Page 20 of The Man Upstairs

We stared at each other as the microwave hummed, and I couldn’t help his words spinning into my head.It’s not your mother I’m going to be wanting, Rosie, it’s you.

Was that still true? Really? Would he really want a girl like me? Surely not. He couldn’t do. I wasn’t exactly a storybook minx.

I decided to touch on the last time we’d spoken.

“I know Mum came up here that night.”

He turned his attention back to the microwave, avoiding my eyes.

“Indeed, she did. I’d planned to ignore her calling, but unfortunately, she was getting rather enthusiastic. I didn’t want the poor chap on crutches to be hobbling up to my door.”

I couldn’t help but smirk, imagining it. “Yeah, Bertie. He would’ve poked his nose in. He’s a nice guy, though.”

“Bertie.Right. I didn’t know his name, let alone his temperament.” He met my eyes again. “How long have you lived here?”

“My whole life, pretty much. My mum was still with my dad when I was born, but not for long. He disappeared and the council gave Mum our apartment, and this is where we stayed.”

“Are you still in touch with your father?”

“No,” I said. “I never met him.”

“That’s a shame. Maybe he would have sorted your mother’s disgusting boyfriend out and kept him away from the both of you.”

I’m sure my cheeks must have flushed beetroot, and he looked horrified.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I overstepped the mark there.”

He looked grateful when the microwave pinged. It would have been so easy to use the distraction and veer the conversation away to something lighter, but I didn’t want to. I couldn’t help but want more. Some kind of human connection in a world where Mum had chucked me out of hers. I needed that right now.

“You didn’t overstep the mark. It’s just weird. I dunno.” I paused. “I really didn’t think it would come to this with Scottie. Whenever Mum split up with him, she always said it was really over, for good, and we’d never see him again. I wonder if she still believes it when she says it. She seems to.”

His eyes locked straight back onto mine, as though I’d touched a nerve.

“I can only imagine she does. Resolve can seem very strong when you declare it, but a lot harder to maintain.” He smiled a sad smile. “In my experience, anyway.”

He ripped off two pieces of kitchen roll, picked up the plate and gestured through to the living room.

“How about you plonk your butt down on the chesterfield and see how comfortable it is for yourself? We can watch some TV, if you like.”

TV was the last thing I wanted. I wantedhim. I wanted his closeness, and his concern. And more. Sad and crazy, but true. Even though it scared the crap out of me, I couldn’t deny it. The swirl of tingles weren’t going away – they were getting worse. Far, far worse.

He was better than any of the billionaires, or therapists or professors I’d been imagining. He wasreal.He wasJulian.He was the saviour upstairs.

I sat down on the sofa, and he sat as far away as possible on the other side. He smiled as he pulled the coffee table closer and set the plate and the sheets of kitchen roll down between us, then he waited until I took the first slice before taking one of his own. Instinctive manners. Scottie would have dived straight in there.

I couldn’t stop scouting the place out as I bit into hot cheese and olives. A small TV, a bookshelf stacked with well-worn paperbacks, and an overhead light without a shade. His coffee table was scuffed, and the leather on his sofa was faded to hell, but none of it mattered. His presence was enough to counter all of it.

Still, I couldn’t work out how a man like him came to live here, in crappy old Crenham Drive. Should I ask him? Would that be ok? I didn’t want to poke into his business, so I kept munching on pizza, hoping he’d say something about himself, but he didn’t. He nodded to acknowledge how good the food was, and wiped his gorgeous mouth with the kitchen roll, but that was all. His silence only added to the intrigue. What was he hiding? What was the story of his life? Why did they call him a sicko, when he seemed like anything but?

I tried a different approach.

“Did you go to the Brewery Tavern tonight? I heard that you go there.”

His eyes were sharp, scoping me out.

“I do sometimes, yes. I stayed longer than usual this evening. I’ve had a long week at work.”

“What kind of job do you do?”