You Let Me In

by Lucy Clarke

  When he picks up, I catch the low riff of music. Muddy Waters. One of Flynn’s favourite blues artists. He plays his music on a record player that used to belong to his father. He loves the ceremony of setting the needle, hearing the fuzzed scratch as the record begins to spin.

  ‘Elle?’

  ‘I just … I thought I’d … say hello.’ I glance at my watch. It is midnight on a Friday. Shit.

  ‘Right. Hello,’ Flynn says, lightly amused.

  Tucking the phone under my ear, I move into the kitchen to make certain the back door is locked. I press on the handle, check the bolt. Then I follow the perimeter of the kitchen ensuring each of the windows is secure, and the wine cellar is locked.

  I tell Flynn about my evening at Fiona and Bill’s as I move into the lounge, looking behind the sofa, running my hand along the curtains until I can feel the wall. Every room needs to be checked. Every window. It gives me peace of mind.

  When I’m satisfied that the house is secure, I move into my bedroom, sinking down onto the bed, letting myself fall backwards, my head hitting the pillow with a soft thump.

  Pressing the phone close to my ear, I can hear the slow draw of Flynn’s breath, can picture him sitting on the sofa, fire lit, an empty bottle of ale on the side table, the lights low.

  The Muddy Waters record comes to its end and our conversation ticks comfortably into silence. I let my eyes close. In our previous life – the version of us that runs parallel to this one – I would be stretched out on the sofa, my feet on his lap, the warmth of the fire playing over my shins. We would be making plans for the weekend ahead: a walk in the forest with a pub lunch perhaps, or a drive to the coast to visit friends.

  Across the phone waves I hear a door opening, then footsteps. Quick and light. There is the murmur of a female voice, low, keening.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, sitting up, a hand moving to my chest. ‘You’ve got company.’

  His mouth sounds closer to the phone, as he says, ‘Listen, Elle, I didn’t know you were—’

  I try to form words that will make this okay, but I can’t think what to say, what to do with this sudden, crushing realisation.

  So I do the only thing that comes to me: I hang up.

  I pace my bedroom, replaying the phone call, over and over.

  Flynn.

  Flynn and another woman.

  It’s a fist in my stomach.

  I launch my mobile at the bed. It bounces off, hits my cream bedside table and lands on the carpet.

  I run a bath, add some essential oils, let the water slip over my body until it is cupping the disc of my face. I concentrate on my breathing, on trying to relax.

  But I can’t. I climb out, water sloshing over the bathroom floor.

  I wrap myself in a dressing gown, then eye my bed. There’s no point trying to sleep when I’m agitated, wired.

  I’ll write, I decide.

  The lamp casts a white spotlight across my desk. Behind me, the rest of the writing room is in darkness.

  I take a breath. Hover the mouse over the Word document labelled BOOK 2.

  It’s coming along well, I’d told Jane.

  Five and a half weeks until my deadline.

  Downstairs, I picture the unopened bills piled on the bureau, the mortgage repayment not met this month. Everything is riding on this book, waiting on me. I think of Booklover101’s latest post on my Facebook page. A gif of a woman sat at a typewriter, face possessed, keys bashing up and down. Hope you’re working hard. Remember, your no.1 fan is waiting .

  I click.

  The document opens onto the title page:

  BOOK 2

  By Elle Fielding

  And below it, nothing.

  Whiteness.

  All that blank space eyeballing me, waiting to be filled. It’s like staring into a black hole – only white – as if I could be sucked into it, lose myself in all that emptiness.

  Beneath the desk, my foot jigs up and down.

  I remember how excited, how inspired, I felt before I was published. Back then I was writing without expectation or deadlines – writing just for myself. There was such freedom in it. I didn’t realise it at the time when I was yearning to get published, but it was a beautiful way to write – out in the wilderness, without a contract.

  Now thousands of readers are eagerly awaiting my next novel, a publishing house is primed and ready, the security of my home teeters on it. I rub the skin below my collarbone, pressure tightening in my chest.

  This isn’t how I imagined it to be.

  None of this is how it was meant to be.

  ‘It’s going to be fine,’ I say aloud to the empty room, my voice unnaturally bright. ‘You can do this. You just need to focus, stop doubting yourself. Don’t overthink this, Elle. Just write.’

  Team talk to self.

  Jesus Christ, all this silence. No wonder I’m talking to myself. I play some music, turning it up loud. Then I flick on the large overhead light, too. There, that’s better, I think, pacing.

  If someone is in the bay tonight, they could look straight into this room, see me up here, alone.

  I pick up the paperweight from my desk, pressing my thumb into the jagged crack. I can almost feel the sharp point of the missing shard as if it’s still embedded in my heel.

  That feeling, the hot breath of fear.

  I lower myself into my chair, placing the paperweight beside me. The lamplight bounces off it, throwing my image back at me, distorted by the curvature of the glass.

  I know the story I need to write. I think I’ve known it all along.

  I’ve got it all here, in me. I see that now. My characters are already alive, living under my skin. I just need to get them on the page, pin them there.

  So I picture them, I tune into their voices, I invite them in.

  And then I start to type.

  2003

  Elle’s second mistake came later.

  Glancing up, she checked the librarian was still focused on unstacking her book trolley, then continued deconstructing a Crunchie, biting off the top layer of chocolate before sucking the honeycomb until it turned sticky in her mouth.

  Her housemate, Louise, who was sitting opposite, was whispering her plan to spray-paint a roll of bubble wrap and fashion it into a dress for that evening’s space-age party.

  Louise halted mid-sentence, her eyes fixing on something beyond Elle’s shoulder.

  ‘There he goes.’

  Elle removed the Crunchie from her mouth, twisting in her seat.

  Luke Linden was crossing the library with long, easy strides, a newspaper tucked underarm. A ripple of attention followed him. At a table to the left of theirs, a group of students waved him over. He paused mid-step to listen to a question, nodding lightly. He delivered his answer into the hushed silence and then, a moment later, continued.

  As he passed the table where Elle sat, his gaze lifted, met hers. He smiled, his mouth curling to one side. Then he moved on, disappeared.

  Placing her elbows on the table, Louise whispered, ‘I’m going to have to do an MA, just so I can look at him for one more year.’

  ‘Take a photo. Less debt.’

  ‘You can’t tell me you’re not in love with him.’

  ‘I’m not in love with him.’

  ‘But you’d sleep with him in a heartbeat, yes?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘You would, of course you would!’

  Later, Elle would wonder about what she’d said next. Whether she’d meant it, how it changed things. She would want to go back, edit the memory. Rewrite that tiny detail in her story, because – although it was only a sentence – it would become pivotal.

  It would become the hook from which she would hang.

  But in that moment, Elle was just a teenage girl, hair to her waist, skin unlined, still bright with the promise of how her life was about to flower.

  Elle held Louise’s gaze as she finally answered, ‘Yes, I absolutely would. In fact,’ she added, her mouth spre
ading into a grin, ‘maybe I will.’

  7

  Elle

  In the black-velvet darkness of four a.m., I twist onto my side. The sheets are a hot tangle around my waist. The snake in my brain is alive, wide awake.

  I listen to the house. I want there to be noises of other people – the purring snore of a child asleep in the nursery, the cast-iron creak of the log burner opening, a hunk of wood fed to the flames.

  But it is just me. My breathing. My heartbeat, rapid.

  And then my thoughts. They are not silent, but loud and rowdy, like a bad drunk. They seem to echo in my mind, filling my head with their noise and spite.

  You invite your story, your characters, into your thoughts – but what then if they won’t leave?

  I sit up. Eyes open in the darkness.

  *

  I feel raw this morning, empty. It’s that strange depleted feeling you get after you’ve cried. I wrote five thousand words last night. I couldn’t switch off. I still can’t. The last thing I feel like doing is giving a library talk. I want to stay here, get this story down.

  Pulling on my winter coat, I pause in the hallway, examining myself in the mirror. God, I look terrible. My skin tone is uneven and there are purplish blooms beneath my eyes.

  I glance at my watch. One hour until I’ll be standing at the front of the library talking about my great life as an author.

  Why did I agree to this?

  But of course, I know why. I need to start getting more involved locally, putting down roots. Demolishing the original fisherman’s cottage hasn’t been a popular decision, and I’m sure people think I’m just another city blow-in. I want to make friends here, make Cornwall home.

  I need this.

  Opening the clasp of my handbag, I check for the second or third time that my notes are tucked inside my novel.

  Anticipating the cold beyond the front door, I draw my coat snug to my throat. Something’s wrong. My fingers meet the empty space at my collar where a brooch is always pinned. It belonged to my mother – a silver swift in flight – and I never remove it. It was here the last time I wore this coat. That was the day I left for France. Since then the coat’s been hanging right here in the hallway. I crouch, searching the line of shoes beneath the row of hooks, shaking each one – but they are all empty.

  There isn’t time to search thoroughly now, but I don’t like leaving the house without it. It’s unsettling, a bad omen.

  As I get to my feet, an image of Joanna slinks into my thoughts: a pale hand travelling over the collar of my coat, long fingers meeting the silver wing of the bird, then the lightest of movements as the brooch is unpinned, cool metal hidden within a palm.

  Collecting the box of books from the back seat, I close the car door with a swing of my hip, then fumble with the key fob.

  Set back on an expansive lawn, the pebbledash library looks tired in the morning sunlight as I follow the stone pathway towards the entrance. A trail of wisteria, the blooms long dead, snake across the wall, bird droppings staining the concrete beneath.

  I shoulder open the door and breathe in the warm pulp smell of books.

  A young librarian, wearing a checked shirt that strains at her bust and stomach, abandons her book trolley and races over.

  ‘Welcome! Here, let me take that box!’ she says, removing it from my grip. ‘I’m Laura. By the way, I loved Wild Fear. Literally loved it! I recommend it to, like, everyone!’

  ‘That’s so lovely of you, Laura. Thank you.’ I smile.

  She guides me towards an area where chairs have been set out in a semi-circle facing a small table.

  ‘Does this look okay?’ Laura asks, with a faint Cornish accent. Her cheeks are flushed, wispy strands of hair escaping from her ponytail. ‘I’ve popped a jug of water on your table. There’s a microphone on standby if you need it – but I know some people prefer not to use one. Maeve did say there’s a lectern in the store room if that’d be better?’

  ‘Everything looks great just as it is. Thank you.’ My attention drifts towards the window, the sea glimmering in the distance. I have a burst of longing to be out there, in the water, salt on my skin.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. The windows don’t open, but if you think it’ll get a bit stuffy, I can prop open the fire exit. What do you think? Should I do that now?’

  ‘I think the temperature is just right. I love the event poster,’ I say, indicating the noticeboard.

  ‘I just whizzed a few out on our printer,’ Laura says, pressing her hands to her chest, pleased.

  I remove my coat and drape it over the back of a chair, then set my copy of the novel on the table, opening the cover and checking my notes.

  ‘Oh, look! Here’s our library manager, Maeve. I don’t think you’ve met.’

  A petite, middle-aged woman in a vintage pinafore dress approaches, a bluebird-print headscarf knotted over deep red hair. Her pale green eyes fix on me.

  ‘Hello.’ She smiles.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, offering a hand.

  Maeve’s is cool and soft in my grasp. There is something vaguely familiar about her.

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Thank you for hosting today’s event.’

  ‘Laura has done all the work, haven’t you?’

  Laura beams. ‘It’s been my pleasure. Not often that a bestselling author moves to town. Everyone is so excited about the talk. It’s a sell-out,’ she says, turning to look at the seats, which are steadily filling.

  The library doors open and Fiona strides in, unbuttoning a high-necked coat, her gaze scanning the crowd. She is dressed in black, a pop of red lipstick adding colour to her otherwise make-up-free face, a large handbag swinging from a shoulder strap. Her utilitarian style looks abrupt in the fusty library setting. Seeing me, she lifts her fingers in the air, then crosses the room towards me. We kiss, and I breathe in the smell of croissants and coffee.

  ‘This is my sister, Fiona,’ I say, introducing her to Laura and Maeve.

  ‘We all know each other,’ Maeve explains, smiling. ‘Book club.’

  ‘It’s at your house this month, isn’t it?’ Laura asks Fiona.

  ‘Oh Christ, you’re right! I should warn you that salted caramel brownies will not be on the menu. I can, however, guarantee that there’ll be a sea of alcohol.’

  ‘Then the masses will descend,’ Maeve says.

  Laura turns to me. ‘Are you in a book club, Elle?’

  ‘No.’ Fiona has mentioned the book club before, but I wasn’t offended that she hadn’t invited me – we’ve always kept our social lives separate.

  ‘Then you should join ours!’ Laura says, bouncing lightly on her heels. ‘It’d be so lovely to have an actual author there. We’re doing The Secret History this month. Think I’m the only one who’s not read it before. You should come. I’d love it. Everyone would love it!’

  ‘Yes, come,’ Fiona says, and I find it difficult to tell whether she genuinely wants me there.

  ‘Okay, then.’ Glancing over my shoulder, I see that the room has filled, people jostling to find seats, draping winter coats over the backs of chairs, setting handbags on laps. Two young women sit together near the front, notebooks on knees, their heads inclined as they talk. I think, It was only a breath ago that I was you. That I watched other authors speak, praying, ‘Please let that be me, one day.’

  Maeve and Laura disappear to hand out membership forms, and Fiona says, ‘Bill sends his apologies. Drake was desperate to go to the beach.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Fiona could have been spending the morning with them – but instead she has come here to support me. I reach out and squeeze her fingers. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Fiona glances down. ‘Clammy hands?’

  ‘Nerves.’

  She considers me. She has a penetrating gaze that makes me feel as if she is unpeeling layers of me, seeing deeper than other people are able.

  ‘Juliet. Sandy. The Virgin Mary. You were the lead in just about every school p
roduction there was. You owned the stage.’

  ‘That was years ago. And anyway, I was in character. I learned a script.’

  ‘So get in character now. You’re an internationally bestselling author. You have one of the most coveted houses in Cornwall. You’re young, beautiful and successful. And – on top of all that – you’ve got one pretty fucking incredible sister.’

  Standing in front of the mirror in the library toilets, I take a moment to compose myself. My neck is flushed and I fasten an extra button of my shirt, aware that my hands are trembling.

  I can do this. I’ve played this part dozens of times before, on book tours, at literary festivals, in interviews.

  In my head, I run through the first section of my talk. I plan to briefly touch on my childhood holidays here in Cornwall, and then I will skirt that strange dark cloud that hovered around my early twenties, and I’ll begin the story when I’m in my late twenties. I’ll explain about the vague dissatisfaction I’d felt simmering, how I’d tried various jobs but none of them were a valve for the bubbling restlessness. I’ll then talk about travelling with Flynn (to mention him by name, or not? Not, I decide, unwilling to risk the possible waver in my voice) – and how it was when I returned home, renting a flat in the heart of Bristol, that the idea of writing was seeded.

  ‘There is this night course,’ Flynn began one evening as we were eating takeaway pizza straight from the box. ‘It’s in creative writing. It started last week – but you’ve only missed one session. I saw a flyer about it. Here,’ he said, pressing it into my hand.

  It was an abstract image of a wing cutting across a blue sky. Let your imagination soar, was the heading in a stylish grey font.

  ‘I thought,’ Flynn said tentatively, ‘that I could treat you to it. For your birthday. If you were interested.’ Flynn had just taken his first salaried position as a tree surgeon, returning home each evening with wood chip clinging to the weave of his jumper, bark staining his jeans.

  ‘It’s taught by a woman,’ Flynn said. ‘She’s written a couple of books. You should look her up.’