The Family Upstairs(27)

‘Amazing,’ Libby replies. ‘We’re going to meet at the house this evening. Start our investigation.’

‘Just you,’ says Dido, her nose wrinkling slightly, ‘and him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm. Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

‘What? Why?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s not what he seems.’ Dido narrows her eyes at her. ‘I think I should come too.’

Libby blinks slowly and then smiles. ‘You could have just asked.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Dido turns back to her laptop. ‘I just want to look out for you.’

‘Fine,’ says Libby, still smiling. ‘You can “look out” for me. I’m meeting him at seven. We’ll need to be on the six eleven. OK?’

‘Yes,’ says Dido, her gaze resolutely on her computer screen. ‘OK. And by the way’ – she looks up suddenly – ‘I’ve read every single Agatha Christie novel ever published. Twice. So I might even be quite useful.’





19


Lucy leaves the children sleeping with a note on the bedside table for Marco that says: ‘I’ve gone to sort out passports. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Give your sister something to eat. The dog’s with Giuseppe.’

She leaves the house at 8 a.m. and takes the long route across town to the Gare de Nice. She stops for a while and sits on a bench, letting the soft morning sun warm up her skin. At eight forty-five, she boards the train to Antibes.

Just after 9 a.m. she is in front of Michael’s house. A metal jacket of bluebottles sits on Fitz’s shit from the morning before. She smiles a tight smile. Then, very slowly, bile burning in the pit of her stomach, she rings on Michael’s doorbell.

The maid answers. She smiles when she recognises Lucy and she says, ‘Good morning to you! You are the wife of Michael! From before! The mother of Michael’s son. I did not know before that Michael, he had a son!’ She has her hand clasped to her chest and she looks genuinely joyful. ‘Such beautiful boy. Come, come in.’

The house is silent. Lucy says, ‘Is Michael available?’

‘Yes, yes. He is having a shower. You wait for him on terrace. Is OK?’

Joy leads her on to the terrace and tells her to sit, insisting on bringing coffee with amaretti on the side, even when Lucy says water will be fine. Michael does not deserve such a woman, she thinks. Michael does not deserve anything.

She puts her hand into her shoulder bag and pulls out her old passport, and the tiny wallet with the photos of Stella and Marco tucked inside. She drinks her coffee but leaves the amaretti which she cannot stomach. A colourful bee-eater sits in a tree overhead surveying the garden for snacks. She breaks up the amaretti and drops it on the floor for him. He doesn’t notice, and flies away. Lucy’s stomach rolls and reels. It’s half past nine.

Then finally he is there, immaculate in a white T-shirt and pea-green shorts, his thinning hair still wet from the shower and his feet bare.

‘Well, my goodness me,’ he says, brushing her cheek with his on both sides. ‘Twice in two days. It must be my birthday. No kids?’

‘No. I left them sleeping. We had a very late night.’

‘Next time.’ He hits her with his big golden smile, sits and crosses his legs. ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Well.’ She lays her fingertips on top of her passport and his eyes fall to it. ‘I need to go home,’ she says. ‘My friend is ill. Maybe dying. I want to see her, before she … in case … you know.’ A tear falls from her left eye and lands wonderfully on top of her passport. She wipes it away. She hadn’t planned to cry, but it had happened anyway.

‘Oh, honey.’ Michael puts his hand over hers.

She smiles tightly and tries to look grateful for the gesture.

‘That’s terrible. What is it? Is it cancer?’

She nods. ‘Ovarian.’ She takes her hand from under his and brings it to her mouth to stifle a small sob. ‘I want to go next week,’ she says, ‘but my passport, it’s expired. And I don’t even have any for the children. And I’m so so sorry to ask you. And you were so generous yesterday with the money for my fiddle. And I really wouldn’t ask if I had any other options. But do you still know the people? The ones who got me this passport?’ She runs a finger under her eyes and then looks up at him, pathetically, but hopefully still alluringly.

‘Well, gosh, not really. No. But, look, I’ll try.’ He pulls the passport towards him. ‘Leave it with me.’

‘Here. I brought photos. And, God, I know this might sound nuts, but I need one for the dog. He’s overdue some vaccinations so I can’t go the traditional route And God knows how long it would take, anyway …’

‘You’re taking the dog? To see a dying friend?’

‘I don’t really have any choice.’

‘Well, I could have him?’

She tries not to look too appalled at the thought of her precious dog living here with this monster. ‘But what would you do with a dog?’

‘Er, gosh, I don’t know. Play with it? Walk it? Feed it?’

‘There’s more to it than that. You have to get up every morning and take them to the toilet. And you have to pick up their shit.’