Читать книгу You Let Me In - Lucy Clarke - Страница 14

When staying in someone else’s house, one would have to be incurious not to wonder about the owner. There are clues everywhere – the photos carefully selected for display on the walls, the clothes hanging in the floor-to-ceiling wardrobes, the stock of medicines in the bathroom cabinet, the box file filled with documents in the bureau, the post that arrives with the handwritten address.

I can take my time, enjoy these small discoveries because, for now, your house is mine.

I drift from the kitchen to the lounge, admiring the sense of continuity and flow between rooms. Everything is marvellously tasteful: the low-backed cream sofa, framed by two upholstered tub armchairs, each carefully angled to face the water. The neutral tones and uncluttered lines naturally focus the gaze towards the sea. Even on a dull day, such as this, there is a mesmerising quality to the water. In warmer weather, I imagine sliding back the bifold doors, removing a wall of the room so that it feels as if the house and water are just a breath apart.

It’s a truly beautiful home. I’m sure some people would be quick to add, ‘Well, yes, easy if you’ve got the money.’

I disagree. This takes vision.

I could never have created this.

My gaze is drawn to a slight groove in the seat of your sofa, the lightest depression in the fabric. This is where you sit. My eye travels to the adjacent coffee table, where there is a scuff mark close to the edge where you must put your feet up.

I lower myself into the spot that is familiar to you. I find my hand sliding down the side of the sofa. It’s the forgotten corners in a home that are often the most revealing. I feel the rough grate of sand or crumbs beneath my nails. My fingers meet something firm and narrow, and I withdraw a pencil. The end of it is splintered, the lead protruding further than the wooden housing. It appears as if the pencil has been snapped in two.

An accident?

Pushing myself to my feet, I turn. Behind the sofa is a library wall. Carefully selected pieces of pottery punctuate the rows of books with the grace of well-placed commas. I stand for a moment admiring your literary choices, many of them classics: Hemingway, Shakespeare, Brontë and Austen. A little predictable, but nice all the same.

I step closer, running my finger along the worn spines of the fiction shelf, passing psychological thrillers, romance novels, literary novels – but no, I still do not see it. I keep looking until I’m sure.

There is only one notable absence on these shelves: your book.