I shiver. There’s just something about the way spiders move – the jerkiness of all those articulated legs. With a sigh, I resign myself to the new task of removing the spider from the house. Catching it in a spare glass, I head for the front door.
The flagstones are freezing as I climb down the steps barefoot, then wince as I pick my way across the gravel to the far end of the driveway. This bugger isn’t getting back in. I set down the glass, then nudge it over with my toe, before hopping back. The spider remains motionless for a few moments. Then, with a flurry of black legs, it scuttles away.
I turn back towards the house just in time to see my front door catching in a gust of wind, slamming shut.
‘No!’ I hurry across the driveway and grab the handle, yanking at it fruitlessly. My palms slam against the door; I’m furious with myself.
My handbag is on the settee, my keys and mobile zipped within it, my jacket hanging from its hook. Idiot!
Fiona is my spare key holder, but her house is a good half-hour walk away. I can’t do it barefoot and coatless in November – I’ll probably freeze to death before I get there.
I look over my shoulder towards the bungalow that crouches beyond my house. It is the only other property on the cliff top and belongs to Frank and Enid, a retired couple who’ve lived there for thirty years.
I remember walking to their door that first time, my hand pressed in Flynn’s, filled with an excited anticipation that we were homeowners, that we were meeting neighbours. It all felt so impossibly grown up, as if we were play-acting. Frank had a brusque manner and looked at us through the corners of his eyes, as if trying to get the full measure of us. Enid fretted over the strength of the tea and that there were dishes in the sink from breakfast. But Flynn always had an easy, relaxed way with people and by the end of the visit a friendship had been made.
Now those visits are over. I haven’t been inside their home in months. If we pass on the single-lane road, Frank ensures it is me who reverses to a pull-in, or if he catches sight of me while putting the bins out, he looks determinedly away.
With a sinking feeling, I cross the driveway, framing my request for help.
My hair whips around my face, and I gather the long twist of it in one hand. I’m about to press the bell when the door swings open and a man steps out, shrugging on a black leather jacket.
He stops abruptly, hooded eyes fixed on mine.
‘Oh. Hi,’ I say, taken aback. ‘I’m Elle. I live next door.’
Through a curtain of thick, dark hair, his gaze flicks towards my house. The set of his features shifts, tightens. He looks to be a few years younger than me – in his late twenties, perhaps – the first scribblings of lines settling around his eyes, his jaw grazed with stubble.
‘The author.’ There’s something about his intonation that makes it sound like an insult.
‘That’s right. You must be Enid and Frank’s son?’
‘Mark.’
That is it. They’d mentioned a son some time ago – when we were all still on good terms. I think Enid had said he’d left Cornwall for work, but I can’t recall the rest of the details.
‘Here’s the thing, Mark. There was an incident with a spider … I was evicting it from the premises, when the wind caught me unawares and the door slammed shut. Stupidly, my keys and phone are inside.’
His gaze travels down my body, over the pale blue summer dress, down my tanned legs, settling on my bare feet, which are set together, my toenails painted a shimmering pearl. I want to explain, I don’t usually dress like this in November. I’ve come from the airport. I—
‘Shoes.’
I blink.
‘Your shoes are locked inside, too.’
‘Oh. Yes. They are.’ I hug my arms to my chest. ‘Would you mind if I used your phone to call my sister? She has the spare key.’
He waits a beat, then steps aside, holding the front door open. I move past him into the narrow hallway.
The smell of fried onions hangs thickly in the air, alongside something pungent. Weed, I realise, a warm burst of memory swimming back to me.
‘Are Enid or Frank home?’
‘No.’ There is a heavy clunk as Mark shuts the door. He stands with his back to it.
I shift. I always need to know where an exit is, to plan how I could get out of a room, a building – a habit ignited at university, which now seems impossible to shake. My gaze travels to the lock. Yale. No key on the internal side of the door.
‘So, are you visiting for a few days? You live in the city, don’t you?’ I ask, my friendly tone overlaying the first prickle of fear. ‘What is it you do? I think your mum mentioned something about computers, or I may have made that up.’
‘Why would you make that up?’
I can feel myself shifting uncomfortably beneath his gaze. I am a thirty-three-year-old woman. I don’t need him to like me. I just need to use his phone.
The landline sits on an old-fashioned telephone table, set below a brass-framed mirror. ‘May I?’
‘Not working.’
‘Do you have a mobile?’
There is a pause before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a mobile. He taps in a passcode, then holds it out to me. There is an odd moment of resistance – no more than half a second – where he holds onto the phone as I go to take it.
Flustered, I try to recall Fiona’s number. I don’t want to look up, yet I’m certain Mark’s gaze is on me. Heat is building in my cheeks.
‘I can’t remember her number. I used to know everyone’s numbers, but now they’re all programmed in our mobiles, aren’t they?’
He says nothing.
I clear my throat. I begin entering the dialling code and, as I do so, the rhythm of the rest of the number comes to me. Relieved, I hold the mobile to my ear, listening to it ring. I make a silent prayer that Fiona will be there.
The leather of Mark’s jacket squeaks as he leans against the door, checking his watch.
‘Yes?’ Fiona whispers, Drake most likely asleep nearby.
‘Oh, thank God! You’re there! I’m calling from someone else’s phone. Listen, I’m locked out. Tell me you have my spare key? That you’re home?’
‘I’m home. I have the spare.’
‘Can you come over? Or I could get a taxi to you if Drake’s in bed?’
‘Bill’s here. I can come. Gets me out of bath-time.’
‘Perfect, thank you.’
‘Whose phone
