The Family Upstairs(43)

She glances at the Maserati as she passes it on the driveway. She feels a strange wave of sadness pass over her: Michael will never drive another performance car. Michael will never book another spontaneous flight to Martinique, never pop the cork on another bottle of vintage champagne, never write his stupid book, never jump in his pool in all his clothes, never give a woman a hundred red roses, never fuck anyone, never kiss anyone …

Never hurt anyone.

The feeling passes. She drops the bin bag in a huge municipal bin by the beach. Adrenaline courses through her, keeping her centred and strong. She buys two bags full of snacks and drinks for the children. Marco texts her at 5 p.m. Where are you?

At the shops, she replies. Be home soon.

The children are cooperative. They look in the bag of snacks and treats with disbelief. ‘We’re going to England,’ she tells them, mustering a light and whimsical tone. ‘We’re going to meet my friend’s daughter, to celebrate her birthday.’

‘The baby!’ says Marco.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘The baby. And we’re going to stay in a house I once lived in when I was a child. But first we’re going on an adventure! First of all we’re going to Paris! On the train! Then we’re getting another train, to Cherbourg. Then we’re going to get on a little boat to a little island called Guernsey and we’re going to stay in a sweet little cottage for a night or two. Then we’re getting another boat to England and driving to London.’

‘All of us?’ asks Stella. ‘Even Fitz?’

‘Even Fitz. But we need to pack, OK? And we need to get some sleep because we have to be at the station at five o’clock tomorrow morning! OK! So let’s have something to eat, let’s get nice and clean, let’s pack and let’s go to bed.’

She leaves the children packing and eating and goes to Giuseppe’s room. The dog jumps up at her and she lets him lick her face. She looks at Giuseppe and wonders what to tell him. He is loyal, but he is old and can get confused sometimes. She decides to tell him a lie.

‘I’m taking the children for a holiday tomorrow,’ she says. ‘We’re going to Malta. I have friends there.’

‘Oh,’ says Giuseppe. ‘Malta is a magical place.’

‘Yes,’ she agrees, feeling sad that she is misleading one of the kindest people she knows.

‘But hot,’ he says, ‘at this time of year. So hot.’ He looks down at the dog. ‘You want me to look after him for you?’

The dog. She hadn’t thought about the bloody dog. She panics momentarily and then she rallies and says, ‘I’m bringing him. As an assistance dog. For my anxiety.’

‘You have anxiety?’

‘No. But I told them I did and they said I could bring my dog.’

Giuseppe won’t question this. He doesn’t entirely know how the modern world works. It is roughly 1987 in Giuseppe’s world.

‘That’s nice,’ he says, touching the dog’s head. ‘You get a holiday, boy! A nice holiday! How long will you be gone?’

‘Two weeks,’ she replies. ‘Maybe three. You can rent out our room, if you need to.’

He smiles. ‘But I will make sure it’s here when you get back.’

She takes his hand in hers. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Thank you so much.’ She hugs him hard; she has no idea, no idea at all if she will ever see him again. She leaves his room before he can see her tears.





31


‘I’m going to stay at the house tonight,’ says Miller, placing his empty pint glass on the table. ‘If that’s OK with you?’

‘Where will you sleep?’

‘I’m not going to sleep.’

His face is set with resolve.

Libby nods. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘That’s OK.’

They walk back to the house and Libby unlocks the padlock again, pulls back the wooden hoarding again; they enter the house again. They stand for a moment, eyes cast upwards, listening out for movement. But the house is silent.

‘Well,’ says Libby, glancing at Dido, ‘I guess we should get back.’

Dido nods and Libby takes a step towards the front door. ‘Are you going to be OK?’ she says. ‘Here? All by yourself?’

‘Hey,’ says Miller, ‘look at me. Do I look like I’d be creeped out all alone in a dark, empty house where three robed cult members died?’

‘Do you want me to stay too?’

‘No. You go home, to your nice comfy bed.’ He has his fingers splayed over his beard and looks at her with appealing puppy eyes.

Libby smiles. ‘You want me to stay, don’t you?’ she says.

‘No. No no no.’

Libby laughs and looks at Dido. ‘Do you mind?’ she asks. ‘I’ll be in tomorrow morning. I promise.’

‘Stay,’ says Dido. ‘And come in whenever tomorrow. No rush.’

It’s just starting to get dark as Libby meanders back to the house after walking Dido to the tube station. She absorbs the atmosphere of a hot summer’s night in Chelsea, the throngs of blond teens in ripped denim hot pants and oversized trainers, the views through sash windows of beautiful rooms. For a moment she fantasises about living here, being part of this rarefied world, being, indeed, a Chelsea girl. She imagines the house on Cheyne Walk filled with antiques, with dripping crystal chandeliers and modern art.