Emily just shrugged back at her.
‘All that time you spent in therapy,’ Sadie went on, ‘and then you just go and piss all over it? You’ve destroyed those months when you worked so hard to dry out, just like you destroy everything!’
‘You really need to get your facts straight here—’ Emily tried to say, but Sadie was in no mood to be interrupted.
‘I mean, what kind of a person does that?’ she asked furiously. ‘It’s like wherever you go, disaster follows.’
‘But you’re missing one crucial point,’ Emily said, when she was finally able to get a word in edgeways. ‘OK, so I may have gone to the boozer last night, but I didn’t drink. Not a single drop of alcohol passed my lips. I sat there till closing time with one fizzy water after another in front of me, and nothing stronger than that. Just to see if I could. And I did. And you know something else, Sadie?’ she added. ‘I’m kind of proud of myself. So you can drone on and on all you like, dearest, but actually, last night was a bit of a breakthrough.’
‘Last night was a breakthrough for me too,’ said Sadie, sounding sad now, rather than angry. ‘You know why? Because all my life, I actually looked up to you, Em. You were my cool big sister. Even when you were drinking, even when you were at your very worst, even when you’d broken Mum’s heart, I was the only person in this family who stood up for you. I was there for you when your marriage broke up and you basically turned into a full-time alcoholic. No matter how bad things got, I was the one who always stuck up for you and tried to reach out to you. And what happens? I take you in after you’re released from rehab and not twenty-four hours later, you’ve upset my son, you’ve betrayed my trust, and you’ve gone and ruined it all. Just like you ruin everything.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Emily sighed, ‘there’s no need to act the martyr. I’ll be a good girl from now on. Will that get you off my back? I faithfully promise not to sneak out in the middle of the night again, and I’ll obey all your stupid gobshite house rules, and I’ll even take my shoes off on your precious wooden floors. Will that keep you happy?’
But this time Sadie just looked at her, with deep exhaustion in her eyes. ‘Everyone warned me against this, you know,’ she said. ‘Brien, Mum, everyone. They all told me the exact same thing. “Emily might be sober for now,” they said, “but she certainly won’t have changed.”’
‘Oh come on, I’m crawling over hot coals here to apologise to you,’ Emily said, rolling her eyes. ‘What more do you want me to do?’
‘I’ll tell you exactly what I want you to do,’ said Sadie, banging the washing machine door shut and clicking it on. ‘I want you out of here and gone by the end of the day. And after that? Don’t ever think about contacting me again. Mum always says she only has one daughter – me. And as of today, I have no sister.’
Gracie
Of three things, Gracie was absolutely certain. That every single soul who’d crammed into her packed hallway for Frank’s surprise party was now staring at the Birthday Boy in horror. That Shotgun by George Ezra was blaring out of the iPod speakers, a song that months later still had the power to make her physically nauseous. And that Frank Woods, her husband of over twenty years, was standing in the doorway dressed from head to toe as a woman.
Not in any kind of a drag queen way, mind you; that was almost the most surprising thing of all. The exotic creature, who every single eye was riveted on, was elegant, graceful, beautifully made-up and wearing a long, black satin coatdress that looked far more expensive and well cut than anything Gracie herself owned. It almost looked like it could be Givenchy.
Bastard must have done this before, was the first thought that went through her quick, lawyerly mind. There’s no way Frank would fork out on a dress that pricey if this was a one-off.
Long, agonising seconds passed, then she became aware of heads, lots of heads, swivelling her way, dying to see what her reaction would be. So what did Gracie Woods do? What any well-brought-up, middle-class woman would, of course. She smiled. She reminded herself to breathe. She’d been holding the birthday cake on a serving platter this whole time, so with unnatural calm, she found a free space on the hall table and gently placed it there.
With typical efficiency, Gracie had lit the candles just moments before, as soon as she got the cue that Frank’s car had pulled up outside. The idea was that she’d present the cake to him when he came in the door, so he could blow out the candles himself. So he could enjoy the surprise. Dear God, she thought, surprise didn’t even begin to cover it.
Now, though, all she could think of was that someone had better blow out all fifty of the candles before her expensive wallpaper caught fire. Clearly not Frank, who just stood uselessly by the door, surrounded by family and friends, utterly poleaxed, unable to move. So Gracie did it herself, taking care to blow out every last one.
What a waste, she thought, with the tiny part of her brain that was still functioning on autopilot. All that money to have the bloody cake custom made, and no one’s going to eat it now.
A bubble of chatter began to grow, which quickly swelled to nervous laughter. Then smart-alec comments began to come in thick and fast.
‘Jesus, Gracie, you never told us it was fancy dress!’ said Joe from Frank’s office. Gracie had never really liked Joe; she’d always considered him a loud-mouthed boor and now she remembered exactly why.
‘Always the quiet ones, isn’t it?’ muttered Phil from next door. Gracie heard him quite clearly though, and vowed to give his precious bike that he kept chained to the railings outside a right good kicking next time she got the chance.
Then, slowly and serenely, she glided through the crowd till she was standing right beside Frank. Everyone was watching her, and at all costs, she had to keep up appearances. So, leaning over, she gave her husband of twenty years a little kiss on the cheek, even though the caked-on foundation he was wearing stuck to her lips and she got a distinct whiff of her own good perfume from him – Jo Malone Peony & Blush.
Unimaginable fucker, she thought. He must have filched it when my back was turned.
‘Happy birthday, darling,’ Gracie said, good and loud so they could all hear her back in the cheap seats. She even managed a tight little smile as she said it.
‘G-Gracie . . .’ Frank began to stammer, but then Frank always stammered whenever he was agitated. It was one of the things about him that particularly grated on her nerves.
‘Not now,’ she said coolly. ‘We have guests, or hadn’t you noticed? Go upstairs and change, and we’ll talk later.’
‘But . . .’ Frank mumbled, looking like he could pass out, ‘this is . . . I hadn’t expected . . . that is, I never thought . . .’
‘I said later, Frank. We’ll discuss it later.’
Being in court was always an act, but for this, Gracie thought, she deserved a fucking Oscar. Gliding as though on castors, she effortlessly turned into a 1950s housewife, topping up glasses, passing around platters of mushroom vol-au-vents, gently chiding her guests: ‘not to eat too much. The caterers are making the most divine chicken korma; you have to save your appetite!’
If her laugh was too forced and tinny, that was the only flaw in an otherwise perfect performance.
Maybe everyone will forget, she thought. Maybe people will think they were seeing things. Maybe they’ll all treat it as a big joke. If I act cool about it, maybe everyone will take their cue from me.
So Gracie forced herself to have polite, inane conversations with everyone she could. Jesus Christ, did she really manage to have a full, in-depth discussion with that snowflake Tracey from Frank’s office about which brand of Charlotte Tilbury foundation was the best? She dashed around her living room, topping up drinks that were already full to the brim, then busying herself in the kitchen, even though the caterers had everything under control.
And all the while only one thought ate away at her. Ben and Amber. Where were the kids and what in God’s name did they make of this? She coul
d barely take it in herself. How must it have looked to an eighteen-year-old and a child of just eleven?
Only Jayne Dawson, a kind, compassionate neighbour, who Gracie was deeply fond of, called it like it was. Gently, she gripped Gracie’s arm and steered her away from the throng into a quiet little alcove just off the main hallway.
‘Are you OK?’ Jayne asked softly. ‘I can help clear the room if you like? We can tell people you’re not feeling too well and drop hints that the party is over?’
‘Ben and Amber,’ Gracie said weakly, her command performance falling apart when she came face to face with genuine concern. ‘I’m so worried. I don’t know where they are or how they’re taking it. I don’t even know what to say to them . . .’
‘Find them,’ Jayne said firmly. ‘And don’t worry a bit about the party. I’ll tell everyone here it’s time to go home.’
*
Gracie found her daughter lying behind a pile of coats in the spare room.
‘Oh, my little sweetheart,’ Gracie said, tenderly lifting Amber up and carrying her into her own room, just like she used to when she was a tiny child. ‘Come to bed, pet. You can share with me tonight.’
‘The party’s ruined now, isn’t it, Mum?’ Amber said in a wobbly voice that cracked Gracie’s heart. ‘Why was Dad dressed up as a woman? Why would he do that?’
In her whole life, Gracie had never felt so useless and pathetic, because for once she had absolutely no answers to give. How was she supposed to answer a question like that, when she could barely process it herself? So she shushed her daughter and smoothed down her hair, then tucked her up in her own bed, doing her best to reassure her that everything was OK and that they’d talk about it in the morning.
Finding Ben was a much tougher job. Gracie had to search the house high and low, weaving her way in and out of drunken party stragglers before she eventually discovered him.
He was in the downstairs loo, being violently sick into the toilet bowl.
And a very large part of Gracie Woods knew exactly how he felt.
Violet
It was the talk of Primrose Square: Frank Woods from number seventy-nine and the night of his birthday party. Of course, Violet herself hadn’t been invited, but then she never was invited anywhere, was she? Although Jayne Dawson was there all right, Violet thought crossly, not to mention that new age hippy husband of hers who went around the place ponging of incense and curry. The pair of them had front row seats for all the juicy drama, didn’t they?
Not that it was much good pumping someone like Jayne to get the full story of what had or hadn’t happened at the party. Everyone was always saying what a lovely woman Jayne was. ‘She never has a bad word to say about anyone,’ they said. ‘She’s such a trooper for her age.’
Personally, comments like that made Violet want to vomit. Violet was about the same age as Jayne, both of them pensioners, but in the whole course of Violet’s life, she was pretty certain that no one had ever used the word ‘lovely’ to describe her.
‘So, is it true then?’ Violet asked, when Jayne called around to her house to drop off a particularly pungent dinner.
‘Is what true?’ Jayne asked, taking off a ridiculous pair of pink sunglasses, as she stacked the Tupperware containers she’d brought into Violet’s decades-old fridge. The two women were in Violet’s kitchen on Primrose Square, with its peeling wallpaper, overriding smell of damp and lino that curled up at the corners.
Violet beadily looked her old neighbour up and down.
You’d want to take a good, long, hard look at yourself in the mirror, she thought bitterly. Jayne was dressed in what young ones these days called ‘athleisure’, or some ridiculous, made-up word like that. Leggings with jungle print all over them, with a bright neon pink fleece top. Someone Jayne’s age should have been ashamed of herself. You’re a pensioner, Violet thought. You should be at home saying your prayers, not bouncing around the place in neon pink Lycra. It’s obscene, that’s what it is.
‘Anyway, I’m just back from my Reformer Pilates class,’ Jayne chattered away, deftly changing the subject, ‘and as I was passing your front door, I thought I’d drop off some leftovers of the lentil stew Eric made last night. Maybe you’d like some later on?’
‘Never you mind about your stinky aul’ stew.’ Violet sniffed distastefully. ‘What I really want to know is: what happened at number seventy-nine?’
‘Oh, never mind about that,’ said Jayne tactfully. ‘That was nothing.’
‘Doesn’t sound like nothing to me,’ said Violet, pulling out a chair at the top of the kitchen table and staring expectantly at Jayne. ‘I heard that Frank Woods walked in on his own surprise fiftieth birthday party dressed head to toe as a woman. Well, I nearly passed out with the shock, I can tell you. Mind you,’ she added, ‘I always knew there was something weird about that fella. Not quite right in the head, if you ask me.’
‘Really?’ said Jayne. ‘Because I’ve always thought Frank was a great neighbour. Quiet and reserved. The type of fella who’d do anything for you.’
‘Well, he certainly never lifted a finger for me. And if him and that uppity wife of his think it went unnoticed that I was the only neighbour on the square not invited to the party, then they’re quite wrong. I was greatly offended, I don’t mind telling you.’
‘Frank and Gracie are lovely people,’ said Jayne kindly. ‘I’m sure the last thing they’d ever want to do was cause offence. It must have been an oversight on their part, nothing more. No harm meant.’
‘Hmph,’ said Violet.
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Jayne, sitting down opposite her, ‘it’s actually Frank Woods that I came to talk to you about.’
‘A man dressed up as a woman,’ Violet said, barely even listening. ‘Did you ever? Mind you, it’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it? So, I presume that wife of his has turfed him out? Good enough for him, if you ask me. And his kids are trouble too, mark my words. Only the other day, his son Ben flicked me the two-finger sign. The one shaped like a V,’ she added bitterly, ‘which I know for a fact means something horribly rude. Impudent little pup. I put him on my list.’
Violet’s list was famous throughout Primrose Square, though possibly not for the reasons she supposed. A keen observer of what went on up and down the square, whenever anything annoyed her – which was most of the time – it was added to ‘the list’. Snotty letters would usually follow, all handwritten in Violet’s scrawling, spidery writing, outlining her complaints point by point.
Becky Mulcahy from number forty-two, for instance, had been on the receiving end of one of these missives because those yappy dogs of hers had the cheek to wee repeatedly all over Violet’s front steps. Not that Violet’s letter had the desired effect at all; in fact, the very next morning, she peeked out her front window to see the steps strewn with little plastic bags stuffed with dog poo. The wet, runny kind.
Similarly, when sixteen-year-old Phoebe Miller from number seventeen received one of Violet’s letters griping about the shortness of her school uniform, Phoebe posted it on Twitter, where it quickly gained considerable traction.
‘People are tweeting about you,’ Susan Hayes, from number eighteen across the square, warned her.
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,’ was Violet’s crisp retort. ‘Tweeting? I never heard such nonsense. Where do you think we’re living – a bird sanctuary?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Jayne said, steering the conversation back on track, ‘I’m glad you brought up the subject of Frank Woods. Because he’s in a bad place, as you can imagine, and you might just be able to help him.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Violet sourly. ‘He wants to borrow one of my support girdles?’
‘No, nothing like that at all,’ Jayne said patiently. ‘It’s just that . . . well, things are a little ropey between poor old Frank and Gracie just now. Gracie is taking the whole thing very badly.’
‘Serves her right,’ muttered Violet. ‘I never had any time
for Gracie Woods. She once took my parking space right outside the door. I’ll never forget it. The barefaced cheek of the little madam. Just because she’s a lawyer doesn’t mean she’s a cut above the rest of us.’
‘But Violet, love,’ Jayne said gently, ‘you don’t even drive.’
‘That’s beside the point. She got a right stinker of a letter from me after that, I can tell you.’
Jayne sighed. ‘It’s actually Frank that I wanted to speak to you about.’
‘What about him?’ Violet asked, a little intrigued in spite of herself.
‘I bumped into him earlier and you can imagine how upset he is after all this.’
‘So he should be.’
‘The thing is,’ Jayne said, ignoring her, ‘given the tensions at home, I suggested to Frank that he might think about moving out for a bit. Just till the dust settles, that’s all.’
‘Oh really?’ said Violet suspiciously. ‘And what can this possibly have to do with me?’
‘Well, do you remember how you used to take in lodgers?’ Jayne said. ‘Anyway, I thought maybe you might like to offer Frank one of your spare rooms. Wouldn’t that be perfect? Frank would be nice and close to Gracie and the kids, yet he’d have all the time and space he needs. And you’d have a bit of extra cash coming in . . .’
Violet sat bolt upright, a study in wounded pride.
‘And what, Jayne Dawson,’ she spluttered, ‘makes you think that I’d have the slightest interest in taking in lodgers?’
There was silence at the table. Jayne was far too tactful a person to answer, but still. Violet could see her taking in the cracked ceiling that leaked and the blue/green mould that was starting to creep up the walls. The thought was unspoken between them.
Because you need money badly, that’s why.
A moment later, Violet had risen to her feet.
‘How dare you,’ she said crisply, a monument of threadbare dignity. ‘How dare you come into my private home and presume to tell me that I’m indigent? What do you think I am anyway, some kind of a charity case?’
The Women of Primrose Square Page 3