11. Eleven

11

PRESENT

I n The Snow Globe , Evie Snow is a spy. It’s the reason people in the village are always coming up to me with a conspiratorial wink, as if I’m actually the character from the book, and my job at the bookstore is merely a cover for the secret double life I’ve been living all along.

Yeah, right. I wish.

Then again, as I sit in my office in the back of the shop on the evening of Elliot’s book signing, it occurs to me that, for the first time ever, I actually do have something in common with Evie, because I, too, have a secret double life right now; only mine is as a ghostwriter, rather than as a spy.

Okay, so it’s not exactly the same thing. I do feel a bit like a spy, though, as I pull up a fresh browser window on my laptop and type in Elliot’s name, glancing over my shoulder first, to make sure Levi or Paris aren’t about to burst through the door and catch me in the act of Googling my ex.

Not that there’s anything much to find; a fact I know all too well from all the other times I’ve tried typing Elliot’s name into a search engine over the years. This is a guy who didn’t even attend the premiere of the movie his book was based on — or any of the award shows it was nominated at — so I guess it’s no surprise that he’s not on social media, either; not even an ancient Facebook account or a comment on someone else’s Instagram.

He is un-stalkable. (Which, as Levi says, is just plain rude of him, really…) And even though this morning’s search results are now filled with links to articles about his rumored new book, and his upcoming appearances at the Bramblebury book fair, there’s still nothing to tell me what he’s been doing with himself for the past decade — or how Katie Hunter comes into whatever that is — so, after a few frustrating minutes, I give up, and type in Vivienne Faulkner’s name instead.

This time, I have much better luck. Faulkner’s been in the business for a long time now, and has a website complete with photos of her posing in what looks like a seafront mansion, plus links to interviews she’s done with various bookish publications. From these, I learn that she’s married, lives in California, and writes romance books “to put a little bit of love into the world”.

Yuck.

At a guess, I’d say Vivienne’s probably in her sixties, and she’s beautiful, in a very sleek, glamorous kind of way that makes me wish I hadn’t looked her up, because it’s just making me feel even more intimidated by her, and completely out of my depth with this commission.

Then I remember the phone-call I had with Harper Grant this morning; the one in which she told me the reason Vivienne is having to use a ghostwriter for this project is because she’s been too unwell to write it herself; and, in an instant, the polished facade of Vivienne’s carefully curated website is revealed for what it is — just another way to hide the truth that lies beneath.

“We’ve pushed the deadline back three times now already,” said Harper, sounding uncharacteristically anxious. “We just can’t do it again. The readers will be expecting another Christmas novel from her for next year, you know? And Vivienne doesn’t want to let them down. She’s very dedicated to her fans.”

I’d murmured reassuringly down the phone, pretending I knew what it was like to have ‘fans’ already waiting for your next book to come out, even though your current one has only just been released.

“So, as you know, the book doesn’t have a title yet,” Harper goes on. “But it’s about a woman who essentially reinvents herself by having a whirlwind romance one Christmas. It’s empowering for her. It allows her to take charge of her life, and become the person she’s always wanted to be. Do you know what I mean?”

“I … yes, I do,” I reply, a vague feeling of déjà vu making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Got it.”

“We’re hoping Vivienne will at least be able to get a fuller idea of the plot over to you soon,” Harper told me. “But in the meantime, if you have any ideas of your own, Holly, well, it wouldn’t hurt to jot them down, and I can pass them on to her. Just … well, just in case.”

Just in case WHAT? I wanted to ask, but didn’t, remembering just in time the advice I wrote into Glow Up: The Guide to Faking It ‘Til You’re Making It about believing in yourself, so everyone else believes in you too.

Maybe I shouldn’t have believed in myself quite as much when I assured Harper I’d come up with some ideas for the plot of this book and send them over to her, though? Because now here I am feeling a bit like I’m a toddler who’s been entrusted with transporting a 10-tier wedding cake across town, such is my lack of experience on the romance front.

Then again, I may not know much about romance, but I do have some form with ‘whirlwind’ Christmas flings, don’t I? Well, one whirlwind Christmas fling.

Maybe one is all I need, though?

I stare at the blank screen, wondering if I can really do this; if I can use Elliot, and our ‘live for the moment’ relationship as inspiration for Vivienne’s book. It’s what he would do, after all.

That doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do, though.

This dilemma, however, is going to have to wait to be solved. For now, I can hear a low buzz of voices on the other side of the door, which tells me the store is starting to fill up already for Elliot’s book signing, so I close the computer with a sigh and go out to help.

“Oh, Holly, there you are,” says Dad, as I emerge from the office. He’s carrying a tray filled with champagne glasses, and the tie he’s wearing has been tossed over one shoulder: a sure sign that he’s feeling stressed. “Look, you really don’t have to be here, you know,” he goes on, reaching out to pat me on the arm, and making the champagne glasses wobble dangerously. “We all know how… well, difficult this time of year is for you. And that’s even without Elliot being back in the picture.”

I nod, noticing that he’s ‘Elliot’ now, and not ‘your young American’ or even ‘that gormless wazzock” as he once called him. How the times have changed. They clearly haven’t changed so much that people haven’t stopped giving me sympathetic looks and talking about my ‘difficult time of year’, though, and, all of a sudden, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of being poor Holly, who has to be tiptoed around every Christmas, in case she bursts into tears. I’m 34 years old, and a … a boss babe. And I think it’s time to take my own advice; to ‘unfollow anxiety’, and to ‘glow up,’ as it were.

Starting with this book signing.

“It’s fine, Dad,” I tell him, taking the tray before he can spill any more of the drinks. “I can see how busy the place is. You need all hands on deck.”

This is true. The little shop is the most crowded I’ve ever seen it, with people milling around, sipping champagne and chattering excitedly about the ‘reclusive’ author they’re about to meet. I spot Levi holding court over in the Coffee Corner, which has been turned into a makeshift bar for the evening, while Paris stands next to a table piled with copies of The Snow Globe , looking like she might start a fight with anyone who dares to take one before Elliot arrives to sign them.

The sofas and squashy armchairs have all been pulled back to the edges of the room to make way for rows of wooden chairs, which are already almost full. Maisie Poole sits front and center, holding a glass of champagne in each hand, and, to my horror, I spot Martin near the back, sweating slightly in his thick puffer jacket, which he’s refusing to take off, even though the room is hotter than Hades.

With the exception of Maisie, the front two rows are filled with what I’m assuming are members of the press — Elliot Sinclair’s first ever public appearance is a big deal in the book world — but there’s no sign of Elliot himself, so I start cautiously circling the room, handing out drinks, and occasionally stopping to sip on one myself, in a bid to steady my nerves.

My plan is to just stay out of his way; which shouldn’t be difficult given that he’s the big, famous author guy, and I’m just the girl serving the drinks. Just as long as no one mentions my secret identity as Evie Snow (Which they shouldn’t do, after the lecture I gave Levi and Paris this afternoon…), it should be no different from any of the other author events we’ve hosted since Paris stepped in as assistant manager.

Well, other than the huge amount of people in attendance, obviously. Under normal circumstances, these things tend to attract a handful of people at most, but this event is different; as evidenced by the flurry of excitement that ripples through the room as Elliot finally steps through the shop door.

Conversations stop mid-sentence as everyone pauses to watch him shake hands with a flustered-looking Dad, then make his way to the table that’s been set up at the back of the store. Today, he’s wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, which aren’t identical to the ones he used to wear, but which are close enough to take me instantly back to the first time he walked into this store. With his thick hair combed neatly back from his face, and just a hint of stubble on his jaw, he looks every inch the distinguished author, and I instantly start to regret my own choice of outfit, which, Paris informs me, is ‘giving modern-day Jo March,’ whatever that means.

Not that it matters. It’s not like he’s going to see me in this crowd.

Just to make sure of that, I move to the side of the room furthest away from Elliot, who’s accompanied by a glossy-looking woman in a tight black dress, who I’m assuming is his publicist, or assistant, or someone else from the publishing house. She isn’t the woman whose house I saw him come out of the other morning, but I still have to fight back a totally unreasonable twinge of jealously as she lays a proprietorial hand on his arm, showing him where to stand.

“Well, um, good evening, everyone,” says Dad, wringing his hands together anxiously as he steps up to introduce Elliot. “Thank you all for coming. I’m sure the gentleman next to me needs no introduction, so I’ll let him get on with it, shall I?”

He peers around the room, as if asking permission to leave, and the audience applauds politely, everyone’s eyes locked expectantly on Elliot, who has his hands in his pockets, as if this is a completely normal way for him to be spending a December evening.

This is new too. The Elliot I knew would’ve burst out laughing at the idea of speaking in front of a crowd. I always assumed that was why he refused to do any publicity for his book when it came out; because he just wasn’t serious enough to do something as grown-up as making a speech. But now here he is, looking suave and sophisticated, and totally at home as he smiles around at us all from his position in front of the audience.

I wonder if this is who he was all along? If the bashful, self-effacing Elliot I met by the market stall was just an act, and the whole time he was hiding this heart-breakingly handsome stranger behind his sweet smile and sparkling eyes?

Was it all just pretend?

“Thank you, Alan,” he says to Dad, sounding very American, somehow, in the confines of the little bookshop. “I’m so happy to be back here in Bramblebury. This is where it all started for me, and I can’t think of a better place to celebrate the 10th anniversary of The Snow Globe .”

The audience applauds again, with the exception of Levi, who gives a small shriek of excitement, before being elbowed in the side by Paris.

“I think the plan is to take some questions before I start signing; is that right?” Elliot asks, turning to the woman in the black dress, who nods her confirmation. Instantly, a small forest of hands springs up as the members of the audience all compete for his attention. Elliot leans back, perching casually on the edge of the table behind him as he scans the audience, before selecting a woman in the front row, who’s carrying an expensive-looking camera and a notebook.

“Is it true that you’re also here to announce your next book?” she asks breathlessly. “And that it’ll be a sequel to The Snow Globe ?”

Before Elliot can answer, little black dress woman steps forward.

“Mr. Sinclair will only be answering questions about The Snow Globe at this time,” she says, sounding like she’s reading a statement that’s been prepared in advance. “His focus is very much on the anniversary for now, and we really appreciate your understanding on that.”

A small sigh of disappointment ripples through the audience — started, no doubt, by Levi. But they soon recover themselves, and within a few seconds the hands are in the air once more, and Elliot’s answering questions ranging from the banal (“How long did it take you to write the book?”) to the really quite ridiculous (“If you were a cat, what would your cat name be?”).

Elliot answers every question with the same care and attention, no matter how stupid it is, pausing to consider his answers (His cat name would be ‘Jay Catsby’, he says…), and looking each questioner in the eye as he responds, as if they’re uniquely important to him. He’s funny, self-deprecating and clever, and as I stand at the back of the room, watching him, I can’t help but smile along with everyone else, caught up in the spell he’s casting over the room.

Finally, Elliot’s glance lands on Levi, who’s been straining so hard to get his attention that he’s almost lifted himself right off the ground.

“My question is about inspiration,” says Levi innocently, his eyes flicking over to me, before re-focusing on Elliot. “I wondered if there was anything in particular that inspired you to write this particular book? Or any one , even?”

I clench my hands so hard I almost drop the tray I’m holding.

I knew I shouldn’t have just taken his word that he wouldn’t mention me. I knew he’d somehow find a way around it.

Levi keeps his eyes fixed on Elliot, knowing perfectly well that if he were to turn my way, my glare would probably turn him to stone. Elliot, however, looks out at the audience, his familiar blue eyes searching the room until he finds me.

“Yes,” he says, holding my gaze in a way that makes it impossible for me to look away. “Yes, there was someone, as it happens. Someone very special.”

The entire room seems to hold its breath; or maybe it’s just me. I’m definitely the only one whose hands are shaking right now as I wait for the answer that has the potential to turn my life upside down for a second time, as well as confirming that I, Holly Hart, am ‘someone special’.

So, a bit of a double-edge sword, really. To say the least.

“His name was Luke Sinclair,” Elliot says. “And he was my great-grandfather. I named the main male character in the book after him, in fact, although I changed his surname, to make the connection less obvious.”

The crowd murmurs with interest, but the tray in my hands doesn’t stop shaking. This time, though, the tension I’m feeling is from anger rather than apprehension.

He’s not going to mention me at all, then? Not even a single acknowledgment of how I helped him come up with the main plot line?

Elliot continues talking, addressing Levi now, instead of me. He talks some more about his great-grandfather, and his connection to Bramblebury. Behind him, his assistant/publicist/whatever she is glows with excitement. This is the first time anyone’s ever heard the story behind the book — or the part of the story Elliot’s willing to tell them, anyway — and it’s absolute gold, as far as book sales are concerned. I can practically see the dollar signs in the woman’s eyes as she thinks about how all of this will play out in the book press tomorrow; how excited readers of The Snow Globe will be to find out it’s a true story.

They won’t know the whole truth, though, will they?

“We have time for just one more question,” says Little Black Dress, glancing at her watch. “And then we’ll have to get on with the signing.”

A slightly smaller selection of hands go up this time, but it’s Paris who Elliot selects for the final question.

“I was wondering about the snow globe,” she asks, twirling a braid around her finger. “The one the book’s named after, I mean, not the book itself. I just wondered … given that you’ve just told us the story was based on a real one, does that mean the snow globe was real, too? Was there ever an actual snow globe? And do you still have it, if so?”

For the first time, Elliot’s confidence seems to falter.

“I… um…” he begins, sounding more like the man I used to know. “I… yes. Yes, there was, actually. I bought it here in Bramblebury; at a Christmas market very like the one I passed on the way here, actually. But no. No, I don’t still have it. I don’t know what happened to it. I wish I did.”

Once again, his eyes find mine in the crowd, but this time his gaze seems to hold a challenge of some sort.

I think I’ve had enough now.

I place the tray of champagne carefully down on top of a pile of Vivienne Faulkner books — the sight of which does absolutely nothing to calm me down — then turn abruptly on my heel and march into my office at the back of the shop, closing the door firmly behind me, then collapsing into a chair, my mind an alphabet soup of emotions.

I can’t believe he did that.

I can’t believe he looked at me as if he was daring me to say something.

I can’t believe he wrote me out of the story of The Snow Globe.

And I can’t believe I care.

Why do I care?

I sit at my desk, rubbing my temples wearily as I try to make sense of this. I’ve spent 10 years trying to disassociate myself from Elliot and his book. It makes no sense at all that I’d suddenly want to be acknowledged as the woman in the story.

And I don’t.

Not by the rest of the world, anyway.

As I sit there, though, the low hum of conversation from behind the door telling me the question-and-answer session has come to an end, and they’ve moved on to the signing, it occurs to me that I would like to be acknowledged by Elliot himself.

And he didn’t.

He just pretended I had nothing to do with it; as if I didn’t even exist.

And now I guess it’s time for me to do the same with him.