The Secrets of Primrose Square

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Irene,’ Nancy said, ‘I’m really sorry to have dragged you all the way out here, but I’m afraid—’ She was about to say ‘clearly we’re both wasting our time’, but Irene was having none of it.

  ‘Oh! And did I draw your attention to the fabulous panoramic view?’ she went on, indicating a tiny window beside the sofa in a clear attempt to distract, much the same way you’d distract a kitten by tossing a ball of wool in its direction. ‘It’s a massive USP of this particular flat and I really think you’ll love it – it’s super special!’

  Gamely, Nancy peered out of the window, expecting something – anything at all – to justify the staggering rent the place was asking, but no, there was absolutely nothing to see.

  ‘Breathtaking, isn’t it?’ said Irene, hovering at her shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, but what view are we meant to be looking at exactly?’ Nancy asked her, mystified.

  ‘The city!’ Irene beamed, nudging her sharply in the ribs. ‘Look, spread out like a glistening carpet beneath you. Out of this world, isn’t it? Right up there with Manhattan, if you ask me. Or the Taj Mahal.’

  ‘But we’re overlooking a Lidl car park,’ Nancy said. Granted, if you squinted closely enough, you could just about make out a roundabout with backed up traffic and a Tesco Metro, but that was pretty much it as far as the panoramic view went.

  ‘You see?’ Irene said, undeterred. ‘Yet another plus to this flat! Proximity to a shopping centre. Very handy, I think you’ll find. Single tenants are always looking for a convenience store close by. You are a single lady, aren’t you, sweetheart?’

  There was a tiny, giveaway pause before Nancy replied.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, clearly and confidently. Bugger it, she thought, better get used to saying it out loud and proud.

  ‘I knew it!’ said Irene, with a snap of her fingers. ‘I really do have a sixth sense for these things. My husband is always telling me it’s a real gift. So just think of all that late-night shopping for microwavable dinners for one! Oh, you’re going to be so happy here. I just know it.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ Nancy sighed wearily, trying to ignore the whole clichéd, sad-saddo-with-a-microwave-dinner-in-a-plastic-tray image that had just been conjured up. ‘That’s the “spectacular view”?’

  ‘Well, now, what did you expect from a top–flat window in Kilbarrack?’ Irene replied, with a sharpness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. ‘The Spanish Steps? You’ve got to be reasonable here, sweetheart, don’t you?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Nancy sighed as a familiar wave of disappointment sank over her. ‘And I know you’re only doing your best, Irene. It’s just that it’s an awful lot to pay for a tiny one-bed flat without a living room.’

  ‘Ahh, but you’ll notice that I didn’t say living room. I was actually very careful not to say living room. I clearly specified that this was a living area. There’s a massive difference, you know. Like about a grand a month difference. And you get what you pay for, don’t you? Particularly when you’re . . . let’s just say, on a more challenging budget. You’re relocating from London, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right, yes.’

  ‘I thought I recognised the accent. Any particular reason why?’

  Nancy braced herself. After all, it’s not like she didn’t expect lots of questions along those lines.

  ‘I’m moving here for work,’ she rattled off, almost like she was reading from a script. ‘At the National Theatre,’ she threw in, for good measure.

  Now that wasn’t so bad, she thought. My first hurdle and I hope I handled it reasonably well, with minimal fuss.

  ‘So when did you leave London?’ Irene probed, peering beadily over her clipboard at Nancy.

  ‘Just over two weeks ago.’

  ‘And when do you start at the National?’

  ‘Tomorrow, as it happens,’ Nancy answered, distractedly opening up the miniscule fridge door and burying her face in it, hoping against hope they could get off the bloody subject.

  ‘Bit of a rush job, then, wasn’t it?’ Irene shrugged. ‘You certainly haven’t allowed yourself very much time to find somewhere to live before you start your new job, have you?’

  ‘Emm . . . yes, well, you see the job offer came along very suddenly,’ Nancy stammered, turning her face away from the fridge when the stink of gone-off eggs inside it got too much. ‘It’s not ideal, I know, but that’s the theatre world for you. So here I am and I need somewhere to live, fast.’

  ‘A theatre job. Wow.’ Irene nodded. ‘Onstage?’ she added hopefully, her finger twitching at her mobile as if she was about to ask Nancy for a selfie, just in case she turned out to be some famous Brit import. Nancy could almost see Irene eyeing her up and down, then looking a bit disappointed at how utterly unlike a proper celebrity she was, with her total lack of contouring, skinny jeans and neatly tied back hair, with ne’er a beach wave in sight.

  ‘Behind the scenes, I’m afraid,’ Nancy said.

  ‘Really? As what?’ Irene fished, clearly far more interested in the job than in the flat she was supposed to be offloading.

  ‘I’m about to start as an assistant director on a production of Pride and Prejudice,’ Nancy told her, and even though it was only a short-term contract that had only come about because she was happy to be a last-minute replacement, she still swelled up a bit with the buzz you got from starting work on a new show. Any new show.

  Particularly one that got her away from London as fast as she could.

  ‘An assistant director at the National?’ Irene whistled. ‘Big job.’

  ‘It’s not really.’ Nancy shrugged modestly. ‘It’s more like two hundred small jobs—’

  ‘Well, now, you see?’ Irene interrupted, as a fresh selling point seemed to strike her. ‘So just think of all those long hours in rehearsal at the theatre! Not to mention all the after-show parties and functions that you’ll be attending. Now just ask yourself – when will someone like you even be in the flat, other than to crash? Somewhere low-maintenance like this place couldn’t be more perfect for you! Okay, I grant you, it mightn’t exactly be Versailles . . . but you know it’s available for immediate occupation . . . ’

  ‘I do appreciate that,’ Nancy replied, locking eyes with Irene so she was forced to actually listen to her. ‘And I’m sorry about this, but I really think you and I are done here. Trust me, this is not the kind of place I’d ever see myself living in.’

  ‘But you’re really not giving it a fair chance,’ Irene sniffed. ‘Tailoring the perfect property to an individual client is where my agency excels, and really, you’ll go a long way to find a flat that suits you better. This flat is who you are. It makes a statement. And most of all, it’s within your budget.’

  ‘Look, there’s no delicate way to say this to you. But sitting with a fridge at arm’s length from me on a minuscule sofa that doubles up as a bed in a freezing, damp flat is actually not who I am. Not by a long shot.’

  ‘Easy for you to say now,’ Irene replied, with ice creeping into her voice as her smileyness quickly evaporated. ‘But if you’re expecting somewhere close to Dublin city centre on what you’re prepared to pay, then dream on. If it’s Dublin 4 you’re looking for, then be prepared to pay D4 prices. Which, on the salary you gave us on your application form,’ she added, with a quick, professional glance down to her notes, ‘I’m afraid just isn’t doable.’

  ‘In that case, I’m really sorry for taking up your time,’ Nancy said apologetically, even though Irene had practically strong-armed her into viewing the dive in the first place. Politeness prevented her from adding what she really wanted to, which was that she’d seen prison cells with more home comforts than this place. And that living like an extra from Orange is the New Black really wasn’t her idea of how her new life in Dublin would be.

  ‘Oh, but it’s your own time you’re wasting, Ms Thompson,’ Irene said crisply, instantly downgrading Nancy from ‘lovey’ and ‘darling’. ‘I can guaran
tee you, this flat will be snapped up by the end of the day by a more, let’s just say, street-savvy tenant than yourself.’

  ‘Then all I can do is wish you well with it,’ Nancy said as evenly as she could.

  ‘Actually, no,’ Irene snapped, making absolutely no attempt to hide how pissed off she was. ‘I should really be the one to wish you luck.’ Then, grabbing a fistful of keys, she added bitterly, ‘After all, I’ve got a roof over my head and a home to go to. You’re starting your big new job in the morning and you’re the one who’s homeless, aren’t you?’

  *

  That horrible estate agent was right, Nancy thought miserably, being jolted this way and that on the packed train as she made her way back to the ridiculously priced hotel she’d pitched up in. I am officially homeless. Ever since I arrived this city, I’ve traipsed my way in and out of dozens of rental flats, all with zero success.

  And it’s not like I’m looking for the earth, she thought, her face pressed up against some total stranger’s armpit as they both clung onto the overhead bars for dear life. After all, her new contact at the National Theatre was just a temporary one and, if the worst came to the worst, she’d be trudging back to London in a few months’ time, as soon as the final curtain came down.

  But at the very least, a few short months would give her what she so badly needed. Space. Time. A fresh chance to get away from London and, more importantly, everyone in it. Plenty of her colleagues in the UK would have regarded working in Dublin as a something of backwards step career-wise, and plenty more well-meaning pals said as much to her face. But Nancy’s mind was firmly made up.

  Because, just then, she needed three things and she needed them fast: to get away from the tight-knit, incestuous theatre scene in London where everyone knew; to start a brand new job with a fresh, clean slate; and, with any luck, to move on. And so what if this job wasn’t at some flashy West End theatre with all its bells and whistles and career prestige? God knows, it couldn’t have come along at a better time for Nancy and that, as far as she was concerned, was good enough.

  Just then her phone pinged as a text came through and, out of habit, she jumped, just in case. Gingerly, she maneuvered her hand into her coat pocket to see who it was – and instantly her heart sank right back down to the ground again.

  It was her mum.

  Your dad and I so worried about you, Nancy, love. Let us know you’re OK, won’t you? Come back to London to see us in the next few weeks – we miss you so much.

  Nancy bit her lip and willed herself to stay strong. Of course she missed her parents and friends too, and there was nothing she’d have loved more than to hop on a cheapie Ryanair flight to zip home to see them all. But as she’d painstakingly explained to her nearest and dearest before she left, that was out of the question just now.

  She’d already moved every stick belonging to her out of the gorgeous Islington flat she’d loved so much. She’d said a rushed, hasty goodbye to anyone and everyone she knew. She’d well and truly burned her bridges. She hoped they all understood, but if they didn’t, then there wasn’t a huge amount she could do about it, was there? So now, all she really needed in Dublin was to throw herself into work and find somewhere to live.

  I’m thirty-three years old, she thought, as the train rattled on, becoming more and more packed and airless the closer it got to Connolly station in the centre of the city. I’m too old to live in horrible hovels that stink of damp and cat wee. I’m not high-maintenance, but I’ve served my time crashing on friends’ sofas and living in dives when I’ve toured with shows. And I didn’t leave my lovely, warm, central little flat in London, just to end up living hand-to-mouth out of a suitcase.

  She was clinging onto an overhead bar to balance herself and the guy who was pressed right up against her was doing exactly the same. They were millimeters from each other and yet both stayed resolutely silent.

  It was lonely and scary and intimidating pitching into any new job without having to relocate on top of that as well. But then, you wanted this job, didn’t you? she reminded herself. She’d actively pursued it, never for a moment thinking she’d actually land it. It had been so last-minute too; all Nancy had been told was that the previous assistant director had dropped out of the gig because of ‘artistic differences’ with Diego Fernandez, her boss-to-be.

  Granted, when the mighty Diego quizzed her about the logistics of relocating to Ireland and asked how she felt about that, Nancy just batted it away. Getting away from London was actually the main selling point of the gig, but that certainly wasn’t something she was going to get into with a hotshot director she was trying to impress.

  So instead, she stressed what a huge deal it would be to work at the National with someone like Diego, who was the most highly respected director, not just in his native Spain, but probably in the western world, with all the Tony and Olivier awards practically hanging out of his earlobes to prove it.

  Anyway, the mighty Diego Fernandez must have seen something in her that he liked, but whether it was hunger or sheer desperation, it was hard to tell. Nancy was thrilled about the gig, though, and utterly determined to bring everything she possibly could to it. If she needed to work eighteen-hour days, then she was all for it. Weekends? Overtime? Not a problem. She was your gal.

  Burying herself in work was good, she figured. After all, it was the one constant in her life that had never let her down. And so what if she was a bit lonely in a new city? Nancy would get over it in time. Quietly, and with minimal fuss, just like she did everything.

  It was just that she’d really have welcomed having one single pal in Dublin; someone she could talk to, full stop. Someone who might steer her away from viewing flats in areas where you’d need pepper spray on you just to go out for the Sunday papers.

  Nancy wasn’t expecting to stroll into a Dublin 4 flat with a view over Dublin Bay for the rent she could afford; that bossy woman Irene had been quite wrong about that. But she did know this much: she couldn’t and wouldn’t haul herself on yet another gruelling rail and bus journey to a poky little flat no bigger than a prison cell, at a rental rate that would leave her foraging through the bins looking for food, only to be told, ‘Well, this is Dublin, what did you expect?’ Or worse, ‘Our ad did clearly specify that fussy tenants need not apply.’

  This girl, she thought, has had quite enough.

  *

  It was early evening and Nancy had just got off the train and was weaving her weary way back to her hotel on Pearce Street, when she happened to stroll past a gorgeous, residential-looking square, with Victorian villa-style terraced houses dotted all around it.

  Most of the homes looked tidy and well maintained; each had scrubbed stone steps that led down onto the pavement below, and there were loads of well-kept window boxes and potted urns standing neatly beside gleaming hall doors. From where Nancy stood, she could see joggers wrapped up against the icy cold doing laps of the square, as kids kicked a football about and had a laugh in spite of the fading, wintry light. There was even the remains of a half-melted snowman right outside one of the houses, wearing an Ireland football jersey, with a half-eaten Twix for a nose, which made Nancy smile.

  It was such a lovely scene, she paused to take it in. She even kicked the football back to the kids when it bounced her way, to loud shouts of ‘Thanks very much, missus!’ The square seemed neighbourly and yet so close to the city centre, you could walk everywhere. There was a warmth about it, a friendliness that radiated. She glanced up at the nameplate on one of the houses: Primrose Square.

  Of course the houses along here were way out of her league, she thought, given the location. But still. Wouldn’t it be absolutely wonderful to start afresh somewhere like this?

  Susan

  BERKELEY ST PHARMACY

  9:28 a.m., Susan thought, glancing down at her watch. In exactly two minutes, the pharmacy she was parked across the road from was due to open.

  Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. Soon all would be well.
She’d run out of pills, but she’d get her prescription topped up and somehow she’d be able to function again. Magical, lovely Xanax would help her with everything. Help her to start eating again, sleeping again, even help her cope with a husband serving in the army on the other side of the world, abandoning her at a time like this.

  She proudly used to tell everyone that Frank was her soulmate and now she’d barely spoken to him for weeks. Months, even, unless you counted the odd, ‘So how are you?’ ‘Fine. You?’ ‘Oh you know, fine,’ Skype calls, where they’d swap mundane details and politely skirt around each other until Melissa came into the room and rescued them both. Last time they’d spoken, they’d managed to kill a whole ten minutes with a stupid, roundabout conversation about whether or not Susan had remembered to get their boiler serviced.

  Jesus Christ, she thought, pulling her puffy anorak tighter around her. You could cut the tension between herself and Frank with a knife, but still. Polite small talk was better than the rows. Or the silences. Anything was better than that. Frank had been gone for six long months now; he’d fecked off not long after what had happened, but she could still recall with pin-sharp clarity some of the howlers they’d had before he’d left.

  ‘Now? You really think now is a good time for you to run off to The Lebanon? After everything we’ve just been through?’

  ‘Susan, please listen to me,’ he’d said in that irritatingly reasonable tone he used whenever he was at his most angry. Frank had once done a course in hostage negotiation and Susan knew all too well that’s how they trained you to speak in tense situations. ‘I’ve got to work, you know that. I’m not running away, love, I’ve been posted abroad and I don’t have any choice here. We’ve got to keep the roof over our heads and Melissa in a private school. You’re still on a leave of absence from the bank, so there’s only my salary coming in now—’