Lucy Clarke - You Let Me In

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.