The Family Upstairs(25)

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Just ignore anything my parents say about moving out. We’re not going anywhere. You know,’ he continued, ‘we ended up in that house in Brittany for two years. We were only supposed to be there for a holiday.’ He paused and cocked an eyebrow.

I was clearly supposed to be responding in some way, but I was stupefied. I had never stood so close to someone so beautiful before. His breath smelled of spearmint.

He stared at me and I saw disappointment flicker across his face, or not even disappointment but resignation, as though I was simply confirming what he’d already suspected of me, that I was boring and pointless, not worth his attention.

‘Why don’t you have your own house?’ I asked finally.

He shrugged. ‘Because my dad’s too tight to pay rent.’

‘Have you never had your own house?’

‘Yes. Once. He sold it so we could go travelling.’

‘But what about school?’

‘What about school?’

‘When do you go to school?’

‘Haven’t been to school since I was six. Mum teaches me.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘But what about friends?’

He looked at me askance.

‘Don’t you miss having friends?’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘Not even slightly.’

He looked as though he was about to leave. I did not want him to leave. I wanted to smell his spearmint breath and find out more about him. My eyes dropped to the book in his hand. ‘What are you reading?’ I asked.

He glanced down and turned the book upwards. It was The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart, a novel I had not heard of at the time, but which I have since read roughly thirty times. ‘Is it good?’

‘All books are good,’ he said.

‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘I’ve read some really bad books.’ I was thinking specifically of Anne of Green Gables, which we’d been forced to read the term before and which was the most stupid, annoying book I’d ever encountered.

‘They weren’t bad books,’ Phin countered patiently. ‘They were books that you didn’t enjoy. It’s not the same thing at all. The only bad books are books that are so badly written that no one will publish them. Any book that has been published is going to be a “good book” for someone.’

I nodded. I couldn’t fault his logic.

‘I’ve nearly finished it,’ he said, glancing down at the book in his hand. ‘You can borrow it after me, if you want?’

I nodded again. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

And then he left. But I stood where I was, my head pulsating, my palms damp, my heart filled with something extraordinary and new.





18


Miller Roe stands as Libby approaches him. She recognises him from his photo on the internet, although he has grown a beard since he had his byline photo taken, and also gained some weight. He is halfway through a very messy sandwich and has a speck of yellow sauce in his beard. He wipes his fingers on a napkin before he takes Libby’s hand to shake and says, ‘Libby, wow, so good to meet you. So good to meet you!’ He has a London accent and dark blue eyes. His hand around hers is huge. ‘Here, sit down. What can I get you? The sandwiches are amazing.’

She glances down at his car crash sandwich and says, ‘I only just had breakfast.’

‘Coffee, tea?’

‘A cappuccino would be nice. Thank you.’

She watches him at the counter of the trendy café on West End Lane where he’d suggested they meet as a midway point between St Albans and South Norwood. He’s wearing low-slung jeans and a faded T-shirt, a green cotton jacket and walking boots. He has a big belly and a large head of thick dark brown hair. He’s slightly overwhelming to look at, ursine but not unappealing.

He brings back her cappuccino and places it in front of her. ‘So grateful to you for coming to meet me. I hope your journey was OK?’ He pushes his sandwich to one side as though he has no intention of eating any more.

‘No problem,’ she says, ‘fifteen minutes, straight through.’

‘From St Albans, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nice place, St Albans.’

‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘I like it.’

‘So,’ he says, stopping and staring meaningfully at her, ‘you’re the baby.’

She laughs nervously. ‘It seems I am.’

‘And you’ve inherited that house?’

‘I have, yes.’

‘Wow,’ he says. ‘Game changer.’

‘Complete,’ she agrees.

‘Have you been to see it?’

‘The house?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yes, a couple of times.’

‘God.’ He throws himself back into his chair. ‘I tried so hard to get them to let me into that house. I was virtually offering the guy at the solicitors my firstborn. One night I even tried to break in.’

‘So you never actually saw it?’

‘No, I very much didn’t.’ He laughs wryly. ‘I peered through windows; I even sweet-talked the neighbours round the back to be allowed to look out of their windows. But never actually got in the house. What’s it like?’