by Lucy Clarke
It was as she was wriggling into the dress that she became aware of it – the feeling of being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck rose and her gaze travelled to the window. Their student house backed onto a valley railway line, where litter gathered at the base of the bushes.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, and then she saw it – the shape of someone walking along the edge of the track, then cutting between the shrubs and disappearing through the shadows.
A drunken student wandering to a party? Someone taking a short cut home? If they’d caught a glimpse of her changing, so what? Let them look. She was nineteen and newly beautiful. She’d been a late bloomer – braces, a short but intense affair with acne, and a fringe that never suited her had kept her off boys’ radars – but over the past eighteen months there’d been a metamorphosis. Straight white teeth emerged from beneath metal tracks, hormonal skin was replaced by a clear youthful glow, the fringe had grown out into long waves of caramel-blonde hair.
Dressed now, she returned to her desk to check the deadline for her essay, the figure by the track sliding from her thoughts. The essay didn’t need to be handed in for another couple of days. She’d party tonight. Work tomorrow. She’d pull an all-nighter if necessary – the pressure of a deadline always made her focus. It was a good plan.
As it turned out, her essay score wouldn’t matter. In fact, none of her essay scores or exam results would.
But she didn’t know that yet.
Just like she didn’t know, as she admired herself in the mirror, a hand balanced on her hip, that she would wear the new dress only once more. Or that, afterwards, she would shed it like a skin, knotting it within the depths of a bin liner. Because all Elle would want, would be to forget the girl in the dusky blue dress.
12
Elle
‘With every reveal, raise a further question. Intrigue is what keeps the pages turning.’
Author Elle Fielding
In the cloaked darkness of one a.m., I lie awake, picturing her. The girl I was in my twenties. The one who left Cardiff and moved into a rambling house-share in Bristol. The girl who cut her hair to her chin, and ringed her eyes with kohl. The girl who stayed in a room with no curtains – because it didn’t matter if there was light or not, she so rarely slept.
I think of that girl, who would’ve been awake in the middle of the night, just like I am now. Unravel ten, twelve years and here she would be, lying on a single bed, mattress springs digging into her back, eyes open to the darkness. Her insomnia is just starting, just worming its way under her eyelids, making a home in her mind.
What would I tell that girl if I could reach her? I could show her the beautiful house where she’d one day live, with its king-sized bed and duck-feather pillows. I could tell her about the career she’d have, show her the awards engraved with her name. I could point to the sea beyond the window and say, ‘Look. Look where I am. Everything will be okay.’
But she would see through me. She would ask, Then, why are you still lying awake?
*
Morning eventually arrives. I drag myself from bed, my senses feeling like they’ve been shaken, disordered. Some too acute, others muffled. The daylight feels too sharp, the shower streams needles over my skin.
Then I am downstairs and there is a coffee in front of me that I don’t even remember making. I scald my lips not waiting for it to cool.
An hour later, I am sitting in a windowless office talking to my bank manager. Sweat gathers in the small of my back as I watch his pale eyes dart over the sheaf of papers on his desk.
He shakes his head and my stomach twists. ‘It clearly shows that we already adjusted your mortgage payments last October to an interest-only rate for a fixed period of twelve months. Since then you’ve missed the last two payments—’
‘The final bill for the builders came out,’ I interrupt, not quite succeeding in keeping my tone neutral. I’ve never been good at this sort of thing – banks, offices, spreadsheets. ‘I hadn’t realised they’d need it all in one go. I’ll be back on track for next month’s payment.’ I force myself to smile.
‘I must make you aware, Mrs Fielding, that if you don’t meet your mortgage repayments, the bank is legally within its rights to repossess your house.’
I absorb the enormity of this statement. I’ve known this. I’ve read these words on the letters I’ve been pushing to the back of the kitchen drawer. But now here I am, face to face with the manager of the bank from which I’ve borrowed an eye-watering sum of money.
Throughout my twenties, Flynn and I rarely earned much more than minimum wage – we were used to living within our means; there was a sense of pride in it. Yet, somehow, when it came to the cliff-top house, reason was swallowed by the desire to create the perfect writer’s home. Why, I wonder? To prove to myself that it is real? That it is worth everything I’ve sacrificed?
A rogue thought surges forwards: perhaps there is part of me that wants all this to derail. It is like I’m standing at the very edge of a train track, waiting to feel the churning rush of wind against my skin as it speeds dangerously close. All it takes is one more step.
I think of how Fiona would handle this situation. She wouldn’t allow this bank manager to put something she loved, needed, under threat. I sit up taller. ‘I’ve shown you the contract for my book deal. Next month the second half of my advance arrives. If you could just bear with me until then.’
The bank manager pushes his glasses up the narrow bridge of his nose as he scans the document.
‘Yes, I can see that. But what concerns me is this clause here, where it states that if you don’t deliver your manuscript on the specified date, then you would be liable to pay back the initial advance, which,’ he pauses, looking up, ‘is a considerable sum.’
Breathe. Just breathe.
‘Can I check, Mrs Fielding, that you are indeed on track to deliver your book by the deadline, which, by my reckoning, is due in twenty-one days’ time.’
I think of my waiting manuscript, the bones of a story that is haunting me, disturbing my sleep, pulling me back to a place I don’t want to revisit. But I know I must. This needs to be finished.
I draw my lips into a smile. ‘Yes, I am absolutely on track.’
I step from the bank into the cold bite of the afternoon. It is only two o’clock, but street lights flicker on around me, a dull orange glow breaking the darkening sky.
I should go straight home, straight to my desk. Write. But the meeting has left me anxious, my thoughts scattered.
I walk in the opposite direction to my car, skirting the proprietor of the key cutting shop who is bringing in a clapboard stand. I pause outside the florists, glancing at the wooden crates on the pavement stacked with purple heathers. There is something calming, grounding, about the gentle promise of flowers.
A bell tinkles as I push open the primrose-yellow door. The air smells of blooms and over-ripe pollen. The stiff formality of the bank washes away as I move beyond the displays, heartened by the beauty of the delicate petals, the fragile pink stamens, the sweet bursts of scent.
‘With you in a minute, love,’ the florist greets me, as she wraps a bunch of flowers for the customer who stands at the till.
The customer turns, too: Mark. He glances at me disinterestedly, giving no indication that he recognises me, and then resumes his conversation with the florist.
‘Thought they’d brighten her room.’
‘Course they will. How about I do them for a tenner?’
‘Kind of you, Marg. Cheers.’
I move to the far corner of the shop and position myself by the buckets of single flowers: vintage blush roses, a spray of long-stemmed daisies, purple-stained freesias. I hear the stretch of tape, the crinkle of paper.
‘How is your mum?’
‘About the same. Still got no feeling in her right arm. They don’t know if she ever will.’
‘A bloody stroke. You just never know, do you?’
Enid had had a stroke? My God, the poor woman. It explains Mark’s sudden return to Cornwall – and why I’ve not seen Enid or Frank in days. I’d like to send a card. Would that be appropriate? Despite our differences over the rebuild, I like Enid. She is my neighbour – of course I can send a card.
Mark’s voice rings clear as he says, ‘Apparently stress is a major trigger for strokes.’
‘I’ve heard that. Your folks had all that business with the cliff-top house, didn’t they?’
I go very still.
‘Bought up by an out-of-towner.’
‘Could’ve guessed. Seen what they’ve done with it. Huge great thing, isn’t it?’
‘Blocked half their view. Stole their light.’
The florist makes a tutting noise in her throat. ‘Well, listen, you send your mum my love. Once she’s home, I’ll bring over one of my carrot cakes, okay?’
I can hear the ring of the till, the slip of a receipt being pushed into a wallet, the rustle of paper as the flowers are gathered. I pluck several rose stems from a bucket, pretending to be deeply absorbed in them.
Mark’s footsteps move purposefully towards the door. Then there’s a side-step, and he’s suddenly at my shoulder, leaning close.
‘Pretty,’ he says, gazing down at the roses in my hands. ‘Are they for anyone special?’
‘No. Just me.’
‘You don’t consider yourself special?’ That dark gaze again, penetrating. ‘That’s definitely not the impression you give.’
Heat spreads from my neck, into my cheeks.
‘Roses. A classic choice. They’ll look perfect on your bedside table. Next to the cream lamp.’
My mouth opens in surprise, but before I have chance to frame a response, he is gone.
The Toad and Otter smells of the long-stale tobacco that is locked into the aged carpet. I order a large glass of white wine and wait at the bar, peeling back the edges of a drinks mat, thoughts whirring.
They’ll look perfect on your bedside table. Next to the cream lamp.
He was implying he’d been inside my house – specifically my bedroom. But how? Enid and Frank haven’t visited since the rebuild, so can’t have described it to him.
My bedroom windows face the sea, so Mark couldn’t have seen inside it from Frank and Enid’s house. But what if he was standing on the beach?
‘What did it do to you?’
I look up. The barman is smiling wryly, nodding towards the drinks mat that I’ve torn into a dozen pieces.
‘Sorry,’ I say, gathering the pieces, pushing them into my coat pocket. I carry my wine to an empty table by the flashing slot machines, aware that my hands are shaking. I try and lean back into the seat, relax, but my body feels tense, unyielding. I lift the wine to my mouth and drain half of it.
If Mark had known I was putting my house on Airbnb, he could have looked it up out of curiosity. I remember photographing each of the rooms, styling them carefully and choosing the right angles to give a sense of space and light.
Slipping my phone from my bag, I flick through the camera roll looking for the photos I’d taken for the Airbnb rental. Locating the image of my bedroom, my gaze travels over the smartly made bed with its fresh cream sheets and plumped cushions, but the angle of the shot cuts out my bedside table and lamp. I know I’ve never shared a picture of my room on any of my social media platforms, so Mark’s comment must be a guess.
Unless, I think, seizing on something else, unless Mark had somehow been inside my house during the Airbnb rental. I think of the word LIAR carved into my writing desk. Had he done it? It was possible that he knew Joanna and her family. Maybe he was the person who’d suggested Joanna rent it. Even as I frame the thought, it feels unlikely.
I squeeze my temples. Perhaps Mark had introduced himself to Joanna’s family, told them he took care of the maintenance for the property and wanted to check on the water tank or some other such detail. That is feasible.
But even if Mark had somehow found his way into my house, into my bedroom, into my writing room, the question that leaves me unnerved is: Why?
I shouldn’t have ordered the second glass. Or the third. I’ve had to abandon my car and walk home across the beach. Drinking and insomnia are a toxic mix; everything feels distorted, held at distance.
I’m not dressed for the dark beach: my leather pumps are absorbing water from the damp sand, and beneath my thin jacket my skin is puckered with goose bumps.
I can hear the trickle and draw of the tide as rivulets flow beneath the sand. Is the tide coming in or out? I must get into the habit of checking the tables. From the low light of the moon and the glisten of the sea, I can see the water is still a little way off. I will keep going at a good pace. The house isn’t far.
When Flynn and I bought the cliff-top house, one of the pulls of the location had been that we’d be able to grab a pub dinner in town, then walk home across the bay. The idea had seemed romantic, walking with clasped hands, the wind at our backs, the waves rolling against the shore.
Now fear beats in my chest as I hurry on, toes damp and icy within my sodden shoes.
I make good time across the beach and when I reach the stone steps, I take out my phone to use the flashlight. I see then how close the sea is – another twenty minutes and the access steps to the house would’ve been cut off. The sole of my foot slides across wet rock and I feel myself unbalancing, hinging forward. I put out my hands to save myself, but feel the smack of my knees against stone.
I cry out, my right knee scalding with pain. Struggling to push myself upright, I retrieve my phone, and hobble up the final steps, my breath short. Following the stone path to the side door, I fumble with the key, let myself in and stand in the kitchen in darkness, heart pounding, knees flayed. It was stupid and risky to walk along the beach at night. It could have been my head on the stone steps, not my phone.
I’m making bad decisions.
I slide my hand along the wall and flick on the lights, the kitchen gleaming in the bright downlights. I limp to the fridge and pour a large glass of wine.
I want to push away the feeling of the grate of rock against skin, the warm dampness of blood spreading, so I take out my phone, scroll through my Facebook page and focus on answering some new messages from readers.
I immediately see that Booklover101 has posted again.
I’m worried about you. You look like you’re losing weight. Don’t let this book kill you.
My back stiffens at the tone. The intrusiveness of the comment. The assumed intimacy between us.
I scroll back through the last few photos I’ve posted. There are shots of the indent of my footprints along the curving shoreline, the wingback chair in my writing room caught in a sunbeam, my side profile as I laugh.
No, I don’t look like I’ve lost weight, or that I’m sinking under pressure. I’ve made sure of that.
My life looks idyllic.
I snap a quick picture of my glass of wine. Then I upload it to Facebook, adding, Celebrating a full-powered day of writing with a glass of wine. Three weeks and counting till deadline day! #book2 #almostthere
Then I delete Booklover101’s post and push my phone back in my pocket.
Leaving the kitchen, I move along the hallway, flicking on the lights as I go. On the stairway, I pause by the window. I can see straight into Frank and Enid’s house. I wonder how long Enid will be in hospital. Is Frank with her? If so, Mark will be in their house, alone. I imagine him moving through the silent rooms of the bungalow, coming to stand at the kitchen window in the darkness, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Watching.
If he looks this way right now, he will see me framed in the light. I step back and, as I do so, I notice something. On the window, there is a smear of a fingerprint. Looking more closely I can make out a word written in the faint condensation.
house
As I’m considering the word, something within me turns cold, like splinters of ice spreading and branching along the back
of my neck, down my spine.
It isn’t just a single word.
Three others are stacked above.
I’m
in
your
house
Everything goes very still. Saliva pools at the back of my throat. I remind myself to swallow. Breathe.
I blink, looking again at the words. My head feels like it is spinning, like the very ground is tilting beneath me.
I lunge forward, using the sleeve of my jacket to wipe at the glass.
There, it is gone. Nothing to see. I stare at the clear pane: it is almost as if I’ve imagined it.
The message could’ve been there for days, I tell myself. A joke written by a visitor. One of the book club members, even? Yet why would anyone write something so insidious, so perfectly creepy?
Above the rush of blood in my head, there is a noise, like the slide of wood against wood.
I wait, listening.
The pounding of my heart intensifies.
There. There it is again. The sound comes from upstairs. My writing room. Like a drawer is being closed.
Houses make noises, I tell myself firmly. There is no one in here. It is only my imagination. My senses are on high alert, amplifying things, that’s all.
There are no further sounds from upstairs.
I let out the breath I’m holding.
As I turn away from the window, I catch it: the stretched creak of a floorboard pressing against a joist, then the low suck of air as a door is pulled open.
Someone is in my house.
Previously
I’m enjoying being in your house.
I drift through your kitchen, taking my time as I open each cupboard, inspecting the fine-stemmed wine glasses, the classic Wedgwood china, the heavy set of Le Creuset pans. I flick on your aerated tap to watch water sluice into the generous butler sink. No whiff of poor drainage here. No scorch marks from where a hot oven tray of chips was dropped.
I come to a halt only when I reach the window. I place my hands against the glass. I realise that the whorls and grooves of my fingerprints will be left here, as if claiming everything I touch.