by Helen Cooper
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Helen Cooper
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
ISBN 9780593190388
Ebook ISBN 9780593190401
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Christopher Lin
Cover photograph: Christopher Rees, Arcangel
pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0
For Mum and Dad
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part Two
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part Three
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Acknowledgments
The Downstairs Neighbor Readers Guide
Discussion Guide
A Conversation with Helen Cooper
About the Author
PROLOGUE
It feels intimate—wrong—to be in her bedroom when she’s not home. The duvet is rucked up to expose the wrinkled corner of a sheet. The pretend-gold bracelet I bought her sits coiled at the back of her nightstand, no longer inseparable from her wrist. It looks cheap in this light, childish and flimsy, and my skin prickles with shame.
I turn on the spot, eyes roaming over photos and furniture that seem newly alien, knowing yet not knowing what I’m looking for. This room feels like a foreign country now. Out of bounds. I remember when there were no borders between her space and mine.
Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be, with children and parents?
Guilt stirs as I slide open the bedside drawer to see a black hairbrush, a packet of aspirin, an out-of-date magazine. Turning to the wardrobe, I glide my fingers over the dresses and pretty skirts she never wears anymore. I nose the soft fabrics, her scent trapped in them, like a memory.
Just as I’m about to retreat, my gaze falls on something at the bottom of the wardrobe. A wad of light blue fabric scrunched into the shadows of the back corner. I reach down to pick it up, but as it unfurls, shock makes me fling it away. It hits the mirror and drops to the floor, and I see it again: a dark lake of red encrusted on the front of a T-shirt.
I stand dazed. Heart thumping, I spread out the top on the carpet and stare at the dried blood, trailing my fingertips across the stain.
And that’s the moment when I know I’ll have to do something. The moment, really, that sets it all in motion.
PART ONE
1.
EMMA
If it hadn’t been for a disruptive hamster and three nights of insomnia, Emma might not have found herself crouched in her under-stairs cupboard that night. She might not have heard the fear-pinched voice from overhead.
What had possessed her to buy the hamster in the first place? Rodents were for eight-year-olds who begged their parents for a pet, not broke, blue-haired women in their thirties. Had she really thought this ice-white creature with ink-spot eyes would offer comfort? During the day he submerged himself inside a nest of shredded paper, but when Emma went to bed he burst into life, rumbling on his wheel, flooding her small flat with relentless noise.
It felt like the soundtrack to her thoughts. Trundling around and around. Last night she’d shifted the cage into the living room, but back in bed she’d still been haunted by the cycling. She’d moved it into the kitchen. Still audible. So Gilbert’s new home was this gloomy cupboard under the stairs, among dog-eared design books and unsold vintage hats.
It was six p.m. now—almost breakfast time for her nocturnal tyrant. Emma’s flat had begun the various clicks and hums it always made as it warmed up and settled in for the night. It felt cold for mid-March, winter still clinging on, so she’d drawn her curtains and pulled on her pajamas extra early, even by her recent standards. She was tipping sunflower seeds into Gilbert’s bowl when a voice made her freeze. It was so clear and close that it seemed to be in the cupboard with her, as if Gilbert was acting as ventriloquist.
“Where are you?” it said.
Emma straightened where she knelt, bumping the sloped ceiling. She knew the well-spoken voice—knew it better, actually, than she knew its owner. It was her upstairs neighbor, Steph Harlow. She and her family owned the top two floors of the converted Georgian house, while Emma rented the little ground-floor space, squished in next to their shared hallway. There was a basement flat underneath, too, owned by a married couple, Chris and Vicky, but it had a separate entrance and Emma didn’t hear or see much of them. She was often acutely aware of the buzz of life from above, though: the Harlows’ footsteps and the flush of their toilet; the vibrant pitch of raised voices in the morning—FREYA, time to go, love!; MUM, where have you tidied literally all of my belongings to? And now Steph’s voice felt right on top of her, as if there was no partition between them. Maybe there was something about the way sound parachuted down the staircase between their two flats, into this cubbyhole.
“Why’s your pho
ne off?” Steph said. “I’m getting worried, Freya. Call me as soon as you get this.”
Emma’s heart kicked in sympathy, recognizing the gut twist of not being able to contact someone. She pictured Steph with her phone clamped to her ear, head dipped so her highlighted hair fell across her face, other hand absentmindedly smoothing her dove-gray suit. For that was how Emma would sometimes come across her in the hallway of their building, absorbed in checking her mail or reading a text. Steph would spring out of her trance as soon as she noticed she wasn’t alone, finding a warm smile and a compliment for Emma’s latest combination of experimental hair/handmade earrings/pimped-up secondhand shoes. Something like I could never pull that off!
Emma would babble in response: You don’t need to! You’ve got the classic-elegance thing down to a tee!
And it was enviably true. Steph didn’t need a fanfare of accessories to make a statement: Her height, cheekbones, and general aura did the job without fuss. But Steph would dismiss any attempt to compliment her in return, then whisk off to work or back up to her family before the conversation could progress. Emma would be left with the drift of her perfume in the empty hall, and a lingering curiosity about the woman she’d shared a front door with for nearly ten months. She didn’t know what Steph did for a living, but assumed she was successful; didn’t know how old she was, but guessed at early forties, and wondered whether forty was the point at which you stopped doing ridiculous things, like buying antisocial hamsters or generally making a mess of your life.
Steph had fallen quiet now. A drumming vibrated the dusty air, and Emma imagined her neighbor’s hundred-quid heel tapping the floor above. She reached up as if to feel the beat in the low ceiling, jerked away at Steph’s returning voice: “Paul, pick up! Have you heard from Frey?”
Now it was Paul Harlow’s image that filled her mind. Tall and athletic, maybe mid-fifties, his sandy hair a touch darker than his wife’s creamy highlights and his daughter’s white-blonde ponytail. Most mornings he rocketed past Emma when they were both out jogging by the Thames, his bulky headphones like a vise around his serious, determined face. He’d nod a brief greeting as he lapped her coming back the other way, and Emma would draw herself upright, trying not to look as exhausted as she felt.
Then there was Freya. The teenage daughter who apparently hadn’t come home at her usual time, who’d upset the family routine that played out upstairs each evening. When Emma glimpsed Freya it was usually in full flight: running on deer-like legs for the bus, or sometimes racing her dad along the river path, overtaking Emma with matching ease. The girl oozed energy with her swinging, sun-catching ponytail, her Fred Perry rucksack bouncing on her shoulders. Emma had come to recognize her gait up or down their stairs: She’d take them in leaps or descend at a gallop, one of her parents trailing behind with a fond shout, “Don’t worry, Freya, I can manage all the stuff . . .”
Emma had to admit she’d taken to peeking out of the window when she heard the Harlows leaving or arriving. Had started noticing the various combinations in which they went out or came home: Freya-Paul, Steph-Freya, Paul-Steph, all three together. With or without Waitrose bags, or takeaway cartons (Friday treat), or fresh bread that would infuse the building with its smell.
Clearly Emma didn’t have enough to occupy her. Her once-busy days yawned empty and the Harlows’ seemed endlessly, beguilingly full.
Was that why her pulse was soaring now? Why she was listening for Steph’s next words, experiencing her neighbor’s anxiety as a charge in the air? With a rustle of paper, Gilbert’s pink nose emerged from his nest, as though he’d woken and sensed it too. Emma wondered whether she should run upstairs and offer to help. Her cheeks burned as she imagined explaining that she’d been crouched in a cupboard eavesdropping on Steph’s phone calls.
She hunched into her dressing gown. There was nothing but receding footsteps now, and a soft thud, as if Steph had walked to the other end of the flat and closed a door.
2.
STEPH
The smell of Heathrow’s first-class lounge always clung to Steph after a long shift. Some days it was the lingering perfume of a traveler, who’d been polite and interesting, or the sweet vanilla scent of expensive sun lotion. On more stressful days it was the trace of her sweat inside her suit, or the champagne breath of an arrogant customer who’d stood too close. Today the lounge had been packed with impatient VIPs, and Steph, as manager, had felt obliged to take responsibility for them. Her professional smile had creaked as she’d delivered single malts and dark espressos alongside updates on their flights. On the way home there’d been traffic, traffic, traffic, her makeup had seemed to slide off her face in one melting mask, and her headache had exploded across her skull.
And now Freya wasn’t home.
Steph was sure she hadn’t said anything about seeing mates after sixth form, and it wasn’t the right night for volleyball or running club. She knew Freya’s schedule as well as her own and she’d begged her to always stay in touch about what she was doing. It was a deal they’d recently struck: Steph would (in theory) stop being quite so overprotective, as long as Freya promised at least to text if she was staying out. She was seventeen. A bundle of leggy energy and hormones. No longer the little girl who would seek out her parents’ faces in the crowd at all her sports matches, then snuggle between them on the sofa afterward, drinking Steph’s “secret recipe” hot chocolate with a spoon. These days, Steph had to remind herself to let her daughter breathe, let her live.
So was she overreacting now? Was it so unusual for Freya’s phone to be off? Steph checked the clock again—6:20 p.m.: almost two hours beyond her normal home time. She couldn’t stop leaving messages, anxiety strangling her attempts to sound breezy: Drop me a text, Frey . . . She inhaled slowly and cradled the breath in her lungs. At work when she needed to regain her calm, she’d stand at the giant window and watch a plane taking off, rising into the sky, her frustration somehow lifting with it. And she’d anchor herself to the floor below her feet.
She went to the tall sash windows of their living room, scanning for peaceful sights. The sun dissolving to pink on the suburban horizon. Silhouetted roofs of terraced houses, doorways flooding with light as people came home. For a moment she was comforted by her familiar slice of Kingston upon Thames, hovering between winter and spring. But as she leaned to see down the road, eager to spot Freya pacing along with a disgruntled bus-didn’t-show-and-my-phone-died look about her, Steph’s stomach clenched. The wind picked up, rattling the street’s two rows of trees, which in a few weeks would sing with color but now looked skeletal and stripped.
Paul wasn’t answering his phone either. His gym nights had recently crept from three a week to four, helping him unwind after being cooped up in the office. He was like Freya in that way, like a kid who needed to be tired out, batteries exhausted, before they’d settle. Though Steph wasn’t as sporty as her husband and daughter, she understood Paul’s hatred of being manacled to a desk. She was always on the move at work, trying to give the impression of gliding serenely about when actually she was whirling between wine deliveries, staff shortages, and catering-related crises.
Now she made a deal with herself and her pounding heart. She would change out of her work clothes, pour herself a drink, chop the veg, and if she still hadn’t heard anything she’d start calling Freya’s friends.
That wind was rattling the window frames now. Howling in the roof above Freya’s attic conversion, or “penthouse suite,” as they jokingly called it. Steph hurried to close all their curtains, briefly comforted by the soft, weighty fabric dropping across darkening glass. In the kitchen, the steaks she’d taken out of the freezer that morning were seeping watery blood onto the breakfast bar. The oven clock flashed 18:50. Steph swallowed some wine, seized asparagus and a green pepper from the fridge. Then she cheated on her deal. Threw down the vegetables but didn’t chop. Reached for her phone and started dialing instead.
&
nbsp; Jess was the obvious first choice, though talking to Freya’s best friend could be hard work. She was so different from Freya, so much flightier, and Steph and Jess always seemed at cross-purposes when they tried to chat. Steph prepared to cut to the chase as she dialed her home number. Jess’s dad answered with a bark of their surname: “McKENZIE!” He seemed disappointed that Steph wasn’t a legal client he’d been waiting to hear from, and passed on the phone with a warning to his daughter not to keep the line engaged for long.
The conversation progressed in echoes from there, Jess repeating the last two words of each of Steph’s sentences with added upward inflection.
“Not home?”
“No answer?”
“Phone off?”
Steph eventually ascertained that Jess hadn’t been in any lessons with Freya that day, so hadn’t seen her since morning registration. They only had one A-level subject in common, business, on Mondays and Wednesdays. Today—Thursday—Freya had psychology and PE.
Jess checked Snapchat. Freya hadn’t been online since posting at 9:17 a.m.: Not sure which to be more thrilled about . . . surprise test or explosion of bright green protein shake in my bag!
“She’s had her location turned off all day,” Jess said, as if Steph knew anything about how Snapchat worked.
“Really?” Steph jumped on this. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, we all tend to keep it off these days. I can let you know if she comes online?”
“Yes, yes, please do!” Steph ended the call, rushing on to the next. None of Freya’s friends had heard from her, nobody whose number Steph knew anyway. No one remembered seeing her leave school, but her volleyball teammate Zadie said she often dashed for the 3:45 bus so she didn’t have to cram onto the more crowded 4:05.
Where would Freya have gone without any of her friends? A brief Back at 8 message would satisfy Steph now; she wouldn’t get upset if there were no kisses on the end. Steph still signed off texts to her daughter with Love you or LU, but Freya’s reciprocation had dwindled lately. She was growing up, and it was hard in lots of little ways that Steph had never anticipated.
