Page 74 of The Man Upstairs

I’d almost forgotten the ending myself, when it came to it. The fact that the woman had become besotted with someone from her criminal past – of which her husband had never been aware of.

Rosie applauded me, as though I’d written a literary prize winner, declaring it wasbrilliant, but she was wrong. It was ok, yes, fine, but it wasn’t brilliant. The story arc could have done with some extreme tightening, and the character development could have been ramped up considerably. Plus, there wasn’t enough depth in the feelings the man had shown for his wife, right at the beginning. All skills I’d been teaching other aspiring writers, but hadn’t yet used myself.

Yet.

It was the first time I’d had a calling to write in decades.

“Which others have you got?” Rosie asked, and I scrolled through some other files. Some finished, some half written. I’d had the trademark stack of rejection letters sky high on my desk for years. I’d almost forgotten most of the stories.

“Why don’t you release them?” she said. “You could publish them yourself. A load of the stuff I’ve listened to is self-published. People would love it.”

“They’d take an awful lot of work to get them to that stage,” I told her, once I’d scanned through a few more of my files. “They’d need some serious rewrites, and editing, and I know sweet FA about branding, or covers, or marketing.”

She shrugged. “So? You could do that, you could learn.”

I dismissed it, stroking her cheek.

“I love your belief in me, angel, but all I care about right now is you.”

She kissed my fingers. “And allIcare about isyou. Which is why I’m saying you’re so good at this, you were born for it.”

I scoffed a friendly scoff. “Hardly.”

“Definitely.”

“I wish you’d have been an agent when I was writing. Maybe my destiny would have been mapped out differently, but it wasn’t meant to be. Clearly.” I closed my laptop. “I became a lecturer, not an author.”

“Tell me this, then,” she said. “If you could be a writer now, would you want to be?”

I placed the laptop on the coffee table.

“I think anyone driven by creativity would want to be an author or an artist, or a dancer, or whatever else their soul called for.”

“I’m not asking aboutanyone. I’m asking aboutyou.”

“I don’t know,” I answered, honestly. “I haven’t even thought about it in years.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe one day,” I replied, and turned my attention back to her perfection.

I didn’t want thriller manuscripts. I wanted her.

Another night turned into another day, still insatiable. We stayed consumed in the world of just us, with no outside interference, for another night and another day after that, but I knew our isolation couldn’t last for ever.

I was having a cigarette by the window on morning number nine as Rosie typed in her regular message to her mother. She was conveying how she was having such a good time withJennythat she’d not come home yet. How lovely it was to have a new friend, away for days at a time, exploring the country.

“Do you think she has any suspicions?” I asked her, pondering. “Surely she must. Has she asked whoJennyreally is yet?”

Rosie shrugged. “No, I don’t think so. She’s too caught up with Scottie and their imaginary plans for a future.”

“I see.”

I took a fresh drag and felt the curiosity in Rosie’s stare.

“What aboutyourimaginary future?” she asked.

“Sorry?”