‘How are you today, Mum?’ she whispered through the darkness.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me, pet,’ Susan half groaned, hauling herself up onto one elbow so she could read the time off the alarm clock on her bedside table. ‘How are you? Isn’t this late for you to get home? What time is it anyway?’
‘It’s half eight, Mum,’ Melissa whispered. ‘I stayed on after school for study club, because I’d drama class this evening, remember?’
‘Oh God,’ said Susan, slumping wearily back against the pillow. ‘I must have slept through it, pet. I really am so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
‘So how do you feel?’ said Melissa, perching on the edge of the bed and reaching out to squeeze her hand. ‘How did you get on today?’
Maybe one of these days, Melissa hoped, her mum would say that she actually felt a little bit better. Maybe.
‘Okay. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’
Groggy and half-sedated as she was, Susan was still able to edit out what her day had really been like. The grilling she got from security and then from a policewoman who had to be called to the pharmacy, the almighty scene she’d caused – oh dear God, she thought, feeling sick at the memory, had she really shouted at an elderly lady? Had she really hammered on the counter and screamed the place down? Was this what she was turning into?
Jesus Christ, she’d only got out of there without getting arrested after her family GP, Dr Taylor, had been called. Dr Taylor had been fabulous, though; she’d taken great pains to explain Susan’s situation to the staff at the pharmacy, not to mention the guard who had to be called, stressing that the whole incident was a one-off that wouldn’t happen again.
‘Everyone has huge sympathy for you, Susan,’ had been her exact words, ‘and we’re all here to help you in any way we can. But no more causing scenes in public, okay? You’re only asking for trouble.’
This was followed by a gentle but firm talking to about getting local social workers and a community care nurse to check in on her more often. Then the policewoman, who’d been perfectly nice in every other way, took Susan aside and cautioned her very firmly that in light of everything else she’d been up to lately, ‘you can consider this your final warning, Mrs Hayes. You’re wearing police patience very thin.’
But Susan chose to block that bit out. The main thing was that Dr Taylor had emailed over a prescription for more sedatives, with a strict warning only to take one a day. Which, of course, Susan completely ignored the minute she was alone again.
‘I’m grand, thanks, pet.’ She swallowed, forcing a tiny smile, as Melissa’s pale, worried little face looked back at her from the side of the bed. ‘My day was . . . well, I’ve had better days. Never mind me, though, I want to hear about you.’
‘My day was . . . fine,’ said Melissa flatly, also editing out highlights that she knew her mum was too fragile to deal with. How her class tutor, Miss Jenkins, had humiliated her in double maths class that morning, asking if they could have a ‘little talk’ afterwards, then pointedly asking how things were at home.
‘It’s not like you to be so late with your homework, Melissa,’ Miss Jenkins had said worriedly. ‘And such sloppy work too. We’re all very concerned about how things are for you at home right now. I’m going to ask your mum to come in and see me, sooner rather than later.’
Melissa had been fifty shades of mortified, particularly as Abby Graham had been passing down the corridor where she and Miss Jenkins were talking, accidentally on purpose, no doubt, so she could overhear everything. Abby was already giving Melissa a hard time because her school uniform was starting to pong a bit and this could only add fuel to the fire.
‘Whatever you do, don’t put me sitting beside stinky-arse,’ Abby had said loudly, to a chorus of titters in science class earlier. ‘Her uniform’s so manky, it could be a science project all on its own.’
So with Miss Jenkins, Melissa did what she always did: put on the biggest, brightest smile that she possibly could and reached for the most positive thing she could think of to say.
‘Thanks so much, Miss Jenkins,’ she said stoutly, ‘but there’s absolutely no need for Mum to come in and see you at all. Honestly, we’re doing fine at home. We’re cool. Mum is just so busy right now with . . . emm . . . work.’
‘I thought she wasn’t working?’ said Miss Jenkins, concerned. ‘Not since . . . well, not since what happened. Last time I saw her she mentioned that she was still on a leave of absence. She has a job in the bank, doesn’t she?’
‘Yeah and she’s doing loads of overtime too,’ Melissa improvised. ‘So she’s really busy just now, you see. You’re far better off just leaving her be.’
‘Is that right?’ said her teacher, biting her lip doubtfully.
‘Honestly, Miss Jenkins.’ Melissa said. ‘Mum and I are fine – really. We’re sad, of course, and we miss Ella every single day, but we’re going to be okay.’
‘Hmm,’ Miss Jenkins said after a scarily long pause. ‘Well, you know I’m always here if you need me, Melissa. My door is always open.’
‘But we’re fine, miss. All we really need is to be left alone.’
*
‘Pay no attention to me, pet,’ Susan said to Melissa, back upstairs in her stale, gloomy bedroom. ‘I’m just having a bad day, that’s all. But tomorrow will be better, wait and see. I’ll take you to the park, if you like. Or the movies. Or we can go to the Dundrum town centre and do a bit of shopping together. ’
‘You just rest and get well, Mum,’ Melissa said, as Susan’s eyelids slowly grew heavier and heavier. ‘And I’ll see you in the morning, okay?’
‘Did you have something to eat, pet?’ her mum asked, just before she nodded off.
‘I’m full to the brim, Mum,’ Melissa lied, ‘so you don’t need to worry about me.’
It was only a little lie, she told herself. At lunchtime in school, she’d got away with telling everyone that she’d just forgotten her lunch again, so Hayley had very kindly shared some of her egg sandwich. Melissa didn’t really like egg sandwiches, but it was better than nothing and it kept her going.
Susan didn’t even answer her, though; she was already out for the count. And Melissa knew well enough to put all thoughts of the movies or a day’s shopping right out of her head. Her mum was always promising stuff like that and it never came to anything.
Tip-toeing out of the room, she noticed a new jar of those funny-looking purple pills by the bedside table and wondered how many her mum had taken. But at least she was at home this evening, where she was supposed to be, and not standing in the lashing rain outside Josh Andrews’ house. That was a step forwards, wasn’t it? That had to count for something, even if it was only something little.
To this day, Melissa didn’t understand why her mum hated Josh Andrews so much – almost like a vendetta, she overheard her dad saying once when they were fighting. Melissa wasn’t sure what vendetta meant, but she’d googled it and she hadn’t liked what she’d read one little bit. No one at home would tell her anything either because they were all trying to protect her. All she knew for certain was that Josh Andrews had somehow caused her family all this pain and no one would tell her why.
On her way back down to the kitchen, she hovered outside Ella’s room, same as she always did. There was a huge KEEP OUT sign on the door, which Ella had put there years ago and no one could bring themselves to take away now. Gently, Melissa grasped the creaky door handle and let herself inside, something she often did whenever she needed to feel close to her sister.
Not that she could ever have done that when Ella was around. Not a chance. Back then, she was Ella’s pesky kid sister, and on the rare occasions when she was allowed into the room, Ella would always say something like, ‘Just stay at the door, kiddo. Don’t even think about coming in any further. And don’t dare go near my iPad or you’re dead meat.’ Then a load of stuff about respecting boundaries that had never meant anything to Melissa; most
of the time she only wanted to hang out with Ella, her super-cool older sister. Her sister, with her wild head of curly hair that she used to chop off herself whenever it got too long. Ella, who dressed out of a charity shop and who was always in trouble and who never, ever seemed to care.
The room was exactly as Ella had left it, right down to all the stacks and stacks of books that she kept piling high, spilling out over the bookcase and onto the floor. Her mum even insisted Ella’s laptop be left exactly where she always kept it, right bang in the middle of her desk, overlooking Primrose Square.
There was a time when their mum was always giving out to Ella over the state of her room, nagging her that it was like a bombsite and that if she didn’t tackle it immediately, then everything was going straight into a binliner for the charity shop. Things were different now, though, Melissa thought sadly, perching herself on the edge of Ella’s cosy single bed with its deep purple quilt the exact match of the deep purple painted walls that Ella had insisted on.
‘Purple is the colour of wisdom and integrity,’ she used to say, ‘so therefore it’s my signature colour.’
These days, her room was a sanctuary. It was quiet and peaceful, like the chapel in Melissa’s school. Everything was exactly as if Ella had just stepped out for a bit and would be back home any minute.
Mum’s not the only one who misses you, Melissa thought, feeling sad and lonely as she picked up a pink scarf that was lying on the floor and breathed in its scent. It smelt lemony, a bit like the good perfume from Lush that Ella always lashed on before she went out.
I do too.
*
Later on that night, her dad Skyped her, same as he always did.
‘So how’s my little princess this evening?’ he asked, looking tanned and fit in his army combats, even through the grainy image on the computer screen.
‘We’re cool, thanks, Dad.’ Melissa smiled brightly, instantly clicking into her ‘on show’ face. ‘Mum and I are both doing great.’
‘And where is she, love? Can I talk to her?’
‘Oh . . . emm . . . she’s just in the kitchen cooking dinner, Dad, so she can’t really come to the phone. She’s making . . . emm . . . a mushroom risotto and she says she has to keep on stirring it or else it’ll end up like mush.’
Melissa’s tummy rumbled just thinking about how much she’d have loved a mushroom risotto for dinner, but then she remembered there was an unopened packet of crackers in one of the kitchen cupboards. That would just have to do her.
‘Sounds gorgeous, pet,’ her dad said. ‘So how was school today?’
‘School was fine, Dad,’ she told him, aware that he could see her face clearly and giving him a big smile. ‘Hayley and me had drama afterwards and . . . emm . . . ’ She broke off there, trying to grasp at another white lie, so her dad wouldn’t be worried about her. ‘And my new friend Abby Graham asked me to her birthday party this weekend. We’re going to the movies, then a sleepover. So I’m cool, Dad. Mum and I both are. Honestly.’
Nancy
BEST BUDGET HOTEL, DUBLIN
Dear God, Nancy thought as she hunched alone over a dinner that consisted of a rock-hard baked potato with a plate of wilting lettuce leaves on the side. Another night sitting in the same featureless, poky little hotel bedroom she’d been holed up in for almost two weeks. What she wouldn’t give for a normal chat with normal people when she came in from a hard day’s work. But once time was called on each day’s rehearsals, her new colleagues all scattered to the four winds, and Nancy was back to her sad little cube of a hotel room.
She thought mournfully of the little flat in Islington she’d loved so much, and how much she missed the friendliness and warmth of all her pals in London. Of course she’d been in touch with her parents and a few close friends since she’d moved to Dublin, but the chats were mostly along the lines of, ‘You okay, hon? How are you holding up?’ Plus there was the unmistakable feeling that a lot of once mutual friends were still listening to horrible gossip, talking about her behind her back and taking sides. As people did.
But it’s best not to dwell on that, she thought, picking up her rehearsal script, determined to get ahead on some blocking and questions for a couple of the characters before the next morning.
Work, she thought. Just work your way through this. All she needed to do was keep her head down and keep working and, in time, all would surely be well. London was an ocean away and no one in Dublin need ever know what had gone down over there.
If there was one thing Nancy had got very good at lately, it was keeping secrets.
Jesus Christ, look at me, she thought, sitting back wearily and looking around her gloomy little room. I’m too old for this. Too old and too tired. And it wasn’t like she was a high maintenance type either; Nancy had backpacked her way through India, Vietnam and Thailand in her twenties, staying in places where even a mattress was considered a luxury. But you bypass all that when you hit thirty, she thought, and sometimes when you’re working your arse off, and you’re emotionally bruised and battered to start with, you just need a few little home comforts around you, that’s all.
Which is when Clara’s words of advice came back to her. So picking up her laptop, she typed in ‘Homesitter.com’, thinking, What the hell have I to lose?
Total revelation – and the first time all evening that Nancy had actually smiled. She was in complete shock; some of the properties listed really were exquisite. She thought of Clara describing how ‘Mummy and Daddy’ occasionally rented out their town pad via the site, and offered up a silent little prayer that she might luck out and land such a miracle for herself.
Some of the homes available really took her breath away. She clicked on dozens and couldn’t find a single one that was anything less than out-of-this-world gorgeous. Central, clean, cheap – the three Cs as far as Nancy was concerned.
I want living in this city to be a happy, healing experience for me, she thought firmly. And to do that, I need somewhere to call home.
And that’s when she saw it. Right there, in glorious technicolour, buried away on page fifteen.
Primrose Square, Dublin 2 – terraced Victorian townhouse available for short to medium-term rental. Longer lease preferred.
Primrose Square? It sounded weirdly familiar to Nancy – hadn’t she heard that name somewhere before? Immediately, she clicked on Google maps to check it out. And almost fell off the chair in shock. Because she recognised what she saw; she distinctly remembered walking past this beautiful, residential square only the other day.
Primrose Square was located just off Dublin’s busy, bustling Pearce Street, right across the River Liffey from the National Theatre. Literally, all she’d have to do was stroll down the square, cross the Rosie Hackett Bridge and then she’d be in work. Unheard of luxury!
She read on, her attention well and truly caught, searching for the snag. Because of course there was going to be a snag. The property itself was a two-bedroom townhouse in a row of Victorian terraced houses, but you’d never guess it was an old house from the pictures. The photos were jaw-droppingly impressive and so slick-looking, you’d think Mario Testino had just signed off on them.
The house might have looked Victorian on the outside, with three granite stone steps leading up to a very grand-looking front door and immaculately painted wrought iron railings to the front. Inside, though, it was completely modernised, so now it was all black leather sofas, deep-pile cream rugs and an open-plan basement kitchen with the pièce de resistance – a master bedroom with an en suite and an actual walk-in wardrobe.
Greedily, Nancy zoomed in on every photo on offer, and each one was more stunning than the last; the whole place was beautifully, sympathetically refurbished, so the period features all seemed to be untouched. Tasteful artwork dotted the walls and there was even a proper working fireplace in the main living room with a giant plasma TV screen just above.
Well, the rent here has to be out of orbit, she thought, forcing he
rself to be realistic for a minute. Photos could be deceptive, she knew of old, but even if this place had been located on Assault Alley right beside Drug Drive in the middle of the city’s most depressing slum, the rent would surely be in the region of a good four figures. Per night, that is.
‘Price on application,’ the site said, which was never a good sign. But figuring what the hell, and as an act of faith in the universe if nothing else, she clicked on the link for more information and punched in her details. There was even a comment box where you could elaborate a bit, so she did.
To sweeten the maximum rent she could afford, she threw in that she was happy to muck in with whatever the owner or landlord wanted while they’re away. You want the plants watered, she wrote? I’m your girl. Dogs walked? Not a problem. You’ve left fifteen cats in the flat that need minding? For the chance to stay in a pad like this, they could sleep on top her head and use her bare limbs as a scratching post, for all she cared.
She clicked send, offered up a silent prayer, and waited for a reply.
*
At eight thirty the following morning, Nancy was hopping off the bus at Stephen’s Green, unable to believe her luck that she was en route to an actual viewing in Primrose Square. Although it was relatively early, town was already humming and all she could think was how blessed she was to escape to a city as vibrant as this.
Maybe this is it, she hoped fervently. Maybe after all the awfulness in London, now everything will start to go my way. Maybe.
She took a shortcut down South King Street and spotted about a dozen places she really, seriously wanted to come back to explore properly when she had more time. Her head kept swivelling around – this time taking in the Gaiety Theatre, which was showing a brand new play by an up-and-coming female playwright, which she’d heard was unmissable.
The Secrets of Primrose Square Page 7
