The Girl Upstairs

Chapter One

Iheard Emily before I met her. The harsh smack of heels against cheap wooden floorboards. The gentle buzz of a phone followed by a surge of high-pitched notes, sometimes angry, sometimes excited, rarely sad. The sadness came through the slim pipes in the bathroom, the soft gurgles that slipped down the plumbing and escaped through my extractor fan. The incessant music thrumming through the ceiling, invading my space. Emily has terrible taste, mostly new tracks, screeching pop singers holding long, high notes, the same beat in every song.

I knew Emily before I met her. Italian food on Mondays, meatballs rich and smothered in tomato sauce. Tuesdays, something eggy. Wednesdays, something meaty. Thursdays and Fridays, mostly wine. A takeaway on Saturdays, usually Chinese, the sticky leftover noodles escaping through the shared food waste bin like silky worms breaking through soil. Sometimes I could smell the food and other times I knew from a discarded receipt in our communal hallway.

On Sunday the shake of bottles being emptied into the recycling bin outside from her weekly wine shop. A crate of six, always. They sound lovely from the tasting notes I found clinging to the letter box. A Malbec, blackberry and vanilla notes with a finish of chocolate and nutmeg, soft and warm.

I’ve been in London for over ten years now and I haven’t found a quiet place. I live in Angel, Islington. The nice part, with the grand white townhouses, the ones advertised as being on tree-lined streets. I can’t see any trees, just blunt shavings in the ground, weeds rising and arching over the stubs like gravestones. I’m on the ground floor of a two-storey house and Emily is above me. She moved in over six months ago and I thought she might leave, as people do here. People Emily’s age, early twenties, they come and go like the seasons and it’s spring now. Time for new life. Time for Emily to leave.

How do you afford to live there? It slips off everyone’s tongue so easily. Why is everyone so concerned – so intrusive? I’m in marketing, I say, and I can see the forced smile at the broad term, the mouth widening and the gentle nod. Meeting new people has become tiresome, so now I prefer to stay inside with my books. Things that can’t judge, objects without expression. Thirty-five, living alone, in marketing. I stare out onto the street as the rain sluices through my open windows and down raspberry-coloured curtains, like fingers through hair. The black streetlamp glows faintly in the ghostly evening haze, a cat is whisked into a bush and cars fight through the wall of rain. There is always noise.

I pick up a cup of coffee from the table wedged into the bay window and take a sip. I let the bitterness tear through my mouth, down my throat and into the warmth of my belly. It grumbles. I’ll cook dinner soon, a lasagne tonight. Mondays are Italian night after all.

Work was long today, monotonous, and I think how much I don’t care. Do people know? They must. I exist at work, quietly and unimposingly, but that’s threatening, isn’t it? It threatens the nature of those who swap stories on what they cooked for dinner, the film they saw at the weekend, the latest true-crime documentary. I work at a design agency, in the copywriting department. I close my eyes. A stepping stone, I always used to say, but there is nowhere left to step. The specks of rain ricochet onto my face and I smile. An ambulance roars in the distance and a man’s coarse voice rises in the street outside. I take a deep breath and taste nothing but the expelled fumes from a passing car; I open my eyes and lean forward to close the window.

I see Emily walking up the street, her slight frame shielded by a large umbrella, her incongruous red wellies flicking dirt into her path. She has her tanned legs exposed in a short denim dress, a charming brown coat skims her figure and long brown hair emerges, clutching her face like a web. I sink back behind the curtain. The familiar jingle of Emily’s heavy keychain and the rattle of the key. A sharp slam of the door and a fuss to get her wet wellies off. She’ll leave them in our shared hallway, as she always does when it rains. I’ve laid paper out for her before, but she misses, leaving them inches from the edge. I choose not to think it’s deliberate, but I know people like her, entitled and uncompromising.

She trudges up the stairs and I risk a peek around the corner of my door. The red wellies lie on their side, mud mixing into the shabby carpet and flicked up the small table we use for our post. I put my door on the latch and tread carefully into the hallway, stand up the wellies and place them on a spread newspaper. Emily won’t know, she won’t care. I glance at the post on the table; she didn’t take hers up. I can see a letter in a slim white envelope with her name and address scrawled in curly handwriting. Not important to her, nothing is. I take the letter, walk up the staircase quietly and place it on her tattered doormat where she won’t be able to miss it.

I stoop carefully back into my flat and close the door. I walk across the small lounge and into the kitchen area. I bend down and pluck a lasagne from the freezer and turn the oven on. Emily flicks on her TV and the noise drones down as if escaping her. She is heavy-footed, and I can hear her move from room to room, the various sounds that she is home. The snap of the fridge door, the flush of the toilet, the phone calls. Noises designed to cover her loneliness. Well, it won’t work, I say aloud. She won’t hear me.

The smell of tomato and basil sifts through the ceiling and settles on my taste buds. She plonks down in front of the TV and the sofa shifts forward, the TV turned up. She’s placed her phone on the floor and I can hear the dense vibrations directly above me, taunting me. I look up and catch myself in the lounge mirror, my face scrunched and deep frown lines clawing my forehead, my pale complexion a host to dark purple circles under my eyes. My sandy blonde hair is knotted into two plaits resting on bony shoulders. I sob, but I can’t hear myself above the deep static tones of Emily’s television; as with her, noise is more important right now and I let the tears drift away and place my lasagne in the oven.

I slip my phone out of my bag and see the familiar missed calls, my mum and my sister. They’ll be worried. I text the group family chat saying I’m fine. My mum sends a hug emoji back, followed by:

Shall we call later?

I wince at the thought and type back,

No I’ve got some work to do, maybe tomorrow.

She won’t take it personally, but she’ll worry. I look up. I need for her not to come here. It will break me if she does, noise I don’t need, can’t fit in right now. I type again,

We’ll video chat, it’ll be nice.

I look around again. I won’t video chat with her here – it can’t be here.

Emily gets up and moves to the kitchen, I hear the movement of cutlery, plates clattering in the sink, the pots edged up to the kitchen tiles. I wonder if she is messy. I think of the wellies in the hallway and smirk; of course she is.

I grab my new version of a Joe Hill novel, the spine sharp and fresh, the front cover smooth and unmarked. There are no memories in this, I think, and I revel in that for a moment.

My timer chimes to get the lasagne out of the oven, just as Emily strides over to the TV and switches it off. Her phone is vibrating aggressively and then it stops. Her voice, shrill and keen, laughs, laughs again. I wish I knew what was so funny. The high voice, the giggles, the long, drawn-out sentences can only mean she’s talking to a guy. I’ve heard men up there. I’m never sure if it’s the same man, or different men that flit in and out of her life. I’ve heard Emily before, the creaking of the bed as it rocks back and forth. I’ve turned my music on then, so loud, to let her know that I hear her, that I hear everything. She’ll never stop though, because she’s twisted in it, selfishly enjoying the feel of a man. I gulp, looking down at the wet lasagne as I slide it onto a plate. I push it away, no longer hungry.

Emily ends her call and shuffles to the bathroom. I hear her piss sink in the toilet bowl and then the flurry of water down the pipes. Maybe she’s getting ready, maybe the man from the phone will be around soon and she needs to prepare. The shower starts and dinner is forgotten. I smile, remembering when I used to forget dinner, the excitement of the evening too overwhelming, too thrilling to bother. Now, it is a regime, a signifier of time.

I slump on the leather chair and coil the blanket around me. I pull in the Joe Hill book and cradle my chin between my knees. A man is yelling over the road into his phone and motorbikes full of food deliveries pace the streets as water sloshes to the side of the pavement. I curl further into the blanket as the night descends and the streets grow more vicious. I bury myself in the chapters of my book, occasionally glancing between the cracks in my curtain, watching shapes move past, each more threatening than the last.

The sound of music revives me, sending my book toppling from my lap onto the floor. I lean up and glance at the book sprawled across the rug at my feet and can smell the lasagne going stale on the kitchen counter. My head thumps to the music. Emily. The sound of laughter, hers, and a man’s low, enticing voice. I can make out the words to the song. I mime them as I clutch my head, ‘I’m a sucker for you.’

I curl my fists into small balls and fight back the tears. Without thinking, I fly towards the door and flick it on the latch. I storm up the stairs and come face to face with Emily’s front door, Flat 2, the 2 crooked and rusty. I bang on the door, hard. I feel the weight of the movement vibrate through my clutched fist.

The voices stop, I hear movement off the sofa and Emily whisper, ‘I don’t know, shall I answer it?’ I slam my fist into the door again. Yes, you should answer it. The door opens slowly and Emily’s small face peers around. She sees me and a flash of recognition and concern crosses her features. She furrows her eyebrows and opens the door wider.

‘It’s my neighbour,’ she says, looking at me.

I hear a body shift in the background. Emily looks up at me, her brown eyes glistening and confused. There’s a harshness to her features; she’s frustrated at my presence, bored almost.

‘It’s your music,’ I say finally.

Her expression doesn’t shift. She doesn’t go to defend herself. It’s like she’s heard it a million times – other neighbours, her parents, other people.

‘I’ll turn it down,’ she says, already shutting the door.

‘Okay, thanks,’ I say quietly, but the door is already closed on me and I can hear Emily stride across the room, irritation circling her words, ‘Turn the music off. Let’s go to the bedroom.’

I’m left alone in the hallway, all my anger evaporated and all that’s left is a longing to speak more, to say something. To scream into Emily’s closed door. Instead I pad downstairs and stare at her red wellies. I yell, thrashing towards them, and I kick as hard as I can, but they just flop to the floor. How they were when she left them.

Chapter Two

I’ve just finished work, but instead of heading back home, I walk out of Angel tube station and turn the other way. I push through the crowds towards the small green patch separating the rows of townhouses with colourful doors and expensive cars parked outside. The sky is grey and bleak, reflecting the stale faces of those that fly past me. Since I moved to London, I never quite adjusted to the rudeness, the selfishness, the ‘me’ mentality. I’m from a small seaside town called Hove, where the morning dog walkers greet everyone with a grin and a small wave. Every bartender knows your name, your drink order and your favourite baguette. The air tastes thin and sweet, like damp bark and sea salt. You can walk a metre without intrusion, but now as I evade oncoming Londoners, the air is heavy and tastes thick like diluted tar.

I push into a crowded coffee shop, the noise plaguing me as I find any available seat. The windows are steamed up and the incessant chattering from other tables echoes through the shop. A lady wipes my table, but ignores me. I lay my coat across the chair and walk to the till; someone dives in front of me and doesn’t look back. I order a black coffee and hold my card out, recoiling at the cost. I carry the coffee back to my table and look around. I can feel eyes on me and I try to swat them away like pesky flies, but they continue to look.

I retrieve my phone from my small backpack and video call my mum, pushing back wisps of my hair behind my ear. I force a smile. I plug in my headset and do my best to look together, pulling the coffee closer to the edge of the table in focus.

My mum’s pixelated face appears on screen and so does mine. I catch myself and smile more, wider, until I don’t recognise myself. My mum is waving into the camera, her white teeth shooting across the screen and her soft red hair falling elegantly to each side.

‘Mum,’ I cheer.

‘Suzie.’ She grins back and fidgets to the side. ‘Your dad is just pouring me a glass of wine.’ She jumps up and swivels the camera onto my dad, who stands waving in the background. His thick grey eyebrows high on his forehead and red lips stretched wide.

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘All right, love, how’s it going?’

My mum leaves him in the background and walks out of the room.

‘Are you not going to let me reply to Dad?’ I say, half laughing.

‘No,’ she giggles, waving her hand. She grins more. ‘Where are you?’ she says.

‘I’m just in a coffee shop, having a quick coffee before I head out for dinner.’

My mum looks surprised. ‘Who are you going for dinner with?’

‘Just some London friends,’ I reply, my face fixed in a permanent smile.

‘That’s nice. It’s good to do things like that, even if you don’t want to.’ Her lips quiver.

I nod. ‘I think we’re going to The Breakfast Club – you know, that place we went with you and Dad.’

Tuesday, something eggy.

‘Oh, that’s nice. How’s work?’ she continues.

‘Fine, slow at the moment, but fine.’

She nods slowly.

‘You’re looking thin,’ she says finally.

I lean back and take a long sip from my mug, letting the powdery coffee rest on my tongue, wishing I had prepared. I let the chatter of the coffee shop consume me and I turn slightly to the crowd, looking at them differently now; they are my ticket.

‘Sorry, Mum, it’s busy in here.’

She ignores me. ‘Shall Dad and I come up soon? Or do you want to come home for a bit?’ she says, rushed.

I feel my eyes glistening, the familiar warmth in my chest and the words caught and distraught in the roof of my mouth.

‘We can make up your old room and look after you for a bit? Lunch down the pub and coastal walks, doesn’t that sound nice?’

‘I am home,’ I say quietly and so hesitantly that even I don’t believe it.

‘I want to look after you.’

Anger floods me and I fight back the tears. I feel so hot, frustrated and anxious. My chest is tight and I can feel the heat in my cheeks rising.

‘I can look after myself.’

‘Don’t push us away,’ my mum says, her expression passive.

‘Mum, I have to go.’

She doesn’t fight me; a weak smile slips across her face and she brushes back her long hair.

‘Call your sister, let her know you’re okay.’

‘Yeah.’ I hold up my hand and wave. My mum waves back; her long fingers, limp and pale, scrunch in front of me.

‘Bye,’ I say, my hand already on the red hang-up button.

I place the phone on the table, the screen face-down. I take a deep breath and push away the remainder of my coffee. I let the tears slide down my face and cool the warmth in my cheeks. I swipe at stray hairs circling my face and gather my belongings.

When I moved to London, my cousin had told me that ‘everyone in London is invisible’, but as I turn I see the unapologetic faces staring at my blotchy face. I drop my bag and the contents spill onto the shop floor. No one moves to help, they just watch. I don’t feel invisible at all.

The stuffy street air clings to me as I move through the small strip of green towards my flat. My shoulder bangs against other commuters as we move fiercely in our own direction, all driven by a different purpose. I glimpse the familiar yellow glow of my local off-licence in the distance, with its large fruit and veg stand jutting out onto the pavement and the group of local kids piled on bikes, eyes searching for a distraction. I think how horrible it would be to grow up in London, nowhere to explore, no trees to climb or woods to get lost in. I think about sweet ice-cream cones down the beach in Hove, lemon sorbet sliding down my chin as a child and my mum zipping up my white puffer coat as we waddled with our deck chairs to the beach. My sister Clara always a step ahead, bounding in silver jelly sandals towards the sea, her sun-kissed hair flowing innocently in the gentle breeze.

Home, I think. I pass the kids on the bikes and enter the shop, shielding my face from the guy behind the counter. He knows my name, but I don’t know his and I think, I’m part of the problem. I grab a couple of microwave meals and a pack of chocolate biscuits. I press my hand over the freezer and stare at the tubs of lemon sorbet, my mind lost in a distant memory.

‘Suzie.’

The shopkeeper is standing beside me, giving me a flash of white teeth. A small basket clings to his outstretched hand.

‘For your things,’ he says, shaking it.

I let my purchases clatter into the basket and take it from his hand, smiling as I do. I mutter thanks and bow my head away towards the toiletries. I can feel him hovering behind me, questions edging towards the tip of his tongue. Instead he clears his throat and moves away, back behind the counter. Good, because I couldn’t answer him.

I pay for my things and take the thin blue plastic carrier bag from him, never once making eye contact. I leave the shop and see the kids cycling away towards the canal, shouting into the evening air, one or two arms raised into the sky, as if they were waiting for night to fall.

I check my phone and see a message from my mum telling me to have fun tonight. I scan the rest of my messages and see all the group chats I’ve left recently, the friends that have slowly fallen away. Maybe I should go back to Hove, but as I round the corner and see my flat perched there, I know I could never make the journey; it would be too painful to leave. I quickly text Clara saying we should catch up soon, and think about her in her small terraced house in Brighton, cuddled up to my niece and nephew, her husband, Ian, crashing through the door and bundling his family into his large, strong arms.

When I enter my flat, I see Emily’s letter right back where I found it, sitting on the communal table. She doesn’t want to deal with the responsibility of whatever’s in it, I think, entering my flat. I pick at the pack of biscuits as I read and slurp flat Diet Coke from a mug from the comfort of my leather chair. I hear Emily bustle through the front door, plastic bags brushing against the wall as she makes her way upstairs. Company tonight?

Emily walks into her flat and suddenly my evening is over and hers begins. The TV soars into action, the kettle flicks on and howls in her kitchen. She’s wearing heels today; thick chunky soles smack onto her floor and she doesn’t take them off. She’s on the phone, but she’s not flirty today, she’s angry. Her voice is raised and fast, I can’t make out the words, but her tone is curt and wooden. Short sentences are barked out like orders. Maybe someone cancelled on her? The man from yesterday? The phone hits the floor and I jump, sending my mug tipping to the ground, and black bubbles slosh onto my piles of books. I unfurl myself and collapse to the floor, pulling the books from the small puddle forming.

Emily is crashing across her lounge and towards the bathroom. I leap up and follow her into my bathroom and hear her tears echoing in the room above. ‘Fuck,’ she says over and over. I hear a tile shift and the sobs quieten. For a moment there is just the gentle whirl of her extractor fan. I stand staring at the ceiling, unsure of what to do. I reach up and let the tips of my fingers trace the pattern on the ceiling and, as if in response, Emily rises, but this time without shoes on, and slams the door of the bathroom behind her. I stand, feeling shut out, like a mother scolding her daughter and being told it’s none of her business and to leave. I wrap my arms around my ribcage and start to cry.

Pop music floods the flat and I wipe my tears away and go into the lounge. I hear every word explode into my home, the harsh beat raining onto me. I don’t think before racing to the kitchen cupboard and pulling out a broom. I place myself directly under the worst of the noise, where the sofa is, where I know she’s sitting, wallowing in it. Holding up the broom, I smack it as hard as I can over and over until I see a small dent appear in the ceiling.