by Lucy Clarke
‘I don’t think I knew what I wanted until fairly recently.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Fiona says. ‘You’ve always had a head for fiction. Even your diaries.’
‘My diaries?’
‘Remember that phase you went through of making up diary entries?’
I explain to the room, ‘I thought our mum was reading them, so I started peppering them with fictional entries to try and catch her out.’
Fiona says to the other women, ‘Elle made up these wonderful tales about a boy at school who was supposedly infatuated with her. I seem to remember you referred to him by a code name – presumably to cause maximum speculation about his identity.’
I can feel heat building in my cheeks as I recall certain extracts. They began as girlish weaves of fiction, focused on the sweet things he whispered to me, or the way he’d brush his hand against mine if we happened to pass in the corridor. Gradually, the fiction grew into a story of stolen kisses and a declaration of love.
The trap worked. I remember the afternoon that my mother called me into the kitchen. There were two cups of tea on the table and a slice of lemon drizzle cake, which always made my mouth fizz. My mother opened the conversation with the phrase, ‘A little birdy has told me …’ It seemed a ludicrous thing to say, but I let my mother talk, explaining her worries about the seriousness of an older boy showing such interest in me.
I was waiting for the moment to jump in and say, Busted! You’ve been reading my diary. Yet somehow, I sensed that explaining I’d made the whole thing up – that it was all just a story – would get me in trouble. Anyway, the story was pleasant. I liked living it. So instead I said, ‘Yes, I understand.’ My mother had looked surprised, then eventually relieved. We hugged, shared a second slice of lemon drizzle cake.
Over the next few days, I began to create new entries about cooling it off with ‘R’. I wrote in detail about our tearful parting hug and the long letter he’d slipped into my locker. I could tell from the less watchful way my mother looked at me that she’d been following each instalment closely.
Now I say to Fiona, ‘You never told me you’d read them.’
‘Older sister privileges,’ she says with a wink. ‘Anyway, I enjoyed your little tales. Who knew that one day you’d do it for a living?’
I smile, but something about this conversation leaves me humiliated. It’s not just that Fiona used to read my diaries. It’s that I’ve been exposed for lying.
‘All those Plato and Homer references became a bit tedious, I thought,’ Laura says, when we finally get around to talking about the book.
We are discussing Donna Tartt’s classic, The Secret History.
‘They were my favourite thing about the book,’ Ana counters.
‘You would say that,’ Maeve says. ‘Didn’t you do some sort of MA in Ancient Greek or Theology?’
‘Philosophy,’ Ana corrects. ‘Serving coffee is just the cover job; I’ve got a philosopher’s soul.’ She grins.
I decide I like Ana, and hope that the two of us will become friends.
‘Did you study English?’ Laura asks, turning to face me.
I hesitate, wanting to get my wording right. ‘I started an English Literature degree at Cardiff University, but I didn’t fall in love with the course, so I left at the end of the first year.’ I make sure the words come out lightly, a smile in my voice, because in my experience once people detect a hesitation, they poke at it, want to inspect it.
I move to the window, opening it a little wider. I must unsettle the edge of the curtain because from within the fabric there is a flutter of movement that rises to my eyeline. I feel it – the brushing of wings against my cheek.
My reaction is immediate, instinctive. I scream, rearing back, hands raking at the air.
I am not thinking about the silence that descends upon the room, or the way everyone has turned to stare, startled by my violent burst of movement. I think of nothing except white-hot, blinding fear.
I’ve pinned myself to the wall.
From somewhere across the room, I hear Fiona’s voice soothing, calming, as she says, ‘It’s okay, Elle. You’re okay. I’ll get it out.’ She is on her feet, moving towards the window. ‘Got ourselves a moth phobic,’ she says to the others, the lightness in her voice attempting to downplay my behaviour.
Above the pounding rush of blood in my ears, I tell myself that I am safe, there is nothing to fear. My breathing is agitated, eyes blinking rapidly, but the rest of my body feels frozen.
I watch Fiona capture the moth in cupped hands. My eyes track the cage of her fingers, watching as she frees the moth through the open window, then pulls it shut, snapping the handle down.
The moth beats its wings against the glass for a matter of seconds, then disappears into the night.
I keep watching for several more seconds, then slowly I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
When I turn, everyone is staring at me.
Humiliation burns in my cheeks as I mumble an apology, my voice shaking.
‘A moth phobia,’ Laura says. ‘Didn’t even know that existed.’
‘Mottephobia,’ Ana says, naming it. ‘Have you always had it?’ she asks gently.
I don’t look Ana in the eye as I answer, ‘Yes.’
‘No, not as a child,’ Fiona corrects, she’s a stickler for accuracy. ‘You were the queen of bug hunts. You’d capture anything that would fit in your little magnifying box – ants, spiders, moths, ladybirds.’
‘Was I?’ I say vaguely. ‘A rogue trait I developed later, then.’
Fiona refills my wine glass and hands it to me. ‘Get that down you.’
‘I can’t believe you’re afraid of moths,’ Laura says, not unkindly, but as if she is completely bewildered by the idea of it. ‘They can’t hurt you.’
I remind myself to smile. ‘I know.’
There is the dance of departure – drinks being finished, bags gathered, coats shouldered on, thank yous being made. I see everyone to the door, standing with a hand anchored to the frame, still on edge after the shock of the moth.
Watching as my house empties of guests, I’m aware of my desire to call them back, ask them to stay awhile longer, to not leave me here.
Laura is the last to go and she pauses on the doorstep, turning back to face me.
‘I almost forgot. I got you something. Call it a housewarming gift, or a welcome to Cornwall gift, or whatever.’
She rummages in her bag and pulls out a beautifully wrapped parcel.
‘Laura—’ I begin, but she waves a hand through the air.
‘I saw it and knew you’d love it.’
I unwrap it carefully, feeling uncomfortable that Laura – who is probably earning little more than minimum wage at the library – has chosen to spend her money on me.
‘See,’ she says, as I pull out a cream mug. ‘I had to get it for you.’
Printed in a black typewriter font, it reads, Careful, or I’ll put you in my next novel.
‘Thank you.’
Her expression turns serious. ‘I’ve got to ask: what is your secret?’
I blink, my attention narrowing to the question.
Laura’s eyes glitter from the wine. ‘There’s something you’re keeping from us. I’m just wondering what it is.’
I shake my head. ‘I …’
‘I mean, you can’t be much more than thirty, you own this house, and you’re a bestselling author. Who did you have to kill to get this life?’
I hear the slow roll of waves beyond us, the sound of a car door closing at the end of the driveway – and then Laura’s mouth breaks into a smile.
She is joking, of course she is joking.
I match her smile. ‘All my killing happens strictly on paper.’
‘Well, as your number one fan, I thought it my duty to check!’ Laura waves cheerily, then turns and crosses the driveway, climbing into Maeve’s car.
Engines start, headlights beam, everyone returning home to their husband
s or families. I wait in the doorway, the cold air frigid against my cheeks.
I remain there until the last car has disappeared down the pocked lane. As I make to pull the door behind me, a prickling sensation stretches across my neck.
I turn back, certain I am being watched.
The security lights have flicked off, cloaking the lane in darkness. Wind funnels over the cliff face, creeping through my open doorway as I stand illuminated on the front step.
There is no one there. It’s just my nerves jangling.
But then I notice it – a faint orange glow in the periphery of my vision, no more than a prick of light. My gaze narrows, focusing on it.
Suddenly the neighbours’ security light flicks on, illuminating the front of their house – and there stands Mark. He is leaning against his door, a cigarette between his lips, gaze locked on me.
There is no smile. No call of a greeting. Just that dark gaze reaching across the night, fixing on me.
Several beats pass as we stare at one another.
Slowly, he raises his right hand. For a moment it looks as if his first two fingers are pointing at me, like the slow draw of a gun, aimed at my head.
My breath tightens.
I blink. But when I look again, it is his open palm facing me, held up in a wave.
11
Elle
In the ocean-deep dark of four a.m., silence is swallowing me.
Only hours ago, the house was filled with the noise and thrum of book club. Now that everyone’s left, the stillness has deepened, solidified.
Alone in this island bed, I keep thinking of Flynn.
Keep wishing he was here with me.
When we first met, Flynn was living in a rented house with three friends, and he had the boxroom – just a single bed and a hanging rail for the two pairs of jeans and handful of jumpers he owned. For four months we’d slept in that narrow bed, limbs entwined. I’d press myself against his back, my knees in the warm crook of his, feeling the rhythm of his breathing slowing mine.
I always slept well.
But this bed, this bed is too large. One side of the mattress too cold.
‘Fuck you,’ I say to nothing, to nobody, shirking off the duvet.
I swing my legs out and sit on the edge of the mattress, the heels of my hands pressing into my eye sockets. One bad night’s sleep is standing on the shoulders of the next, compressing me beneath the weight of exhaustion. It will mean another day propped up by caffeine, another day sleepwalking.
I run through my immediate choices: I could watch a film or listen to a radio play. Then I remember the proof of Clare Mackintosh’s latest novel that’s in my writing room. I’ll dive into that, lose myself in someone else’s words.
Wrapping myself in a fleecy dressing gown, I drift upstairs, the air cooling noticeably as I rise through the house.
In my writing room, I flick on my desk lamp and see my own image thrown back in the glass wall. By day, the flowing space of this room feels tranquil, a sanctuary, but at night the darkness transforms it into something looming and exposed. There are no curtains to pull, no nooks to cosy within. Up here, the roaring groan of the sea sounds so close, it’s as if the waves are beating against the glass.
My hand strays to the paperweight on my desk, tracing a fingertip over the deep crack at its centre. I pick it up, feeling its cold weight against my palm. So strange to find the missing fragment embedded in my bedroom carpet – right in front of my mirror.
It’s as if someone knew where I would stand. It’s as if someone positioned it there.
I shiver, setting down the paperweight.
I turn, taking in my writing room. If someone had been up here, what would they see, I wonder? Where would they look?
Somewhere below there is a low sound of knocking. I freeze, head angled towards the noise.
Downstairs?
It’s not the front door knocker. Too faint. I wait, listening, heartbeat raised.
It comes again, two or three light knocks, like the quick tap of knuckles on a window.
Unease creaks along my spine.
My thoughts trip to Mark standing outside his house, his stare pinning me. Then that strange lift of his hand.
Had he still been watching as I’d turned away, stepped back inside my house, alone?
Another knock – but this time I catch the sound more clearly: a tapping, then a scratch. My gaze lowers to the balcony that rings my bedroom below. In the darkness I can just make out the branches of a potted bay tree bending in the wind, scratching against the glass doors.
I laugh to ease the tension, but it sounds brittle alone in the room.
*
I cross my writing room, moving towards the oak trunk. Kneeling beside it, I open the heavy lid.
The trunk is filled with old photo albums, a stack of diaries, a clutch of notebooks with faded covers and doodling in the margins. My fingers meet a bundle of cards fastened together with a rubber band and I find myself pulling them onto my lap.
I’ve kept every card Flynn has written to me. Rolling the elastic band free, I think, maybe this is the real reason I’ve come up to my writing room – to look at these.
The first card is illustrated with roses, Happy birthday written in swirling silver writing. Flynn’s card-buying skills have never been notable.
Dear Elle, Happy birthday. Remember, I do have receipts. The benefits of not charity shopping (this year). Flynn x
I smile, the easiness of his words softening something within me. The next card has been homemade on flimsy green paper. On the front there is a photo of me sitting on Flynn’s lap on a picnic bench, our gazes on the ground, my long hair falling like a curtain over one side of my face, Flynn’s tanned arms loosely slung around me. In the background are the thick trunks of redwood trees, the green dome of a tent. The caption reads: 3 years today!
1 continent, 2 countries, 4 provinces, 8 states, 8,500 miles, 10,000 mosquito bites and 1 badly made card later, and we are still madly in love. Happy anniversary honey.
Even as my face splits into a smile, my eyes film with tears.
This, this is what’s real, I think.
In amongst the cards, I come across another photo of the two of us. I look at the wide stretch of his smile, the way the light catches at the edges of his eyes as he looks towards me, grinning. The photo had been taken on the night I signed the contracts with my publisher. Flynn had met me after work and we’d gone to a bar in the centre of Bristol with some friends. I remember Flynn kept kissing me, telling me how proud he was, that I was amazing. You’ve done it!
I recall another fragment of the evening – it could only have been a few minutes at most – where I’d stepped out of the night, just disappeared like a scene in a story that would never be read. It had been late, after midnight, and the burn of smiling so hard had left an ache in my jaw. I’d left the bar, raising the inside of my wrist towards the bouncer, who’d nodded once as he glanced at the ink stamp. My heels clicked against the road as I’d crossed, my dress dancing against my thighs. The mizzling rain caught in my hair, a crown of liquid beads.
I walked towards the cash machine – but, at the last minute, ducked past it, slipping down the side of the building into a narrow, unlit alleyway. I stood with my shoulder blades pressed to the damp brick, chest heaving, my breath coming too rapidly. I made a cup of my hands, breathing into them, collecting the expelled air and drawing it back into my lungs.
Eventually, eventually, the race of my heartbeat began to settle. I tipped my head back, looked up at the flecks of rain caught in the streetlamps, falling motes that covered my skin with dew. I had known that I would go back inside to Flynn and our friends. That I would carry on like nothing was different.
That was my decision – and I must live with it.
As I put Flynn’s cards and photos away, my fingers meet a leather-bound file. My heartbeat trips, stumbles. I know exactly what is inside. I know that I won’t open it, won’t look.
It’s dangerous to even keep it – and yet, I must. I push it deeper into the trunk and close the lid.
No, it wasn’t a book, or even Flynn’s cards that brought me up here. It was that file. I needed to see it. To check it was still there.
Ready to return to bed now, I grab the proof copy, then reach across my desk to switch off the lamp. I must misjudge the space as my elbow catches it, toppling it to the floor.
Thankfully the bulb doesn’t smash. Bending to retrieve the lamp, my eyes follow the beam of light, which is shining against the leg of my desk. There is a mark in the wood that I haven’t noticed before. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light and, when they do, I see there are letters carved into the pale oak. I think of school desks tattooed with names of students, or declarations of love made with a compass point.
I move closer, angling my head to read the letters.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I blink rapidly, but the word remains in front of me, etched there in capitals.
Although the desk is second-hand, Flynn had spent hours and hours refurbishing it. He’d sanded the legs – he’d told me about how hard it was to work the old varnish out of the ornate twists. These carved letters look fresh, the gouged wood paler than its surrounds.
I run my fingertips along the other desk legs, feeling for grooves and nicks. I angle the lamp towards the underside of the desk, scanning it closely. But there is nothing else, no carvings, or marks. Just one word singeing my thoughts.
LIAR.
2004
In the spring semester, daylight hours slid by in a blur of lectures and lie-ins, of afternoons spent slinging a frisbee in the park. It was only at night, when there was no shift to work, or party to be at, that Elle would finally open her course books and think, Right then. Essays.
Her thumb and forefinger pinched her brow as she struggled to focus. She was trying to write something discursive about post-modernism, but was restless, her attention waning. Maybe she would go out after all, just one quick drink with her housemates at the students’ union.
Rummaging through her wardrobe, she picked out a new T-dress in dusky blue that she could wear with Converse.