The Houseshare

by Fiona O'Brien

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Behind the elegant façade of 24 Ulysses Crescent in Abbottsville, the people who share the beautiful house on Dublin Bay are facing turbulent times...

High-flying London lawyer Truth has come to stay with the infamous grandmother she hasn't seen in years. Taking time out from her career to escape a vicious campaign of online abuse - the result of a horribly twisted comment in a newspaper interview - Truth becomes drawn into the lives of her grandmother's fellow tenants

Enigmatic sculptor Mike O'Neill is due to unveil his latest work - a bronze statue of Abbottsville's legendary Waiting Man - but in the meantime he has his own ghosts to wrestle with.

Sympathetic café-owner Nessa has a gift for reading the Tarot, but finds herself unable to predict or direct her own unsatisfactory love life.

Bruce and Stella, parents of three-year-old Freddy, formerly husband and wife, now live in separate flats and pride themselves on their modern parenting arrangement, until things begin to sharply unravel.

Morah, the caretaker, notices everything. Nothing escapes her - least of all a chance to take revenge on the woman who ruined her life.

And former style icon Evelyn, Truth's grandmother, still lives life as vibrantly as she always did, until her past catches up with her in a most unexpected manner.

As the weeks go by, and Truth's planned return to London draws closer, she finds herself questioning her life and her choices, especially her attraction to the inscrutable Mike. And when the unthinkable happens and little Freddy goes missing, Truth and the other tenants are forced to re-evaluate all they have learned about love and family.

Release date: May 19, 2022

Publisher: Hachette Books Ireland

Print pages: 352

Sample

The best thing about her apartment – Evelyn didn’t like referring to it as a flat – was its proximity to the sea. 24 Ulysses Crescent not only overlooked the undulating spread of Dublin Bay from its elegant perch on the sought-after terrace, but was conveniently located just across the road from Mariner’s Cove, a favourite bathing spot, one which Evelyn – long before she came to live there – frequented. She was heading there now for her early-morning swim. She pulled on her red one-piece and tied up her shoulder-length hair with a favourite paisley headband. Her hair was no longer the glossy black mane of her youth (she had been referred to as a raven-haired beauty in those days), but neither was it grey. When she’d begun to resent the tyranny of covering her roots, Evelyn had consulted with her then hairdresser – a rather dashing man of Viennese and Polish extraction – who, despite his preference for his own sex, had both appreciated and understood the exact nature of Evelyn’s beauty and her dilemma. She had allowed him to persuade her to strip out the last of her faded colour and put in a platinum rinse. The result had been sensational. The dramatic flaxen white hair set off her olive skin and dark eyes to striking effect, and even now, twenty-five years later, she was maintaining the ritual. These days she frequented a local salon – not nearly as much fun as visiting dear Valerio, who had eventually moved abroad – but a similar effect was achieved, and the local salon was cheaper. Now that she was into ‘the third act’ as she referred to her stage in life, she was more prudent with money. After all, it didn’t grow on trees. Poor Lenny, her late husband, had had every intention of leaving her comfortably off – but as his financial portfolio was heavily invested in property, he had lost his shirt in the crash of 2008 and, unbeknown to Evelyn, had re-mortgaged the house in an effort to get back on track. When he’d died of a heart attack seven years later, the banks had swiftly announced they would repossess the house if Evelyn failed to pay her mortgage arrears, which was when she was alerted to the situation for the first time. The amount was quite impossible for her to come up with. But it would take a lot more than an implosion of the global economy to curtail Evelyn Malone – she had risen to the unforeseen occasion with aplomb. For the following two years she had continued to live in the house, stalling the banks with false promises and keeping herself afloat by the skin of her teeth. She’d sold the sleek Mercedes, the expensive jewellery, her late husband’s collection of modern art, which she had never shared his enthusiasm for. Money wasn’t everything: she had long ago left behind any attachment to things purely material (age was very liberating in that respect), and status symbols – whether designer handbags or flashy cars – no longer held any appeal. She had style, and no amount of money could buy that. Evelyn always looked terrific – back in her fashion-icon days and equally now, at seventy-six. A lot she put down to genetics: she had been lucky with her tall, lithe figure and looks – the former she maintained with swimming, yoga, and a careful diet, the latter with taste, attitude, and a penchant for flamboyance. Her surroundings, on the other hand, mattered greatly to her. That was why her apartment had been such a find.

In fact, her financial misfortune (the exasperated bank was by this time threatening a humiliating eviction) was how she had found number 3 – which just went to prove her motto: It’s an ill wind that blows no good. It was at a support group she had attended at the suggestion of a friend – for people who had lost their savings – that she had met retired doctor Ed Hamilton. He had been in a similar position previously, having lost his private pension in property speculation – and when they were chatting (she had naturally gravitated towards the most attractive man in the room to engage him in conversation) he’d mentioned that he’d had his old family home in Ulysses Crescent turned into flats. He himself had moved into the granny flat at the end of the garden and was surviving these days on his modest state pension and rent from his tenants. Evelyn had thought this both inventive and brave, and enquired whether he found strangers taking over his house upsetting – she also deduced there was no longer a living Mrs Hamilton. At seventy-eight years of age, Ed was two years her senior, and still a rather attractive and distinguished-looking man. But Doctor Ed had said his garden was far more important to him than any house, and this way he got to keep it, and his familiar address and neighbours – and into the bargain had made some wonderful new friends. ‘We’re like a big happy family,’ he had said, smiling. ‘In fact, one of the flats is just about to become vacant – I’m looking for a new tenant.’

When Evelyn had subsequently been given the guided tour, and seen the beautifully converted interior of number 24, with its wonderful period details, high ceilings and generous windows, she had immediately decided she had to live there, and begged Ed to give her number 3, on the first floor. It wasn’t terribly big, but the view over Dublin Bay was perfect, and the rent, although steep, was manageable. It would have to be, Evelyn had decided then, because the only alternative was to live with her daughter, Pauline, in London – and she didn’t know which of them would be more horrified at the prospect. Her artist son, Tristan – her golden boy, so different from his sister – was in New York, but living in America with him wasn’t on the cards either. He was an indigent artist and had already been a significant drain on her own finances as it was – not that she had begrudged it to him at the time, but things were different now.

So she had sold her antique furniture, and for good measure all the Georgian fixtures and fittings, including the many fireplaces, original plasterwork and floorboards – left the gutted remains of the house to the banks, and moved in to apartment number 3 at 24 Ulysses Crescent and embraced her new life. There was still one significant problem, however. She could only afford to pay for three months of this new life. After that her funds would run out. She needed to figure out a way to pay the rent for the rest of her life. It was while she had been swimming in the sea one freezing March morning that she’d had her lightbulb moment. There was someone she knew who could easily afford to help her out – and he owed her big time. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. Bobby Radcliffe had let her down badly when it counted, and her whole life had pivoted on the repercussions. Despite her sworn assurances all those years ago – had it really been forty-odd? – that he would never hear from her again, it had been easy enough to track him down through his Dublin office. And he had been more than happy to help her. In fact he’d insisted upon it – especially when she had shared with him her revelation. He had been surprised and thrilled to hear from her, he’d told her – interrupting his precious time on the Portuguese golf course to take her call. More importantly, he was deeply grateful to her for keeping her secret to herself all this time. So the rent for her apartment in 24 Ulysses Crescent had been quickly taken care of, and the ongoing arrangement – such as it was – had been working perfectly well ever since. Evelyn had always been a survivor – she saw no reason to let some foolish decisions of her deceased husband get in the way of her having a pleasant lifestyle, even if it did mean bending the truth a little.

Now, she belted her white towelling robe tightly to show off her waist, slipped her feet into flip-flops and paused to consider herself in the full-length mirror before heading out. ‘Evelyn Malone,’ she said firmly, tilting her head to her reflection, ‘you are some woman for one woman!’

Outside, the terrace was bathed in early-morning light. The traffic on the main road hadn’t yet gained momentum, though the odd early starter whizzed by. Although a pedestrian traffic light had been erected to facilitate people crossing the road to Mariner’s Cove, Evelyn rarely needed to wait for it. She checked for oncoming cars – they tended to drive at high speed at this time of the morning, having the road mostly to themselves – but only a sports car was heading towards her. She put one foot on the road (she loved playing this game of chicken) and, sure enough, the driver slowed down and came to a considered halt – gallantly waving her across the road. She smiled her appreciation and waved back, jauntily making her way to the other side. The driver grinned and shook his head. It was a man, of course; a woman would have sped on by. As dear Bobby had always said to her: ‘Evie, if a woman has it at seventeen, she’ll have it at seventy-seven – and you’ve got it.’ Well, she had only another year to go to prove him right, and she certainly liked to think she would.

She passed the Martello round tower on her right and made her way down the steps to the cove. Already a group of regulars were in the water or towelling themselves down, a few enjoying a hot drink from the flask they’d brought with them for their après-swim chat. Although it was late May now, and the days were getting warmer, the early mornings were still cold – especially when just out of the water.

‘Morning, Evelyn.’ An older man was making his way out of the water. ‘It’s beautiful in there today.’

‘Morning, Peter. I’ve been looking forward to this since last night.’ She waded in and slipped under, the briskly cool water enveloping her like silk as she swam over to a circle of women treading water and chatting.

‘Here’s Evelyn now, you can ask her yourself!’ One of them nodded in her direction.

‘Ask Evelyn what?’ She lay back, floating, and tipped up her toes, chin tucked towards her chest.

‘How do you look so amazing?’ the girl asked wonderingly. ‘You’re in such good shape …’

‘For an oldie, you mean?’

‘No! By any standards. Your figure – it’s unbelievable.’

‘She’s always looked like that. Haven’t you, Evelyn?’ An older woman with a creased face smiled.

‘I’ve been lucky, I won’t deny it. But swimming definitely helps – and so did smoking until everyone got all goody-goody about it and made us give up. I put on a few pounds then, I can tell you.’

‘And I bet you lost all three of them a week later too.’ A large woman with broken veins on her face laughed.

‘You know me, Sally – I’m always running around doing something. I can’t sit still at all.’

‘Grandad says you used to be a real heartbreaker in your day.’ Sally’s daughter Carole eyed her speculatively.

‘Tell your grandad it still is my day.’

The girl laughed.

‘You don’t have a mean bone in your body, do you, Evelyn?’ Sally said to the group in general. ‘Evelyn’s probably the most idolised person in Abbottsville! We all aspire to being Evelyn one day. What I wouldn’t give for your energy – I don’t know how you do it. Swimming, painting, yoga – and she still finds time to help out Nessa with the castle fair.’

The young girl looked suitably chastened. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Of course you didn’t – I know that.’ Evelyn grinned, splashing water towards her. ‘But less of the used to be … Both Goldie Hawn and Joanna Lumley are seventy-six too, you know – and you don’t see them slowing down.’

‘Who?’ Carole looked blank as the older women laughed.

‘See what you’re up against?’ Sally said.

‘That’s my cue to move on, I think. See you later, girls!’ Evelyn stretched away from them and kicked off, before turning onto her back and executing a strong, graceful backstroke out into the bay.

When she got out of the water twenty minutes later, and reached for her towel robe on the railing, she caught sight of two of the other tenants in the house – Nessa, the girl who ran the local vegan café, organised the fair, and did tarot card readings on the side, was chatting to Mike, from flat number 1, who was their resident sculptor.

‘Hi, Evelyn.’ Nessa greeted her warmly. ‘It’s warmed up quite a bit, hasn’t it?’ She was referring to the water temperature, which had finally reached double digits.

‘It’s divine!’ Evelyn sat down on a low wall to pat her feet dry. ‘Isn’t this a bit early for you, Mike?’ Evelyn lifted her eyebrows at the tall dark-haired guy who was pulling on a sweatshirt.

‘He’s been trying to beat you to it recently, Evelyn.’ Nessa grinned. ‘Ever since I told him you were always the first one down in the mornings.’

‘I thought you were one of the mid-day brigade,’ Evelyn said to him.

‘I am, usually.’ He shrugged. ‘I just thought I’d change up my routine now that the sculpture is at the foundry.’

‘That’s so exciting,’ Nessa said. ‘I can’t wait to see it. When’s it going up?’

‘About another month. Give or take … I’m expecting to hear from the council any day now with a date.’

‘Well, I hope he’s good-looking, your sculpture, if he’s going to be a permanent fixture,’ Evelyn said. ‘Either way, I think a bronze embodiment of a man looking out to sea, refusing to give up hope for the return of his wife lost in a shipwreck, is both romantic and a very timely reminder to all of you men not to take us women for granted.’

‘I’m not sure that’s the intention of the council in commemorating the tragedy of the 1807 shipwreck, Evelyn.’ Mike grinned. ‘But I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Any chance of a sneak preview?’ Evelyn asked.

‘Nice try.’ Mike grinned. ‘Afraid it’s strictly under wraps – but I’m happy with it.’

‘Well, I’m sure it will be worth the wait.’ Evelyn waved as she headed off. ‘Have a wonderful day, guys!’ She ran up the steps.

‘Evelyn, be careful!’ Nessa called after her, shaking her blonde curls. ‘I don’t know how she doesn’t kill herself,’ she said to Mike. ‘Those flip-flops are lethal if you hit a wet patch. I’ve seen younger people than her come a cropper.’

‘I don’t think caution has found its way into Evelyn’s vocabulary,’ Mike said, looking after her as she disappeared.

‘She’s amazing, really. I’ve never known anyone her age – no, make that anyone of any age – who’s so … engaged with life. She puts us all to shame. I think we need a support group to cope with living under the same roof as her.’

‘Well, I just hope I have her appetite for life when I’m at that stage.’

Evelyn was smiling to herself as she crossed the road and made her way around the corner and into Ulysses Crescent, waving at more friends who were on their way down. The first swim of the day always made her feel incredible, gave her a high that lasted all day. With a bit of luck she might fit another one in later – although she’d promised to meet Dana, who was revamping her small art gallery in the town, and go over her colour scheme with her. Thinking of the gallery brought Evelyn’s thoughts back to Mike. That body of his was quite a work of art itself … if she were forty years younger, thirty even! He was tall – six two or three, easily – she saw that when she stood beside him, being five foot nine herself. And Nessa was clearly smitten by him. Evelyn couldn’t say she blamed her. Despite being perfectly polite and friendly, Mike had an intriguing, rather introverted manner, Evelyn had observed. One that suggested an intensely private character – there was an invisible barrier underneath the affable exterior which would make women insanely keen to get past.

Nessa, for all her pretty liveliness and flirtatious manner, didn’t stand a chance with him. Evelyn saw that right away. All her life Evelyn had been able to read men with an invisible radar. As a younger woman she had known at the exchange of a first glance whether or not a man could be hers – and she never bothered, much less worried, about ones that wouldn’t. It had saved her a lifetime of heartaches and wasted emotions and probably accounted for her reputation as a heartbreaker. She hadn’t been, though – Evelyn didn’t break hearts: she just made very sure no one got to break hers, which was an entirely different kettle of fish. She only wished more women followed her example. But in the end heartache had sought her out and found her anyway. If she had been a more reflective woman she might have reasoned that she deserved it. But Evelyn didn’t do regrets or wishful thinking – that way disaster lay. Instead she ploughed relentlessly forward; it was the only way she knew how.

She reached for her front-door key and let herself in to the impressive hall with its sea-green walls and diagonally laid large black and white marble tiles. The tall gilt-framed mirror that hung on the opposite wall reflected her image in the flattering early sunlight filtered through the stained-glass fanlight over the front door. Inside it was still quiet, most of the other residents yet to go about their day. From upstairs, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee floated in the air. She wandered over to the antique hall desk, where she noticed that her online order of books had arrived in yesterday’s post – she must have missed them. Picking the package up, she continued up the first flight of stairs which ran along the right of the house before sweeping across to the left on the return, and then up again along the far wall towards the first floor, when Stella from number 4, her neighbour across the way who was an estate agent, flew past her and headed downstairs to her first showing of the day. ‘Morning, Evelyn!’

‘Morning, darling!’ Evelyn waved at Stella’s retreating back without turning around and began to tear her package open as the young woman ran down the stairs and out the door – and that was when it happened. Evelyn’s flip-flop caught on the stair tread – she staggered, then lost her balance, grasping wildly for the banister before tumbling back the four steps to the landing. For a terribly long moment, all she could do was try to catch her breath, before severe pain radiated sharply from her groin on her left side. Struggling to push herself up on her forearms, she looked back at her left leg which remained twisted outwards at an unnatural angle. For the first time in her life, Evelyn Malone couldn’t move. She was unable to get up. ‘Oh, shit,’ she whispered.

The rain-wet slates of Hackney rooftops sparkled below her in the evening sunlight as Pauline Malone glanced out the window of her tiny kitchen, idly rubbing the top of the oven with a scouring sponge, phone to the ear in her other hand. It had been a wet spring, but according to the latest forecasts, the rest of May would be warm and dry.

‘You really should go over, Pauline – I would if I didn’t have this exhibition coming up. Hopefully I’ll be able to shift a couple of my bigger paintings …’ She listened to her half-brother Tristan’s laboured sigh, feeling the habitual detachment. It was easy to issue orders from across the Atlantic – easy to list the reasons why – when your most pressing concern was making everyone understand what a misunderstood artist you were. She pictured him pushing a hand through his golden hair. The American twang was stronger than the last time they had spoken.

‘I can’t just drop everything,’ she said. The sponge moved more urgently now across the hob – exasperation always made her edgy. ‘I’m needed here, you know.’ Her voice rose and she swallowed, hating the defensive tone that crept in. There was no contest, of course. There never had been. Tristan always came out on top. He won because he was the much younger child, the golden boy. He won because he was an artist, not a dull, boring social worker. He won because he wasn’t her. Pauline had inherited the features that made women consider her late father ruggedly handsome – while Tristan had inherited his own father’s height and looks along with a twist of Evelyn’s fine-boned, graceful beauty. Pauline had been Lacey to his Cagney. More Frances McDormand than Frances Farmer.

People who got to know her over the years – friends, acquaintances, work colleagues – gathered reasonably quickly that Pauline’s relationship with her mother was a ‘difficult’ one. That was, if they discovered she had a mother at all. Pauline – if at all possible – avoided mentioning her. It was easier not to. Talking about Evelyn made her real – and it was hard enough to keep her looming shadow out of mind. Pauline had managed the out of sight bit, but it didn’t lessen the acute sense of humiliation that clung like a second skin – of knowing she was and always had been a disappointment to her mother. In the early days she had subconsciously sought attention by rebelling – until it had become apparent that Evelyn had neither the insight nor the inclination to discover what, if anything, was at the root of her daughter’s contrariness. Eventually, the rebellion had escalated to the level at which Pauline was happy to acknowledge she was a distinct embarrassment to her mother, and over the years both had mutually if tacitly agreed not to burden the other with their presence unless absolutely necessary. Birthday and Christmas cards were exchanged and that was about it. Pauline assumed – correctly it turned out – that the arrangement had resulted in a certain relief for Evelyn. As for herself, she had become exhausted – and the estrangement, which continued to the present day, was easier than admitting that her mother had no interest whatsoever in, or affection for, her only daughter.

‘She wouldn’t want me there, Tristan. I’m sure she’d much rather depend on her wonderful circle of friends who love her so much.’

‘Pauline, she’s your mother, for heaven’s sake. That’s the bottom line.’

Pauline knew her relationship with their mother was totally confusing to Tristan, who continued to be exasperated by their estrangement.

‘This is a chance for you to finally bond with her, Pauline. You could look after her while she recuperates.’

Pauline almost laughed out loud at the idea. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘It would be an opportunity, Pauline … she’s seventy-six. She won’t be here forever. She’d like to at least hear from you – I know she would.’

‘You mean you’d like her to hear from me.’

There was a pause then, during which Pauline guessed Tristan was biting back his next comment and rolling his eyes … while she grudgingly reminded herself she wasn’t fifteen anymore and something would have to be done about the matter. Also, she didn’t want to alienate her only sibling. It wasn’t Tristan’s fault, any of this.

‘Look, leave it with me and I’ll think about visiting her,’ she said. ‘They’re not letting her out of hospital just yet, are they?’

‘No … no – another week or so, her surgeon said.’

She could hear the relief in his voice that she hadn’t outright refused. He sounded tired. She had to remember that he had his own worries too. A career that had never got off the ground, and possibly a growing suspicion was dawning that he wasn’t really the golden boy their mother had always led him to believe he was.

‘Let’s talk in a few days,’ she said.

She put her phone down on the countertop – only noticing then that the fingers on her other hand had been rubbed raw by her furious scouring.

‘So,’ Truth had said to her without preamble on the phone the following day, ‘I’ll be free next week, and I’ve booked us into a lovely country house hotel in Oxfordshire for this weekend – and you’re coming with me. We need to catch up, Mum, it’s been ages – it’ll be a belated birthday present as well.’

‘You already sent me a birthday present, Tru.’ Pauline had glanced at the wonderful flower arrangement her daughter had sent her, which took up almost the entire hall. Her council flat in the tower block was tiny, but she finally owned it outright, and the address was in the now trendy part of Hackney. Looking out over the rooftops below her, lit by early-morning or evening sun, and wondering about the lives going on underneath them was one of her favourite things to do. It reminded her of Mary Poppins for some bizarre reason.

‘Well, you deserve another one.’ Pauline had heard the grin in her daughter’s voice. ‘Just take Friday and Monday off.’

What was it with her brother, and now her daughter, assuming she could just demand time off? ‘I can’t just take off whenever I feel like it, Tru. I’ll have to clear it with Sheila.’ Pauline had frowned, thinking about the compassionate leave she was already in the process of working out with her colleagues in the women’s shelter. Tristan had texted her that Evelyn was coming out of hospital the following week. Pauline still couldn’t quite get her head around it – she suspected she was in denial. Facing anything to do with her mother had that effect on her – never mind the thought of going back to Dublin after over thirty years.

‘I’ll have to check with work.’ Pauline had sighed, then added hurriedly, ‘But that sounds absolutely lovely, Tru, thank you.’

In the event, her boss, Sheila, had insisted she take the long weekend. ‘Of course you must, Pauline! You never take time off. It’ll be lovely for you spending time with Tru – especially facing into the other thing …’ Sheila knew the toll the prospective trip to Dublin was taking on Pauline.

And now, here she was, sitting in a fluffy bathrobe by a heated swimming pool admiring her newly painted finger nails and toenails, watching her daughter clock up seemingly effortless lengths of the pool.

An hour later, after an elegant and delicious afternoon tea of the tiniest and most delicate sandwiches Pauline had ever seen, and scones with cream and jam that melted in her mouth, they went back to their suite for a rest before dinner.

‘I can hardly keep my eyes open.’ Pauline smiled sleepily at her daughter who was propped up by cushions on the other bed, looking at her laptop.

‘You’re not supposed to – this is a rest for you, remember?’

‘Fine one to talk, you are.’ Pauline frowned at the laptop. ‘We agreed, no work – remember?’

‘It’s not work, I’m just checking email.’

Pauline worried about her daughter although she was intensely proud of her. She thought she worked too hard, and she looked more drawn and tired since she had last seen her. Truth had always been driven. She was a gifted student who had seemed to take exams and scholarships in her stride – only Pauline knew the intense work and study that had gone into her seemingly meteoric rise up the career ladder. After obtaining a double first in law from Oxford, and completing her bar training, Truth had been accepted to a sought-after chambers for pupillage and was the youngest barrister called to the bar that year. Now part of a successful and thriving practice, Truth represented victims of sexual assault or women who had been sexually harassed or excluded in the workplace – and her prosecuting skills and reputation brought frowns of concern and displeasure from opposing lawyers who were informed they would be coming up against her.

Pauline studied her now, while Truth was immersed in her screen, quietly marvelling yet again at the miracle of nature and favourable genetic arrangements that had somehow been responsible for bringing this gorgeous creature into the world. She remembered holding her in the hospital, that very first time, looking into those big dark eyes that had seemed to see right through her, that were at once so wise and unperturbed – and the names she had been so undecided about, had dithered over to distraction, and had driven Tony mad with over the preceding nine months had all faded to nothing as she’d gazed in wonder at her infant daughter. She had named her Truth, there and then. Later she had decided she had named her after Sojourner Truth, the famous abolitionist and women’s rights activist, and partly that was the case – somewhere in her memory, she figured that had probably been where she had heard the name – but Pauline knew deep down that when she had looked at Truth, gazed at her, wondered at her, she knew above all else that she wanted this perfect girl child to be untarnished by all the false, manipulative narratives she had been fed by her own mother. And so she’d named her daughter Truth. Although secretly she be. . .