Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Lucy Clarke 2018

Cover design by Simeon Greenaway © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Jacket photograph © Roderick Field/Trevillion Images

Lucy Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008262549

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008262563

Version: 2018-10-26

Dedication

For my parents, Jane and Tony.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

1. Elle

Previously

2. Elle

Previously

3. Elle

2003

4. Elle

Previously

5. Elle

2003

6. Elle

2003

7. Elle

Previously

8. Elle

Previously

9. Elle

2003

10. Elle

11. Elle

2004

12. Elle

Previously

13. Elle

Previously

14. Elle

Previously

15. Elle

2003

16. Elle

Previously

17. Elle

Previously

18. Elle

2004

19. Elle

20. Elle

2004

21. Elle

Previously

22. Elle

2004

23. Elle

24. Elle

Previously

25. Elle

2004

26. Elle

2004

27. Elle

28. Elle

29. Elle

2004

30. Elle

31. Elle

32. Elle

33. Elle

34. Elle

35. Elle

36. Elle

37. Elle

Epilogue: One year later

Acknowledgements

If you enjoyed You Let Me In, don’t miss these other breathtakingly gripping novels from Lucy Clarke

About the Author

Also by Lucy Clarke

About the Publisher

Prologue

I’d like to offer you one piece of advice. It’s just a small thing. It won’t apply to many of you – but it is important.

It changed everything for me.

It’s this: if you’re considering letting someone into your house, pause first. Think.

Think about what it means to give a stranger – or strangers – the keys to your home.

Think about that stranger drifting through your house; a hand slipped into a drawer; fingers trailing through the clothes hanging in your wardrobe; the bathroom cabinet opened, examined.

Think about where their gaze may linger; the photos of you and your family hanging on the walls; the calendar in the kitchen outlining your plans; the file you keep at the bottom of a trunk.

Think about that person lying in your bed; the mattress moulding to their warm body; tiny cells of their skin shedding on your sheets; their breath moist against your pillow.

What other parts of themselves will they leave behind?

What parts of you will they discover?

1
Elle

‘What happens in the first chapter of your novel should be like an arrow pointing to the last.’

Author Elle Fielding

I slow the car into the curve of the lane, feeling it bounce over ruts and channels, loose gravel spraying from beneath the tyres.

As the track climbs, I straighten, peering beyond the hedgerows to catch a glimpse of the sea. In the muted light of dusk, I spot whitecaps breaking across the water, the sea ruffled by wind. Already, my breathing softens.

I flick off the radio, not wanting the presenter’s voice to dilute the next moment. I’ve been looking forward to it during the long drive from London to Cornwall.

As I turn the corner, I see it: the house on the cliff top, standing like a promise at the track’s end.

*

Pulling into the driveway, I cut the ignition, and sit for a moment, engine ticking.

It still feels entirely incredible that this is where I live.

In the first meeting with the architect, I’d no idea what I’d wanted beyond the number of rooms and a space to write. Over the months that followed, those untethered ideas began to weave together into a vision, which now stands three storeys tall, overlooking the wave-pounded bay.

The house is painted dove-grey, with large windows framed in natural wood. ‘Contemporary coastal heritage’, the architect said. I’m glad the weatherboarding is starting to lose some of its stark newness, and the windows look pleasingly salt-licked. I still need to soften the exterior, perhaps train some wisteria to climb around the entrance – if it can survive the bracing sea winds.

I’ve never owned a house before. Or a flat. Growing up, my sister, mother and I always lived in rented accommodation. Words like house and mortgage were for other people, not us.

The car door swings wide as I step out, the sea breeze causing my dress to billow and flatten around my thighs.

Gravel crunches underfoot as I cross the drive, hauling the case onto the flagstone doorstep, then searching the depths of my handbag for my house keys. I’m one of those people who carries too much – purse, phone, pens, a novel, my notebook.

Always a notebook.

Slotting the front door key into the lock, I hesitate.

There is something unsettling about returning home knowing strangers have been staying here. My fortnight in France was laced with worry over the decision to Airbnb the house, so much so that twice I’d clambered onto the roof terrace of the farmhouse in search of mobile reception. Thankfully there were no cries for help from them, or my sister.

Standing on the doorstep, I have the unnerving sensation that when I open my front door, I will find the family who rented it still inside. The mother – an attractive woman with an expensive-looking hairstyle, I recall from her Airbnb profile – will be at my butler sink, water sluicing over pale hands that hold a plastic beaker. Behind her, I imagine a child in a high chair, pudgy fingers pushing a strawberry into its mouth. At the breakfast bar, a father will be cutting slices of toast into soldiers, lining them onto one of my stoneware side plates, before carrying it to a girl of three or four, who will count the pieces carefully with a fingertip.

There will be music playing. Talking and laughter. The side-step of parents’ feet as they avoid a toy car on the floor. All that noise and energy and movement that a family generates pulsing inside my house.

My heart contracts: it should be my family.

Pushing open the front door, I’m immediately aware that the air smells different. Something earthy and damp, mixed with the residue of someone else’s cooking.

The wind sucks the door shut, slamming it behind me with a startling clang.

Then silence.

No one to call out to. No one to greet me.

I drop my handbag onto the oak settle beside a pile of neatly stacked post. I glance at the bill resting on top, then look away. I slip off my shoes and walk barefoot into the kitchen.

Sea and sky fill the windows. Even at dusk the light is incredible. Two gulls wheel carelessly on the breeze, and beneath them the sea churns. This is why I fell in love with the house, which was originally a rundown fisherman’s cottage that hadn’t been modernised since the sixties.

I read somewhere that the beauty of a sea view is that it’s always changing, no two days are the same. I remember thinking the statement was pretentious – but actually, it’s true.

Pulling my gaze from the water, I scan the kitchen. The long stretch of granite surface is clean and empty. A note is tucked beneath the corner of a terracotta basil pot. In my sister’s handwriting, I read:

Welcome home! All went well with the Airbnb. Pop over for a glass of wine when you’re settled. Fiona x

I missed her. And Drake. I’ll go over tomorrow, suggest a beach walk, or a pub lunch somewhere with a play area so Drake can roam.

Right now, all I have the energy for is taking a long bath with my book.

I reach into the cupboard for a glass, and as I draw it towards the tap, a movement by my fingertips causes me to drop it, the tumbler smashing into the sink. A thick-legged house spider scurries from the broken pieces to take up a crouching position in the plug hole.

I shiver. There’s just something about the way spiders move – the jerkiness of all those articulated legs. With a sigh, I resign myself to the new task of removing the spider from the house. Catching it in a spare glass, I head for the front door.

The flagstones are freezing as I climb down the steps barefoot, then wince as I pick my way across the gravel to the far end of the driveway. This bugger isn’t getting back in. I set down the glass, then nudge it over with my toe, before hopping back. The spider remains motionless for a few moments. Then, with a flurry of black legs, it scuttles away.

I turn back towards the house just in time to see my front door catching in a gust of wind, slamming shut.

‘No!’ I hurry across the driveway and grab the handle, yanking at it fruitlessly. My palms slam against the door; I’m furious with myself.

My handbag is on the settee, my keys and mobile zipped within it, my jacket hanging from its hook. Idiot!

Fiona is my spare key holder, but her house is a good half-hour walk away. I can’t do it barefoot and coatless in November – I’ll probably freeze to death before I get there.

I look over my shoulder towards the bungalow that crouches beyond my house. It is the only other property on the cliff top and belongs to Frank and Enid, a retired couple who’ve lived there for thirty years.

I remember walking to their door that first time, my hand pressed in Flynn’s, filled with an excited anticipation that we were homeowners, that we were meeting neighbours. It all felt so impossibly grown up, as if we were play-acting. Frank had a brusque manner and looked at us through the corners of his eyes, as if trying to get the full measure of us. Enid fretted over the strength of the tea and that there were dishes in the sink from breakfast. But Flynn always had an easy, relaxed way with people and by the end of the visit a friendship had been made.

Now those visits are over. I haven’t been inside their home in months. If we pass on the single-lane road, Frank ensures it is me who reverses to a pull-in, or if he catches sight of me while putting the bins out, he looks determinedly away.

With a sinking feeling, I cross the driveway, framing my request for help.

My hair whips around my face, and I gather the long twist of it in one hand. I’m about to press the bell when the door swings open and a man steps out, shrugging on a black leather jacket.

He stops abruptly, hooded eyes fixed on mine.

‘Oh. Hi,’ I say, taken aback. ‘I’m Elle. I live next door.’

Through a curtain of thick, dark hair, his gaze flicks towards my house. The set of his features shifts, tightens. He looks to be a few years younger than me – in his late twenties, perhaps – the first scribblings of lines settling around his eyes, his jaw grazed with stubble.

‘The author.’ There’s something about his intonation that makes it sound like an insult.

‘That’s right. You must be Enid and Frank’s son?’

‘Mark.’

That is it. They’d mentioned a son some time ago – when we were all still on good terms. I think Enid had said he’d left Cornwall for work, but I can’t recall the rest of the details.

‘Here’s the thing, Mark. There was an incident with a spider … I was evicting it from the premises, when the wind caught me unawares and the door slammed shut. Stupidly, my keys and phone are inside.’

His gaze travels down my body, over the pale blue summer dress, down my tanned legs, settling on my bare feet, which are set together, my toenails painted a shimmering pearl. I want to explain, I don’t usually dress like this in November. I’ve come from the airport. I—

‘Shoes.’

I blink.

‘Your shoes are locked inside, too.’

‘Oh. Yes. They are.’ I hug my arms to my chest. ‘Would you mind if I used your phone to call my sister? She has the spare key.’

He waits a beat, then steps aside, holding the front door open. I move past him into the narrow hallway.

The smell of fried onions hangs thickly in the air, alongside something pungent. Weed, I realise, a warm burst of memory swimming back to me.

‘Are Enid or Frank home?’

‘No.’ There is a heavy clunk as Mark shuts the door. He stands with his back to it.

I shift. I always need to know where an exit is, to plan how I could get out of a room, a building – a habit ignited at university, which now seems impossible to shake. My gaze travels to the lock. Yale. No key on the internal side of the door.

‘So, are you visiting for a few days? You live in the city, don’t you?’ I ask, my friendly tone overlaying the first prickle of fear. ‘What is it you do? I think your mum mentioned something about computers, or I may have made that up.’

‘Why would you make that up?’

I can feel myself shifting uncomfortably beneath his gaze. I am a thirty-three-year-old woman. I don’t need him to like me. I just need to use his phone.

The landline sits on an old-fashioned telephone table, set below a brass-framed mirror. ‘May I?’

‘Not working.’

‘Do you have a mobile?’

There is a pause before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a mobile. He taps in a passcode, then holds it out to me. There is an odd moment of resistance – no more than half a second – where he holds onto the phone as I go to take it.

Flustered, I try to recall Fiona’s number. I don’t want to look up, yet I’m certain Mark’s gaze is on me. Heat is building in my cheeks.

‘I can’t remember her number. I used to know everyone’s numbers, but now they’re all programmed in our mobiles, aren’t they?’

He says nothing.

I clear my throat. I begin entering the dialling code and, as I do so, the rhythm of the rest of the number comes to me. Relieved, I hold the mobile to my ear, listening to it ring. I make a silent prayer that Fiona will be there.

The leather of Mark’s jacket squeaks as he leans against the door, checking his watch.

‘Yes?’ Fiona whispers, Drake most likely asleep nearby.

‘Oh, thank God! You’re there! I’m calling from someone else’s phone. Listen, I’m locked out. Tell me you have my spare key? That you’re home?’

‘I’m home. I have the spare.’

‘Can you come over? Or I could get a taxi to you if Drake’s in bed?’

‘Bill’s here. I can come. Gets me out of bath-time.’

‘Perfect, thank you.’

‘Whose phone is this?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

I can imagine Fiona’s expression as she tells Bill that she has to go and rescue her sister. Again. Getting locked out of the house is not the sort of thing that happens to Fiona. There will be some sort of system in place, a back-up key meticulously hidden, or a syndicate of neighbours with spares.

I return Mark’s phone. ‘My sister is on her way. She’ll only be ten minutes.’

There are several beats of silence. Then Mark says, ‘I’m going to be late.’

‘You … you want me to wait outside?’

He doesn’t answer, instead he opens an under-stairs cupboard and spends a moment rummaging within it. He turns back to me holding out a woman’s purple fleece.

Then he opens the front door. There is no mention of whether I’d like to borrow shoes. I step out onto the freezing concrete step noticing that dusk has slipped into night.

I push my arms into the sleeves, a musty, lavender scent filling my nostrils. ‘I’ll drop this back later.’

He shrugs as he moves past me, pulling the door closed behind him.

A black motorbike is parked at the edge of the property. I almost laugh. Of course he’d ride a motorbike! I watch as he pulls on his helmet, straddles the bike, then guns the engine.

Crossing the driveway, I’m grateful when the security light flicks on. I perch on my doorstep, the cold of the flagstone seeping through my seat bones.

‘Hurry up,’ I mutter to myself, imagining my sister sitting stiffly behind the steering wheel, sticking religiously to the speed limits.

I pull the fleece tighter, my shoulders hunched towards my ears.

I can feel the house behind me, looming, empty. I half wonder if it’s punishing me for abandoning it – like a dog put into kennels who ignores its owners when they return.

The security light switches off and I’m left shivering in the darkness.

Previously

A single-lane track carves through tall hedgerows, climbing towards the cliff top.

‘It’s at the very end,’ I tell the taxi driver.

The driveway is gravelled with grey and white stone, no doubt selected to complement the exterior paintwork and natural wood weatherboarding.

The house sits imposingly on the cliff top, steel struts bored into the rock so that the sea-facing side of the house seems to hang suspended above the cliff. There is something in the contrast of the fresh warmth of the house, versus the jagged dark hues of the rocks below. It is an incredible feat of architecture.

‘Lovely place you’ve got here,’ the driver says as the taxi crunches to a halt.

‘Yes, indeed,’ I say with a private smile.

I pay the fare, tipping him more than is necessary.

I carry my holdall to the front door, setting it down on the flagstone steps. I wait until the taxi has circled from the driveway and disappeared within the tunnel of hedgerows. Then I cross to the edge of the property where, as described in the email, the wheelie bins are stored within a discreet fenced area.

I drag the green recycling bin aside, which clinks with bottles. Beneath it lies a large pebble. I lift it carefully, feeling like a child turning over rocks in search of a treasured glimpse of woodlice or bugs.

There it is: the key to the house.

I return the wheelie bin into position, then cross the drive to the doorstep. My fingertips meet the solid wood door, painted in a grey-green shade that recalls the sea. I pause for a moment, aware of the magnitude of this moment stretching around me, raising the beat of my heart.

I glance once over my shoulder, just to be sure that there’s no one watching. I take a breath, then slot the key into the lock.

2
Elle

‘Thank God you were in,’ I say, refilling Fiona’s wine glass, then sinking back onto the sofa.

‘And if I hadn’t been?’

‘Flynn’s the only other person with a key.’

‘He still has a key?’

I shrug. ‘It’d feel churlish to ask for it back.’

Fiona doesn’t say anything. She never needs to. Her eyebrows – dark and angular – speak for her.

‘How did Drake get on at Bill’s parents?’ I ask. ‘I missed him. Maybe he could come over this weekend? I got him a little treat while I was away.’

‘He needs a treat reprieve. Bill’s parents let him watch cartoons for two hours a day – and took him for ice cream every afternoon. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked to be formally adopted.’

‘You must have missed him.’

‘You’re kidding? I had lie-ins. I didn’t cook. I got more work done than I’ve managed in months. I’ve asked if they’ll make it an annual thing.’

‘Is that right?’ I say, my turn to arch an eyebrow. Drake has just turned two and it’s the first time he’s stayed a night away from home. Bill spent months carefully negotiating the week-long visit to his parents in Norfolk.

‘What about you? How was France?’

‘Oh, fine.’ I’d been invited as a guest-speaker on a writing retreat. I’d deliberated over going, anxious about my approaching book deadline, but equally the retreat was so well paid that it would have been a mistake to turn it down. ‘They put us up in this stunning old farmhouse in the middle of the countryside. There was a beautiful pool. I swam every morning.’

‘If you’ve come back skinnier than you went, then you didn’t eat enough cheese.’

‘I ate cheese for breakfast.’

‘Good girl,’ she says, taking a drink of wine. ‘What were the guests like?’

‘Interesting, intelligent, passionate about books. One or two were a little intense. Deadly serious about word counts. In bed by ten o’clock.’ I pause. ‘You’d have liked them.’

Fiona laughs – a laugh I’ve always loved, loud and unapologetic.

‘Yes, but did any of them take revision notes into the shower?’

During her A Levels, she used to tuck her revision notes into a plastic sleeve, so that she could continue to study while showering. She’s always been the one with the focus, the drive.

‘Can’t say I witnessed it.’

‘And what about …’ Fiona pauses dramatically, ‘… your work in progress?’

I glance towards the window, lamplight reflected in the dark pane. Just the thought of my second novel makes my stomach tighten.

‘Still floundering in the wilderness.’

‘Will you make the deadline?’

I lift my shoulders. ‘It’s in six weeks’ time.’

Fiona assesses me closely. ‘What if you don’t?’

‘I lose the book deal.’

And then I lose this house, I think, panic beating its wings within my ribcage. I can’t let that happen.

Fiona knows the energy I’ve committed to this house, the long process of architectural drawings and planning applications, the months and months of builders clambering over scaffolding, craning in huge glass panels, drilling into rock to fit unyielding iron struts, the hours I spent studying bathroom fittings and flooring and paint charts.

It was all so unlike me – the me who drifted through my twenties owning little more than I could squeeze into a backpack. But I wanted it more than anything. Cornwall was where Fiona was. A house overlooking the sea was our mother’s dream. It was putting down roots, it was stability.

One evening, mid-build, when I’d returned to our rented flat in Bristol, Flynn kept his back to me, watching the flames dance in the fireplace, as he’d said, ‘I wonder if you’re putting too much energy into that house.’

That house. Never our house.

I wish I’d noticed the distinction back then.

I replied, ‘I want to make it perfect, so we never have to leave.’

‘Thank you for looking after things while I was away,’ I say to Fiona. ‘The house looks immaculate.’

‘Surprised?’

‘Very.’

‘It’s because I hardly had to do a thing. It was spotless.’

‘Was it? I was worrying about it while I was away. It just felt so strange knowing there was someone in my home that wasn’t me.’

‘I knew you’d be like that.’

Bill was actually the one who’d suggested I rent the house.

‘You know, if money is tight,’ he’d begun while we were barbecuing on the bay one evening, ‘you should think about putting the house on Airbnb over the summer.’

‘Remember my friend Kirsty from university?’ Fiona had asked.

I must have looked blank.

‘The English teacher. Had sex with the headmaster in his office – and a parent walked in.’

‘That Kirsty!’

‘She has a three-bed house in Twickenham and goes away over the school holidays and rents her place. She gets two grand a week for it.’

‘Two grand?’ I crouched down to examine a shell that Drake had brought to me. ‘It’s beautiful, baby,’ I said, planting a kiss on the smooth curve of his forehead, then folding my fingers around the shell. He trundled off in search of more.

‘Everyone’s doing it,’ Bill said. ‘Easy little earner.’

‘Yes, but this is Elle.’ Fiona threw me a look. ‘She took three days to choose the right handles for her doors.’

‘I can handle it,’ I said, grinning.

‘Anyway, don’t encourage her, Bill. You know who’ll have to look after it when she jets off on another book tour and some porn company decides to use it as the location for their next shoot—’

‘God, don’t!’ I laughed.

‘Contract cleaners in that case,’ Bill said.

‘Kirsty puts all their valuables in their study and locks off the room. Easy.’ Fiona plucked a piece of mint from her glass of Pimm’s and tore it between her teeth. ‘You know that place Bill and I stayed at when we went to Pembrokeshire? That was an Airbnb. They left everything. The wardrobes were full of this woman’s clothes. I think she was a ballroom dancer.’

‘Tell me you tried on something sequinned.’

‘She was more Bill’s size.’

‘I do love a leotard,’ he said, patting his stomach fondly. ‘Seriously though, you could charge a fortune for your place. You should think about it.’

And I had. I thought about it as I stared at the final invoice from the builders, my fingers trembling as I tapped numbers into my calculator. Fiona and Bill didn’t know – they still don’t – that I had to remortgage to pay the builders.

So this first Airbnb rental is a trial, a test run. The idea is that I rent out the house again in the summer and bugger off somewhere. My two best friends both live on the other side of the world; Nadia has moved to Dubai to teach English, and Sadie lives on a farm in Tasmania with her husband’s family.

I turn to Fiona, asking, ‘What were the family like who rented it?’

‘Yes, fine,’ she says, setting her wine glass on the lounge table.

‘Did they seem nice?’

‘I only met them briefly.’

I detect a tightness in her tone, which makes me ask, ‘Everything did go okay?’

‘Yes, absolutely. No breakages. I’ve released the deposit. They left a couple of bits and pieces behind.’ As Fiona unfolds herself from the sofa, I notice she’s lost weight. We’ve both always been slim, but there’s something angular about the breadth of her shoulders, her sternum pronounced at the open neckline of her shirt.

Fiona moves to the sideboard, picking up a pot of nappy rash cream, and a well-chewed plastic giraffe.

‘These were the only things I came across,’ she says, squeezing the giraffe until it squeaks.

Unexpectedly, sadness swells in my chest.

‘I’ve washed all the bedding – hot wash,’ she adds with a wink, ‘and taken Drake’s high chair home.’

‘Oh yes, thanks for the loan.’

‘I dropped it in the evening before they arrived and almost had a heart-attack as the alarm was on. I’d forgotten you’d told me you’d set it.’

‘You turned it off okay?’

‘On the sixth attempt. My eardrums bled. Right,’ Fiona says, sweeping across the lounge towards the doorway. ‘I’m going. Told Bill I’d only be half an hour.’

‘Sorry for stealing you.’

‘It’s fine, he has the television. Three’s a crowd.’

I stand and kiss my sister, our cheekbones clashing.

Locking the door behind Fiona, I move into the kitchen, flicking on all the lights and the radio.

I take my notebook from my handbag and position a pencil beside it. I take a step back, looking through the screen of my phone at the configuration. I snap the picture, then upload it to Facebook, adding the caption:

After a lovely fortnight tutoring on a writing retreat, I’m back home and SO excited to be diving into my novel – on the home straight now! #amwriting #authorlife

Then I put the props away.

Opening the fridge, I inspect its contents, hoping Fiona might have left a pint of milk or a loaf of bread – but it’s bare.

Too tired to contemplate getting back in the car, I root around in the pantry and pull out a bag of pre-cooked quinoa and toss it through with tahini and lemon juice. I eat standing up, flicking through the post.

I glance at the bills, trying to ignore the words FINAL REMINDER blazoned across my electricity statement. Next there are a couple of packages from my agent containing proof copies of other authors’ books requesting advance praise. The remainder of the mail includes requests for charity donations, two fan letters forwarded on from my publishers, and an invite to a friend’s birthday. Nearing the bottom of the pile my hands reach for a thick cream envelope embossed with a gold logo. It’s from Flynn’s solicitor.

In France I’d been reminded of our first trip together in our mid-twenties, when we’d taken the ferry to Bilbao and then driven north to Hossegor in Flynn’s battered Seat Ibiza with a surfboard strapped to the roof and a tent in the boot. We’d camped in the shade of thick pine trees and lived on noodles and warm batons of French bread. We drank cheap stubby beers and wine from cardboard containers, and spent the evenings playing cards by headtorch, or lying in the tent, the door unzipped, salt and sun-cream glossing our entwined limbs.

On that trip Flynn had talked about all the places he wanted to travel – and I had said yes to it all, knowing that I wanted to be anywhere but home. When I was with him, the rest of my life seemed like something that had happened to a different person, someone I was happy to leave behind in the campus of a university town I’d never return to.

I scrape the rest of the quinoa into the bin, then collect my suitcase and go upstairs. Flicking on my bedroom light, I pause in the doorway, my gaze on my bed.

Fiona has done a half job of making it, of course. The cushions aren’t plumped, the soft olive throw is stretched across the entire bed, not just the foot of it. These tiny details remind me that I wasn’t the last person to sleep in this bed – rather another woman and her husband.

I set down my case, then wander round my room, eyes scanning the clean surfaces. I slide open my wardrobe door; my clothes are still hanging in one portion of the wardrobe just as I’d left them, the rest of the rail clear for the other couple’s clothes. I move to my bedside drawer and pull it open. Empty, as I’d left it – oh, except for a small pot of men’s hair wax pushed right to the back. I twist off the lid and, seeing it is almost empty, drop it into the bin.

Taking out my washbag, I move to the large free-standing mirror at the foot of my bed, where I dab cleanser onto a cotton pad and sweep it gently around my face. I’ve picked up a little colour in France, and my hair has been lightened by the sun to a warm caramel shade.

As I lean in, that’s when I notice them: fingerprints. Larger than mine. I look closer: a hand has been pressed flat to the mirror, the smear of a stranger’s skin marking the glass.

Standing here with the empty room reflected behind me, an unsettling feeling creeps over my skin. Someone else has been in this room. Been in my house. The woman who’d rented it – Joanna – must have stood where I am, her image caught in the mirror. It feels as if this stranger’s gaze is still here, watching.

As I step back, a hot pain bursts into my heel.

I snatch up my foot, reaching out for the wall for balance. There is a deep puncture in the very centre of my heel, a bead of blood springing to the surface. What the hell have I stood on? I crouch down, searching the carpet, running my palms across it until they meet the waspish scratch of something.

A shard of glass, knife-sharp, is lodged deep in the plush carpet. I grip it between my fingers and carefully pull it out. The downlights illuminate a beautiful blue icicle, something vaguely familiar in the glitter of the glass.

Has something of mine been broken? I can’t think of anything in my bedroom that this piece could’ve come from. I keep the surfaces of my bedside table clear, except for a tripod lamp and a jug for flowers. My bottles of perfume have been packed away with the other breakables and valuables, which I’d locked in my writing room. It’s unsettling to not be able to place this lethal dagger of glass.

I wrap it in a tissue and, as I drop it into the bin, I glance down at the cream carpet and see it is marked with the crimson blush of my blood.

Previously

Oak, jasmine and something citrus – those are the smells that greet me as I step inside. There is a clean, fresh quality to the air that is different to my house: it is dry, free of cooking smells, or that earthy dampness that comes from washing dried on radiators.

I can’t help myself. ‘Hello?’

There is, of course, no reply. I smile. The quiet is beautiful, softened by the distant sound of the sea.

My black holdall looks incongruous on the solid oak floor. I kick off my shoes and leave them discarded. Yours, I see, are placed neatly beneath the oak settle.

I walk through the entrance hall, which leads straight into the spacious kitchen. The walls are a warm shade of white; I think the paint has been chosen with light-diffusing particles so that it feels as if the walls are breathing air into the room. The splashes of colour – chalky pastel shades – come from the painted wooden cabinets, the well-chosen artwork, the pottery carefully displayed.

The style is graceful, calming. It’s as if a handful of sea-bleached pebbles have been gathered and used as the basis for the palette. The modern, sleek lines of handle-less cabinets and a granite work surface have been married with a beautiful old farmhouse table, the wood ring-marked and age-worn. A long bench seat is set against the wall, strewn with hessian cushions. It’s a table for a family, or for dinner parties. Not a table for one.

I smile to see that the high chair, as requested, is placed at the end of this table, although it won’t be used, of course. On the kitchen counter there is a small bunch of wildflowers in an old honey pot, tied with brown string. Leaning against it is a handwritten card addressed to Joanna and family.

A thoughtful touch.

I pick up the card, tracing a finger across the elegant handwriting, but I don’t open it.

Setting it back down, I move past an aged dresser painted duck-egg blue, where earthenware mugs hang from neat iron hooks. Seagrass-speckled pots are stacked artfully between mason jars containing nuts, pulses and attractive spirals and ribbons of pasta. I slide open the dresser drawer and, as I reach into it, I experience the sharp sensation that someone is going to snap the drawer shut on my fingers, a child caught snooping.

I feel like a trespasser. Yet, in my pocket, I’m aware of the small but solid presence of the front door key resting against the top of my thigh.

I am no trespasser, I remind myself. You let me in.

3
Elle

‘If you’re going to throw a ticking bomb into the story, light the fuse at the beginning, and let us hear it tick.’

Author Elle Fielding

In the charcoal-coated dark of three a.m., I am awake. The cut to my heel throbs; my pulse seems to tick there.

Over the years I’ve tried a wealth of tips and tricks to soften insomnia’s grip: a soak in a lavender-scented bath; listening to an audio book; blackout blinds; a warm, milky drink before bed; that sodding meditation app that I’d thought was the key but eventually stopped working, too; no screen time; no sugar after dinner; sleeping pills; homeopathic remedies; acupuncture. Everything. I’ve tried everything.

People don’t understand that it’s not falling asleep that’s the problem. It’s staying asleep.

If only there was just a switch for my mind, some way of turning it off, or at least turning down the volume; instead, as the night draws deeper, worries begin to stir, stretch, wake. Harmless, innocuous happenings take on a different shape – the shadows they cast, stretching.

The chef I used to work with when I was waitressing in a pub called them the heebie-jeebies.

‘Don’t trust any thoughts you have between two a.m. and five a.m. It’s like listening to your drunk self.’

Reminding myself of this advice doesn’t settle me tonight. I inhale and exhale slowly, following the path of my breath.

But I can still feel it: the ice-sharp point of that shard of glass as it pierced my skin.

*

I lean against the kitchen counter, listening to the low gurgle of the coffee machine as the water begins to heat. What would I do without coffee? I finally stumbled into a deep, dreamless sleep at around five a.m., but now I feel thick-headed, disjointed.

Beyond the window, mellow white clouds blanket the sky, thin swatches of blue glimpsed beyond. A kayaker is powering across the bay, the paddle lifting and dipping with pleasing fluidity.

On the shoreline there’s a lone birdwatcher, collar pulled to their chin. They are standing with their head tilted back, binoculars raised towards the cliff. There’s a stillness about them that I admire – lovely to be so enraptured by bird life that you’d want to dedicate hours of your day to simply observing it.

I follow the direction of the birdwatcher’s gaze to see if I can locate what they’ve spotted.

As I follow the angle of their binoculars, unease trickles down my spine. Their gaze isn’t focused on the cliff. It is set higher.

They are watching my house.

A memory, match-bright, flashes through my thoughts: his slow smile; the dark, knowing eyes that followed me, hawk-like with exacting focus; the pleasure in his voice as he said my name.

I extinguish the memory with a blink, yet feel the shiver it leaves behind.

Course they’re not watching the house, I tell myself. The binoculars must be trained on a bird; sand martins nest nearby, and there are rare but occasional sightings of a pair of peregrine falcons.

The stranger’s hair is covered by a hat pulled low to their ears, but something about the way they stand, the straightness of their posture, a narrowness of shoulders, makes me wonder if it’s a woman.

The stranger seems to become aware of me at the window, as they lower their binoculars and, just for a moment, our eyes meet. There is a beat of time – no more than a matter of seconds – when we are looking at one another. Then the stranger turns, moves on.

Sliding my mobile towards me, I see my editor’s name flashing.

I adjust my face into a smile. ‘Jane. Hi.’

We exchange niceties about my writing retreat and Jane’s visit to the Frankfurt Book Fair, and then Jane takes a breath, signalling the inevitable slide from small talk to business.

‘So, I just wanted to touch base and check we’re on track for next month’s deadline.’

My shoulders stiffen. The book is already months overdue. I’ve cited house renovations and marriage difficulties – and in fairness to Jane, she has been understanding, extending the deadline twice. Her patience, however, is starting to thin – and I can’t blame her. A final deadline has been set for the tenth of December and, if the new novel isn’t handed in, I’ll be in breach of contract.

During the writing retreat, I’d made time to think about the novel I am writing – or more accurately, am not writing. I’ve been switching between ideas for months, with so many false starts that I’ve lost my confidence, my instincts. The ideas aren’t big enough, aren’t exciting enough to carry a reader through. If I’m not inspired or excited by a story – why should readers be?

Second novel syndrome, David, one of the other tutors on the creative writing retreat, had called it.

‘If you have a big success on your hands,’ he’d said, while spreading sun-warmed brie onto a cracker, ‘then it’s like all those generous words of praise from reviewers and readers are stacked up in front of you. Your debut was an international bestseller – it scooped every bloody award going. Readers are desperate for whatever’s coming next. It’s hardly surprising that every time you attempt to write, the expectation towers over the page. You’re writing in a book shadow.’

Book shadow, I’d thought afterwards as I’d lain in the cool of my room, red wine making my head swirl, the shutters thrown open so I could catch the sound of birdsong beyond the window.

‘It’s coming on well,’ I say to Jane now, the tightness between my shoulder blades spreading down my spine.

‘We’re all so excited to read it,’ Jane says brightly. ‘Would you be happy to send across what you’ve written so I can start to get the flavour of it? I’m eager to brief the designers for our cover development.’

I picture the plain black notebook, a tangle of words jostled into paragraphs, sentences scribbled out, entire pages slashed with a single pencil line.

‘Actually, I’m in the middle of revising a plot thread. If you don’t mind, let’s stick to the tenth of December.’

Jane accepts – what else can she say? We talk a little about an upcoming interview my publicist is in the process of securing with Red magazine, the date yet to be confirmed. Before Jane signs off, she says, ‘I’m looking forward to your Facebook Live debut shortly.’

I glance at my watch. Just under an hour to go.

Before I left for France, Jane talked me into doing a series of live videos, telling me it would be a good way to connect with readers and build up pre-publication buzz.

When I said I had no idea what I’d talk about, she sounded genuinely surprised.

‘Elle, you’re a confident, eloquent young woman. You’ll be fine. Readers just want to know more about you – where your ideas come from, how you write. That sort of thing. Keep it informal – maybe start each week with a writing tip, you know, like “Things I’ve learned as an author”. Then answer any questions.’

I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to say no.

Now she says to me, ‘We’ve been pushing it across our social media channels, so we’re hoping you’ll have several thousand people tuning in live. We’ll all be cheering you on at the office.’

All those people watching me. Asking me questions. Live. No room for mistakes. No possibility to edit. Nowhere to hide. Just me – Elle Fielding, author – in my writing room.

I put down the phone, aware that I’m sweating.

The air cools as I climb the stairs to the top of the house.

I kept my writing room locked during the rental; I needed somewhere to store my valuables – but also, I didn’t like the idea of a stranger sitting at my desk. Odd of me, I know.

I slip the key from my pocket and spend a moment fighting the lock, turning it back and forth until I hear the bolt release. I push the door wide open.

Light fills the space, the shimmering scales of the sea pouring through the glass wall, streaming over the stripped wooden floorboards and across white walls. When I’d designed this room, I’d wanted to create a space where my imagination could travel beyond a desk, beyond a computer screen, beyond the walls of the house – for it to sail off towards the endless promise of the horizon.

I’ve kept everything purposefully pared back and unadorned. The only pieces of furniture are an aged oak desk, a simple bookshelf constructed from reclaimed scaffold planks, which display a collection of my favourite novels, and a ceramic oil burner. In the far corner of the room, there’s a wingback chair turned to the view, and beside it an oak trunk that houses notebooks, photographs and diaries.

I cross the room, surprised to notice the fresh scent of salt in the air. I thought it would be stuffy up here after keeping the room locked for a fortnight.

Then I see it: the small window at the edge of the glass wall is open. I’m surprised – I always double-check the doors and windows. I must have somehow overlooked it. I know no one could have accessed the room during the Airbnb as I left it locked and took the only key with me.

I let the thought go as I settle myself at my desk. I love this desk. I came across it at Kempton Market four years ago. At the time, Flynn and I were living in a rented flat in Bristol, and I’d just begun working on my first novel – carving out slices of time to write in lunch breaks, or after I returned from a shift. I kept my ambition secret – except from Flynn – as somehow the dream felt too new, too fragile to be spoken about, as if a misplaced remark could have the power to damage it. As we’d left Kempton Market, I’d told Flynn, ‘If I ever get a book deal, the first thing I’m going to do is buy a writing desk.’

Unbeknown to me, Flynn called the seller and arranged for the old desk to be delivered to his mother’s garage. On the weekends when he visited his mother, he spent hours restoring the desk, treating it for woodworm, sanding it right back, working into the grooves of the ornate legs, removing the layers of varnish that had been reapplied over the years. He’d changed the handles, waxed the runners, and sealed the cracks.

A year later, when my novel was finally finished, I printed out six copies ready to send to prospective literary agents. That’s when Flynn took me to see the desk.

‘I was going to wait till you got your first publishing contract,’ he said, as we’d stood in his mother’s garage, the smell of turpentine spiking the air, ‘but I think this day is more important. You finished your book, Elle. Whether this one’s published, or whether it’s the next one, or the one after that – you’re a writer now.’

The timer on my phone beeps.

One minute to go.

My stomach turns over with nerves. Several thousand people tuning in live.

I sit up straighter, pull my shoulders back. I know what I need to do. What everyone is expecting from me.

I reset my focus, drawing my gaze to my laptop. My own face glares back at me on screen using the laptop’s camera. Perhaps it’s just the tilt of the screen, or the way the light pours into the room, but for a moment, I don’t recognise myself.

I reach for the mouse, hovering it over the GO LIVE button.

I click.

My smile stretches across my face. I can hear it in my voice as I say, ‘Hello, everyone. I’m Elle Fielding, and I’m live today from my writing room here in Cornwall. Thanks so much for joining me. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m the author of Wild Fear, a psychological thriller that was published last year.

‘Over the coming weeks I’m planning on chatting about my writing journey, sharing tips of what I’ve learned so far, and answering any of your questions.

‘Right, I suppose a good place to start would be with today’s writing tip. It’s something simple that we can all do: get a notebook. Keep it with you at all times. Our short-term memory retains information for three minutes, so unless it’s written down, ideas can be lost. This is my current one,’ I say, holding up a plain black notebook. ‘I keep it in my handbag, or by my bed at night, or anywhere I go. It reminds me that I’m always a writer, wherever I am, whatever I’m doing.’

I’m careful not to open it.

Not to show what is inside.

I take a breath. ‘Okay, so now it’s over to you and your questions.’ I peer at the left-hand side of the screen, where viewers are typing them in real-time. ‘I’ll do my best to answer as many as I can. The first one is from Cheryl Down. She asks, Your debut novel was an international bestseller. Does that put pressure on you for your second novel?’

I’m aware that Jane and her team will be watching. ‘Yes, there is some pressure – but, the good thing is that I began my second novel before Wild Fear was released, so I didn’t have any expectation at that point. I must admit, I’m a little behind in delivering – there was a house move and a big book tour – but things are finally settling, so I’m planning on getting my head down now.’

Tick.

‘Next up, Adam Grant asks, What did you do before you became an author?’ I smile. ‘What didn’t I do? I waited tables, served coffees, worked on a reception desk, manned a nightclub cloakroom, cleaned offices. I travelled as much as I could afford. I lived in New Zealand for a while, and later, Canada. I pretty much spent my twenties bouncing from one thing to the next trying to work out what I wanted to do.’

Who I wanted to be.

‘And then I found it: writing. It just clicked. I felt stupid for not recognising it earlier. The moment I started to write, I fell in love with it. I didn’t know if I was any good at it, or whether I could ever make my living from it. All I knew was that I loved it.’

That is the truth.

I answer half a dozen more questions, then take a sip of water and glance at the clock.

‘Time for just two more questions today. Amy Werden asks, Do you have any writing rituals? PS You have the perfect life!’

‘Perfect life? I’m obviously using too many filters! With regards to writing rituals, something that is important to me is writing down my early ideas by hand. There is something about the germ of an idea, when it feels too precious, too delicate to be tapped into a computer screen and locked there. I like the curve of words on the page, a lack of uniformity, the scratch of a pencil on cream paper. The ideas can flow and find their rhythm.’

If Fiona is watching this, she’ll be rolling her eyes.

‘The final question is from Booklover101.’ I immediately recognise the username. The accompanying profile picture is of a bike, its wicker basket filled with books. Booklover101 has followed me from the very beginning, commenting on almost every post I write. She tweets me, sends me direct messages, has sent me handwritten cards via my publishers.

‘As your no.1 fan,’ I read now, ‘I’m interested to know, does an author need to have a dark mind to write dark books?’

I should have skipped it – chosen a different question.

I keep my face set in a smile.

‘What you need,’ I say slowly, giving myself a moment to think, to get it right, ‘is an enquiring mind. To be able to look at any situation and see the possibility for shadows. To always ask, What if?’

I leave it there. I thank everyone again for tuning in and remind them that I’ll be live again next week.

My face disappears from the screen.

I sit for a moment, taking several deep, slow breaths. Almost pitch-perfect, I think. Jane will be pleased.

Then I push to my feet, moving away from the desk, and I open the window wider. Hooking a finger under the neckline of my top, I shake it to let air circulate to my flushed skin.

I stand there, gaze mapping the waves, waiting for my heartbeat to settle.

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