You Let Me In

by Lucy Clarke

  It is only when I reach the end of the scene that I find myself sitting back heavily, my fingers pressed to my mouth.

  I have no recollection of doing it. Embedded within the novel, instead of my protagonist’s name, there in black and white, is my own.

  2004

  She felt the slide of gazes as she gathered her final things – the pile of DVDs in the lounge, the candle-holder on the windowsill, the crockery pushed at the back of her cupboard – while her housemates made vague excuses before disappearing to their rooms.

  She loaded the back seat of her mother’s car, aware that only months earlier they’d been making this journey in reverse. Her mother’s voice was lined with confusion as she asked, ‘Are you sure?’

  Elle nodded. Tried to smile for her mother.

  ‘I’m not enjoying the course,’ she’d said on the phone when she explained why she was dropping out of university.

  When the final box was packed into the car, Elle went to climb in.

  Her mother looked at her, brow furrowed. ‘Aren’t you going to say bye to your housemates?’

  She swallowed. ‘Oh, yeah.’

  Inside, she climbed the stairs for a final time. The door to Louise’s bedroom was open, and she found her sitting cross-legged on the single bed facing Claire.

  The two of them turned to look at her in the doorway.

  Elle cleared her throat. ‘I just came to say bye.’

  ‘Bye, then,’ Claire said.

  Louise said nothing.

  Elle shrugged, was about to leave, when she saw a shift in Louise’s expression, her shoulders jostling as she folded her arms, her lips pursing. Elle had seen this look before – knew that she was gearing up, readying herself.

  ‘We’re never going to see each other again,’ Louise said, ‘so I may as well tell you. What you’ve done isn’t right.’

  Elle stood very still, felt the raised beat of her heart.

  ‘You’re the worst type.’

  She waited.

  ‘A wolf-crier.’

  Her cheeks burned with a shameful heat. A flash of memory scorched her thoughts – the slow cross of her bare legs, the glint in her eyes as she’d smiled at him.

  ‘You might have withdrawn the allegation, but you’ve ruined everything for him. Mud sticks.’

  Elle turned away.

  She was already on the landing when she heard Louise’s voice calling after her, ‘It will stick to you, too.’

  27

  Elle

  ‘Inspiration gets you off the starting blocks, but to make it to the finish line you need tenacity, determination, and grit.’

  Author Elle Fielding

  Maeve’s house has a glossy red door with a simple brass knocker. It is mid-terrace, set in a row of narrow, traditional Cornish houses. A window-box with still-flowering plants stands proud from the pebbledash wall.

  I raise my hand to the knocker, then hesitate. I can’t hear any voices inside and wonder if I’ve got the correct evening for book club.

  I curse under my breath, realising that I’ve forgotten the wine. There’s a bottle of Sancerre chilling in the fridge that I’d intended to bring. I can’t arrive empty-handed. I take it as a sign that I should just go home. I’m bone-tired, preoccupied by my deadline. The only place I should be is at my desk.

  Returning to my car, I mentally compose the text message I’ll send Maeve, apologising and citing my book deadline. No one will mind.

  I’m reaching for the car door handle, when there is a rush of feet behind me. Hands grip my waist.

  ‘No, you don’t!’

  Startled, I twist around.

  On the dark pavement, it takes me a few seconds to recognise the face beaming at me from within the fur-trimmed hood of a duffle coat.

  ‘Hope you weren’t thinking about slipping off,’ Laura says.

  ‘No … well, I just … I left the wine at home.’

  ‘Lucky I’ve got two then, isn’t it?’ She opens the tote bag at her side and pulls out one of the bottles. ‘Anyway, this one was for you.’

  I must look confused as Laura adds, ‘To say thank you for signing the book for my sister. She was so happy. She cried! Although that could be the hormones.’

  ‘You really needn’t have,’ I say, embarrassed by the gift. As I accept the proffered wine, I notice the label: Sancerre.

  ‘Your favourite.’

  ‘How did you—’

  Laura taps the side of her nose. Then she tucks her arm through mine and steers me firmly towards Maeve’s front door.

  ‘Welcome.’ Maeve ushers us into a narrow hallway lined with black-and-white prints of iconic 1950s items: a jukebox, a typewriter, a pair of platform patent shoes.

  Maeve hangs our coats from a stand, then directs us into the lounge, where a cherry-wood dining table has been pushed back against the wall to maximise space.

  Fiona isn’t here yet, but most of the book club are already seated, and the room feels hot and stuffy, a small electric fire pumping out heat.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ says Ana, who is sitting on a pale blue Ercol sofa, looking stylishly casual in high-waisted trousers. ‘We were just talking about you, Elle.’

  ‘Oh?’ I say, joining her.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Thought I’d read it was deadline time on your Facebook page.’

  ‘Forty-eight hours to go.’

  ‘Wow. Are you on track?’

  ‘Nothing like a bit of pressure to focus the mind.’

  Maeve pours the wine and hands me a glass, saying, ‘If you ever need any early readers, you know you’d have a team of volunteers here.’

  ‘She sure would,’ Laura agrees.

  The knocker raps again and Maeve slips out. I hear Fiona’s voice from the hallway.

  ‘Last one here? I’d hate to lose my mantle. Fucking lasagne. It always takes three times longer to make than you think.’

  She strides into the room, and I smile, pleased to see her. Perhaps it is the lighting, but she looks tired. There are new lines etched into her brow, and her face looks pale and drawn.

  ‘Have you read it?’ Laura says to Fiona. ‘Elle’s new book. We were just offering to be her early readers.’

  Fiona puffs air from her lips. ‘You are joking? This one,’ she says, nudging me in the ribs, then squeezing onto the sofa next to me, ‘is a master of secrecy. I don’t even know what it’s about.’

  ‘I don’t like to give away any spoilers.’ I smile, then say, ‘Did you really make lasagne?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. Occasionally I do actually feed my family.’

  ‘Where’s Steven tonight?’ Ana asks Maeve.

  ‘Late shift. Phoebe’s upstairs – purportedly doing homework.’

  It’s a relief to know he’s out. Can’t say I’m eager to face him after the humiliation of the call-out.

  I take another drink, surprised to see I’ve almost finished my wine. I lean across the low coffee table and pick up the bottle. I scan people’s glasses looking for someone’s to top up, but no one needs a refill. I tend my own, deciding that I could leave my car here overnight, get a lift with Fiona.

  ‘I’m only about a quarter of the way through,’ Katherine, the assistant headteacher, is saying. ‘Things have been manic at school. Ofsted came last week. I keep falling asleep as soon as I begin reading.’

  Sleep. Wouldn’t that be a delicious thing? In the heat of the lounge with the wine softening the muscles in my back, I feel exhaustion washing over me. It would be so tempting just to close my eyes, right here.

  I blink rapidly in a bid to stay alert. I could really do with opening a window. Glancing around, roman blinds are covering the bay window. On the shelf below, I admire the cluster of succulents in terracotta dishes. In the centre of them there is a framed photo of two women sitting beneath a blossom tree, on a carpet of petals. The younger woman looks like Maeve, and her arm is wrapped around another woman – her mother, possibly. In the background is a pale, re
gal building, fronted by large pillars. It takes me a moment to place it: the Bute building from Cardiff University. I remember walking in the park beyond it on a spring morning, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. A rush of heat rises through my body as Luke Linden pushes so suddenly into my thoughts that it is as if I’ve been shoved hard in the stomach.

  When I glance up, Maeve is watching me closely.

  ‘The Bute building,’ I say, nodding at the photo. ‘Do you know Cardiff well?’

  ‘I used to live there.’

  ‘Really? Whereabouts?’

  ‘On the outskirts of the city, near the docks.’

  ‘Didn’t you work at the university library?’ Laura asks.

  ‘Yes, for a time. That was before I had Phoebe.’

  Maybe we crossed paths in the year I studied there. I wonder whether Maeve had heard the rumours about me, which spread like wildfire through corridors and lecture halls.

  Ana sits forward, saying, ‘On the subject of photos, is anyone friends with my ex-husband on Facebook? Have you seen his pictures from Goa?’

  ‘He went with her, I take it?’ Maeve asks.

  ‘Yes. I think they’ve had some sort of joining operation, so they can’t physically separate or their internal organs begin to fail. After all he said about public displays of affection, he took a photo of them mid-snog. Thank God we don’t have children to humiliate.’

  ‘Pete? I don’t believe it!’ Fiona says.

  Ana takes out her phone. ‘I’m warning you, it may put you off your wine.’

  ‘How little you know me.’

  Ana finds the picture she’s been describing and holds up her phone.

  ‘I mean, he’s wearing a beaded necklace, for God’s sake. He’s forty-two.’

  Then she turns the screen towards herself and continues scrolling. A few moments later, her brow dips and she glances sideways at me.

  ‘That’s weird.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘In my news feed it shows you’re live on Facebook right now.’

  ‘Must be an old post.’

  Ana shakes her head. ‘No. It shows you went live at 8.05 p.m. this evening. What’s that, quarter of an hour ago?’

  ‘You must have accidentally pressed it in your pocket,’ Laura says. ‘Oh, we’re probably all live right now!’

  ‘No. I’m looking at the feed,’ Ana says, her voice low, serious – causing the room to fall quiet. ‘It’s live from your house, Elle. From your writing room.’

  28

  Elle

  I’m aware of a quickening in my chest, heat spreading up my neck.

  I stare at Ana’s phone trying to absorb what I’m seeing.

  My writing room is lit by my desk lamp, the beam of light fanning towards the back wall. The room appears exactly as I left it. My chair is empty. My notebook is open on my desk, a pencil resting in the spine.

  Beside me, someone is asking a question, but the words drift away. The world feels as if it is slowing down, grinding to a halt. My focus shrinks to the rectangular screen in my hands.

  The live feed almost looks as if I’m staring at a photo, as everything is static. When I look closely, I notice something else. In the corner of the room I can see my oak trunk. It’s not right. The wooden lid is open, hinged wide, like a screaming mouth.

  I did not leave it open – I haven’t looked inside it for days.

  Have I?

  I swallow, moving my tongue across my inner cheeks, trying to get some saliva working.

  There are dozens of comments running alongside the screen.

  Hello! Hello! Anyone there?

  Think you’re having technical problems – we can’t see you!

  Nice room – but, where are you?

  Everything okay?

  Accidental live? Lol! Sort of thing I’d do!

  The wine is flooding darkly through my head. I press my fingertips to my lips, thoughts swimming. I am distantly aware of the phone being removed from my grip.

  The open trunk, I’m thinking, Why?

  Fiona studies the screen. ‘Did you accidentally set it to Live before leaving?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, definitely not.’ I’m working hard to keep the panic from my voice, but I can feel the other women exchanging glances.

  ‘Did you shut down your computer?’

  ‘It was on sleep mode.’

  Across the room, Maeve says, ‘Perhaps there’s some sort of glitch, a self-start thing, and it logged you back into Live mode.’

  I want to believe that is possible, yet I’ve never heard of anything like that happening. Computers don’t simply wake themselves up, unprompted, and set off a live video.

  ‘Can you log in through your phone? Switch it off?’ Ana asks.

  I pull my handbag onto my knee, hands shaking as I take out my phone and open Facebook. When I log on, there is a message to say my account is in use. There is an option to override it and end the live session. I click.

  A beat later, the live recording has disappeared. I sit in silence, blinking at the empty screen.

  ‘Probably one of those weird, unexplainable computer-type things,’ one of the women offers.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, rubbing at my neck where my skin has flushed red. ‘I’m just going to get a glass of water.’ I leave the room, aware that everyone is watching me.

  I follow the hallway into a brightly lit galley kitchen.

  Fiona is a few steps behind. ‘You okay?’

  I turn. ‘No. That was so fucked up. You saw it, didn’t you? A Facebook Live from my house when I’m not there. What the hell is that? The trunk in my writing room was open. I didn’t leave it like that. Someone’s been in there. Someone’s been through my things. I—’

  Fiona steps closer, placing her hands on my shoulders. ‘Breathe.’

  I suck in air, tipping my head back to exhale. Between breaths I say, ‘There was the cracked paperweight, the tap left running, getting locked in my writing room … It’s like there’s a fucking poltergeist in my house.’

  ‘Did you just use the word poltergeist?’

  ‘How do you explain it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea how these things work, but it’s probably like Maeve said, some random technical hitch.’

  I don’t respond.

  ‘On the plus side, at least your writing room looked groomed. If I’d gone Live from my desk, everyone would’ve spent half an hour staring at the mould growing from my coffee cups.’

  I fail to muster a smile.

  ‘Look, weird stuff happens. Fact. Don’t let that brain of yours over-process this, okay? I don’t want to hear the word poltergeist ever again, and if you begin suspecting anything along the lines of your Airbnb renter morphing through the walls to set up a Live feed, then I’m going out myself and buying you that dog.’ Fiona smiles. ‘How about we pour you a big glass of wine, then go back in and pretend like we’re remotely interested in whatever book they’re about to discuss?’

  I’m grateful to Fiona for rallying. I know she’s trying her best to jolly me away from anxiety. But she can’t. My head is crowded with everything I’ve not shared. I feel like I’m creaking under the pressure of it all.

  ‘There’s more to it,’ I whisper.

  She looks right at me.

  ‘I think … someone set it up. As a message.’

  ‘Please tell me you recognise how paranoid that sounds?’

  I look at my hands. ‘There are things I haven’t told you, Fiona.’

  When I lift my gaze, her eyes are pinned to me.

  The air in the room constricts, feels harder to draw.

  There are footsteps behind us. ‘Everything okay?’ Laura asks brightly.

  I look away, nod.

  The moment is gone.

  I climb Maeve’s narrow staircase in search of the bathroom. I need to splash water over my face. I breathe deeply, working to bring down my heart rate.

  Reaching the landing, I open the bathroom door and find myself stepping backw
ards, startled.

  ‘Sorry!’ I apologise to a teenage girl, who is sitting cross-legged on a single bed, a mobile in her hand. ‘I was looking for the bathroom.’

  ‘Next door.’ The girl considers me for a moment. ‘Are you the writer?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Cool,’ she says, smiling a little.

  ‘It’s Phoebe, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Her room is a contrast to the rest of the house, a teenage den filled with baskets of nail polishes and cotton balls; bottles of perfume and colourfully packaged body lotions jostle on a dressing table; beaded necklaces hang from the corners of a mirror. Somehow, it’s calming being in here, normalising.

  ‘Hope our book club isn’t disturbing your night?’

  She shrugs. ‘I read your book. I liked it.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you,’ I say, a little taken aback. Phoebe can be no more than, what thirteen? Fourteen?

  ‘There’s my copy,’ she says, pointing towards the top shelf of a bookcase, which is adorned with tiny star-shaped fairy lights.

  ‘You read a lot,’ I say, my gaze travelling along the titles. ‘The Girls. I loved that book. And you’ve got Eleanor & Park!’

  ‘It’s one of my favourites,’ she tells me, eyes sparkling.

  ‘Have you read We Were Liars? It’s beautiful – reminded me a bit of The Girls.’

  Phoebe moves to the bookcase and pulls out a copy of that very book.

  ‘You have excellent taste! Maybe you should recommend the next choice for our book club,’ I say, and Phoebe grins.

  As she sets the book back on the shelf, my gaze is drawn to a photo housed in a silver frame. I find myself looking at a face that I haven’t seen in fourteen years, a face that visits me in dark, tangled dreams, a face that causes my stomach to fall, my breath to shatter.

  Luke Linden.

  In the photograph, he’s wearing a brown corduroy jacket, the same jacket he used to wear when he stood at the front of the lecture theatre, moving easily across the space, the soles of his brogues squeaking on the polished wood.

  In the photograph, he’s holding a baby, a round-faced little girl with a mass of fine black hair. The baby’s head is cushioned in the crook of his elbow, her gaze turned towards him.