Nancy strode past, terrified of being late for the viewing, but still making a mental list of all the upcoming shows around the city that she was dying to check out. There was the Gate Theatre, where a revival of a Bernard Shaw play was playing to rave reviews, a clatter of awards and packed-out houses. Then there were all the smaller theatres, like Smock Alley, the New Theatre and the Project, showing so many more productions, all of which Nancy had heard great things about and couldn’t wait to see, to hone her craft, to watch and, with any luck, to learn.
How lucky am I? she thought, to earn my living doing something I love so much, I’d willingly do it for free?
The sun was just beginning to shine as she paced down the busy, bustling street towards Trinity College, then wound her way around the wrought iron gates at its perimeter till she found Pearce Street. And just a few minutes later there she was, at Primrose Square.
The whole square was so neatly laid out, it didn’t take Nancy long to find the house she was looking for. From the outside, number twenty-four was so picture perfect, all she wanted to do was Instagram the shit out of it, to impress everyone she knew back in London . . . but then she remembered that the less contact she had with her old life back in London, the better.
A pang of regret, but it quickly passed as she tried to concentrate hard on what was in front of her.
Care has gone into this house, Nancy thought, rapping on the front door and peeking through the windows. Care and love. And good taste. And, of course, money. Lots and lots of cold, hard cash. The sash windows that looked out onto the street all seemed brand spanking new, with heavy, expensive-looking curtains visible on the inside. Two neat box hedge trees sat in twin pots on either side of the front door, and all Nancy wanted to do was hammer on the front door, screaming, ‘Let me in . . . and don’t show this house to anyone else . . . I’LL TAKE IT!’
No one answered the door, though. So she knocked again and waited.
Still nothing.
Anxiously, she kept glancing down to check the time on her phone; rehearsals started at 9:30 a.m. on the dot and the last thing she wanted to do was be late. Torn between the wrath of Diego Fernandez and not wanting to miss out on what could be the coolest home in the city, she settled for pacing up and down instead.
Then, sharply to her left, she heard a front door bang shut. Immediately Nancy looked over to see a sprightly, sixty-something lady dressed in a fleecy pink tracksuit, struggling down the steps of a house just a few doors down, dragging two stuffed bin bags behind her.
‘Morning,’ the stranger said with a big warm smile as soon as she spotted Nancy. She was struggling with the bin bags, so instinctively Nancy went to help her. Between the two of them, they lugged them down to a black wheelie bin on the pavement.
‘Well, aren’t you just an angel?’ the older woman said gratefully. ‘Thank you so much, love. I know young women your generation hate hearing anything remotely anti-feminist, but I have to say, I always think it’s a man’s job, dragging out the bins.’
‘Delighted to help.’ Nancy smiled back.
‘It was always something my Tom took care of,’ this friendly lady chatted away, in that freewheeling, stream-of-consciousness way Nancy noticed all Dubliners seemed to have. ‘The bins, I mean. But the poor man’s not able for it any more. So these days, I have to do it all by myself or else it won’t get done. Simple as that.’
‘Is Tom your husband?’ Nancy asked her.
‘He certainly is,’ she said proudly, with a big pink beam on her face that instantly took years off her. Now that Nancy saw her close-up, this woman actually reminded her of a younger version of Mary Berry. Same neat, fair, bobbed hair, same twinkly eyes, same zest for life emanating from her.
‘Are you married yourself, love?’ she added.
‘No, I’m single,’ Nancy replied a bit over-brightly, with a smile that she hoped wasn’t too fake-looking. ‘Married to the job, you know how it is.’
‘Well, if you ever do take the plunge,’ the Mary Berry lookalike said, gently patting Nancy’s arm, ‘I hope you’ll be as happy as me and my Tom.’
‘Thank you.’ Nancy smiled, really touched at her kindness. ‘Where is Tom now?’ Then she instantly bit her tongue back, thinking, Hopefully not bedridden or in hospital.
‘In a grand big urn, just above the telly.’
‘Oh. Okaaaay.’
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ the woman went on, folding her arms and changing the subject, ‘but are you English? You sound English to me.’
‘Yes, I’m from London,’ Nancy told her, thinking, what the hell. If her dream came true and she were to end up living here, this lovely, chatty lady could end up being her neighbour. ‘I’m trying to rent a place here and I’ve got an appointment to view number twenty-four.’
‘Well, now, isn’t that wonderful?’ came the reply. ‘That house has been empty for such a long time, you know.’
‘Really?’ Nancy asked, wondering how that was even possible, in a location as great as Primrose Square.
‘Builders,’ she said, with a knowing tap on her nose. ‘Sure you know what they’re like. My Tom always said that when you’re young, you think love can break your heart, but when you get older you realise it’s builders. I thought they were renovating the Taj Mahal, there was that much work going on. And the dust! Don’t talk to me about the dust. None of us have a clue who owns the house, but whoever it is, they have to be a multi-millionaire, I’d say.’
‘It’s a stunning house,’ Nancy said with feeling. ‘You’re so lucky to live here and I’m just praying that this all works out for me.’
‘I’m sure it will, pet. I’m Jayne, by the way and I’ll be sure to say a little prayer for you—’ She broke off abruptly, though, as they both heard the sound of a car approaching from behind.
Nancy turned around, hoping it was the estate agent, but to her surprise, it was actually an ice cream van that pulled up neatly at the kerb, right where they were both standing.
‘Strange time to sell ice cream, isn’t it?’ Nancy wondered out loud. ‘On an icy cold day like this?’
Jayne, however, stayed tight-lipped. Then, seconds later, a familiar-looking woman in her early forties, with her hair neatly tied back into a chignon and wearing a pencil skirt, clambered inelegantly down from the driver’s seat, laden down with a briefcase and a pile of plastic-covered folders.
‘Irene, is that you?’ Nancy asked in total disbelief. God, she thought, of all the estate agents in Dublin, why is it that I always end up stuck with this one? She’d lost count of the number of poky flats Irene tried to up-sell her in the last few weeks and how snooty and off-hand she’d be whenever Nancy would politely decline to live in whatever overpriced rabbit warren Irene was trying to pass off as the Times Square of Dublin. And now, the idea that the woman drove around in an incongruous looking ice-cream van was making Nancy want to giggle.
‘Miss Thompson,’ Irene said, banging the van door shut with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘Here we go again, it seems. Will we get started?’
‘Good morning, Irene,’ Jayne calmly said to her, with a polite little smile.
These two know each other? Nancy thought. Was Dublin really that small?
Meanwhile, Irene bustled up the stone steps, scooped out a big bunch of keys and opened the hall door. Jayne stood benignly to one side, as the other woman pointedly ignored her, not a single hello, good morning, nothing.
Nancy definitely wasn’t imagining it; the atmosphere, which had been warm and friendly before Madame Irene got there, had turned to antifreeze. Irene flung back the hall door and strode inside, then glared impatiently back at Nancy, as though to say, ‘Well, come on then, what’s keeping you?’
Nancy gave Jayne a puzzled look as Jayne gave her a tiny half-wink back.
‘Long story, love,’ was all she said. ‘But if you do end up moving in, I’ll tell you everything.’
‘I’ll most definitely drop in for a cupp
a.’ Nancy smiled back. ‘I’d love that. I’ve missed having someone to talk to so much, you’ve no idea.’
‘Oh, never mind your aul’ cups of tea. A nice strong gin and tonic is much more what I had in mind.’
Susan
18 PRIMROSE SQUARE
Melissa. She had to think about Melissa. It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day and from now on, Susan decided, she was going to pull her socks up and start behaving like a normal mother around the child. No more forgetting to collect her from her after-school activities, no more letting the poor kid come home to a filthy house where she was expected to get her own dinner.
I still have my baby, my little Melissa, she thought to herself, staring up at her bedroom ceiling and vowing to start afresh. I’ve been spared that much at least.
From now on, Melissa would be her reason for getting out of bed in the morning and the sole focus of her day. Starting there and then.
Today will be a good day.
The grogginess from the Xanax she’d taken the night before was starting to wear off, but when Susan looked at the time on her bedside alarm clock, she realised with horror it was already past 11 a.m.
Oh Christ, she thought with a jolt, I’ve been out for the count for over fourteen hours. Fourteen fucking hours. How the hell did that happen? Which of course meant that, once again, Melissa would have had to get up by herself, get her own breakfast and get herself to school without even seeing her mother. Not a kind word for the poor kid as she started her day, not a goodbye hug, nothing.
Well, that carry-on ends here and now, Susan thought, forcing herself out of bed and into a scalding hot, reviving shower. No more feeling racked with guilt over the child, yet paralysed from doing anything about it. No more shutting herself away from the world and from all her neighbours on Primrose Square, who only had her best interests at heart. No more dodging Frank’s calls when he rang, worried about his wife and only wanting to talk to her.
How long has it been since we even spoke? she wondered. Really spoke, that is, like they used to, back in the day. Hard to believe on days like this, she thought, but there really was a time when she’d quite literally have the minutes and hours counted till Frank would get back from a tour of duty. Time was when the two of them would have regular phone sex, when he’d call late in the evening and the girls were safely in bed and out of earshot. Time was when her whole day revolved around Frank’s Skype calls; she’d even jot down funny stories and little things that happened during the day, just to make him smile. To make him feel less homesick, when they were so far apart.
And now, Susan wondered, did she even have a marriage at all? She felt lonely and angry and betrayed when she thought of Frank so far away, leaving her and Melissa to cope on their own. Did he get how bloody hard this was for her? Why couldn’t he understand how vitally important it was for her to get justice for Ella? Why did he keep on at her to drop the whole Josh Andrews thing? How could he love her and ask that of her? How could any parent just move on, the way Frank seemed to?
‘Mum, is everything okay between you and Dad?’ Melissa had asked Susan out of the blue not so long ago. Which was a loud wake-up call, the fact that the child was picking up on every scrap of tension between them. She made a mental note there and then to keep the truth from Melissa, because the truth wasn’t pretty. The hard, cold fact, however, was that Susan’s marriage was very definitely not in a good place and the best outcome was that time apart would give both her and Frank space to think.
‘Your dad and I are fine,’ she’d rushed to reassure her baby with a tight little hug. ‘We both love you so, so much. It’s just that we’re each dealing with things in our own way, that’s all, love. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Whenever I hear “there’s nothing to worry about”,’ Melissa had said quietly, frowning, ‘it actually means there’s loads for me to worry about. Loads.’
Jesus Christ, I have so much making up to do to that child, Susan thought, suddenly full of verve and new energy. So now this is the new me. Welcome to Susan 2.0. A better wife, a far better mother and a far better neighbour to everyone on the square, all those people who’d shown her nothing but kindness and tolerance ever since . . . well . . . Ever since.
And, above all, she decided, absolutely no more pills.
Her resolve lasted a good hour, during which she actually managed to clean the kitchen, start tackling the mountain of laundry that had built up, and even hoover the stairs. Her kitchen had once been her pride and joy; she and Frank had put in a huge, modern ‘glass box’ extension a few years ago and she used to love its clean lines and clear granite surfaces. It was all so ‘architect-y’ and bang on trend, and Susan had absolutely loved it. It was a pigsty now, though. But from today on, she thought, that all changes.
When she went upstairs, though, she barely got as far Ella’s bedroom door, with the giant KEEP OUT sign still stuck to it, when she crumpled. Just doubled up in agony. The pain was too sharp, too overwhelming; it came in slow, sickening waves and she knew she’d never see the day through without a bit of medicinal back-up.
Did I really think today would be a good day? It seemed she’d spoken too soon.
Half a Xanax, she decided, going back to the bedside drawer where she’d stashed her fresh supply. Just a half, she thought. Just to take the edge off. Who’d even notice? Who was even to know, except her?
Later that afternoon, Susan managed to get as far as her car, parked just across the road on Primrose Square. She had a blurry memory of bumping into lovely Jayne, her old pal from next door, who was unloading the boot of her car with what looked like about a month’s supply of groceries.
‘Susan, how are you?’ the older woman had asked her kindly, abandoning the huge pile of Tesco bags at her feet.
‘Good. I’m good, thanks,’ Susan replied, trying her best to sound cheery and upbeat. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day?’
‘Yes, love, I suppose it is,’ said Jayne, glancing uncertainly upwards at the grey, overcast, wintry sky.
‘And how is everything with you?’ Susan asked politely, all the while thinking, Look at me! I’m actually doing it. I’m holding a normal conversation with another adult. Just passing the time of day in an ordinary, casual way. Like people do. Things at the periphery of her vision were starting to get a little fuzzy, but still. Progress, she thought.
Jayne chatted about how she had a visitor coming at the weekend, hence the huge grocery shop.
‘He’s a friend,’ she said, a bit coyly, ‘just one that I haven’t met properly yet, that’s all. But we chat all the time, you know, on the Skype thingy, and he seems like a real dote. His name is Eric and he’s coming all the way from Florida for a few weeks, just to see how we get on IRL. That’s what you say when you mean in real life, you know. Gas, isn’t it? Another world away from how you met fellas in my day.’
But Susan couldn’t bring herself to answer or even register surprise at what she was hearing. She’d started to feel woozy and had the strangest sensation of her body standing stock still, while the rest of the world spun on its axis without her. She was dimly aware of an awkward pause in the chat, which kind old Jayne then filled with her usual conversational blather.
Then silence. Weird, awkward silence.
‘Susan, love,’ Jayne said, looking at her worriedly. ‘Did you hear what I just asked you?’
‘Emm . . . yeah,’ Susan improvised. ‘You’ve met this very nice new friend. Great. Fantastic. Well, I’d better get going now . . . ’
‘No, actually,’ said Jayne evenly, ‘that wasn’t what I said at all. Eric is a bit more than just a friend, you see, and I was wondering if you and Melissa would like to come for dinner to meet him properly? He really seems like a dote and I think we’ll all get along famously.’
‘That’s really nice of you,’ said Susan as brightly as she could, given that she was by then seeing dots in front of her eyes. Actual bloody dots. ‘But I have to get going now. I’m picking
up Melissa from school,’ she added, impressing herself, even though that was the kind of thing most mothers did in their sleep.
‘Oh Susan, is that wise?’ Jayne was saying, her voice coming in and out in waves. ‘Should you really be driving? You don’t really seem . . . like yourself.’
‘Not like myself, how?’ If Susan sounded defensive, she hadn’t meant it to come out like that. At least, not with a good-hearted old soul like Jayne, who only meant well.
‘Your words sound a bit slurred, pet. And if you don’t mind me saying, you’re swaying on your feet. How about I drive you to the school and we can pick up Melissa together?’
‘I’m absolutely fine, thanks.’
‘Are you?’ said Jayne, taking a gentle hold of her arm. ‘You can talk to me, you know that. I’m on your side.’
‘I just told you, I’m okay. Now can you please let go of arm so I can get out of here?’
Shoving her off, Susan somehow got to her car, clambered inside and started the engine, aware all the time of Jayne standing right behind her, concern etched all over that big, warm face. Well, she needn’t bother worrying, Susan thought groggily, driving off. All she was doing was collecting her daughter. Maybe even taking her for an after-school treat, like McDonalds. Or maybe even a movie. Like normal mothers did. Every day of the week.
*
Car horns were blaring at her. A lot more than usual. What the fuck was wrong with these drivers anyway? Susan was only trying to park at the school. Why was everyone in such a temper with her driving? She found a spot just adjacent to the school rugby pitch, switched off the engine, texted Melissa to tell her she was right outside the gates, then lay her head back on the car’s headrest.
Tired. She was so, so tired. Her eyelids grew heavy, but she resisted the urge to nod off. Over at the school gates, she spotted a gaggle of the Yummy Mummy Brigade, chatting and laughing. Passing the time of day in a bit of harmless chat, as she herself had done so often before . . . well . . . before.
I’ll join them, Susan thought. I can do it. I can be like any other normal mum. I’ll show everyone that I’m okay. That I’m actually fine. That it’s business as usual for me and my family. I’ll do it for Melissa. It would make a change for the poor child to think her mum was actually having a good day.
The Secrets of Primrose Square Page 8
