‘Oh, that phone hasn’t stopped all day,’ said Jayne, as her car rolled to a halt at a red light. ‘Answer it for me, would you, love? Last thing I need is more penalty points on my license. Not after I was done for speeding when I was late for bingo last week.’
‘Hello, Jayne’s phone?’ Melissa said, as soon as she managed to fish the mobile from the bottom of an overstuffed shopping bag in the back seat of the car, lying under a box of Brillo pads and a family-size pack of mini Mars bars.
‘Hi there,’ came a bossy-sounding woman’s voice, as Melissa clicked her onto speakerphone. ‘I’m calling from Salon Rouge to confirm your appointment for this afternoon. You’re booked in for a haircut and colour at four p.m., with a spray tan and leg wax afterwards. Then our nail technician can take you for a mani/pedi, if you like?’
Melissa could have sworn she saw Jayne flush a little bit.
‘Oh pet,’ she said, ‘would you please apologise to that nice lady for me, say that I won’t be able to make the appointment after all? Tell her not to worry, though, I’ll be sure to book in for another day.’
Melissa went back to the phone, all the while thinking: Jayne? Having a wax, a spray tan and a pedicure? It just didn’t seem right, somehow; Jayne always went around in brown elastic-y-looking trousers, sensible brown leather shoes and brown woolly polo necks, even at the height of summer. Brown was her colour – like a bird who just wants to blend into the background. And no way on Earth was she the waxing type.
Although come to think of it, Jayne had been dressing a bit differently lately, only Melissa had been too caught up in her own family dramas to pay much attention. She’d started wearing colours a lot more, like the bright pink jacket she was wearing now, and she’d definitely started wearing make-up too.
Something was up. Melissa didn’t know what, but she wasn’t imagining it. Then, when they got back to Jayne’s house on the square, she was even more puzzled to see bags and bags of shopping on the kitchen table, all waiting to be unpacked. A full-sized ham, two frozen chickens, mountains of fresh vegetables and, most surprising of all, two bottles of champagne.
Jayne? Drinking champagne? She always seemed like a mug-of-Horlicks type, not a secret champagne drinker at all. As well as that, there were fresh-cut flowers in vases dotted all around the living room and even scented candles on the fireplace, beside where her dead husband’s ashes were.
Please don’t let all this be for me, Melissa thought. I’d be mortified if Jayne spent so much money, just on me.
‘I thought I might do a bit of baking later on,’ Jayne said, as Melissa automatically started to unpack the groceries. ‘Maybe you’d like to help me, pet? I could show you how to make a proper chocolate biscuit cake – I know that’s your favourite.’
‘Sounds cool,’ Melissa said. ‘Are you having people over for dinner? It’s just you’ve bought so much food. It’s almost like Christmas Day in here.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, love,’ said Jayne, stuffing the freezer full with all the meat she’d bought, ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you. I am having someone else come to visit for a little while. A friend. Well, a sort of friend. He’s a sweetheart, though, and I think you’ll really like him.’
‘Where is your pal from?’ Melissa asked, instantly picturing an elderly gent tottering around on a Zimmer frame, maybe a pal of Jayne’s late husband.
‘Eric is coming to see me all the way from Florida, can you believe it?’ Jayne said, reddening a little bit. ‘So, as you can imagine, I’m a bit nervous meeting him for the first time IRL. That’s why it’s so great that you’re here, love. You’ll give me moral support, I know you will.’
‘What does IRL mean?’ Melissa asked, getting more and more confused the longer this conversation went on.
‘Oh, you know, love, in real life. That’s what they all say on the website where Eric and I first met.’
‘So do you mean . . . this Eric guy is like . . . a date? Except that you just haven’t met him yet?’ said Melissa, having to abandon unpacking groceries and take a seat at the kitchen table. Her head was swimming.
‘Yes, pet. I’ve put you in the good spare bedroom and Eric can have the little box room at the back of the house. He’s a spiritual healer, you know, and he works in a commune in Palm Springs, so sleeping on a little small bed should be no bother to him at all.’
‘Jayne,’ said Melissa slowly, ‘are you telling me this guy is, like, someone you might end up dating? Like . . . a boyfriend?’
‘Yes,’ Jayne said, with a girlish little giggle. ‘Yes, I suppose you could put it like that, pet.’
Melissa instantly started to worry. Was a total stranger about to move in on lovely, sweet, trusting Jayne? And in that case, wasn’t it a kind of blessing that she herself would be there, to keep an eye out for her pretend-y-granny?
From the outside, she thought, it might look like Jayne is the grown-up taking care of me but maybe, just maybe, it’s the other way around.
*
The following morning, just as she was getting dressed for school, there was a ring at the doorbell.
‘I’ll get it!’ Melissa called out to Jayne, who was in the kitchen, still in her dressing gown, making what smelt like a big, delicious, greasy fry-up. It was probably Bill the postman, Melissa thought, rummaging for the right key and unbolting the door. He always called early and was so full of moans and gripes about the osteoarthritis in his knee, he often made her late for school.
Nothing, though, absolutely nothing prepared her for the sight that greeted her when she flung open the hall door.
Because it wasn’t poor old Bill standing there at all. Instead, there was an elderly man about Jayne’s age, with long, grey hair tied back in a scrunchie, dressed in a flowing white linen shirt and jeans with Jesus sandals, even though it was a cold, grey, rainy morning.
‘Namaste,’ he said, with a big smile on his tanned, friendly face as he gave a little half bow. ‘I’m Eric. And I’ve come to meet a beautiful soul by the name of Jayne Dawson.’
Melissa
19 PRIMROSE SQUARE
Melissa sat in the late afternoon sunshine on the steps outside Jayne’s house, with her hands clamped over her ears. She needed some time out – badly. It had been such a lovely day with Jayne and Eric too, cooking and baking and chatting as the three of them worked side by side. It had been so nice to get to know Eric, who seemed wise and kind and pretty cool, apart from the weird clothes and the long hair – in fact, he kind of reminded Melissa of Jayne’s husband before he got sick.
Then something very, very bad happened. She left the grown-ups alone so they could chat in peace and slipped up to her room to try and call her mum at that hospital place they’d taken her to. But a nice-sounding lady told her that her mum wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone for at least a week.
Please, you don’t understand, Melissa had tried to say, only the words wouldn’t come out properly. She’s my mum and I need her. I only want to know if she’s getting better. It was horrible not knowing. Couldn’t they even let her talk to her mum for five little minutes? That’s all she was asking for. But the lady she’d spoken to had been firm: no phone contact and no visitors for a minimum of seven days. Those were the rules, she said. No exceptions.
Melissa hugged her knees tightly, grateful that there was no one around to see her getting upset. She already had so much to worry about and now here was another thing. Then something weird happened: Ella’s voice came back to her. ‘Whenever I’m stressed about anything,’ Ella used to say, ‘I just get the hell out of the house and try to focus on how lovely Primrose Square is. Works a treat, any time of year. Trust me, kiddo, just looking out at the square will make any problem disappear. It’s like that square has healing properties.’
So that’s what Melissa was trying to do. It was well past 7 p.m., but it was almost spring now and still bright and sunny enough to sit out and enjoy the beautiful view over the treetops and the gorgeous flowers that were
just beginning to come into their own. Begonias and azaleas – Ella had even taught her a few of their proper names. They had outdoor yoga on the square sometimes and there was a class in full swing now; she could see about twelve people of all shapes and sizes huffing and puffing, doing sideways planks right beside the playground.
A youngish woman came around the corner onto the square, breathless and panting as she lugged two stuffed suitcases behind her, with an overlarge backpack strapped to her back. She must be a tourist, Melissa thought. Maybe looking for a B&B, or a hostel for the night? Without a second thought, she’d scrambled up to her feet, with a shy little wave towards this stranger.
‘You look like you could do with a bit of help,’ Melissa said, instinctively going to take one of her wheelie bags. ‘Are you looking for somewhere? A hotel, maybe?’
‘Well, aren’t you just a little sweetheart?’ The stranger grinned back. ‘The weight of those cases was killing me. I’m actually on my way to number twenty-four, which, as far as I remember, is just a little bit further down the square, is that right?’
‘Number twenty-four?’ said Melissa, puzzled. ‘I didn’t think anyone lived there. It’s been empty for ages now. But come on, I’ll show you where it is.’
‘I’m going to be renting it for a while,’ came the smiling reply. ‘And if you’re from around here too, then that’ll make us neighbours. I’m Nancy, by the way.’
‘Your accent is so posh! Are you English?’
‘Londoner, born and bred. You ever been to London?’
‘No,’ said Melissa shyly, ‘but I’ve always wanted to go. I keep on at my dad to take me over so we can see a few shows there. My friend Hayley went to London with her family and they saw Matilda in the West End, can you imagine? She said it was, like, the BEST night of her whole life.’
‘Makes me very happy to hear that,’ Nancy said with a little smile. ‘I was the second assistant director on Matilda, as it happens.’
‘Oh my actual God!’ Melissa squealed. ‘You’re a director? In the theatre? Like . . . a real one?’
This woman certainly didn’t look like a theatre director, but then Melissa had always thought that to be a director, you had to be flamboyant, larger than life – and more often than not, a man. This woman seemed way too young for a job like that. She seemed . . . normal. She was dressed in jeans, flat shoes and a jacket, with her neat light brown hair scooped up into a knot on top of her head. She looked arty and cool, like a photographer, maybe, but definitely not a real, live theatre director.
‘Certainly am,’ Nancy said. ‘And thanks for the great feedback about Matilda, by the way.’
‘Oh my God!’ Melissa beamed, ‘Hayley said it was just fab. She even said that Miss Trunchbull picked up one of the kids in the show, spun her around and around by the pigtails and flung her right out into the audience. Did that really happen?’ she asked, goggle-eyed.
‘You’ll just have to come and see the show for yourself.’ Nancy grinned down at her brand new fan. ‘I’d be happy to sort you out with tickets anytime you like.’
‘Wow, really?’ said Melissa, grinning. ‘That would be, like, the best thing ever! Wait till I tell my dad, he’ll love that.’
‘You never told me your name, by the way?’ Nancy said, as the two of them made their way to number twenty-four, with the neat box hedges outside and the sparkling clean stone steps leading up to it.
‘Oh, I’m Melissa – and here we are, number twenty-four. Come on,’ she added, ‘I’ll help you with your bags up the front steps.’
‘You’re an angel,’ Nancy said, as they both struggled to haul the wheelie bags up the steps.
‘Wow . . . I’ve never been into this house before,’ Melissa said, hovering cautiously on the doorstep. ‘Imagine – I’ve lived on the square my whole life and this is the first time I’ve ever seen it from the inside. Pretty cool, isn’t it?’
‘In that case, come on in,’ said Nancy. ‘I’ll give you the grand tour – you can be my first ever visitor.’
‘Oh my God, that’s, like, the biggest TV I’ve ever seen!’ Melissa squealed as Nancy showed her into the living room and she set eyes on the giant plasma screen just above the fireplace. ‘And look at the leather sofas – so posh!’
‘I know,’ Nancy said, shaking her head almost in disbelief. ‘I can’t really believe I’m going to be staying here. I keep thinking that the owner will soon discover it’s all a horrible mistake and throw me out on my ear.’
‘So who owns it?’ Melissa asked, wide-eyed, as they walked in and out of every room, oohing and ahhing all the way. ‘Whoever it is must be, like, the richest man in the country. Look at this!’ she added, as Nancy led her upstairs to see the master bedroom in all its glory. ‘A walk-in closet! I thought only the Kardashians had them!’
‘Isn’t it incredible?’ Nancy laughed. ‘All owned by a guy called Sam Williams, I believe. Ever met him?’
Melissa wrinkled her nose, thinking for a second, then shook her head. ‘No, sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve never even heard of him.’
‘That’s the weird thing,’ Nancy said, plonking exhaustedly down on the bed beside her new little pal. ‘No one else seems to have either. Even the estate agent who showed me the house didn’t know him. They’d only been in touch via phone calls and emails.’
‘It’s just been a building site here for ages,’ Melissa said. ‘My sister used to fancy one of the workmen and she was always hanging around here, trying to chat him up.’
‘How old is your sister?’ Nancy asked, as she led Melissa back downstairs and into the basement, to show her the kitchen.
Melissa went very quiet for a second.
‘Seventeen. She would have been seventeen going on eighteen now.’
‘I’m sorry . . . ?’
‘She’s dead,’ Melissa said baldly. It was the first time she’d said that out loud to someone she didn’t know and it felt very weird.
There was a long pause while Nancy looked keenly at her, but she didn’t put on a sad face, like other grown-ups did. Melissa was glad of it; it was a big relief to meet someone who didn’t come at her with sympathy. It was hard enough feeling sad herself, without having to deal with everyone else being sad for her as well.
‘I see.’ Nancy nodded, then, to Melissa’s great relief, she instantly changed the subject. ‘In that case, do you fancy a cuppa?’ she asked brightly. ‘You’re my first ever visitor and if you’ll just help me find a box of tea bags, I’d love you to stay and chat for a bit.’
‘I’d really like that, thanks.’ Melissa smiled, deeply grateful they were talking about something else.
‘So no one has seen or heard of my mystery landlord, then?’ Nancy said, putting the kettle on and rummaging about the bottom of one of her bags for a box of Typhoo.
‘Which is bonkers when you think about it, isn’t it?’ said Melissa, perching up on a trendy stool at the breakfast bar and feeling incredibly grown-up. ‘I mean, around here, everyone knows everything about everybody else’s business. I’ve known most of the neighbours here since I was in nappies.’
Almost on cue, a text message pinged through to Nancy’s phone and she immediately went to check it.
‘Speak of the devil,’ she said. ‘It’s from the man himself.’
HOPE MOVING DAY GOING WELL, ENJOY AND TRY NOT TO TRASH THE PLACE TOO MUCH IF YOU HAVE A HOUSEWARMING PARTY.
‘He sounds pretty cool,’ Melissa offered.
‘Hmm,’ said Nancy quietly, putting the phone back in her pocket and allowing her thoughts to drift a bit.
‘You okay?’ said Melissa after a pause. ‘You’ve gone all quiet.’
‘Sorry,’ said Nancy. ‘I was just thinking how much you can glean about a total stranger, purely from being in their space.’
‘Yeah, but that Sam Williams has never actually lived here, though. Otherwise we’d know his whole life story. My dad always says that’s what he loves most about Primrose Square. He says if you a
s much as sneeze in the morning, that night half the square will be asking you how your terrible dose of pneumonia is.’
‘I know Sam has never officially lived here,’ said Nancy thoughtfully. ‘Yet the whole house is full of his stuff. And it’s decorated entirely to his taste. So you know what? That tells us a lot about him already. I don’t want you to think that I’m nosey or anything, but this is where being a theatre director comes in very handy.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’ve worked on a lot of classical theatre,’ Nancy explained, stuffing tea bags into two mugs. ‘And I’m well used to working on scripts with scant character detail. Which is where the fun really starts for us in the rehearsal room. In fact, directing a play can be a lot like detective work, you see.’
‘How is that?’ Melissa asked, puzzled.
‘Well, you’d be astonished at the number of playwrights who give you very little, if any, information about a character to work off. Take Shakespeare, for instance. He just gives you the bare bones of any character and the rest is one hundred per cent down to interpretation. So that’s when a director and actor really start to collaborate, comb through the script and put two and two together.’
‘Wow.’ Melissa beamed. ‘Your job really sounds amazing. You get to be in the theatre all day every day and you even get paid for it. Talk about a dream job!’
She was really loving this chat; it was like a one-on-one English class and that was by a mile Melissa’s very favourite subject. To her surprise, she felt better than she had for ages.
‘So come on then,’ said Nancy, handing Melissa a mug. ‘What does this amazing living space tell us about its mysterious owner? Let’s try to figure it out, shall we?’
‘It tells us that he has bucketloads of money, for one thing,’ Melissa replied. ‘I think he must be, like, a gazillionaire.’
‘He’s working out in Shanghai at the moment,’ said Nancy, ‘so my guess is that he’s in high finance or something similar. A hedge fund manager, maybe.’
The Secrets of Primrose Square Page 12
