The Family Upstairs(35)

‘Drink up,’ he says. ‘I have a beautiful Sancerre chilling here for you, your favourite.’

‘Sorry,’ she says, bringing the bottle back to her lips. ‘I’ve been on the wagon for quite a long time.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Not deliberately,’ she replies. ‘Just haven’t had the money.’

‘Well, let’s call this Operation Get Lucy off the Wagon, shall we? Come on. Drink up.’

And there it is, that edge, so close to friendly, yet just a degree towards aggression. Not a light-hearted request, but a command. She smiles and downs half the bottle.

He watches her intently. ‘Good girl,’ he says, ‘good girl. And the rest.’

She smiles grimly and necks the rest, almost choking on it as it goes down too fast.

He beams at her, shark-like, and says, ‘Oh, good girl. Good girl.’

He takes the empty bottle from her and then turns to pull two wine glasses from a cupboard. ‘Shall we?’ he says, gesturing towards the door into the garden.

‘Let me just finish this.’ She indicates the tomatoes still only half chopped.

‘Finish that later,’ he instructs. ‘Let’s have a drink first.’

She follows him out to the patio, holding the bowl of crisps and her handbag.

He pours two large glasses of wine and pushes one across the table towards her. They toast each other again and then he pinions her with his eyes. ‘So, Lucy Lou, tell me, tell me everything. What have you been doing for the past ten years?’

‘Ha!’ she says shrilly. ‘Where on earth do you want me to start?’

‘How about you start with the man who gave you your daughter?’

Lucy’s stomach flips. She’d known from the moment Michael set his eyes upon Stella that he would have been thinking about her having sex with another man.

‘Oh, really,’ she says, ‘not much to tell. It was a disaster. But I got Stella out of it. So, you know.’

He leans towards her, fixes her with his hazel eyes. He is smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I really don’t know. Who was he? Where did you meet him?’

She thinks of the passports sitting somewhere in this house. She cannot afford to make him angry. She cannot tell him that Stella’s father was the love of her life, the most beautiful man she’d ever set eyes on, that he was an exquisite pianist whose music brought her to tears, that he’d broken her heart and that she was still carrying the shattered pieces of it around in her pockets even now, three years since she’d last seen him.

‘He was an arsehole,’ she says. Then she pauses and takes a large sip of wine. ‘Just a pretty boy, a criminal, with nothing between his ears. I felt sorry for him. He didn’t deserve me, and he certainly didn’t deserve Stella.’ She speaks the words with conviction, because while she looks Michael directly in the eye, little does he know that she is describing him.

This description seems to sate Michael for a moment. His smile softens and he looks real again.

‘Where is he now, this idiot?’

‘He did a runner. Went back to Algeria. Broke his mother’s heart. His mother blames me.’ She shrugs. ‘But really, he was always going to disappoint her. He was always going to disappoint everyone. He was just one of those guys.’

He leans towards her again. ‘Did you love him?’

She snorts derisively. ‘God,’ she says, still thinking of Michael. ‘No.’

He nods, as though giving her approval. ‘And was there anyone else? Over the years?’

She shakes her head. It’s another lie but an easier one to tell. ‘No,’ she says. ‘No one. I’ve been living hand to mouth with two small children. Even if I had met someone, you know, it wouldn’t have worked. Logistically.’ She shrugs.

‘Yeah. I can see that. And you know, Lucy’ – he looks at her earnestly – ‘you know, any time you’d asked, I would have helped. All you had to do was ask.’

She shakes her head sadly

He says, ‘Yeah. I know. Too proud.’

This is so far from the truth that it is almost funny, but she nods, knowingly. ‘You know me so well,’ she says, and he laughs.

‘In so many ways we were the worst, worst combination of people. I mean, Jesus, remember the times we used to have? Christ we were crazy! But in other ways we were, God, we were fucking awesome, weren’t we?’

Lucy makes herself smile and nod agreement, but she can’t quite bring herself to say yes.

‘Maybe we should have tried harder,’ he says, topping up his glass already and then topping up Lucy’s even though she’s barely had two sips.

‘Sometimes life just happens,’ she says meaninglessly.

‘That’s true, Lucy,’ he agrees as though she has just said something very profound. He takes a large gulp of wine and says, ‘Tell me all about my boy. Is he clever? Is he sporty?’

Is he kind? she asks silently. Is he good? Does he take good care of his little sister? Does he keep me grounded? Does he smell nice? Can he sing? Can he draw the most beautiful portraits of people? Does he deserve better than me and this shitty life I’ve given him?

‘He’s pretty clever,’ she replies. ‘Average at maths and science, excellent at languages, art, English. And no, not sporty. Not at all.’