You Let Me In

by Lucy Clarke

  I’d lain in the bath that evening, candles lit, essential oils making a film on the surface. When we’d been travelling, I kept a journal, filling page after page with descriptions of new experiences and interesting places. Those moments I found myself sitting cross-legged on a beach, or in the back of our van, a pencil scratching across the smooth page of my journal, had filled me with a deep sense of calm. Yet I’d never considered nurturing that passion into something more.

  Fiction was my mother’s world. She’d always worked as a teaching assistant because the hours suited our schooling, but she’d often set her alarm early ‘to get the best of this old brain’ before her day began. Over the years she’d had several short stories printed in magazines, but when Fiona had asked if she dreamt of becoming an author, she replied, ‘I don’t write to get published. I write because I can’t not.’

  ‘Yes,’ I told Flynn, as I stood in a towel, my feet wet on the lino flooring. ‘I’d like to do the course.’

  Wednesday evenings became the highlight of the week. I loved my tutor, a woman in her fifties with short red hair and a limitless collection of animal-print neck scarves. She had a wickedly sardonic sense of humour, and she filled the room with her passion for words. Her students were a mix of ages: two men, recently divorced, who wrote wild adventure stories in the realm of Wilbur Smith; an English graduate who’d lost a twin sister; three retired friends who met for dinner before each class, the smell of Thai spices or wine clinging to them. Wednesdays were a beacon for us all.

  During the course I had the idea for my first novel. It wasn’t a lightning-bolt moment of inspiration; it was simply an image. I could picture two women standing together on a shoreline, their hands gripped, squinting into the distance. I wondered what or who they were looking at. As I encouraged my mind’s eye to zoom in more closely, other details emerged: two boys in the water; the flash of an orange life boat; one boy brought back to shore alive – not two.

  Once the idea took hold, I worked on it feverishly. I was a receptionist at the time and the jotter by the office phone filled with plot ideas and character notes. I spent my lunch breaks writing in the back seat of my car, not willing to use the staff room for fear of someone disturbing me. Following my mother’s example, I set my alarm an hour early each morning to write, and in that quiet dawn hour, I left behind the walls of the studio flat and I soared.

  Gradually, gradually, the shape of a novel began to form. It was loose and unpinned, but there was something in it, I’d felt sure.

  Authors often talk about that magical moment of securing their first book deal – and I remember every detail of it. Invited to meet an interested publisher, I sat with my agent in the spacious atrium of the publishing house reception, staring up at a metallic sculpture of a globe suspended from the ceiling, a disco ball without the party. My outfit, which I’d spent an entire afternoon deciding upon – corduroy yellow skirt with embroidered detail, and a green silk top – now seemed oddly provincial.

  I watched other visitors streaming into the atrium, being ushered through security: handbags and briefcases conveyored through an X-ray machine, lanyards swinging from visitors’ necks. Everything was so removed from the process of writing the book that I suddenly felt like I was in the wrong place. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my mother’s fountain pen. I turned it through my fingers, exploring the faded patch near the nib, where the gloss had worn away with use. I remembered the way my mother wrote with it, the slant of her hand, her elbow sliding along the table edge. As a girl, I used to be fascinated by the empty black ink cartridges, containing a tiny glass bead, like the eye of a vole.

  Holding it between my fingertips, I knew my mother would have been proud that I had got this far, that I, Elle Fielding, former barista, waitress and travel bum, had written something good enough to draw the attention of a publisher.

  My literary agent and I were collected by an assistant and taken by lift, up twelve storeys, and deposited in a glass-doored meeting room that overlooked a sprawling open-plan office. I had never seen so many people working in one place.

  A few minutes later, a woman in a simple blue dress and ankle boots walked in, clutching papers.

  ‘Elle, I’m Jane – one of the publishing directors here. It’s so lovely to meet you.’ She kissed me warmly. I liked Jane immediately. She was sincere, intelligent, and passionate about books.

  ‘Let me just tell you, I loved your story. I got lost in the characters. Those women – I felt like I wanted to pick up the phone, call them. You have a wonderful eye for observation.’

  A surge of delight rushed through me and I began to relax, talking with ease about how the idea came to me, why I ended the book as I did. My agent smiled at me enthusiastically. Yes, it was going well.

  Jane briefed me on the next steps: she’d be pitching the book at their acquisitions meeting that week.

  ‘One of the questions that will be asked,’ Jane said, ‘will be what other ideas you have.’

  I’d poured every ounce of energy into that story, those characters. I hadn’t dared step outside of them, in case they shut the door behind me while my back was turned.

  ‘If you’ve got anything you could share with me ahead of the meeting,’ Jane said, ‘even if it’s just a very loose idea or two – that would really help my pitch. We like to be able to look ahead to see how we can establish your brand in the marketplace.’

  Marketplace. Acquisition. Brand. My stomach fluttered with excitement. I allowed myself the smallest butterfly of hope: this could be the start.

  Now, standing in the library toilets, I wipe my damp palms against my jeans. I take a deep breath, feel my shoulders pulling back.

  ‘Hello, I’m Elle Fielding,’ I say to the mirror, fixing on a smile.

  Looking at myself, I think about the author the audience are expecting to see. A thirty-something woman with a successful, glittering career. A woman who is confident, composed, happy.

  Who do I see? I wonder, leaning closer to the mirror, looking right into the dark centre of my irises, seeing the skein of red lines mapping the edges of them.

  I blink. Push her away.

  ‘Hello, I’m Elle Fielding,’ I say again, brighter this time, with more volume. ‘It’s lovely to be invited here to—’

  I stop short at the sound of a toilet flushing. A bolt is unlatched, and Maeve appears from one of the cubicles.

  Her gaze meets mine in the mirror.

  I have the feeling of being caught out.

  ‘Pre-talk warm up,’ I say.

  Maeve moves to the sink, letting cold water stream across the backs of her pale hands. She flicks off the tap with her wrist, then pats her hands carefully with paper towels.

  ‘Practice makes perfect.’

  Previously

  Even though you’re not in the house, I feel close to you.

  There are traces of you everywhere. Earlier, I found one of your hairs clinging to the sleeve of my shirt. I held it up to the light, examining the caramel shade, surprised to see the root bearing a hint of grey.

  In the recycling bin, I found a screwed-up Post-it note, reading, Focus! No internet! I smiled at that because I can imagine how much self-discipline must be required as an author. What pressure you must be under to deliver an exceptional second novel.

  We are all waiting for it.

  I remember reading your debut for the first time. It blew me away. I read it in one sitting, pinned to the chair. The beauty and skill of the story, the racing pace. It left me breathless.

  You’ve signed my copy at the front, a looping signature with a kiss.

  I went to one of your book signings, I watched you from the back of a snaking line.

  I studied the dip of your head as you bent to sign each copy, hair falling forward over your shoulder. You were smiling, chatting to readers as you asked their names, asked who you should dedicate each book to.

  It was only when I looked closer that I noticed it – the way your legs were shak
ing beneath the table.

  8

  Elle

  ‘A novel is about truth: both seeing the truth and writing the truth.’

  Author Elle Fielding

  ‘It’s my pleasure,’ Laura says, addressing the room, ‘to introduce local author, Elle Fielding. Her debut novel has sold over half a million copies and has been translated into a dozen languages.’

  My gaze flits across the room, taking in the audience. Every single seat is occupied – and a cluster of latecomers are standing at the back, obstructing the exit.

  Breathe, I remind myself. Smile.

  As I scan the crowd, a face on the front row causes me to freeze. Mark is sitting with an arm slung over the seat back, one ankle balanced casually across his knee. He smiles lazily.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  I snap my gaze away. Laura is now saying, ‘Not only is Elle a bestselling author, but if you happen to follow her on Facebook, you’ll also know she’s a passionate sea swimmer and has a killer eye for interiors. Be warned: house envy may ensue.’

  There is a ripple of laughter from the audience. I don’t need to look at Mark to know he is smirking.

  ‘Also, if there are any budding writers in the room tonight – like me,’ Laura adds with a giggle, ‘Elle shares brilliant writing advice in her weekly Facebook Live videos – so tune in.’ She snatches a breath. ‘Before I sound any more fan-girl, please put your hands together for the very lovely and incredibly talented Elle Fielding!’

  I propel myself forward, nodding my thanks at Laura, then anchor myself beside the small table where my novel and jug of water are positioned. As the applause settles, I reach for my notes.

  They’re not there.

  A swell of panic rises, hot and rapid.

  I fan through the pages of my book, trying to maintain my smile. The notes were inside the cover when I arrived – I checked.

  I can feel my heart pounding against my ribcage. I cannot do this without them.

  ‘Just a moment …’ I say, crouching down and casting around beneath the table, in case the notes have slipped from the leaves of the book. Then I check my handbag, but they are not there either. All the while I can feel the collective stare of the audience pinned to my back.

  My notes had been in the book when I’d placed it on this table – I know it. Someone must have moved them.

  I get to my feet. Face the audience.

  Has someone here taken them?

  ‘I seem to have misplaced my notes.’

  Mark catches my eye, smiles.

  ‘Did you move them?’ The words have escaped before I can stop them.

  The attention in the room shifts to him.

  He opens his palms. ‘Course not.’

  Someone clears their throat loudly. I turn and see Laura twisting the pendant of her necklace, nodding at me lightly as if to say, Go on.

  ‘Who needs notes anyway?’ I say, attempting to sound light-hearted, but I can tell from the expressions in the audience that it comes out wrong.

  Breathe. Smile. Speak slowly.

  I need to get my nerves under control, buy myself a minute to think. ‘Where do ideas come from?’ I ask, tossing the question to the room.

  A hundred pairs of eyes look at me blankly. Maybe the question needed context. Sweat is building under my arms.

  ‘I … I’d like to talk about where ideas originate – and how we turn those into a story. So, where do you think authors – or indeed artists or musicians or … or other people – get their ideas from?’

  There is a murmur among the audience as they seem to consider answering. Eventually an arm is raised at the front. From the periphery of my vision I know it is Mark. I wait a few moments, but when no other hands are lifted, I have to say, ‘Yes?’

  ‘From a sea view.’

  A ripple of anticipation travels through the crowd.

  In a slow, cool voice, Mark continues, ‘I’ve read that the sea helps people think creatively. It’s healing, apparently, to have a view.’

  I murmur something in response. I don’t even know what. There’s a pressure building in my chest. I look towards the exit – but it’s blocked by a small crowd who are standing at the back of the room. The pressure tightens, reaches into my throat, squeezes. I cannot get enough air.

  Everyone is watching. Waiting for me to say something. To be Elle Fielding, bestselling author. But I’m frozen. That person has left me.

  ‘Perhaps,’ someone in the audience says, ‘ideas come from the people around us.’

  It is Fiona.

  ‘It could be a snippet from an overheard conversation,’ she suggests, coming to my rescue, ‘or a story someone tells.’

  ‘Yes.’ I seize on this, pulling myself back from the edge. ‘You’re right. Anything like that could be the spark. I’ll be talking today about the idea that inspired my debut novel, so perhaps I should start by reading you the opening page.’

  The familiar rhythm of the words begins to lend my voice confidence, soften my nerves. I concentrate on speaking slowly, getting my breathing under control. I can do this. I have done this dozens of times, to bigger audiences.

  I manage it, planting my feet firm, speaking in a clear voice, pulling my shoulders back. But just as I think that I am going to be okay, my eye catches on a mark on the page. A word has been circled in red pen.

  I have absolutely no recollection of when I’d have done this, or why. I never write on my books – there is something sacrosanct about the printed page.

  I hurry through reading aloud the final few lines, yet all the while my thoughts are pinned to that one strangely circled word.

  You.

  *

  The talk careers on, with me skidding and sliding from one topic to the next, only pausing to snatch breath. I’m running on adrenalin and can feel the tension in my shoulders, in the small bones at the back of my neck.

  There is a brief round of Q&A, but the audience – perhaps sensing my desperation to be freed – keep the questions to a minimum. After that there is a small queue of readers wanting signed copies, then the thank yous and goodbyes with the library staff, and then, finally – finally, I am released from the building.

  Fresh air spikes my skin, the damp shirt cooling on my back. My car is parked on the roadside under a treeline of poplars and, as I pull my keys from my handbag, Fiona appears, a cigarette between her fingers.

  ‘Need a drag?’

  I nod, then lean against my car taking a long draw of smoke into my lungs. It’s been years since we’ve shared a cigarette, and the rush of nicotine fills my head.

  ‘Who did you bum this from?’

  She taps the side of her nose.

  I take another drag, then hand it back. ‘Aren’t you going to say something polite about my talk, like, There were some good moments once you found your stride?’

  ‘Do you need me to?’

  I exhale hard. ‘I think what I need is alcohol.’

  ‘It wasn’t as bad as you think.’

  ‘Thank you for coming to my rescue.’

  ‘What happened to your notes?’

  ‘They were inside the cover of my book, which I left on the library table. Someone must have moved them.’

  Fiona arches an eyebrow. ‘What, like that man on the front row who you accused?’

  ‘I didn’t accuse him. I asked him. That’s Mark – Frank and Enid’s son.’

  ‘Oh. The bin tipper.’

  I can hear the light tease in her voice and can’t quite tell whether it is helping, or whether I’m annoyed by it.

  ‘I can’t believe he had the gall to sit on the front row. He must’ve loved seeing me die on stage.’

  ‘Maybe he was genuinely interested in what you had to say.’

  ‘There’s nothing genuine about him.’

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ Fiona says, nodding her head.

  Mark approaches us, his gaze on me.

  Fiona’s hands move to her hairline, pinning her hair fr
om being whipped by the wind.

  ‘Interesting library talk,’ he says without a smile.

  ‘I’d no idea you were so interested in my writing career,’ I respond with icy politeness.

  ‘It’s important to support the local community, don’t you think?’

  ‘I thought you lived in London.’

  ‘This is home.’

  There is a pause and his gaze flicks to Fiona. He extends his hand. ‘I’m Mark, Elle’s neighbour.’

  Fiona places the cigarette between her lips, then shakes his hand. ‘Fiona.’

  A private smile flickers at the edges of his mouth.

  ‘Ever find your notes?’ he says, turning to me.

  ‘You took them, didn’t you?’

  He laughs then, rolling back slightly on his heels. ‘If only I’d thought of it. Struggled a bit, didn’t you?’

  Then he lifts a hand in goodbye, and saunters past us.

  ‘Arsehole,’ I mutter beneath my breath.

  ‘Albeit a vaguely attractive one,’ Fiona says, dropping the cigarette on the pavement and twisting the heel of her boot over it. ‘Right, I best get back to my boys.’

  I try not to feel it, but it is there, the low pulse of envy that my sister is returning to her family life.

  ‘Have a lovely weekend,’ I say, kissing Fiona goodbye with extra warmth to make up for it.

  As I climb into the driver’s seat, that’s when I feel it: the crease of paper in the back pocket of my jeans.

  My notes.

  I tug them out and hold the warm, crumpled card on my knee. Blood rushes to my face: I must have taken the notes into the toilets to glance at before the talk.

  I lower my head until my forehead is resting against the cold steering wheel. The horn blares, a long note of exclamation.

  I open my front door, then hesitate. Something is different. I can sense it immediately. The air is sharper. A draught weaves past me from within the house.

  Leaving on my coat, I move along the hallway, a hollow feeling spreading across my abdomen. It can be no later than two o’clock, but the dull sky has leached the light from the day.

  I pause outside the lounge, listening. A low ruffling sound is coming from within. A breeze snakes beneath the door, reaching my ankles.