The Book of You. Claire Kendal

The Fire Dance

Monday

       Tuesday

       Wednesday

       Thursday

       Friday

       Saturday

       Week 3: The Steadfast Lover

       Monday

       Tuesday

       Wednesday

       Thursday

       Friday

       Week 4: The Potion of Forgetfulness

       Monday

       Tuesday

       Wednesday

       Thursday

       Friday

       Saturday

       Week 5: The Guardians

       Monday

       Tuesday

       Wednesday

       Thursday

       Friday

       Saturday and Sunday

       Week 6: The Forbidden Key

       Monday

       Tuesday

       Wednesday

       Thursday

       Friday

       Week 7: The Drying Room

       Monday and Wednesday

       Wednesday and Thursday

       Eighteen Weeks Later: The Maiden Without Hands

       Acknowledgements

       Read on for an exclusive extract from the gripping new psychological thriller from Claire Kendal

      Reading Group Question

      About the Author

       About the Publisher

       Week 1

The Spinning Girl

       Monday

       Monday, 2 February, 7.45 a.m.

      It is you. Of course it is you. Always it is you. Someone is catching up to me and I turn and see you. I’d known it would be you, but still I lose my footing on the frozen snow. I stagger up. There are patches of wet on the knees of my stockings. My mittens are soaked through.

      Any sensible person would be at home on such an icy morning if he had a choice in the matter, but not you. You are out, taking a little stroll. You are reaching to steady me, asking if I’m okay, but I step away, managing not to unbalance myself again.

      I know you must have been watching me since I left my house. I can’t stop myself from asking you what you’re doing here, though I know your answer won’t be the true one.

      Your eyelids are doing that flickering thing again. It happens when you’re nervous. ‘I was just walking, Clarissa.’ Never mind that you live in a village five miles away. Your lips blanch. You bite them, as if you guess they’ve lost what little colour they normally have and you’re trying to force blood back into them. ‘You behaved strangely at work on Friday, Clarissa, walking out of that talk. Everyone said so.’

      It makes me want to scream, the way you say my name all the time. Yours has become ugly to me. I try to keep it out of my head, as if to do so will somehow keep you out of my life. But still it creeps in. Barges in. Just like you. Again and again.

      Second person present. That’s what you are. In every way.

      My silence doesn’t deter you. ‘You haven’t answered your phone all weekend. You only replied to one of my texts and it wasn’t friendly. Why are you out on a morning like this, Clarissa?’

      The short term is all I can see. I have to get rid of you. I have to stop you trailing me to the station and figuring out where I’m going. Ignoring you won’t get me the outcome I need now; the advice in the leaflets doesn’t work in real life. I doubt anything will work with you.

      ‘I’m ill.’ This is a lie. ‘That’s why I left on Friday. I’ve got to be at the doctor’s by eight.’

      ‘You’re the only woman I’ve ever seen who looks beautiful even when she’s ill.’

      I really am beginning to feel sick. ‘I have a fever. I was vomiting all night.’

      You lift a hand towards my cheek, as if to check my temperature, and I flinch away.

      ‘I’ll come with you.’ Your hand is still in the air, an awkward reminder of your wrong move. ‘You shouldn’t be alone.’ You punctuate this by letting your hand drop heavily to your side.

      ‘I don’t want to give it to you.’ Despite my words, I don’t think I sound concerned.

      ‘Let me take care of you, Clarissa. It’s below zero – you shouldn’t be out in this and your hair’s wet – that can’t be good for you.’ You’re taking out your phone. ‘I’m calling us a taxi.’

      Again, you’ve cornered me. The black iron railings are behind me so I can’t back away from you any farther; I don’t want to slip and fall through the gap – there’s a three-foot drop to the road below. I step sideways, repositioning myself, but this doesn’t stop you towering over me. You look so huge in your puffy grey jacket.

      The hem of your jeans is sopping, from dragging in the snow – you aren’t caring for yourself, either. Your ears and nose are red and raw from the bitter cold. Mine must be too. Your brown hair is lank, though it’s probably freshly washed. Your closed, frowning mouth never relaxes.

      Pity for you steals upon me, however much I guard against it and recoil from you. You must be losing sleep, too. To speak meanly, even to you, goes against the kindness my parents taught me. Rudeness won’t make you vanish now, anyway. I know all too well you’ll only follow me, pretending not to hear, and that’s the last thing I want.

      You’re punching numbers into your mobile.

      ‘Don’t. Don’t call.’ Your fingers pause at the sharpness in my voice. I push the point further. ‘The doctor’s not far from here.’ I make myself more explicit. ‘I won’t get in a taxi with you.’

      You press the red button and pocket your phone. ‘Write down your landline for me, Clarissa. I seem to have lost it.’

      We both know I’ve never given it to you. ‘I had it disconnected. I just use my mobile now.’ More lies. I give a silent prayer of thanks that you didn’t somehow find the number and note it down when you were in my flat. I’m amazed you overlooked such a chance. You’re probably kicking yourself for that. But you were busy, then.

      I point up the hill. ‘You should try along the top edge for your walk.’ I play on your desire to please