The reporter didn’t stay around long; the only thing he gleaned before my father told him to piss off was that Layla was a bad ’un. After, when I read in the newspaper that you had supposedly asked me to marry you, I was angry and upset. I understood why you hadn’t told them the truth – if you had, the police would have thought you’d killed me in a fit of anger. But I hated that you’d lied and in the photos that appeared in the newspapers, I thought you were faking your grief. Nevertheless, I was glad when I learnt from Tony that no charges were being brought against you. The theory put forward was that I’d been abducted and that suited me fine. So I wrote to you, as Ellen, telling you I knew you wouldn’t have done anything to hurt Layla, because I wanted to see what you would say, if you would tell the truth about our argument and express remorse. But you only spoke of how happy you’d been with me and I knew I couldn’t let you go, not completely, so I was grateful to get snippets of news from Tony, whenever he contacted me to update me with any new information.
By the time Tony suggested the memorial ceremony, I’d almost forgotten that I was once Layla. My father had been dead for nearly a year and I was renting a comfortable flat in Edinburgh, thanks to a couple of fields he had owned further down the Pentland Road, which I sold after his death. I trembled inwardly at the thought of seeing you again, worried it would bring Layla back from where I’d buried her, even though I now inhabited Ellen’s skin completely. Her mannerisms and gestures had come as easily to me as my mother’s had. When I ate, spoke, walked, stood, I was Ellen. When I slept, I slept on my back, with one arm stretched above my head, not curled into a ball as Layla had. I thought like Ellen, laughed like Ellen, smiled like Ellen, a smile less wide than Layla’s because Ellen was more serious. But something deep within me – a remnant of Layla perhaps – wanted to go to the ceremony.
Do you remember how you barely glanced at me? If you had, you might have seen Layla in me. But you didn’t – yet she saw you. She yearned to reach out and touch you, to kiss the creases at the corners of your eyes, smooth her hands over your hair as she used to do. And after, when I returned to Edinburgh, she wouldn’t leave me alone. I could feel her clawing her way back, wanting to be part of your life again. So I reminded her of what she’d done, how she’d betrayed you. He wouldn’t want you back, I scorned. But you could have him, she said craftily, making me jump, because I hadn’t heard her voice for a very long time. You could have Finn. I quaked at the thought, because wasn’t he violent, just as our father had been? If you make yourself perfect, if you never do anything to anger him, he could be yours, she insisted. And you won’t mind? I asked. You’ll go away and never come back, you’ll leave me alone, leave me to be Ellen? Yes, she said. As long as you promise to love and cherish him.
I was excited by the prospect of having you back. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life on my own. But I knew it would be a long process, and that I might not succeed. I started by keeping in touch with Harry and while I waited for my friendship with him to flourish, I doubled my efforts to get my fledgling career as an illustrator off the ground. After eighteen months of pounding the pavements of Edinburgh, Glasgow and London with my portfolio under my arm, I was eventually taken on by an agent in Finsbury and whenever I knew that I was going to be in London, I’d let Harry know. By then, you’d gone back to work for him and were living at the flat during the week, so Harry and I would meet in the bar of my hotel. I think he felt sorry for the life I’d led and because I had no family.
One day, when I had my shirtsleeves rolled up, he happened to remark that I had the same skin as Layla. I saw at once he was referring to my freckles; the ones on my face weren’t visible under the make-up I wore but it alerted me to the fact that physical traces of Layla still remained. What would happen the day you saw me without make-up? Over the next six months, I had laser treatment to even out my skin tone. I wasn’t worried about my body shape; my years of living frugally with my father meant that I weighed a stone and a half less than I’d been before. There wasn’t much I could do about my eyes, but instead of simply wearing mascara and shading my eyebrows, I started having them tinted so that they would look different.
Eventually, Harry began inviting me to stay at the flat whenever I was down from Edinburgh. You kept your distance at first but after my fifth or sixth visit, you began to relax and when I began to discuss jazz artists with you, I could see I had your interest. Then you invited me to Simonsbridge for the weekend, to meet Peggy, because I’d told you how much I loved dogs. And Peggy was so easy to love that I lost Layla’s fear of them.
I knew from Harry that you were in a relationship with Ruby and I could tell that she was more enamoured than you were. But it made me determined to move things along. So one evening, I kissed you and we ended up in bed.
We were happy together and I was elated when you asked me to marry you, because I remembered that you hadn’t asked Layla. I was curious as to whether you would have one day but you denied this and I was glad, because it meant that you loved me more than you’d loved her. But Layla wasn’t happy about our forthcoming marriage and to my alarm, she began to make her presence felt. Worried that you might decide to sell the cottage, she wanted to see it one last time. I tried to resist but she wouldn’t let it go and I thought that if I gave in to her, if I let her have this one thing, I would be able to bury her once and for all. But seeing the cottage again had the opposite effect. Not only did she refuse to go away, she also wanted you to know she was back. Then she found the letter, where you asked her to marry you, and the ring. And the fight for you began.
It’s time for me to go now. I don’t know how all this is going to end, if you’ll find me, if you’ll bring me back. But in case you don’t, there’s one thing I want you to know. I always loved you, Finn.
We both did.
EPILOGUE
Finn
I did bring Layla back. I brought her back to St Mary’s, to be buried in the little churchyard there. I was handcuffed to a police officer at the time but at least I was present, thanks to Harry, who once again pulled strings for me. He wanted to try and get me off the manslaughter charge but I wouldn’t let him. Anyway, the bruises were there on Layla’s shoulders, proof that I had gripped her, shaken her, pushed her.
I’m kept alone in a cell, on suicide watch, with plenty of time to dwell on what might have been, if only I’d understood. I deserve my life of solitude. I shun all visits, from Harry, from Ruby, from Tony. My only comfort is knowing that Peggy is loved and cared for at The Jackdaw.
I used to think it was the not knowing which was the worst; not knowing what had happened to Layla, not knowing where she was, if she was alive or dead. But the knowing is so much worse; knowing how much she must have suffered, knowing that I failed her, knowing that in the end, I killed her. Yet there’s one thing that plagues me above all else, and it’s this: if I had truly loved Layla, surely I would have known her anywhere.
Acknowledgements
It seems that the more books I write, the more people there are to thank. As always, at the top of my list are the hugely talented Camilla Wray and Sally Williamson, my agent and editor respectively. Without their enthusiasm, encouragement, and endless patience, I wouldn’t be living my dream of becoming an author. I’ll never be able to thank them enough. They really are the best. Grateful thanks also to the amazing Lisa Milton and Kate Mills.
I’m indebted to the rest of the teams at Darley Anderson and HQ, who work tirelessly to ensure that my books reach the widest possible audience, both in the UK and abroad. I’m only sorry that I can’t name each of you in person, because the list would be too long. But you know who you are!
It has been a pleasure this year to meet some of my editors in other countries, and to have participated in book festivals around the globe. Thank you not only for inviting me, but also for making my time with you so enjoyable. Special thanks to my publishers in the US, St Martin’s Press, notably Sally Richardson, Jennifer Weis and Liza Senz, and to Bertrand Pirel and Marie Dêcreme from Hugo et Cie, my publishers in France.