‘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.’
Previously 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 Read on to enjoy an exclusive extract of The Castaways 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
Even though you’re not in the house, I feel close to you.
There are traces of you everywhere. Earlier, I found one of your hairs clinging to the sleeve of my shirt. I held it up to the light, examining the caramel shade, surprised to see the root bearing a hint of grey.
In the recycling bin, I found a screwed-up Post-it note, reading, Focus! No internet! I smiled at that because I can imagine how much self-discipline must be required as an author. What pressure you must be under to deliver an exceptional second novel.
We are all waiting for it.
I remember reading your debut for the first time. It blew me away. I read it in one sitting, pinned to the chair. The beauty and skill of the story, the racing pace. It left me breathless.
You’ve signed my copy at the front, a looping signature with a kiss.
I went to one of your book signings, I watched you from the back of a snaking line.
I studied the dip of your head as you bent to sign each copy, hair falling forward over your shoulder. You were smiling, chatting to readers as you asked their names, asked who you should dedicate each book to.
It was only when I looked closer that I noticed it – the way your legs were shaking beneath the table.
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