by Lucy Clarke
‘You’re exhausted, Elle. That’s when mistakes happen. I’m not sure I knew my own name for the first three months of Drake’s life. Try not to worry too much. It’s easy to resolve: delete the post, apologise to your editor, and write something chirpy about your book.’
Smart, sensible advice. I take a deep breath. Then I follow each of Fiona’s instructions.
When I’m finished, Fiona places a glass of wine in front of me.
‘You’ll be laughing about it by tomorrow.’
I throw down my handbag, then kick off my boots. My stomach still feels tender from the food poisoning, and exhaustion is closing in. I should have come straight home after the funeral; the visit to Fiona’s has only delayed me getting to my desk.
I try to ignore the acceleration of my pulse as I begin my nightly check of the house. I start in the kitchen, testing the back door, the windows, pulling down the blinds so that not even a sliver of glass is exposed. I switch on the radio, comforted by the chatter of a presenter’s voice as I go next to the wine cellar, unlock the door. I don’t cross the threshold as I peer inside, the earthy cold air filling my nose. I lock it again swiftly, then move through the hallway into the lounge, switching on all the lights as I travel.
I’m aware that this routine is growing longer, more elaborate as I look behind the sofa, the tub chairs, draw the curtains, check behind the door. I should stop it, I know that. It’s not good for me. I barely recognise the nervous, fearful person I’m becoming.
No, that’s not true. I recognise that person all too well. I’d let that young woman dictate my early twenties, telling me I was weak, vulnerable, afraid. Now I feel the presence of those strange distorted years catching me up. It is a rising sensation, like being followed, stalked.
Once the downstairs is checked, I climb the stairs. My feet meet something wet. Looking down, I’m confused by the sight of a small puddle of water on the wooden step. I haven’t spilled anything.
As I’m considering where it has come from, I feel something land lightly on the crown of my head. I press my fingers there.
I look up. Beads of water are dripping from the ceiling.
I continue climbing, my heartbeat quickening. Where is the water coming from?
My feet sink into another puddle, and another, as water slides down the staircase, trickling over the varnished wood.
Disorientated, I reach out to put a hand on the wall but find that it, too, is wet.
‘What the—’
I can hear the gush of water coming from somewhere above. I force myself to move, to continue climbing the lethally flooded steps. At the top, I flick on the light, illuminating the scene. The door to the upstairs bathroom is wide open and I can see the sink tap running on full. The overflow is unable to drain it quickly enough, so water is pouring over the edges of the basin, streaming across the bathroom.
I wade forward through icy, ankle-deep flood water, and twist off the tap.
‘My God,’ I say, clamping a hand over my mouth, surveying the devastation. The entire bathroom is flooded. It has flowed out across the landing. I slosh my way through it and open the door to my writing room. There is a large puddle in the doorway a metre wide, but the rest of the room thankfully is dry.
I turn back towards the stairs, wondering whether the water has leaked through other parts of the ceiling into the rooms below.
I pick my way carefully down the flooded stairway and onto the first-floor landing. I go to my bedroom first and, as I flick on the light, I freeze. Water is coming through the ceiling. Dark drips streak my duvet, like splattered blood. I feel myself retracting, wanting to turn, run.
But I can’t.
I draw in air, telling myself to keep it together. I need to be logical, calm. Try and minimise the damage.
I push myself into action.
Grabbing a mop and bucket, and an armful of towels, I start at the top of the house in the flooded bathroom. I work systematically through the rooms. The scale of the damage is overwhelming, water pooling on carpets and furniture, marking the walls, leaking into light switches and plug sockets.
When I run out of dry towels, I have to wring them out by hand, my arm muscles burning with the effort. I’ve nowhere to put all the wet towels and sodden bedding, so I push open the balcony doors from my bedroom and hang them over the railings in the darkness.
The moon is high tonight, edging the tops of the waves with silver. I pause, taking a moment to catch my breath. As I look out onto the beach, I have the unsettling sensation that someone is out there, looking back at me.
It is three in the morning when I finally climb into the spare bed. The guest bedding feels starched and unyielding against my skin as I toss from one side to the other in a bid to get comfy. The foetid smell of damp wool pollutes the air.
Somewhere in the house I can hear the steady drip of water. The sound seeps into my thoughts till I can focus on nothing but the slow, insidious repeat of it.
How can I have been so stupid? I can’t afford this sort of mistake. My thoughts spiral into panic as I think of the damage – the carpets will need to be ripped up, the wooden flooring is going to be watermarked, the paintwork will need to be redone …
I can’t believe this has happened. I remember waking on the bathroom floor earlier, the side of my face pressed into the bath mat. I’d staggered to my feet, clinging onto the sink. I recall splashing water over my face, the cold shock of it against flushed skin. Then I’d cleaned my teeth. Had I left the tap running? It was possible. I’d been disorientated, frantically rushing to get to the funeral.
Yet something niggles. If I’d cleaned my teeth, why was the plug in the sink? I almost never used the plug. I try to zoom in more closely to the moment I turned on the tap; had I first reached for the plug, slotting it into the hole? I don’t think so.
But can I be certain? There have been so many mistakes recently, lapses in judgement.
I sit up in bed, pressing my fingertips into the arch of my brow. Beyond the walls of the house, I hear the distant heave of waves collapsing onto the dark shore.
If I do trust myself, if I believe unequivocally that I didn’t put the plug in the sink or leave the tap running, then it only leaves one explanation: someone else did.
20
Elle
The following morning, I pick up the still-warm pages of my manuscript from my printer and draw them towards my face. Ink, toner, fresh paper. This is where my thoughts need to be. I can’t think about the damp smell permeating my house, or the damage the flood water has caused. All of that is for later.
My mobile is on silent. The internet is switched off. There are no distractions. In this room there is only my story.
I stack the pages into a smooth pile and secure a bulldog clip to the ear of them, then settle into my reading chair beside a steaming mug of coffee.
Book 2, by Elle Fielding, the title page announces. I have just a fortnight till my deadline – but I still don’t know how I’m going to end the novel. My job as the author is to pull together the threads, tighten them, drawing the reader towards the climax, the moment of reveal.
My chest rises as I take a deep breath, feeling a tremble in my ribcage.
I’m scared to read my own story, I realise.
I grip the pages tighter. I need to sit here, read the draft in one long gulp, and assess the story afresh. The ending will show itself, I’m sure.
But what if it’s not the ending I want?
I’ve got to finish this. If I don’t, I will lose this house. This life.
Everything I’ve done – every sacrifice I’ve made – will be for nothing.
I stare at the horizon, eyes glazed. Sea and sky merge in a shimmer of silver-grey.
I’d been certain that the ending of the story would present itself, the petals of a flower opening to reveal the brilliant pollen-dusted stamen at the centre. But there is nothing – no indicator of where to go next, how to tie it together in a meaningful resolution.
<
br /> You’re useless.
A fraud.
I snatch up my empty coffee mug and launch it at the wooden floor. A burst of china cracks open the silence, shards pinwheeling across the room.
I curl forward, arms clamped over my head, eyes squeezed shut. After all this time, this is all I have. It isn’t enough.
Write the truth, I’d said on Facebook Live.
Can I?
Do I want to?
I begin gathering the broken china, feeling the sharpness in my palm. My thoughts slide towards my lead protagonist, the smooth, youthful skin of her hands. I am picturing those hands as I tighten my own fist – feel china bite into my palm.
Opening the pedal bin beneath my desk, the china clatters against the plastic drum. Then I look at my empty hand, examining the pale heart of my palm. The idea is shaping itself, I can almost feel the weight of it. I open my laptop, and type, ‘A burst of china cracks open the silence …’
Later, there is a loud knock. I look up from my laptop, surprised to find the room in darkness.
I check the time: seven p.m. I’m not expecting anyone.
A ripple of unease moves across my skin.
I glance towards my manuscript. I don’t want to break the flow, leave the pages. I’ll ignore whoever is at the door, keep writing.
My fingers move back to the keyboard, finding their places, my gaze pinned to the screen. I try and slip back into the story, into the world on the page.
Knock. Knock.
My hands clench, frustrated.
I realise that whoever is at the door will have seen my car in the drive, the lights on in the house. They’ll know I’m home.
Reluctantly, I push back my chair and cross the room. On the landing I pause by the window, looking out over the floodlit driveway. Strangely, there is no car in the drive except for mine. The visitor has come on foot?
I angle my head to try and see more, but the doorstep is concealed from view by an overhang and I can’t identify who it is.
I’m so immersed in this story, living and breathing the tension, that it feels as if one of my characters has stepped off the page, is waiting at my door. I think about the coldness in their eyes, thin lips pulling back over long incisors.
I jump back as the knocker raps again, hard, insistent.
My heart is beating hard as I creep down the stairs, the wood still swollen and damp from the flood. I slide my fingers into my pocket, feeling for my mobile. I take it out, ready.
Reaching the front door, I place a hand on the latch. My fingers are trembling.
I don’t want to be the person who cowers behind her own door. I’m not that girl any more.
I’m not.
I yank open the front door.
‘Mark.’
His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders hunched to his ears as if fending off the cold. ‘I came for Mum’s fleece.’
It takes me a moment to realise what he’s talking about. The purple fleece I’d borrowed when I was locked out.
‘I dropped it back a while ago.’ Or had I? I know I’d planned to.
‘Mum was looking for it earlier.’
‘Was she? I’ll have another look later, make sure I don’t still have it.’
‘I don’t mind waiting.’ He shifts, moving forward a step, so his foot is at the threshold of the door. He is looking at me directly, his dark stare unnerving. He would only need to take one more step and he’d be inside this house.
Tension pushes through my veins. I want him to leave. I want to get back to my manuscript – I can’t afford to lose my train of thought. Cold air is snaking through the open doorway. I’m dressed only in jeans and a thin jumper and can feel my skin turning to gooseflesh.
‘I’m in the middle of something, so if it doesn’t inconvenience your mum, I’ll look for it later.’
It is a sign-off. Yet Mark makes no move to leave. He takes his hands from his pockets and folds them across his chest. He looks past me, into the house.
‘Ever get to the bottom of your mystery visitor?’
‘Sorry?’ The word emerges as something tight, defensive.
‘You know, the car-less, childless family who rented your pad. The person who left a message on your window.’
I remember the accusation I’d levelled at him. ‘It was nothing.’
He looks at me, suppressing a smile. ‘Didn’t seem like it when I saw you last.’
‘You must be returning to London soon?’
‘Still got a bit of time.’
My fingers grip tighter to the door latch. I recognise him for the type of man he is: someone insecure who gets a kick out of attempting to intimidate people.
‘I need to get back to my desk now.’
‘Course. Stories to weave. Lives to imagine.’
‘Something like that.’
‘You know,’ he says, leaning close, his voice lowering a notch, ‘you’re nothing like your sister.’
‘What, married? With a child?’
He laughs. ‘It was a bit of fun, Elle. You can relax – I’m not in the wife-stealing market. That’s over.’ He pauses, looking at me closely. ‘What I mean is, the two of you are very different. Your sister is direct, strong-minded, there’s a straightness about her. Whereas you,’ he says, his gaze turning contemplative, ‘are a mystery.’
Is he flirting with me? Is that what this is?
‘I’m still trying to figure you out. The international author with the grand designs house – who falls apart at a little local library talk. No offence,’ he adds. ‘You lock yourself away in your cliff-top palace – and yet you seem like the sort of person who thrives on company. You share all these details of your life on social media – but it strikes me that it’s not your voice. That none of it is you.’
My breathing shallows. I can feel my skin flushing beneath the neckline of my jumper.
‘Interesting pop psychology,’ I say with all the lightness I can muster, ‘but like I say, I need to get back to my desk now. Goodnight.’
As I begin to pull the door to, I hear the crunching of wheels on gravel. I turn as a glare of headlights beam into the drive.
‘You’re popular tonight.’
I squint into the dazzling headlights, trying to make out the car. The engine is cut and as the car door opens, my sight adjusts to the darkness. Bill is crossing the driveway.
I wrack my brain. Had there been an arrangement? Something I’ve forgotten? No, I don’t think so.
‘Evening,’ he says as he approaches. ‘Fiona told me about your flood. Thought I’d come and lend a hand.’
‘Bill. Hi.’
His attention turns then to Mark, taking in the leather jacket, the narrow set of his eyes, the hands stuffed into pockets.
‘This is my neighbour, Mark.’
Bill nods. There is no offering of his hand, none of his usual warmth.
‘Better get back,’ Mark says, lowering his gaze. He crosses the dark drive with quick, taut steps.
I watch him all the way until he reaches his door.
When I look up, Bill is staring at me. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Fine,’ I say brightly. ‘Come in.’
‘Nice of you to pop over, Bill.’
‘Fiona said you needed to move your bed off the wet carpet. Thought you could use some muscle.’
‘Who did you bring?’
He grins, then follows me upstairs.
‘Sorry if it smells like wet dog,’ I say, pushing open the bedroom door, the carpet damp beneath my feet.
He grimaces. ‘More like a pack of wet dogs have been rolling in a brackish stream and are panting in the back seat of a car with all the windows closed.’
‘That bad?’
‘It’s going to be sunny tomorrow. Whack the heating up, open the windows, and let the moisture escape.’ He nods towards the bed saying, ‘Right, what are we doing with this?’
‘I just want it moved onto dry carpet – let this side b
reathe a little.’
He nods and gets into position. ‘On three, then?’
My back protests as we heave and drag the oak bed, eventually managing to place it at the far edge of the room.
Beside the skirting board lies a pair of my lace knickers; they must’ve slipped down the side of the bed. I swiftly pick them up, tucking them into my pocket. When I look up, I know Bill has seen. I expect him to make a quip, but instead he flushes and looks away.
I fetch an armful of towels and busy myself spreading them over the wet carpet. Bill helps me walk off the worst of the moisture, sinking our heels into the towels to draw up the wet.
‘I must come over more often,’ he says.
I smile.
He nods to the book on my bedside table, a novel by a Nobel Prize winner, which I’ve already given up on twice, but am determined to read all the way through.
‘Third time lucky, is it?’
‘How did you know?’
‘You must’ve posted about it. These days I can never quite remember what you’ve told me, or what I’ve read about you.’
‘I didn’t know you followed me.’
‘I like to keep one toe in the literary world.’
I grin.
‘Time for a quick drink before I go? It’d get me out of bath-time.’
I’m eager to get back to my manuscript, but Bill has been so helpful – and it’s an intense relief to have company after another day on my own, the silence of the empty house breathing around me.
‘Course.’
Bill stands by the lounge window with a glass of whisky, looking out over the dark water. It has begun to rain.
There is something different about him that I can’t quite place – a tension in his manner, or the sense that he’s preoccupied. Perhaps there’s been an argument at home.
‘Even at night, this view is still incredible,’ he says. ‘It’s the sense of space, I think. That feeling when you look out that nothing else needs your attention.’ He pauses, allowing the lull of waves and rain to wash through the room. ‘The sea always makes me feel so small. It’s just there, this huge watery mass. People say it’s beautiful – but I don’t see that. It’s treacherous.’ Bill turns and looks at me. ‘I can’t swim. Did you know that?’
