Читать книгу You Let Me In - Lucy Clarke - Страница 19

In the black-velvet darkness of four a.m., I twist onto my side. The sheets are a hot tangle around my waist. The snake in my brain is alive, wide awake.

I listen to the house. I want there to be noises of other people – the purring snore of a child asleep in the nursery, the cast-iron creak of the log burner opening, a hunk of wood fed to the flames.

But it is just me. My breathing. My heartbeat, rapid.

And then my thoughts. They are not silent, but loud and rowdy, like a bad drunk. They seem to echo in my mind, filling my head with their noise and spite.

You invite your story, your characters, into your thoughts – but what then if they won’t leave?

I sit up. Eyes open in the darkness.

*

I feel raw this morning, empty. It’s that strange depleted feeling you get after you’ve cried. I wrote five thousand words last night. I couldn’t switch off. I still can’t. The last thing I feel like doing is giving a library talk. I want to stay here, get this story down.

Pulling on my winter coat, I pause in the hallway, examining myself in the mirror. God, I look terrible. My skin tone is uneven and there are purplish blooms beneath my eyes.

I glance at my watch. One hour until I’ll be standing at the front of the library talking about my great life as an author.

Why did I agree to this?

But of course, I know why. I need to start getting more involved locally, putting down roots. Demolishing the original fisherman’s cottage hasn’t been a popular decision, and I’m sure people think I’m just another city blow-in. I want to make friends here, make Cornwall home.

I need this.

Opening the clasp of my handbag, I check for the second or third time that my notes are tucked inside my novel.

Anticipating the cold beyond the front door, I draw my coat snug to my throat. Something’s wrong. My fingers meet the empty space at my collar where a brooch is always pinned. It belonged to my mother – a silver swift in flight – and I never remove it. It was here the last time I wore this coat. That was the day I left for France. Since then the coat’s been hanging right here in the hallway. I crouch, searching the line of shoes beneath the row of hooks, shaking each one – but they are all empty.

There isn’t time to search thoroughly now, but I don’t like leaving the house without it. It’s unsettling, a bad omen.

As I get to my feet, an image of Joanna slinks into my thoughts: a pale hand travelling over the collar of my coat, long fingers meeting the silver wing of the bird, then the lightest of movements as the brooch is unpinned, cool metal hidden within a palm.

Collecting the box of books from the back seat, I close the car door with a swing of my hip, then fumble with the key fob.

Set back on an expansive lawn, the pebbledash library looks tired in the morning sunlight as I follow the stone pathway towards the entrance. A trail of wisteria, the blooms long dead, snake across the wall, bird droppings staining the concrete beneath.

I shoulder open the door and breathe in the warm pulp smell of books.

A young librarian, wearing a checked shirt that strains at her bust and stomach, abandons her book trolley and races over.

‘Welcome! Here, let me take that box!’ she says, removing it from my grip. ‘I’m Laura. By the way, I loved Wild Fear. Literally loved it! I recommend it to, like, everyone!’

‘That’s so lovely of you, Laura. Thank you.’ I smile.

She guides me towards an area where chairs have been set out in a semi-circle facing a small table.

‘Does this look okay?’ Laura asks, with a faint Cornish accent. Her cheeks are flushed, wispy strands of hair escaping from her ponytail. ‘I’ve popped a jug of water on your table. There’s a microphone on standby if you need it – but I know some people prefer not to use one. Maeve did say there’s a lectern in the store room if that’d be better?’

‘Everything looks great just as it is. Thank you.’ My attention drifts towards the window, the sea glimmering in the distance. I have a burst of longing to be out there, in the water, salt on my skin.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. The windows don’t open, but if you think it’ll get a bit stuffy, I can prop open the fire exit. What do you think? Should I do that now?’

‘I think the temperature is just right. I love the event poster,’ I say, indicating the noticeboard.

‘I just whizzed a few out on our printer,’ Laura says, pressing her hands to her chest, pleased.

I remove my coat and drape it over the back of a chair, then set my copy of the novel on the table, opening the cover and checking my notes.

‘Oh, look! Here’s our library manager, Maeve. I don’t think you’ve met.’

A petite, middle-aged woman in a vintage pinafore dress approaches, a bluebird-print headscarf knotted over deep red hair. Her pale green eyes fix on me.

‘Hello.’ She smiles.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, offering a hand.

Maeve’s is cool and soft in my grasp. There is something vaguely familiar about her.

‘Likewise.’

‘Thank you for hosting today’s event.’

‘Laura has done all the work, haven’t you?’

Laura beams. ‘It’s been my pleasure. Not often that a bestselling author moves to town. Everyone is so excited about the talk. It’s a sell-out,’ she says, turning to look at the seats, which are steadily filling.

The library doors open and Fiona strides in, unbuttoning a high-necked coat, her gaze scanning the crowd. She is dressed in black, a pop of red lipstick adding colour to her otherwise make-up-free face, a large handbag swinging from a shoulder strap. Her utilitarian style looks abrupt in the fusty library setting. Seeing me, she lifts her fingers in the air, then crosses the room towards me. We kiss, and I breathe in the smell of croissants and coffee.

‘This is my sister, Fiona,’ I say, introducing her to Laura and Maeve.

‘We all know each other,’ Maeve explains, smiling. ‘Book club.’

‘It’s at your house this month, isn’t it?’ Laura asks Fiona.

‘Oh Christ, you’re right! I should warn you that salted caramel brownies will not be on the menu. I can, however, guarantee that there’ll be a sea of alcohol.’

‘Then the masses will descend,’ Maeve says.

Laura turns to me. ‘Are you in a book club, Elle?’

‘No.’ Fiona has mentioned the book club before, but I wasn’t offended that she hadn’t invited me – we’ve always kept our social lives separate.

‘Then you should join ours!’ Laura says, bouncing lightly on her heels. ‘It’d be so lovely to have an actual author there. We’re doing The Secret History this month. Think I’m the only one who’s not read it before. You should come. I’d love it. Everyone would love it!’

‘Yes, come,’ Fiona says, and I find it difficult to tell whether she genuinely wants me there.

‘Okay, then.’ Glancing over my shoulder, I see that the room has filled, people jostling to find seats, draping winter coats over the backs of chairs, setting handbags on laps. Two young women sit together near the front, notebooks on knees, their heads inclined as they talk. I think, It was only a breath ago that I was you. That I watched other authors speak, praying, ‘Please let that be me, one day.’

Maeve and Laura disappear to hand out membership forms, and Fiona says, ‘Bill sends his apologies. Drake was desperate to go to the beach.’

‘That’s fine.’ Fiona could have been spending the morning with them – but instead she has come here to support me. I reach out and squeeze her fingers. ‘Thank you for coming.’

Fiona glances down. ‘Clammy hands?’

‘Nerves.’

She considers me. She has a penetrating gaze that makes me feel as if she is unpeeling layers of me, seeing deeper than other people are able.

‘Juliet. Sandy. The Virgin Mary. You were the lead in just about every school production there was. You owned the stage.’

‘That was years ago. And anyway, I was in character. I learned a script.’

‘So get in character now. You’re an internationally bestselling author. You have one of the most coveted houses in Cornwall. You’re young, beautiful and successful. And – on top of all that – you’ve got one pretty fucking incredible sister.’

Standing in front of the mirror in the library toilets, I take a moment to compose myself. My neck is flushed and I fasten an extra button of my shirt, aware that my hands are trembling.

I can do this. I’ve played this part dozens of times before, on book tours, at literary festivals, in interviews.

In my head, I run through the first section of my talk. I plan to briefly touch on my childhood holidays here in Cornwall, and then I will skirt that strange dark cloud that hovered around my early twenties, and I’ll begin the story when I’m in my late twenties. I’ll explain about the vague dissatisfaction I’d felt simmering, how I’d tried various jobs but none of them were a valve for the bubbling restlessness. I’ll then talk about travelling with Flynn (to mention him by name, or not? Not, I decide, unwilling to risk the possible waver in my voice) – and how it was when I returned home, renting a flat in the heart of Bristol, that the idea of writing was seeded.

‘There is this night course,’ Flynn began one evening as we were eating takeaway pizza straight from the box. ‘It’s in creative writing. It started last week – but you’ve only missed one session. I saw a flyer about it. Here,’ he said, pressing it into my hand.

It was an abstract image of a wing cutting across a blue sky. Let your imagination soar, was the heading in a stylish grey font.

‘I thought,’ Flynn said tentatively, ‘that I could treat you to it. For your birthday. If you were interested.’ Flynn had just taken his first salaried position as a tree surgeon, returning home each evening with wood chip clinging to the weave of his jumper, bark staining his jeans.

‘It’s taught by a woman,’ Flynn said. ‘She’s written a couple of books. You should look her up.’

I’d lain in the bath that evening, candles lit, essential oils making a film on the surface. When we’d been travelling, I kept a journal, filling page after page with descriptions of new experiences and interesting places. Those moments I found myself sitting cross-legged on a beach, or in the back of our van, a pencil scratching across the smooth page of my journal, had filled me with a deep sense of calm. Yet I’d never considered nurturing that passion into something more.

Fiction was my mother’s world. She’d always worked as a teaching assistant because the hours suited our schooling, but she’d often set her alarm early ‘to get the best of this old brain’ before her day began. Over the years she’d had several short stories printed in magazines, but when Fiona had asked if she dreamt of becoming an author, she replied, ‘I don’t write to get published. I write because I can’t not.’

‘Yes,’ I told Flynn, as I stood in a towel, my feet wet on the lino flooring. ‘I’d like to do the course.’

Wednesday evenings became the highlight of the week. I loved my tutor, a woman in her fifties with short red hair and a limitless collection of animal-print neck scarves. She had a wickedly sardonic sense of humour, and she filled the room with her passion for words. Her students were a mix of ages: two men, recently divorced, who wrote wild adventure stories in the realm of Wilbur Smith; an English graduate who’d lost a twin sister; three retired friends who met for dinner before each class, the smell of Thai spices or wine clinging to them. Wednesdays were a beacon for us all.

During the course I had the idea for my first novel. It wasn’t a lightning-bolt moment of inspiration; it was simply an image. I could picture two women standing together on a shoreline, their hands gripped, squinting into the distance. I wondered what or who they were looking at. As I encouraged my mind’s eye to zoom in more closely, other details emerged: two boys in the water; the flash of an orange life boat; one boy brought back to shore alive – not two.

Once the idea took hold, I worked on it feverishly. I was a receptionist at the time and the jotter by the office phone filled with plot ideas and character notes. I spent my lunch breaks writing in the back seat of my car, not willing to use the staff room for fear of someone disturbing me. Following my mother’s example, I set my alarm an hour early each morning to write, and in that quiet dawn hour, I left behind the walls of the studio flat and I soared.

Gradually, gradually, the shape of a novel began to form. It was loose and unpinned, but there was something in it, I’d felt sure.

Authors often talk about that magical moment of securing their first book deal – and I remember every detail of it. Invited to meet an interested publisher, I sat with my agent in the spacious atrium of the publishing house reception, staring up at a metallic sculpture of a globe suspended from the ceiling, a disco ball without the party. My outfit, which I’d spent an entire afternoon deciding upon – corduroy yellow skirt with embroidered detail, and a green silk top – now seemed oddly provincial.

I watched other visitors streaming into the atrium, being ushered through security: handbags and briefcases conveyored through an X-ray machine, lanyards swinging from visitors’ necks. Everything was so removed from the process of writing the book that I suddenly felt like I was in the wrong place. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my mother’s fountain pen. I turned it through my fingers, exploring the faded patch near the nib, where the gloss had worn away with use. I remembered the way my mother wrote with it, the slant of her hand, her elbow sliding along the table edge. As a girl, I used to be fascinated by the empty black ink cartridges, containing a tiny glass bead, like the eye of a vole.

Holding it between my fingertips, I knew my mother would have been proud that I had got this far, that I, Elle Fielding, former barista, waitress and travel bum, had written something good enough to draw the attention of a publisher.

My literary agent and I were collected by an assistant and taken by lift, up twelve storeys, and deposited in a glass-doored meeting room that overlooked a sprawling open-plan office. I had never seen so many people working in one place.

A few minutes later, a woman in a simple blue dress and ankle boots walked in, clutching papers.

‘Elle, I’m Jane – one of the publishing directors here. It’s so lovely to meet you.’ She kissed me warmly. I liked Jane immediately. She was sincere, intelligent, and passionate about books.

‘Let me just tell you, I loved your story. I got lost in the characters. Those women – I felt like I wanted to pick up the phone, call them. You have a wonderful eye for observation.’

A surge of delight rushed through me and I began to relax, talking with ease about how the idea came to me, why I ended the book as I did. My agent smiled at me enthusiastically. Yes, it was going well.

Jane briefed me on the next steps: she’d be pitching the book at their acquisitions meeting that week.

‘One of the questions that will be asked,’ Jane said, ‘will be what other ideas you have.’

I’d poured every ounce of energy into that story, those characters. I hadn’t dared step outside of them, in case they shut the door behind me while my back was turned.

‘If you’ve got anything you could share with me ahead of the meeting,’ Jane said, ‘even if it’s just a very loose idea or two – that would really help my pitch. We like to be able to look ahead to see how we can establish your brand in the marketplace.’

Marketplace. Acquisition. Brand. My stomach fluttered with excitement. I allowed myself the smallest butterfly of hope: this could be the start.

Now, standing in the library toilets, I wipe my damp palms against my jeans. I take a deep breath, feel my shoulders pulling back.

‘Hello, I’m Elle Fielding,’ I say to the mirror, fixing on a smile.

Looking at myself, I think about the author the audience are expecting to see. A thirty-something woman with a successful, glittering career. A woman who is confident, composed, happy.

Who do I see? I wonder, leaning closer to the mirror, looking right into the dark centre of my irises, seeing the skein of red lines mapping the edges of them.

I blink. Push her away.

‘Hello, I’m Elle Fielding,’ I say again, brighter this time, with more volume. ‘It’s lovely to be invited here to—’

I stop short at the sound of a toilet flushing. A bolt is unlatched, and Maeve appears from one of the cubicles.

Her gaze meets mine in the mirror.

I have the feeling of being caught out.

‘Pre-talk warm up,’ I say.

Maeve moves to the sink, letting cold water stream across the backs of her pale hands. She flicks off the tap with her wrist, then pats her hands carefully with paper towels.

‘Practice makes perfect.’