You Let Me In Read online

  ‘You know that’s just part of the picture, don’t you? I’m showing people what they want to see. Do you think I’d have half as many followers if I shared the mundane details of my life? If everything I wrote was the truth?’

  A shadow passes over Flynn’s face.

  Truth. That was the wrong word to use. The word that had cracked open our marriage.

  ‘All I’m saying is, no one wants to see photos of me looking haggard after a sleepless night, or of empty coffee mugs beside my flailing word count. I know it’s all bullshit, this filter-perfect life, but it’s part of my job. I have to do it.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Flynn always uses those two words – forcing me to pause, question myself. It irritates me enough to not answer him.

  ‘If your publishers didn’t need you to do it, would you come off social media tomorrow?’

  ‘Does it even matter?’

  ‘I’m not criticising your choices. I’m just questioning whether it’s good for you – good for any of us. Because, really, do we need it?’

  ‘It helps connect people.’

  ‘That’s the line we’re being fed: connect more. I don’t know, Elle,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘I think people seem more disconnected than ever. You go out to a bar or a restaurant, and people are sitting right in front of each other, but their attention is on their phones. You see people – not just teenagers, but adults – walking down the street, necks curved towards their screens. Is that healthy?’

  I don’t answer, and he doesn’t expect me to.

  ‘When something like this happens – something like losing Mum – everything else just feels so flimsy. So pointless.’ His eyes are shining. ‘Life shouldn’t be reduced to filtered images and captions, should it? It’s about birth and death and that beautiful, brutal stretch of time between.’

  Previously

  Now that I am in your house, I find it interesting re-looking at the photos of it you share on social media. You favour the detail shot: a conch shell placed artfully on a stack of books; a water jug and glass on the edge of your desk; a vase of flowers on the bookshelf beside an oil burner. I can see how you’ve cropped certain photos, cutting off an aesthetically awkward radiator or plug socket or door jamb.

  What other things do you choose to crop from your life?

  I read an interesting study about how social media is making most of us miserable. Scientists reported that one in three people felt dissatisfied with their lives after visiting Facebook. It encourages seeking behaviour, greatly affecting dopamine levels and the neuropathways of the brain after just a few minutes’ use. Imagine that. Mark Zuckerberg has made something so powerful that it can change the chemistry of the brain.

  It concerns me that self-worth is increasingly becoming measured in Likes, or Follows, or little hearts popping up on the screen. Attention spans are shrinking. Advertisers are using terms like Jolts Per Minute, to inundate us with more information.

  I’ve a feeling that there’s going to be a time in the future when there’s a backlash against social media, when people want to strip the web of these intimate details they’ve shared. Don’t they realise that the information will always be out there, somewhere? I picture spiders crawling through the Web, searching for husks of information, which lie there like crisping flies.

  I’m still surprised about what people share. How much people give of themselves. You particularly, Elle. Why is it? I think it’s the ego winning out against common sense. Do we need to know about the little habits and rituals of your day? I suppose the answer must be yes, because why else are we all hooked?

  For anyone who had the inclination to scroll back through your posts, here’s what you’ve told us: We know what car you drive. We know that you have two coffees a day from the Nespresso machine in your kitchen. We know that you hand-painted the dresser where your mugs hang. We know that your writing room is your retreat, your creative lair.

  I want to tell your followers not to be dissatisfied with their lives, because what most of them don’t realise is that your posts are little more than scenes you’ve created.

  They are not the real you, are they Elle?

  In fact, they are your greatest fiction of all.

  14

  Elle

  I feel the curve of the road, the grip of tyres against tarmac. Hedges whir by, thick walls of green. As I approach Fiona’s house, I flick through my mental diary of her week. Bill will be away. Drake has nursery. She’ll be home, working. I won’t disturb her for long. I just need to be out of the house. I need to talk to her about Flynn, his mother.

  As I pull into Fiona’s street, I imagine the kettle being flicked on, the comfort of her old sagging sofa. I park on the road in front of the house and climb out.

  I’ve almost reached Fiona’s front door, when it opens and a man steps onto the pavement – not Bill, someone slighter, who is pulling on a dark jacket, head ducked.

  Fiona is saying something to him from the doorway, her feet bare, face flushed.

  When the man turns, my lips part in surprise.

  Mark’s face breaks into a lazy smile. ‘Morning,’ he says to me with a slight nod of his head.

  I watch as he climbs onto his motorbike, pulls on a helmet, then guns the engine, disappearing down the street.

  Fiona is standing with her arms folded across her chest, chin raised. ‘Mark was just helping me with something.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘My dishwasher is broken.’

  I stare her down. I recognise the steely, determined look, the slight flicker in her eyelids.

  ‘Bullshit.’ I step through the doorway and move past Fiona into the kitchen.

  She follows.

  ‘Bill’s away, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Drake’s at nursery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Precision scheduling.’ I’d guessed that there’d been other men since Bill – but I’ve never seen the proof, haven’t wanted to.

  ‘Before you get on your high horse, it’s just sex.’

  ‘And if it were Bill saying that?’

  Fiona waves a hand at the comment as if it were ludicrous.

  ‘I know you don’t like Mark. If it helps, I had no idea he was your neighbours’ son.’

  ‘When did it start?’

  ‘Nothing’s started. It’s been a handful of times.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three, four. I don’t know. It’s over. It was nothing.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘Yvonne’s birthday.’

  Fiona had invited me to the party, but it was the day I flew to France for the writing retreat.

  ‘He’s what, ten years younger than you?’

  ‘Thank you for that. It’s seven, actually.’

  I fold my arms, my gaze leaving Fiona and moving to the montage of photos on the fridge. I find myself looking at a picture of Drake grinning from beneath a golden party hat.

  ‘Don’t do that face,’ Fiona says.

  ‘What face?’

  ‘That one. You’re doing it right now. Your lips are pursed. Your shoulders are giving a little righteous wiggle. You’re thinking about Drake and Bill and you’re judging me.’

  ‘I just think it’s a lot to risk. Isn’t what you’ve got enough?’

  Fiona laughs. ‘Oh, Elle. You’ve always romanticised the idea of motherhood. Drake is unquestionably the most important thing in my world – everything would be irrevocably less without him – but motherhood itself isn’t always “enough”. Being a mother is a huge part of who I am, but I also need my own part, just for me. And that is hard to carve out. Bill is away more than he is here. I’ve had to readjust myself to try and work out who I can be in that small section of time when Drake is asleep, or the occasional morning he’s in nursery. The idea that it is “enough” is so limiting, Elle. It makes anyone who wants more – who wants to work, who wants to have time for themselves, who wants to enjoy days awa
y with friends – seem lacking. What I want is to feel whole. I want to feel like me.’

  ‘So you need to fuck Mark to feel like you?’

  Several beats of silence pass. ‘It was a mistake. And it’s over. I’ve told Mark.’ She shakes her head. ‘I love Bill – you know that.’

  The tension in the kitchen eases back. I move to the sink, taking a glass from the draining board and filling it. Something is snagging in my thoughts to do with the timing. Where would Fiona have slept with Mark that first time? He was staying at his parents’ house, and Bill would’ve been at home with Drake – so, where? At the party?

  Then it clicks. Fiona had the key to my house. The rentals didn’t move in until the following day.

  I swing round. ‘You took Mark to my house, didn’t you?’

  Fiona blinks, a flash of panic passing over her face. She opens her mouth as if to speak, then shuts it again. I’m surprised to see two blooms of colour spread across her cheeks.

  ‘You had my house keys. You dropped the high chair off that night, didn’t you? You told me you’d put it there the evening before the tenants moved in.’

  Fiona holds my gaze. Very slowly she dips her head, nods.

  ‘You brought him into my house. You let a fucking stranger into my home, without asking me, and—’

  ‘Elle—’

  ‘Jesus! That’s how he knew what my bedroom looked like. He knew I had a cream lamp on my bedside table, because you had let him in!’

  ‘No, no. He didn’t even go upstairs. We were only in the lounge. It wasn’t … I didn’t plan it. I had the high chair in my car. Told him I needed to drop it off. He came in with me. Said it was a beautiful house. I wanted to show him the view – how it looks out over the bay. And then we ended up …’ She looks at her feet.

  ‘Where?’

  Fiona presses her lips together.

  ‘Where did you have sex?’

  ‘You’re really asking me that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sighs. ‘In the lounge.’

  ‘Did you go into my bedroom?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Did you leave him – even for a moment?’

  ‘No. We were in and out,’ she says, then grimaces at the choice of phrase. ‘I mean, I … I freshened up in the bathroom. But it wasn’t long—’

  ‘It’s Mark. I know it.’ My hands are clenched, and I can feel a knot of tension in my jaw. I can imagine him prowling through my rooms, loping up the stairs and pausing to trace a message on the window. I’m in your house.

  While Fiona was in the bathroom, he could’ve pushed open the door to my bedroom. I imagine him trailing his hands along the edge of my bed. Did he catch his reflection in the mirror? Recognise himself as a trespasser? Or did he like seeing himself there, in my bedroom? Had he imagined where I lay?

  Maybe he had the whole thing planned: seduce Fiona, get her to let him into the house. If Mark blames me for his mother’s stroke, this could all be a game of intimidation. His end goal is suddenly obvious: he wants me gone.

  ‘He went into my writing room—’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic! I was in the bathroom for minutes. Do you really think that gave Mark enough time to poke around your house, realise you kept one room locked, and then break in? And then what’s he supposed to do? Smash a paperweight without me hearing?’

  My mouth hangs open.

  ‘I know I messed up by taking him to your house – and I’m sorry about that – but the rest of this, Elle, it’s all in your head.’

  It’s all in your head.

  The words are an echo from the past. I ignore the pull of memory. It’s too dangerous.

  I lift my chin. ‘I want my key back.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘My spare house key. The one I gave to you.’

  Fiona scoffs. ‘You don’t trust me? What is it that you think I’ll do? Let myself into your house, use it as a shag pad whenever you’re away?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  Fiona folds her arms. ‘I take it you’ve asked Flynn for his key?’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Don’t you think he’s the person you should be asking? You know – the person who’s so hurt and angry about what happened that he asked for a divorce. The one who lives in a bedsit, while you float about in your beachside mansion. That person.’

  She’s right. Flynn had let himself in. Walked through my house. Gone into my writing room – Looking for photos, he’d said.

  ‘I intend to.’

  ‘Anyway, you can tick me off your checklist – I don’t even have your spare key. I left it in the dish on your bureau after you got locked out. I told you.’

  I flush. Fiona is right. She had told me.

  I’d forgotten.

  ‘But thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  I swing into my driveway, gravel spraying from beneath the tyres. I yank the handbrake, fuming with myself. The last thing I need is to fall out with my sister.

  Fucking Mark, I seethe. When Fiona brought him into my house, he knew exactly who it belonged to. I bet he enjoyed snooping around, going through my things – and then he bided his time, waiting for the opportunity to insinuate that he’d been inside.

  Slamming the car door, I stride across the drive to Frank and Enid’s house, and rap hard.

  Mark answers, a lightly amused smile playing over his lips. ‘Always a pleasure.’

  ‘I’d like a word.’

  ‘Step this way.’

  I pass the lounge, where a computer game has been paused, muscle-bulging men with crew cuts and guns quivering on screen.

  He bends close to my ear. ‘We can do two-player.’

  I ignore the comment and make my way into the kitchen. It is neat and clean and smells faintly of toasted teacakes. There is a jug of filtered water on the table and a plate of biscuits. It looks so homely and unthreatening that, for a moment, I falter.

  Then I turn and see Mark watching me – and my anger roars back to life. ‘I know you’ve been in my house. Fiona told me.’

  He says nothing.

  ‘You should know it won’t work.’

  ‘What won’t?’

  ‘Your pathetic attempts to intimidate me. Turning up at my library talk—’

  ‘You found that intimidating?’

  ‘I know you tipped my bins and have been watching the house. It’s fucking creepy. It’s just odd.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  I can feel the last threads of self-control beginning to strain under his flippant attitude.

  ‘And that message on my window – why would you bother?’

  ‘Message? Now you’ve really lost me.’

  ‘You wrote, I’m in your house.’

  His eyes widen. Then he bursts into laughter.

  My hands clench at my sides, red crescent moons left on my palms. ‘I know it’s you!’

  ‘You don’t know anything.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me!’ I scream.

  He lifts his hands in the air as if to placate me. ‘You need to relax. You’re coming across as a bit fucking mental.’

  ‘How dare—’

  ‘Look, I might have tipped your bins, yeah? I was pissed off and wanted to let you know about it. I came to your library talk because I wanted to see what made you tick. By the way, you bombed.’

  A nerve flickers below my eye.

  ‘I’m not your biggest fan, Author. I know you’re one of those people who feels outraged if someone doesn’t like them – but get over it. You’re a stuck-up bitch – and that’s just not everyone’s thing. You come down from the city with your wads of cash and snap up the cliff cottage. D’you know, Mum rang to say what lovely neighbours they had – a young couple who wanted to restore the cottage into a family home. You even told Mum how you were planning on keeping some of the original features. She got all excited about that. But then, surprise surprise, you knock the whole place down. Tried to bamboozle Mum and Dad with architect drawings, promis
ing it’ll all be in keeping. But in keeping with what?’

  I hold myself very still.

  ‘It’s blow-ins like you who are ruining Cornwall, buying up all the properties, putting up your three-storey second homes, then disappearing for half the year so that all the little shops don’t have any business. Another town down the drain.’

  ‘It’s not a second home.’

  ‘Not at the minute – but I’d be interested to see what you think of Cornwall after you’ve spent a full winter here.’ He shakes his head. ‘The people who’ve grown up here, we’re all having to leave. We can’t afford to live near our parents, help look after them, because you’ve outpriced us. Now my mum’s sick and I’ve had to take all my annual leave just to be here. What happens the next time she needs me – or Dad gets sick?’

  Tension makes his brow white as he speaks, his lips pinching around his words. I’ve never heard him say more than a sentence or two, and now it seems like he can’t stop.

  ‘So, yeah, you were right when you said I want you out. I don’t want people like you living next door to my parents.’

  ‘You know nothing about me.’

  ‘No? I know Mum’s had a stroke, yet you haven’t even been around to ask how she is, offer to cook my dad a meal, check if there’s anything they need. Because that’s what neighbours around here do. She almost died!’ Spittle flies from the corners of his mouth. ‘I could’ve lost her!’

  ‘Except you didn’t.’

  My gaze swings to the doorway.

  Enid stands with a pale hand gripping the doorframe. She looks tiny and fragile in a white cotton night dress, her fine grey hair loose, like drifts of a spider’s web.

  ‘I’m sorry – I had no idea you were here. We’ve been loud.’

  ‘Arguments tend to be,’ she says slowly, her word endings soft and unpronounced.

  Mark’s posture softens in his mother’s presence. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ he says, placing a kiss on the top of her head. ‘We didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  I catch a glimpse of him as a young boy – running along the bay below, a shell curled in his fist for his mother to inspect. I can picture the beam of his smile when he was told the shell would be treasured.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your stroke,’ I say to Enid. ‘Mark’s right – I should have been over to see you. Offered to help. How are you feeling now?’