You Let Me In. Lucy Clarke

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      I can imagine Fiona’s expression as she tells Bill that she has to go and rescue her sister. Again. Getting locked out of the house is not the sort of thing that happens to Fiona. There will be some sort of system in place, a back-up key meticulously hidden, or a syndicate of neighbours with spares.

      I return Mark’s phone. ‘My sister is on her way. She’ll only be ten minutes.’

      There are several beats of silence. Then Mark says, ‘I’m going to be late.’

      ‘You … you want me to wait outside?’

      He doesn’t answer, instead he opens an under-stairs cupboard and spends a moment rummaging within it. He turns back to me holding out a woman’s purple fleece.

      Then he opens the front door. There is no mention of whether I’d like to borrow shoes. I step out onto the freezing concrete step noticing that dusk has slipped into night.

      I push my arms into the sleeves, a musty, lavender scent filling my nostrils. ‘I’ll drop this back later.’

      He shrugs as he moves past me, pulling the door closed behind him.

      A black motorbike is parked at the edge of the property. I almost laugh. Of course he’d ride a motorbike! I watch as he pulls on his helmet, straddles the bike, then guns the engine.

      Crossing the driveway, I’m grateful when the security light flicks on. I perch on my doorstep, the cold of the flagstone seeping through my seat bones.

      ‘Hurry up,’ I mutter to myself, imagining my sister sitting stiffly behind the steering wheel, sticking religiously to the speed limits.

      I pull the fleece tighter, my shoulders hunched towards my ears.

      I can feel the house behind me, looming, empty. I half wonder if it’s punishing me for abandoning it – like a dog put into kennels who ignores its owners when they return.

      The security light switches off and I’m left shivering in the darkness.

       Previously

       A single-lane track carves through tall hedgerows, climbing towards the cliff top.

       ‘It’s at the very end,’ I tell the taxi driver.

       The driveway is gravelled with grey and white stone, no doubt selected to complement the exterior paintwork and natural wood weatherboarding.

       The house sits imposingly on the cliff top, steel struts bored into the rock so that the sea-facing side of the house seems to hang suspended above the cliff. There is something in the contrast of the fresh warmth of the house, versus the jagged dark hues of the rocks below. It is an incredible feat of architecture.

       ‘Lovely place you’ve got here,’ the driver says as the taxi crunches to a halt.

       ‘Yes, indeed,’ I say with a private smile.

       I pay the fare, tipping him more than is necessary.

       I carry my holdall to the front door, setting it down on the flagstone steps. I wait until the taxi has circled from the driveway and disappeared within the tunnel of hedgerows. Then I cross to the edge of the property where, as described in the email, the wheelie bins are stored within a discreet fenced area.

       I drag the green recycling bin aside, which clinks with bottles. Beneath it lies a large pebble. I lift it carefully, feeling like a child turning over rocks in search of a treasured glimpse of woodlice or bugs.

       There it is: the key to the house.

       I return the wheelie bin into position, then cross the drive to the doorstep. My fingertips meet the solid wood door, painted in a grey-green shade that recalls the sea. I pause for a moment, aware of the magnitude of this moment stretching around me, raising the beat of my heart.

       I glance once over my shoulder, just to be sure that there’s no one watching. I take a breath, then slot the key into the lock.

       2

       Elle

      ‘Thank God you were in,’ I say, refilling Fiona’s wine glass, then sinking back onto the sofa.

      ‘And if I hadn’t been?’

      ‘Flynn’s the only other person with a key.’

      ‘He still has a key?’

      I shrug. ‘It’d feel churlish to ask for it back.’

      Fiona doesn’t say anything. She never needs to. Her eyebrows – dark and angular – speak for her.

      ‘How did Drake get on at Bill’s parents?’ I ask. ‘I missed him. Maybe he could come over this weekend? I got him a little treat while I was away.’

      ‘He needs a treat reprieve. Bill’s parents let him watch cartoons for two hours a day – and took him for ice cream every afternoon. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked to be formally adopted.’

      ‘You must have missed him.’

      ‘You’re kidding? I had lie-ins. I didn’t cook. I got more work done than I’ve managed in months. I’ve asked if they’ll make it an annual thing.’

      ‘Is that right?’ I say, my turn to arch an eyebrow. Drake has just turned two and it’s the first time he’s stayed a night away from home. Bill spent months carefully negotiating the week-long visit to his parents in Norfolk.

      ‘What about you? How was France?’

      ‘Oh, fine.’ I’d been invited as a guest-speaker on a writing retreat. I’d deliberated over going, anxious about my approaching book deadline, but equally the retreat was so well paid that it would have been a mistake to turn it down. ‘They put us up in this stunning old farmhouse in the middle of the countryside. There was a beautiful pool. I swam every morning.’

      ‘If you’ve come back skinnier than you went, then you didn’t eat enough cheese.’

      ‘I ate cheese for breakfast.’

      ‘Good girl,’ she says, taking a drink of wine. ‘What were the guests like?’

      ‘Interesting, intelligent, passionate about books. One or two were a little intense. Deadly serious about word counts. In bed by ten o’clock.’ I pause. ‘You’d have liked them.’

      Fiona laughs – a laugh I’ve always loved, loud and unapologetic.

      ‘Yes, but did any of them take revision notes into the shower?’

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