You Let Me In: The most chilling, unputdownable page-turner of 2018. Lucy Clarke
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.
‘I was going to wait till you got your first publishing contract,’ he said, as we’d stood in his mother’s garage, the smell of turpentine spiking the air, ‘but I think this day is more important. You finished your book, Elle. Whether this one’s published, or whether it’s the next one, or the one after that – you’re a writer now.’
The timer on my phone beeps.
One minute to go.
My stomach turns over with nerves. Several thousand people tuning in live.
I sit up straighter, pull my shoulders back. I know what I need to do. What everyone is expecting from me.
I reset my focus, drawing my gaze to my laptop. My own face glares back at me on screen using the laptop’s camera. Perhaps it’s just the tilt of the screen, or the way the light pours into the room, but for a moment, I don’t recognise myself.
I reach for the mouse, hovering it over the GO LIVE button.
I click.
My smile stretches across my face. I can hear it in my voice as I say, ‘Hello, everyone. I’m Elle Fielding, and I’m live today from my writing room here in Cornwall. Thanks so much for joining me. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m the author of Wild Fear, a psychological thriller that was published last year.
‘Over the coming weeks I’m planning on chatting about my writing journey, sharing tips of what I’ve learned so far, and answering any of your questions.
‘Right, I suppose a good place to start would be with today’s writing tip. It’s something simple that we can all do: get a notebook. Keep it with you at all times. Our short-term memory retains information for three minutes, so unless it’s written down, ideas can be lost. This is my current one,’ I say, holding up a plain black notebook. ‘I keep it in my handbag, or by my bed at night, or anywhere I go. It reminds me that I’m always a writer, wherever I am, whatever I’m doing.’
I’m careful not to open it.
Not to show what is inside.
I take a breath. ‘Okay, so now it’s over to you and your questions.’ I peer at the left-hand side of the screen, where viewers are typing them in real-time. ‘I’ll do my best to answer as many as I can. The first one is from Cheryl Down. She asks, Your debut novel was an international bestseller. Does that put pressure on you for your second novel?’
I’m aware that Jane and her team will be watching. ‘Yes, there is some pressure – but, the good thing is that I began my second novel before Wild Fear was released, so I didn’t have any expectation at that point. I must admit, I’m a little behind in delivering – there was a house move and a big book tour – but things are finally settling, so I’m planning on getting my head down now.’
Tick.
‘Next up, Adam Grant asks, What did you do before you became an author?’ I smile. ‘What didn’t I do? I waited tables, served coffees, worked on a reception desk, manned a nightclub cloakroom, cleaned offices. I travelled as much as I could afford. I lived in New Zealand for a while,