Читать книгу You Let Me In: The most chilling, unputdownable page-turner of 2018 - Lucy Clarke, Lucy Clarke - Страница 21

‘A novel is about truth: both seeing the truth and writing the truth.’

Author Elle Fielding

‘It’s my pleasure,’ Laura says, addressing the room, ‘to introduce local author, Elle Fielding. Her debut novel has sold over half a million copies and has been translated into a dozen languages.’

My gaze flits across the room, taking in the audience. Every single seat is occupied – and a cluster of latecomers are standing at the back, obstructing the exit.

Breathe, I remind myself. Smile.

As I scan the crowd, a face on the front row causes me to freeze. Mark is sitting with an arm slung over the seat back, one ankle balanced casually across his knee. He smiles lazily.

What the hell is he doing here?

I snap my gaze away. Laura is now saying, ‘Not only is Elle a bestselling author, but if you happen to follow her on Facebook, you’ll also know she’s a passionate sea swimmer and has a killer eye for interiors. Be warned: house envy may ensue.’

There is a ripple of laughter from the audience. I don’t need to look at Mark to know he is smirking.

‘Also, if there are any budding writers in the room tonight – like me,’ Laura adds with a giggle, ‘Elle shares brilliant writing advice in her weekly Facebook Live videos – so tune in.’ She snatches a breath. ‘Before I sound any more fan-girl, please put your hands together for the very lovely and incredibly talented Elle Fielding!’

I propel myself forward, nodding my thanks at Laura, then anchor myself beside the small table where my novel and jug of water are positioned. As the applause settles, I reach for my notes.

They’re not there.

A swell of panic rises, hot and rapid.

I fan through the pages of my book, trying to maintain my smile. The notes were inside the cover when I arrived – I checked.

I can feel my heart pounding against my ribcage. I cannot do this without them.

‘Just a moment …’ I say, crouching down and casting around beneath the table, in case the notes have slipped from the leaves of the book. Then I check my handbag, but they are not there either. All the while I can feel the collective stare of the audience pinned to my back.

My notes had been in the book when I’d placed it on this table – I know it. Someone must have moved them.

I get to my feet. Face the audience.

Has someone here taken them?

‘I seem to have misplaced my notes.’

Mark catches my eye, smiles.

‘Did you move them?’ The words have escaped before I can stop them.

The attention in the room shifts to him.

He opens his palms. ‘Course not.’

Someone clears their throat loudly. I turn and see Laura twisting the pendant of her necklace, nodding at me lightly as if to say, Go on.

‘Who needs notes anyway?’ I say, attempting to sound light-hearted, but I can tell from the expressions in the audience that it comes out wrong.

Breathe. Smile. Speak slowly.

I need to get my nerves under control, buy myself a minute to think. ‘Where do ideas come from?’ I ask, tossing the question to the room.

A hundred pairs of eyes look at me blankly. Maybe the question needed context. Sweat is building under my arms.

‘I … I’d like to talk about where ideas originate – and how we turn those into a story. So, where do you think authors – or indeed artists or musicians or … or other people – get their ideas from?’

There is a murmur among the audience as they seem to consider answering. Eventually an arm is raised at the front. From the periphery of my vision I know it is Mark. I wait a few moments, but when no other hands are lifted, I have to say, ‘Yes?’

‘From a sea view.’

A ripple of anticipation travels through the crowd.

In a slow, cool voice, Mark continues, ‘I’ve read that the sea helps people think creatively. It’s healing, apparently, to have a view.’

I murmur something in response. I don’t even know what. There’s a pressure building in my chest. I look towards the exit – but it’s blocked by a small crowd who are standing at the back of the room. The pressure tightens, reaches into my throat, squeezes. I cannot get enough air.

Everyone is watching. Waiting for me to say something. To be Elle Fielding, bestselling author. But I’m frozen. That person has left me.

‘Perhaps,’ someone in the audience says, ‘ideas come from the people around us.’

It is Fiona.

‘It could be a snippet from an overheard conversation,’ she suggests, coming to my rescue, ‘or a story someone tells.’

‘Yes.’ I seize on this, pulling myself back from the edge. ‘You’re right. Anything like that could be the spark. I’ll be talking today about the idea that inspired my debut novel, so perhaps I should start by reading you the opening page.’

The familiar rhythm of the words begins to lend my voice confidence, soften my nerves. I concentrate on speaking slowly, getting my breathing under control. I can do this. I have done this dozens of times, to bigger audiences.

I manage it, planting my feet firm, speaking in a clear voice, pulling my shoulders back. But just as I think that I am going to be okay, my eye catches on a mark on the page. A word has been circled in red pen.

I have absolutely no recollection of when I’d have done this, or why. I never write on my books – there is something sacrosanct about the printed page.

I hurry through reading aloud the final few lines, yet all the while my thoughts are pinned to that one strangely circled word.

You.

*

The talk careers on, with me skidding and sliding from one topic to the next, only pausing to snatch breath. I’m running on adrenalin and can feel the tension in my shoulders, in the small bones at the back of my neck.

There is a brief round of Q&A, but the audience – perhaps sensing my desperation to be freed – keep the questions to a minimum. After that there is a small queue of readers wanting signed copies, then the thank yous and goodbyes with the library staff, and then, finally – finally, I am released from the building.

Fresh air spikes my skin, the damp shirt cooling on my back. My car is parked on the roadside under a treeline of poplars and, as I pull my keys from my handbag, Fiona appears, a cigarette between her fingers.

‘Need a drag?’

I nod, then lean against my car taking a long draw of smoke into my lungs. It’s been years since we’ve shared a cigarette, and the rush of nicotine fills my head.

‘Who did you bum this from?’

She taps the side of her nose.

I take another drag, then hand it back. ‘Aren’t you going to say something polite about my talk, like, There were some good moments once you found your stride?’

‘Do you need me to?’

I exhale hard. ‘I think what I need is alcohol.’

‘It wasn’t as bad as you think.’

‘Thank you for coming to my rescue.’

‘What happened to your notes?’

‘They were inside the cover of my book, which I left on the library table. Someone must have moved them.’

Fiona arches an eyebrow. ‘What, like that man on the front row who you accused?’

‘I didn’t accuse him. I asked him. That’s Mark – Frank and Enid’s son.’

‘Oh. The bin tipper.’

I can hear the light tease in her voice and can’t quite tell whether it is helping, or whether I’m annoyed by it.

‘I can’t believe he had the gall to sit on the front row. He must’ve loved seeing me die on stage.’

‘Maybe he was genuinely interested in what you had to say.’

‘There’s nothing genuine about him.’