by Lucy Clarke
Drifting down an aisle in the Fiction section, I decide there is something immensely comforting about libraries. Perhaps it is that book-warm smell that’s linked to the nostalgia of my past – me and Fiona racing down the pavement ahead of our mother to be the first into the library. On wintery weekends, the library was a prized outing – we’d choose books, then go to the café on the opposite street, which served hot chocolates in mugs as big as bowls, sprinkling tiny marshmallows across a snowdrift of cream. Afterwards, the three of us would return to the flat, and Fiona and I would make the afternoon’s reading den, an elaborate production involving sheets and cushions and layers of thick blankets, which would quickly become dusted with biscuit crumbs.
My fingers trail over book spines until I reach Fielding, Elle. There are two copies of Wild Fear. I pick one up. I’ve never liked the cover – the woman on the front bears no resemblance to the character I picture. The font is wrong, too. Large and shouty compared to the subtlety of the text. I didn’t fight for alternatives, still too bowled over by the whole process to feel like I could take ownership. I’d allowed myself to be swept along by a tide of decisions that other people assured me were correct for the current market. Turns out they were right.
I open the jacket to see how recently the novel has been borrowed. A flash of red stretches across the title page. A handwritten word right beside my printed name.
The book slips from my fingers, crashing to the floor, the pages splayed. An elderly man in a tweed waistcoat turns to look.
I hastily gather the book, heart hammering. I open it again. The word is still there, accusatory in its glare.
Liar.
Dry page edges brush against the pad of my thumb as I flick through the rest of the book, searching for a further hint of red. The remainder of the novel is unmarked.
I pick up the second copy, my pulse flickering in my neck as if something is trapped there, trying to push its way from beneath my skin. There, in the same place on the title page, is that one devastating word: Liar.
Dread grips me, pins me to the spot.
I snap the cover shut.
Someone knows.
I become aware that someone is watching me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I turn. The waistcoated man at the edge of the aisle has disappeared.
There is movement beyond the shelves, in the next aisle, just the lightest shift of colour from dark to light, a shape moving away. I side-step, trying to make out who it is, but the shelves are too densely stacked to see. Hurrying to the end of the aisle, I peer down the next – but it is empty except for a book trolley.
My skin feels clammy, hot. I didn’t imagine it. Someone was there, watching. I move along the next aisle, and the next, my footsteps rapid in the hushed space.
There are people browsing. A middle-aged woman in tights and cherry-red boots. A skinny young man wearing a baggy jumper and pale jeans in an unfashionable cut. No one is looking at me – yet I’m sure that moments ago someone was right there, on the other side of the shelf, watching.
He comes to mind as he always does. Linden. The library setting. The pulp and mint scent of him in my nose. He feels so present, so real, that it is as if I can feel his breath against my neck.
But it isn’t possible. Of course it isn’t.
Looking down at the books in my hand, I realise that if I return them to the shelf, whoever loans them will see the word Liar written on the title page, right beside my name.
I could ask Maeve or Laura to check the system to see who the last person was to borrow them. No, not a good idea. It will invite attention, speculation.
Dispose of them. That’s what I need to do. Tucking them underarm, I hurry to my desk, push them into my handbag, then shut down my laptop.
‘Elle?’
I swing round to find Mark behind me. ‘What are you doing here?’
He holds up a clutch of hardbacks. ‘Returning Mum’s library books – if that’s okay with you?’
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. All I can think about are the graffitied books. Did Mark see? Was it him, earlier, watching me through the shelves?
‘I’m heading back to London tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’d ask you to look in on my folks, but …’
‘Of course I will.’
He considers me. ‘All right, then. That’d be good.’ He shrugs. ‘Well, see you next time then. Unless your place is shuttered up.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘February – that’s the month that people dread the most. We’ll see if you hack it.’ He smiles.
Then he crosses the library and places his mother’s books in the deposit box. I wait a full minute, then pack up my laptop and belongings and make for the exit, too, keeping my head down.
As I move through the doors, I’m startled by the hammering beeps of an alarm. An automated voice commands: ‘Please see a member of staff.’
I freeze, heat rising to the surface of my skin.
‘Elle! Hello!’ Laura is coming towards me. ‘Our security system seems to be working: we don’t allow authors to leave the building without saying hello!’
It takes me a moment to realise she is joking. I adjust my expression. Smile.
‘Yes, sorry!’
‘I did see you earlier, but I didn’t want to say hello and interrupt your flow. Looked like you were beavering away. It’s coming up soon, isn’t it?’
I blink.
‘Your book deadline. The library follows your Facebook account. Your deadline is next week, isn’t it?’
‘Oh. Right. Yes.’
‘Well, good luck with it! We’re all so excited to read the second book.’ She takes a breath. ‘I suppose I should let you go. Sorry about the gates. They must have taken a disliking to you. Sometimes they do that, don’t they?’ she says to Maeve, as she approaches us.
‘Nice to see you again, Elle. Yes, sorry, the gates can be a little oversensitive. Do try them again.’
The man in the waistcoat is lingering nearby, pretending to browse. I can feel myself overheating beneath my jumper as I approach the gates. The alarm immediately beeps as I pass through them.
‘Oh,’ Laura says, bewildered. ‘I really don’t understand. You’ve not got any books stashed in your bag?’
I remind myself to keep smiling. ‘No books. Just here to work this time.’
‘I saw you.’
My head snaps round.
The man in the waistcoat is pointing at me. ‘You put two library books in that bag.’
My face flames.
‘Would you mind serving this gentleman?’ Maeve says to Laura. Then, to the man, she adds, ‘I assume you want to borrow those books in your hand?’
He looks chastised as he follows Laura towards the checkout desk.
‘This is mortifying,’ I whisper to Maeve once we are alone, ‘but he’s right.’ I pull out the two copies of my novel.
If Maeve is surprised, she doesn’t show it.
‘They’ve been defaced. I was too embarrassed to bring them to the counter, so I was going to … well, take them home.’
‘Defaced?’
I feel my fingers tightening around the books. I don’t want her to see what is written. I don’t want anyone to see.
‘May I?’ she asks, holding out her hand.
I have no choice. I pass them to her. ‘At the front.’
I watch her expression as she turns to the title page, sees my name with the word Liar beside it.
She goes to open the second book, but I say, ‘It’s the same. On both books.’
Her gaze slides to me. She looks as if she is about to say something – but then changes her mind. She glances away.
‘Nothing like this has ever happened to any of our books. I’ll try and get to the bottom of it.’
‘No, please. Don’t worry. It’s not a problem. I don’t want to make a fuss.’
‘We’ll order fresh copies for the library. I’m very sorry this has happened. I hope it won’t put you off visiting us here
.’
I step from the library, grateful to be outside, to feel fresh air against my cheeks.
As I am moving away, that’s when I think I hear it, the low whisper of Maeve’s voice from behind me: Liar.
But when I turn, Maeve already has her back to me, her head bent over the copies of my book, examining them.
2004
Elle heard the door slam, the last of her housemates leaving for the day’s lectures. No one called out to ask if she was coming. No one checked if she was all right. It was as if she no longer existed, as if the Elle they used to drink with, laugh with, study with, had just – vanished.
She climbed from her bed fully dressed. She hadn’t changed in days. Her hair felt matted and lank, her skin puffy beneath her fingertips. There was no danger of catching sight of herself in the mirror as she’d obscured the glass by draping a scarf across it.
She opened her bedroom door a crack, peering out across the narrow landing. They were gone. The house was completely empty. She needed a glass of water, but even that felt like a task that required more energy than she had.
At the bottom of the stairs, post spilled across the doormat. Her eye was caught by a thick cream envelope that looked out of place amid the glossy flyers about contents insurance and pizza loyalty vouchers.
She turned it over, her heart kicking against her chest as she saw her name handwritten on the front. Hesitantly, she slid her finger beneath the envelope corner, tearing it open and pulling out an A5 slip of thick card.
Written in a slash of red lipstick, the word LIAR filled the space.
Blood drained from her face.
Her fingers shook as she shredded the card, tearing it over and over, until a confetti of cream paper lay at her feet, the red smear of lipstick left behind on her fingertips.
26
Elle
In the tar-black dark of two a.m., I lie with my eyes closed, ears alert to the shifting sounds of the sea. If I could just keep my mind there, pin it to the water, the changing rhythm of the waves, then perhaps I would be okay, perhaps sleep would arrive.
Instead, my thoughts swim to shore. Drag themselves across a dark beach, up jagged rocky steps, they press their darkness to the windows of this bedroom and peer in, searching for me.
They ask questions that I don’t want to answer.
Why did you lie, Elle?
Is this the life you want?
Even when I try to explain, they are not listening.
Instead, they gather a crowd, until at my bedroom window I see the faces of Flynn, my mother, Fiona. They are staring as if it is not me in this bed, but a stranger, someone they do not recognise.
*
Five days until my deadline. Time is a noose, tightening around my neck. I need to retain focus, stay calm.
I’m halfway through composing a sentence when the door knocker raps. The sound jolts me – the words I need billowing tantalisingly out of reach. I squeeze my eyes shut, hands still poised above the keyboard, imploring my brain cells to grasp them before they are lost completely.
The knocker raps a second time – and with it, the sentence vanishes like smoke.
I place my palms on the desk. Groan. I may as well answer now.
I hurry downstairs and pull open the front door, blinking into the sun-bright December sky.
Laura is on my doorstep, smiling, her skin flushed pink, her hair windswept. She is holding up something – a piece of material in ivy and ink swirls.
‘Your scarf,’ Laura beams. ‘You left it at the library. I found it beneath your chair.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I take the proffered scarf. ‘Thank you.’
Just behind Laura, I notice a mint-green bicycle propped on its foot stand, a satchel heaped in a wicker basket.
‘You cycled here?’
‘I try and get a little exercise on my days off.’
‘It’s kind of you to return my scarf, but you really shouldn’t have gone out of your way.’
‘No trouble,’ she says, brightly. ‘Gave me a reason to get some fresh air.’ Laura smiles, sets her hands at her sides, giving no indication that she plans to leave.
‘I would invite you in, but I’m writing. Deadline time.’
‘Course! I wouldn’t dream of holding you up. Although I do have a very quick favour to ask. I’m going to see my sister this afternoon. She’s just had a baby. He’s three days old. Alfie. I wanted to take her a present. It’s always the baby who gets all the fuss, isn’t it? But I think she deserves something, just for her. She’s had a bit of a hard time of it … So I was thinking about what might be nice, and I decided a book could be a good thing – to keep her company during the night feeds – and then I thought of you! Helen will totally love your novel. I don’t suppose I could buy a copy, and have you sign it? I went to the bookstore on the way here – but they’ve sold out, of course! If you had a spare, I’d be so grateful. Helen would love it.’
After the solitude of my writing room, the hurried thrust of Laura’s speech leaves me dazed. I widen my eyes, trying to focus on Laura.
‘You know, if that would be okay?’ she says, uncertain now.
It is such a small request – a signed copy of my book – and Laura has cycled all this way.
‘Yes. Of course.’
I usher Laura into the hallway. ‘Wait in the warm for a moment. I’ll just fetch the book from my office.’
‘Is that on the top floor? I’ve never been in a writer’s room. Mind if I nip up with you?’
I hesitate. ‘Sure.’
Laura bends to undo her trainers. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll only be a moment.’
She seems to miss my hint as she removes her jacket, hanging it on a hook above the settle with a familiarity that causes me to pause. As Laura’s hand lowers, it brushes my winter coat, and I think once again of my missing brooch.
Everything feels too visceral, too pointed. I don’t trust the sharpened edges of my thinking right now, yet, as we move up the stairs, I can’t shake the feeling that the deeper I lead Laura into the house, the harder it will be to remove her, a worm burrowing.
I regret the churlish direction of my thoughts when I see Laura’s giddy delight on entering the writing room. She claps her hands together.
‘This is literally the most beautiful room ever. And look! Your desk! It’s like it’s floating in the air. Oh, Maeve was right.’
‘Maeve?’
Laura startles at the abruptness of my tone. ‘We watch your Facebook Live videos – you know, where you talk about writing tips? Maeve said that lovely, pared-back feel to the room would probably feel so calming to write in.’
They both watch me?
Going to my bookcase, I remove a spare copy of Wild Fear.
‘Your sister’s name – was it Helen?’ I ask, taking a black marker from a drawer.
‘Yes. She will just be completely thrilled about this!’
I scribble a brief message, wishing Helen luck with the new baby.
‘There,’ I say, handing the book to Laura.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘It’s on the house to say thank you for returning my scarf.’
‘Really? That’s so generous. Thank you. I don’t know what to say. Helen will love it – we always like the same books. It’s that funny thing with sisters. One of us will be describing a book to the other – and half the time, the other one is reading the same book. Not surprising though; we’re both such book lovers.’
We’re both such book lovers. I turn the words over in my mind.
Something is trying to connect in my thoughts.
I concentrate on that comment – and eventually it comes to me. Booklover101. I think of their profile picture, a shot of a bike, its wicker basket filled with books.
Laura?
She is looking out at the view. ‘It’s mesmerising here. So nice to see the view in the day time. I can see why you built your office at the top. It really must feel like you’re a million miles from real
life.’
She is standing very close to my desk, where my laptop is open, part of the manuscript on screen.
‘Although,’ Laura continues, ‘must be a bit eerie at night. No curtains. All that dark water right there.’ She shudders. ‘That was so odd about your library books, wasn’t it? Liar,’ she says, whispering the word. ‘Wish I’d spotted it first, so you didn’t have to. I’ve been wracking my brains about it. It’s so pointed, so direct. To do it on both copies of your book. We occasionally see the odd bit of vandalism – but that, that felt directed. Personal. Why specifically write, Liar?’ She fixes her gaze on me. It is as if she is trying to read the explanation in my expression.
‘No idea.’ I clear my throat and say, ‘I’m afraid I need to get back to work now, Laura, so I will see you out.’
She follows me downstairs.
When I open the front door, I stare at her bike again.
‘Laura,’ I say, turning to her. ‘What profile name do you use on Facebook?’
There is a pause. ‘Laura Allan, of course. Why?’
I shake my head lightly, saying, ‘No reason.’
She looks at me, her face unreadable. Then shrugs.
As she moves down the flagstone steps, she calls, ‘See you Thursday!’
I must look blank, as she adds, ‘Book club. It’s at Maeve’s.’
‘Right, see you then.’
I pull the door closed with a sense of relief. Picking up the scarf she returned, I wind it loosely around my neck, then begin climbing the stairs to my writing room.
I hesitate, a hand on the bannister. Lowering my chin into the scarf, I breathe in. Caught in the weave of the fabric is the distinct smell of Laura’s perfume.
Back at my desk, I try to recapture my focus, but Laura’s visit has left me agitated. I read back over the previous scene to try and feel my way into the story.
It is a relief to note that the language is crisp and the pacing feels taut. The protagonist steps from the page, vivid and alive. I can hear her voice in my head, can visualise the small details of how she moves, from the expressive curl of her lips, to the tension she holds in her shoulders.