The Family Upstairs
Lisa Jewell
About the Author
Lisa Jewell was born in London. Her first novel, Ralph’s Party, was published in 1999. It was the best-selling debut novel of the year. Since then she has published another sixteen novels, most recently a number of dark psychological thrillers, including The Girls and Then She Was Gone （both of which were Richard & Judy Book Club picks）。 Lisa is a top ten New York Times and number one Sunday Times author who has been published worldwide in over twenty-five languages. She lives in north London with her husband, two daughters, two cats, two guinea pigs and the best dog in the world.
Also available by Lisa Jewell
Ralph’s Party
Thirtynothing One-Hit Wonder Vince & Joy A Friend of the Family
31 Dream Street
The Truth About Melody Browne
After the Party The Making of Us Before I Met You The House We Grew Up In The Third Wife The Girls
I Found You Then She Was Gone Watching You
This book is dedicated to my readers, with love and gratitude
It would be inaccurate to say that my childhood was normal before they came. It was far from normal, but it felt normal because it was all I’d known. It’s only now, with decades of hindsight, that I can see how odd it was.
I was nearly eleven when they came, and my sister was nine.
They lived with us for more than five years and they turned everything very, very dark. My sister and I had to learn how to survive.
And when I was sixteen, and my sister was fourteen, the baby came.
I
1
Libby picks the letter up off the doormat. She turns it in her hands. It looks very formal; the envelope is cream in colour, made of high-grade paper, and feels as though it might even be lined with tissue. The postal frank says ‘Smithkin Rudd & Royle Solicitors Chelsea Manor Street SW3’。
She takes the letter into the kitchen and sits it on the table while she fills the kettle and puts a teabag in a mug. Libby is pretty sure she knows what’s in the envelope. She turned twenty-five last month. She’s been subconsciously waiting for this envelope. But now it’s here she’s not sure she can face opening it.
She picks up her phone and calls her mother.
‘Mum,’ she says. ‘It’s here. The letter from the trustees.’
She hears a silence at the other end of the line. She pictures her mum in her own kitchen, a thousand miles away in Dénia: pristine white units, lime-green colour-coordinated kitchen accessories, sliding glass doors on to a small terrace with a distant view to the Mediterranean, her phone held to her ear in the crystal-studded case that she refers to as her bling.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Right. Gosh. Have you opened it?’
‘No. Not yet. I’m just having a cup of tea first.’
‘Right,’ she says again. Then she says, ‘Shall I stay on the line? While you do it?’
‘Yes,’ says Libby. ‘Please.’
She feels a little breathless, as she sometimes does when she’s just about to stand up and give a sales presentation at work, like she’s had a strong coffee. She takes the teabag out of the mug and sits down. Her fingers caress the corner of the envelope and she inhales.
‘OK,’ she says to her mother, ‘I’m doing it. I’m doing it right now.’
Her mum knows what’s in here. Or at least she has an idea, though she was never told formally what was in the trust. It might, as she has always said, be a teapot and a ten-pound note.