Page 150 of The Man Upstairs

I lit up a cigarette at the window, but Rosie didn’t look over at me, too transfixed as she scrolled. Her cheeks were blooming pink, and I could see the tears welling up.

“You’ve turned me into quite a heroine,” she said, but I shook my head, flicking ash out the window.

“No, I haven’t. No words could ever do you justice. This is purely an effort to capture your spirit on the pages.”

She giggled. “My sneakers aren’t cute when they squeak on the corridor floor, Julian.”

I laughed back. “Oh, they are. It’s the way you twist your feet just a little when you walk. It’s always the left one.”

“And my coconut hair shampoo didn’t smell that great. It was a crappy one from the bargain store.”

“It suited your hair. Delicate.”

Her eyes met mine, and they were so alive it made my breath hitch.

“My hair doesn’t look so great when I’ve been tossing and turning in bed though, does it? You hadn’t seen it at this point. I guess it comes in a later chapter.”

“It always fans up, actually. Very cute. If I’m lucky, I get to see it like a mousy brown halo when you’re sleeping.”

She laughed. “A bloody halo? Stop it. You’re bigging me up.”

“I’m not,” I said. “Believe me. The book captures nothing but truth.”

“You’ve written this as a book? An actual book?” Her eyes widened.

“Indeed, yes, but I can’t take all the credit for it. It’s been edited by one of my previous students. He was very impressed, which was lovely to hear. I half expected him to write it off as a poor effort and shelve it for my personal gratification.”

“I’m glad you onlyhalfexpected it, or you’d never have sent it.”

“Yes, and you gave me the positive half of that expectation. It was all down to you.”

She kept on reading, and I kept on watching. I could tell which parts she was reaching, purely by her expressions. I’d come to know them well enough. I saw her tears welling, and her dimpled smile, and the way she put her hand on her heart when something took her aback. Pink cheeks, and her dainty laugh, and the way she’d look up at the ceiling, just for a second while she pondered things.

I just hoped I’d captured it all nearly so well on the pages. If so much as a fraction of the adoration I felt for my angel had made it through into words, it would be a masterpiece.

My editor had certainly sung some praises.

I got her a coffee while she was still reading, and she thanked me, sipping without taking a break. I knew some of the dirty parts must be approaching soon, and sure enough, she grinned like a dirty little minx when she recognised scene number one.

“I know this bit.”

“Yes. You know plenty of them.”

Her grin disappeared soon after, and again I knew which point she was up to. She was reading about the deep depths of my protective rage, and my willingness to slam the knife into Scottie’s ribcage as I threatened his life.

I was sitting on the chesterfield at this point as she looked over at me. I expected questions on whether it was really like that, but she didn’t have them. She didn’t need to ask. She already knew. Just as I knew what she would say in return, as always.

“Thank you.” She didn’t let me sayyou’re welcomebefore she continued talking. “Honestly, Julian, I was so scared. I really thought he was going to hurt us, both me and Mum. You saved us, and I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you. Not any of this.”

“Touché, Rosie. Touché. I’m as grateful as you are.”

She wiped away a happy tear. “You could never be as grateful as I am. You saved my life.”

“Again, touché, sweetheart. Touché.”

I made us dinner while she kept reading. She ate carbonara at the dining table, not letting the manuscript out of her sight for even a moment, and I adored that, seeing how she was sucked into our story.

It was late into the evening when she reachedthe end. Her face was blotchy from crying, and she leant back in her seat as the finale hit home, laughing like an angel with misty glasses.