home safe. Please, can she just be safe.
She spent another half hour pacing restlessly up and down the square, praying her mum would come home soon, but it got to 9:30 p.m. and still there was nothing. The street was deadly quiet at this hour and the gates of Primrose Square Gardens were always locked early in wintertime, so it looked a bit scary and deserted. The wind howled through its towering, bare sycamores and the roundabout in the playground area squeaked, almost like there were ghosts riding it.
There were lots of lights on in the houses around the square, smoke coming out of chimneys, signs that there were normal families inside, doing normal family things, like dinner and homework and watching YouTube. Not pacing up and down the square in the icy cold looking for a mother who’d gone missing.
From the north side of the square opposite, Melissa could see Dr Khan clambering up into the huge jeep she drove, probably on her way to the maternity hospital where she worked crazy hours as an anesthesiologist. But Dr Khan looked busy and hassled and must have been on call, because she never even spotted Melissa out on her own in the rain; instead she leapt up into her car and zoomed off at top speed.
Melissa sighed and was just about to give up when she heard a faint squealing noise, then felt something warm and furry between her feet. It was Magic, her next-door neighbour Jayne’s cat, crying to get back inside.
‘Oh Magic, look at you, you’re drenched,’ said Melissa, scooping up the wriggling little bundle of damp fur and cuddling him into her fleece. ‘Come on, Jayne must be going mad looking for you.’
She knocked on Jayne’s door – number nineteen – where the poor old lady had the telly on so loud, you could hear the theme tune from Agatha Christie’s Marple blasting onto the street outside. There was a long delay while Melissa patiently waited in the rain for the front door to be opened – probably Jayne fumbling around the place to find her door keys.
The Secrets of Primrose Square Page 1
