I need this.
Opening the clasp of my handbag, I check for the second or third time that my notes are tucked inside my novel.
Anticipating the cold beyond the front door, I draw my coat snug to my throat. Something’s wrong. My fingers meet the empty space at my collar where a brooch is always pinned. It belonged to my mother – a silver swift in flight – and I never remove it. It was here the last time I wore this coat. That was the day I left for France. Since then the coat’s been hanging right here in the hallway. I crouch, searching the line of shoes beneath the row of hooks, shaking each one – but they are all empty.
There isn’t time to search thoroughly now, but I don’t like leaving the house without it. It’s unsettling, a bad omen.
As I get to my feet, an image of Joanna slinks into my thoughts: a pale hand travelling over the collar of my coat, long fingers meeting the silver wing of the bird, then the lightest of movements as the brooch is unpinned, cool metal hidden within a palm.
Collecting the box of books from the back seat, I close the car door with a swing of my hip, then fumble with the key fob.
Set back on an expansive lawn, the pebbledash library looks tired in the morning sunlight as I follow the stone pathway towards the entrance. A trail of wisteria, the blooms long dead, snake across the wall, bird droppings staining the concrete beneath.
I shoulder open the door and breathe in the warm pulp smell of books.
A young librarian, wearing a checked shirt that strains at her bust and stomach, abandons her book trolley and races over.
‘Welcome! Here, let me take that box!’ she says, removing it from my grip. ‘I’m Laura. By the way, I loved Wild Fear. Literally loved it! I recommend it to, like, everyone!’
‘That’s so lovely of you, Laura. Thank you.’ I smile.
She guides me towards an area where chairs have been set out in a semi-circle facing a small table.
‘Does this look okay?’ Laura asks, with a faint Cornish accent. Her cheeks are flushed, wispy strands of hair escaping from her ponytail. ‘I’ve popped a jug of water on your table. There’s a microphone on standby if you need it – but I know some people prefer not to use one. Maeve did say there’s a lectern in the store room if that’d be better?’
‘Everything looks great just as it is. Thank you.’ My attention drifts towards the window, the sea glimmering in the distance. I have a burst of longing to be out there, in the water, salt on my skin.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. The windows don’t open, but if you think it’ll get a bit stuffy, I can prop open the fire exit. What do you think? Should I do that now?’
‘I think the temperature is just right. I love the event poster,’ I say, indicating the noticeboard.
‘I just whizzed a few out on our printer,’ Laura says, pressing her hands to her chest, pleased.
I remove my coat and drape it over the back of a chair, then set my copy of the novel on the table, opening the cover and checking my notes.
‘Oh, look! Here’s our library manager, Maeve. I don’t think you’ve met.’
A petite, middle-aged woman in a vintage pinafore dress approaches, a bluebird-print headscarf knotted over deep red hair. Her pale green eyes fix on me.
‘Hello.’ She smiles.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, offering a hand.
Maeve’s is cool and soft in my grasp. There is something vaguely familiar about her.
‘Likewise.’
‘Thank you for hosting today’s event.’
‘Laura has done all the work, haven’t you?’
Laura beams. ‘It’s been my pleasure. Not often that a bestselling author moves to town. Everyone is so excited about the talk. It’s a sell-out,’ she says, turning to look at the seats, which are steadily filling.
The library doors open and Fiona strides in, unbuttoning a high-necked coat, her gaze scanning the crowd. She is dressed in black, a pop of red lipstick adding colour to her otherwise make-up-free face, a large handbag swinging from a shoulder strap. Her utilitarian style looks abrupt in the fusty library setting. Seeing me, she lifts her fingers in the air, then crosses the room towards me. We kiss, and I breathe in the smell of croissants and coffee.
‘This is my sister, Fiona,’ I say, introducing her to Laura and Maeve.
‘We all know each other,’ Maeve explains, smiling. ‘Book club.’
‘It’s at your house this month, isn’t it?’ Laura asks Fiona.
‘Oh Christ, you’re right! I should warn you that salted caramel brownies will not be on the menu. I can, however, guarantee that there’ll be a sea of alcohol.’
‘Then the masses will descend,’ Maeve says.
Laura turns to me. ‘Are you in a book club, Elle?’
‘No.’ Fiona has mentioned the book club before, but I wasn’t offended that she hadn’t invited me – we’ve always kept our social lives separate.
‘Then you should join ours!’ Laura says, bouncing lightly on her heels. ‘It’d be so lovely to have an actual author there. We’re doing The Secret History this month. Think I’m the only one who’s not read it before. You should come. I’d love it. Everyone would love it!’
‘Yes, come,’ Fiona says, and I find it difficult to tell whether she genuinely wants me there.
‘Okay, then.’ Glancing over my shoulder, I see that the room has filled, people jostling to find seats, draping winter coats over the backs of chairs, setting handbags on laps. Two young women sit together near the front, notebooks on knees, their heads inclined as they talk. I think, It was only a breath ago that I was you. That I watched other authors speak, praying, ‘Please let that be me, one day.’
Maeve and Laura disappear to hand out membership forms, and Fiona says, ‘Bill sends his apologies. Drake was desperate to go to the beach.’
‘That’s fine.’ Fiona could have been spending the morning with them – but instead she has come here to support me. I reach out and squeeze her fingers. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Fiona glances down. ‘Clammy hands?’
‘Nerves.’
She considers me. She has a penetrating gaze that makes me feel as if she is unpeeling layers of me, seeing deeper than other people are able.
‘Juliet. Sandy. The Virgin Mary. You were the lead in just about every school production there was. You owned the stage.’
‘That was years ago. And anyway, I was in character. I learned a script.’
‘So get in character now. You’re an internationally bestselling author. You have one of the most coveted houses in Cornwall. You’re young, beautiful and successful. And – on top of all that – you’ve got one pretty fucking incredible sister.’
Standing in front of the mirror in the library toilets, I take a moment to compose myself. My neck is flushed and I fasten an extra button of my shirt, aware that my hands are trembling.
I can do this. I’ve played this part dozens of times before, on book tours, at literary festivals, in interviews.
In my head, I run through the first section of my talk. I plan to briefly touch on my childhood holidays here in Cornwall, and then I will skirt that strange dark cloud that hovered around my early twenties, and I’ll begin the story when I’m in my late twenties. I’ll explain about the vague dissatisfaction I’d felt simmering, how I’d tried various jobs but none of them