You Let Me In

by Lucy Clarke

  I want to turn, leave. But I force myself to swing the door wide. My movements are jerky rather than bold, as if I’m expecting someone to come running at me.

  The lounge is icy cold. The curtains are lifting in a breeze, catching against the windowsill. I can see from the doorway that the top window is gaping open, the wind rushing through the room. The cards that were on my mantelpiece have been blown to the floor.

  I’m usually fastidious about checking everything is locked before I go out, but this morning I’d felt dazed, the lag of another bad night’s sleep. Perhaps the catch hadn’t been fully depressed, and the sea breeze sucked it open.

  I force myself to cross the lounge and shut it firmly. I pause for a moment, listening intently. But all I can hear is the thrum of my heartbeat, and beyond it, silence.

  Then I propel myself into action, making a thorough sweep of the rest of the downstairs. It’s only when I’m satisfied that all doors and windows have been double-checked that I finally take off my coat.

  In the kitchen I slide a bottle of wine from the fridge and pour myself a large glass. Standing by the fridge, I drain half of it, the tension between my shoulder blades beginning to ease.

  Fiona is right: I do need a dog. The house would feel so much warmer if I were returning to a dog, seeing it turning circles of excitement, letting it curl on the sofa with me, or lie at my feet as I write. Flynn had suggested getting a dog a couple of years earlier, but I’d been resistant to the idea then – as if owning one were an admission of something: a dog instead of a baby.

  I finish my glass of wine and pour a second. I need it to settle my nerves. God, the library talk had been humiliating – to flail around so publicly. I could feel the heat of a panic attack closing in on me. It wasn’t just the lost notes that tangled me, but also the strangeness of seeing the word You circled in my novel.

  Opening my handbag, I pull out my copy of Wild Fear and turn to the first page of the story. There it is, clear as anything, that innocuous three-lettered word ringed in red pen.

  You.

  Why? Why would I have done that? It’s such a small thing – yet its oddness marks it out.

  I turn through the next few pages, scanning them carefully, looking for another hint of red pen, anything else that has been circled or underlined, but there are no more annotations. Perhaps I circled it when I was prepping for the talk – marking the place I’d read to. God, maybe this is another of the damaging effects of insomnia – losing my notes, leaving windows open, drifting through my waking hours.

  I continue to flick all the way through the book, but just as I reach the end, another flash of red catches my eye. On the last page of the final chapter, a second word has been circled in red.

  I am rigid.

  I squeeze my eyes tight, then open them to be sure.

  Lied.

  I turn from the first page to the last, the blood draining from my face as the two circled words eye me.

  You Lied.

  *

  In the winter-deep dark of four a.m., I sit up, pushing my hair from my face. Sweat beads between my breasts. I drag the duvet free. My breathing is shallow, like I have just finished a race.

  You Lied.

  Those circled words won’t leave my head. They’re following me, tracking me through my dreams, getting closer and closer, until they are upon me.

  I can see a pale hand – the same hand that unpinned the brooch – but this time it holds a red pen The hand hovers for a moment, before dipping low to the page, ringing those words in red.

  Leaving me a message.

  I launch myself from the bed, cross the room, throw open the balcony doors. I step out, the deck damp with dew. The sudden cold is a shock against my skin. I grip the railing hard. Breathe.

  The sea coils in the darkness, restless. I sense the tide is high, swallowing the bay, encroaching on the rocks.

  I push onto tiptoes, lean forward, looking down at the black rock and beyond it the surge of the sea.

  I experience a strange echo of someone else standing here before me. Joanna? Her husband? That pale hand again, gripping the railing, considering the distance between where my feet are placed, and the hardness of the rocks below.

  Previously

  Your bedroom mirror is larger than my front door. It leans casually against the wall, the ornate silver frame worn at the edges.

  It is an overcast day, yet the mirror gathers up that particular quality of light that is unique to the coast, and playfully casts it around the room. It glitters across your king-sized bed with its rich cream sheets and the plump scatter cushions.

  I take a step forward so that I am standing directly in front of your mirror. My feet are planted squarely in front of it, the thick pile of your carpet soft between my toes. I am standing exactly where you do as you apply your make up – I can tell this from the fleck of mascara on the glass where you’ve leaned too close.

  Do you like what you see, I wonder?

  The rest of the world does. I scrolled through your Facebook feed yesterday, looking at the comments from readers.

  You’re amazing, Elle. Keep doing what you’re doing!

  I’ve read your book THREE TIMES. You’re my new favourite author.

  You have a beautiful smile

  I slide open the wardrobe door and find an empty space on the rail for my things. I can’t quite picture them hanging here. I’m more of a drawer person.

  I glance at a mid-calf-length dress in a soft blush hue. Silk, I think, my fingers touching the neckline, caressing the material. I can’t claim to know much about fashion, but I know the dress will complement your willowy figure, will pick out the caramel tones in your hair. I know how heads will turn when you cross a room.

  These aren’t guesses: I know, because I’ve seen you wearing it.

  9

  Elle

  The tide is out and the packed sand glimmers in the thin morning light. Drake runs ahead, chasing sea foam buffeted by the breeze. Fiona and I watch as he spots a clump quivering on the shoreline, and jumps on it, red wellingtons sending bursts of foam skyward.

  Two surfers cross the beach ahead of us, jogging with their boards underarm, gazes mapping the waves, studying the pattern of the sets, picking their course for the paddle out.

  Pushing my hands deep into my coat pockets, I draw back my shoulders and take a deep breath. My lungs fill with fresh, salted air. Out here, my head feels clearer than it has in days. After hours of lying awake last night I finally gave up on my bed and sat in front of the television, trying to drown out the noise in my head. I woke there this morning, neck cricked, hands bloodless and cold.

  After two coffees, I forced myself to my writing desk, but nothing felt right. I’d lost my nerve, found a hesitancy in my writing, as if I wasn’t ready to go back to the story. In the end I’d called Fiona, suggested a walk.

  ‘Elle?’

  When I turn, Fiona is looking at me.

  ‘Sorry, miles away.’

  ‘I asked if you’d heard from Flynn.’

  ‘I called him on Friday night – after dinner at yours. There was a woman in the background.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Has Flynn mentioned anyone to Bill?’

  Fiona glances away.

  ‘So he has.’

  ‘If you want to know, I can tell you. But, Elle,’ she says, opening her hands, ‘do you really want to know?’

  ‘I do.’

  Fiona sighs. ‘All Bill’s told me is that the last time they spoke, Flynn said he was trying to get out and about. Meet people.’

  Meet women, I think, my stomach folding in on itself.

  ‘Flynn’s been low. I think it was good advice.’

  ‘Advice? You mean Bill told Flynn to get out there? Sleep around?’

  ‘They’re friends. Bill’s just trying to look out for him.’

  ‘What about looking out for me?’

  Her attention is diverted by Drake, who is scooping a handful of sea foam to
his face, fashioning a quivering beard of bubbles.

  ‘Not in your mouth!’

  He shakes his head, foam flying loose in white droplets. Watching him backlit by the sun, I smile, thinking how beautiful, how vital he looks. Whenever I doubt the wisdom of my decision to move to Cornwall, Drake is the one thing that makes absolute sense. I want to be part of his life, see the small shifts of development, be someone he can come to as he grows older.

  I slide my phone from my pocket and centre him in the frame, snapping his picture.

  ‘Don’t you dare put that on Facebook.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ I say, stung.

  ‘Good, because you never know who ends up with all those pictures you post. Anyway,’ Fiona says, ‘what were you doing ringing Flynn at midnight?’

  So we are back to Flynn. ‘I just wanted to hear his voice.’

  ‘If you’re lonely—’

  ‘I didn’t say I was lonely.’

  An eyebrow arches. ‘Then let me rephrase that. If you feel like company, the sofa bed is yours. Stay over whenever. Just know that Drake will be using your head as a cushion by about six a.m., cartoons howling.’

  ‘Sounds tempting.’

  ‘My life is. It really is.’

  There is something about my sister this morning – a tautness, as if she’s been stretched too far.

  ‘Is Bill away for the week?’

  She nods. ‘Single mum again.’

  ‘If you want a night off, you know I’d love to have Drake.’

  ‘By the time Drake is in bed, I just want to crash – but then there’s also that pull of thinking, This is the only time I have to myself, and I feel like I should be doing something, even if it’s just having a glass of wine in the bath, you know?’

  I nod – although, of course I don’t know. I have all the time I want to myself. Too much time. I think how different our lives are right now. I ask, ‘How’s the copywriting?’

  ‘Thought-provoking. Engaging. Stimulating.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m writing brochure copy for a cruise-liner. I use words like aspirational and well-appointed. How do you think it’s going?’

  ‘I thought you were pleased you won the pitch.’

  ‘Only because we need the money. It’s hardly intellectually challenging. Anyway, I’ll have finished it in a couple of days.’

  ‘Could you pick up any freelance journalism, more like your old stuff?’

  ‘Cornwall may as well be a different continent. And motherhood hasn’t exactly enhanced my CV. You don’t always get the life you’d imagined.’

  The way Fiona says that last remark, her gaze distant, her tone subdued, serious, makes me pause. Consider what that comment means to her.

  ‘Fiona,’ I begin.

  But she is striding towards Drake, who is dancing on the spot saying, ‘Need wee-wee!’

  I watch my sister as she begins dismantling layers of Drake’s clothes. It still catches me off-guard that Fiona is a mother. She’d always maintained that she didn’t want children, didn’t hanker after marriage – and yet here she is, a wife, a mother.

  I turn slowly on the spot, taking in the vista. As children, when we holidayed in Cornwall, we loved it when a low pressure blew in, sending huge rollers pounding onto the beach, the boom sounding thunderous from our caravan. When the waves mellowed, leaving the shore strewn with driftwood and treasures churned from the seabed, Fiona and I would go beach-combing. One autumn, Fiona found an unopened can with a Japanese label still intact. She’d carried it reverently back to the caravan and set it on the table like a centrepiece, and we spent hours speculating about its possible contents. It was enticing for its exoticness – yet also for demonstrating that somehow, through the ocean, the world was connected.

  With no small degree of ceremony, Fiona opened the mystery can, then peered in, brows knitted. She reared back, clamping a hand over her mouth.

  ‘That’s disgusting!’ she cried beneath the clasp of her fingers.

  I peered at the opened contents and found something jellied and mollusc-like, slippery and saltine. I poured them into a bowl to inspect more closely, using a toothpick to stab one and hold it up to the daylight. Fiona had insisted that they be gotten rid of immediately. I remember carrying these strange dead creatures towards the door, Fiona shuddering theatrically at my side. At the exit there was a misstep. The wind snatched the door, or perhaps I misjudged the distance, but I remember wobbling, the bowl teetering in my hand, the fishy liquid sloshing over the rim and splashing onto Fiona’s lower legs and sliding down the tongue of her new purple Dr. Martens.

  There had been a howl, a huge great drama of pulled-off boots, of claims it had been done on purpose. There were numerous apologies and attempts to wash out the boots, but Fiona’s mood remained black – that was, until I later put on my wellingtons and found the nose of them stuffed with an entire can of tuna. Even as Fiona was being reprimanded by our mother, she’d tossed me a self-satisfied smile, as if to say, There you go.

  The memory is dislodged by my ringing mobile. It’s my editor. I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail, but at the last minute, I pick up.

  Jane’s voice is abrupt. ‘Elle, is everything okay? Red magazine’s features editor has just called. You haven’t turned up for the interview.’

  Interview? My skin flames. I knew it was coming up, but I don’t remember it being set for today.

  ‘I thought you were going to send through the details?’

  ‘I did, last week.’

  I have no recollection of receiving them.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t get them, Jane.’

  There’s a pause. ‘You replied, Elle. Said you could make it.’

  Did I? I think of a stream of emails that have rolled in over the preceding days and weeks, a dam of them that needed responding to. Now I remember tackling a clutch of them in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. I must have responded on autopilot, not put it in my diary.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jane. I’ve completely messed up. I’ve been so absorbed by my manuscript. I’ll get in touch with Red, apologise.’

  ‘Yes, do that.’

  The call ends. I curse under my breath, furious with myself.

  Fiona has returned to my side, Drake still playing near the shoreline. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘I’m meant to be in London right now. I missed an interview with Red magazine,’ I say, eyes on my phone’s screen, scrolling through my emails, looking for the proof of my reply.

  And there it is. Sent several days ago.

  To: Jane Riley

  Date: Friday 5 November

  Subject: Re: Red magazine interview

  Thanks for this, Jane. All sounds great.

  Looking forward to it.

  Elle x

  I tip back my head, groaning. I know how hard my publicist works setting these things up. The chances of rescheduling are slim.

  ‘You okay?’

  I run a hand over my face. ‘I can’t believe I forgot. Jane sounded pissed off.’

  ‘We all forget things.’

  ‘You’ve never missed an appointment in your life,’ I say, but it comes out sharply. ‘Sorry. I’m just so exhausted. I hate not thinking clearly, making mistakes. Bloody insomnia.’

  ‘This patch will pass,’ she says reassuringly. ‘It’s just the pressure of your deadline.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my gaze sliding away.

  We climb the dune path, back towards Fiona’s car. I try and shake off the bad feeling about the interview, concentrate on Drake’s pudgy hand in mine as I help him up the steeper parts.

  Fiona keeps up a steady stream of conversation, trying to cheer me. ‘Are you planning on joining our book club on Thursday?’

  It’s the first time she’s mentioned it since Laura and Maeve’s invitation at the library talk.

  ‘I’d like to. As long as you don’t mind?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘You’ve got you
r own life down here. I don’t want you to feel like I’m piggy-backing it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I hadn’t mentioned it sooner as I thought you’d find it all a bit provincial now that you’re an international literary talent.’

  ‘You will be serving canapés?’

  ‘We’ll need something to go with the Bollinger.’

  Drake frees his hand from mine and races ahead up the dune, the bobble of his hat bouncing.

  Where the path widens, Fiona catches me up and we walk side by side. In a few minutes we’ll be back at our cars. Fiona and Drake will return to their house – and I’ll go back to mine.

  I think of the silence waiting for me beyond my front door. The white-washed walls echoing with it. I don’t want to be there, I realise. I’m looking for reasons to stay away.

  I don’t know why I’m feeling like this. The cliff-top house has always been my sanctuary. Yet … ever since I returned from France, something feels different. As if it’s no longer mine.

  I turn to Fiona. ‘I haven’t told you, but Mum’s brooch has gone missing.’

  ‘The silver swift?’

  I nod. ‘I think it’s been taken by the Airbnb tenants.’

  ‘What?’ she says, shocked. ‘Where was it? In your jewellery box?’

  ‘No, pinned to this coat. I left it hanging in the hallway while I was in France.’

  Her concern is replaced by amusement. ‘Isn’t it more likely that it’s just fallen off?’

  ‘It’s possible, but I just have this feeling—’

  ‘A feeling?’

  Fiona doesn’t work on sensations. She works with facts. She would never use the words, I just have this feeling …

  ‘I can’t explain it. I just feel like it’s been taken. Anyway, it’s not only the brooch – there was the cracked paperweight, and—’ I’m about to tell her about the two words circled in my novel, You Lied, but I stop myself.

  It raises too many questions.

  Instead I say, ‘I’m thinking about contacting Joanna.’

  ‘To say what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just … I want to get the sense of her. Make sure she checks out.’