16. Sixteen

16

PAST

DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO

I t’s one thing for Elliot and I to decide we want to stay together, rather than breaking up on Christmas Eve, like some kind of fairy tale in reverse, but it’s a completely different thing trying to figure out exactly how we’re going to make that happen. Especially when the clock is ticking down to the date of Elliot’s planned departure, and our relationship is about to hit its deadline.

“Okay, so you just moving to America obviously isn’t feasible,” Elliot says, as we walk hand-in-hand between the two rows of scraggly fir trees that pass for Bramblebury’s Christmas tree farm, which is located in a muddy field just outside the village. “Or not right away, anyway. There are visas to think about, work permits … probably all kinds of other things we don’t even know about yet.”

I nod, finding it reassuring the way he’s speaking about this as if all that’s preventing us from being together is a bit of an admin issue, which we’ll one day work our way through.

But, of course, it’s so much more than that.

There’s Dad, for one thing. There’s the bookstore for another. And then there’s the small matter of my entire life until now having been spent here in the U.K.; a fact that makes the idea of me suddenly moving to American with a man I’ve only just met seem every bit as ridiculous as I know Dad will say it is if I ever work up the courage to tell him I’ve been thinking about it.

“You could stay here,” I suggest, stopping to inspect a particularly pathetic looking specimen of a tree. “You did say you like England.”

“I do like it,” agrees Elliot, just as I knew he would. “But you know my visa’s about to run out. I’d have to go back, even if my mom wasn’t determined to have the usual Sinclair family Christmas, with every single member of the family in attendance.”

“So, we do long distance, then,” I say, as we move on. “Just for a while. Just until we figure out what our next step should be. We can do that, right?”

I already know Elliot’s going to say yes to this, because it’s a conversation we’ve already had at least twice since we decided the end of his trip wasn’t going to mean the end of us . But I also know that saying something isn’t the same as actually doing it; which is why I’m already starting to worry that we’re being hopelessly na?ve to think we can keep a relationship alive across two continents and God only knows how many miles.

(4,350, to be exact. I Googled.)

This is not how you keep yourself safe.

This is not how you protect yourself from heartbreak.

“Hey,” says Elliot softly, watching the emotions play out across my face. “Don’t do that. Don’t talk yourself out of it before we’ve even tried.”

I give him a weak smile, wondering how it is that he always seems to know what I’m thinking; and, more importantly, how to distract me from what I’m thinking, when what I’m thinking is that we’ve both obviously lost our minds, and this is never going to work.

“What about this one?”

He gestures to a tree which is oddly lopsided, with more branches on one side than the other.

“I don’t even know why you made me come here,” I protest, shaking my head. “I don’t want a Christmas tree, Elliot. Dad and I haven’t bothered with one in years now. It’s kind of weird, when you really think about it; putting a giant dead tree in your living room. You’d never do that at any other time of year, would you? Plus, they’re messy and huge, and you have to spend weeks picking the needles out of the rug once they’re gone.”

Oh, and they’re dead , obviously.

There’s that, too.

“Why would I want to get attached to something that’s already dead?” I ask plaintively. “There’s no point. It’ll just make me feel sad.”

“Because it’ll be beautiful while it’s here,” says Elliot, stopping in front of what must surely be the worst excuse for a ‘Christmas tree’ in the entire field. “And it’ll bring you joy.”

But this tree is definitely not beautiful. It’s like the Christmas tree version of a Charles Dickens’ orphan; sickly and weak, with a look about it that suggests it might not live to see Christmas day.

In spite of myself, I kind of love it.

“Not everything has to last forever, Holly,” says Elliot gently. “Some things are only meant to be in your life for a little while; it doesn’t mean you can’t still enjoy them while they last.”

I look up at him with what I know is a panicked expression.

“I’m speaking hypothetically, obviously,” he says quickly. “And, well, about trees . I didn’t mean us . Don’t look at me like that.”

“ Hypothetically ,” I reply, smiling to let him know he’s forgiven,“If I were to buy a Christmas tree, this is the one I’d buy.”

“Because you feel sorry for it?” he replies, grinning in an ‘I knew it’ kind of way.

“Yes. Because I feel sorry for it. And because if I don’t buy it, no one else will. So it’ll just have to sit here on its own, and watch all of its tree friends go off to new homes, leaving it behind, all alone. You should never have brought me here, Elliot. Seriously. This won’t end well now.”

“Um, again, you do know it’s just a tree, don’t you?” Elliot says, looking like he’s starting to agree with me. “It’s not a metaphor. It doesn’t have feelings, like we do.”

“Oh, I know,” I assure him, smiling to prove how very sane I am. “But it’s not ‘just a tree’. It’s a poor little unwanted tree. And that means I’m going to have to buy it now, aren’t I? I suppose we could put it in the shop window, with some fairy lights on it, rather than trying to get it upstairs to the flat. Maybe it’ll help persuade some customers to come in.”

Given the sorry state of the tree in question, I very much doubt it’s capable of persuading anyone to do anything at all. And I’m not sure there are enough fairy lights in all the land to make this thing look festive. But now my mind is made up, and I can’t possibly leave it, so Elliot pays Billy the farmer (“I absolutely insist,” he says firmly, when I try to object. “It was my idea to get a Christmas tree, so I’m the one who’s going to pay for it…”) and then carries it to his hire car, where it immediately deposits at least 20% of its needles, before driving it back to the shop, where it loses another 10%.

“What’s this?” says Dad, looking at the tree as if he’s never seen one before as Elliot and I drag it to a space in front of the window, our cheeks red from the winter chill. “I didn’t realize you wanted a Christmas tree, Holly? You should’ve said. I’d have bought you one myself.”

He somehow manages to say this with an inflection that makes it hard to know which one of us has disappointed him more: Elliot for buying me a Christmas tree, or me for wanting one in the first place.

“I didn’t,” I reassure him quickly. “Elliot and I were just passing the farm — well, it’s just a field, really — and we thought it might be fun to take a look. Then I saw this guy, and, well, here we are.”

Dad’s mouth settles into a thin line of disapproval, although whether it’s aimed at me, Elliot, the tree, or all three of us, it’s still impossible to tell.

“Um, I’ll just pop upstairs and see if I can find some decorations for it,” I say, ignoring the pleading look Elliot gives me as he silently begs me not to leave him alone with Dad.

But maybe it’ll be good for them.

Maybe it’ll give them time to bond?

It takes me at least 15 minutes to find the old box of Christmas decorations which have been stuffed at the very back of a cupboard in the flat above the shop, and when I come back downstairs with it, I find Dad and Elliot standing at opposite sides of the room, with Elsie Poole in between them, as if she’s about to referee a boxing match.

“Oh, Holly, there you are,” she says, looking relieved to see me. “I just popped in to give you this. It’s for a book festival Maisie’s been planning; you know, through the library? Well, it seems she’s managed to get the community association on board, so it’s going to be happening in a few days. I said I’d help with the publicity, and see if we can get your father involved too.”

She holds up a home-made ‘leaflet’ which her sister has obviously made in Paint Shop Pro, with the slogan, “Come for the books, stay for the gossip.”

“You’d like to take part in a book fair, now, wouldn’t you, Alan?” Elsie says soothingly, speaking to Dad as if he’s recovering from a serious brain injury. “It’ll be good for the shop. And Christmas is no time for competition, so Maisie says you two should put the hostilities behind you and work together for once. Seeing as it’s for charity, you know?”

Dad blinks, as baffled as I am by the idea that he and Maisie are locked in some kind of bookish fight to the death.

“I suppose it could be good for business,” he says, coming over and taking the leaflet for me. “Christmas Eve, is it? Bit short notice, Maisie, but I suppose you’ll help with this, Holly, won’t you?”

Elliot and I exchange looks.

We both know I’m not just going to drop everything and move to America with him, but we have still been talking about the possibility of me going there for Christmas. “Just for a week or so,” Elliot said earlier, as we drove back to the store, the tree in the back seat tickling the backs of our necks. “Just to get a feel for the place; see how you like it.”

I didn’t say yes or no. I need to talk to Dad about it first; make sure he’s going to be okay with me leaving him on his own for a few days.

And now it looks like the time to have that conversation has come.

“About that,” I begin. “Christmas Eve, I mean. I was thinking … if it’s okay with you, I mean, that I might … well, I might like to …”

The shop door opens, and I stop speaking, grateful for the interruption, until I realize it’s Martin Baxter from next door, carrying a large brown package and shaking the snow off his boots.

“Holly,” he says, beaming at me. “I brought you some mince pies. They’re fresh out of the oven. I thought you and your dad might like them.”

He holds up the bag, and I smile back weakly, not wanting to tell him I can’t stand mince pies.

Across the room, Elliot’s eyebrows twitch as he takes in ‘the competition’. Then he pulls a book from the shelf closest to him and holds it up, winking at me from over the top of it, and forcing me to suppress a giggle.

“Wonderful, Martin,” says Dad, rubbing his hands together with pleasure as he comes forward to take the bag. “How kind of you. You must thank your parents for us.”

Like me, Martin still lives in his parents’ flat above their shop in the village. It’s another example of one of the things he thinks we have in common. Unlike me, though, Martin seems quite content with this state of affairs. I expect he’ll be there forever, until Baxters and Son bakers is just the ‘and son’ bit.

I give an involuntary shiver, my life if I stay in Bramblebury flashing rapidly in front of my eyes.

It would be everything I’ve never wanted. A nice, sensible husband; maybe not Martin himself — I can’t bring myself to see him as anything more than the slightly strange guy next door — but certainly someone like Martin. A job for life in the bookstore. Christmas with the in-laws. Friday nights in the pub. Mince pies .

And there would be nothing wrong with any of that. It would be what most people would describe as ‘nice’. But I am not ‘most people’. And the more I think about it, the more I think I agree with Elliot about that word. I don’t think ‘nice’ is going to be enough for me. Not any more.

Elliot’s eyes meet mine across the top of his book, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then he gives me a tiny nod, which is all it takes to help me make up my mind.

“Dad, that thing I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, speaking with a confidence I don’t feel. “It was about Christmas.”

“Oh, yes?” says Dad, distractedly. He’s fetched a plate from the storeroom at the back of the shop, and is carefully arranging the mince pies on it. He doesn’t look up.

“It’s just, I know we don’t have any plans,” I go on, my courage wavering slightly as I notice the label sticking out of the back of his jumper, a reminder that he has no one but me now to look after him.

Elliot smiles at me from behind his book. It’s called Escape to the Sun , which feels like a sign.

“So I was … I was wondering if you’d mind me spending it with Elliot,” I say in a rush, wishing I’d chosen to do this without the audience of Elsie and Martin, who’re both looking on with undisguised interest.

Dad looks up, his glasses slightly askew.

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Right. Well, I suppose he could join us, if he wants to. He’ll have to give me his takeaway order, though. You know how early you have to get it in for Christmas.”

He makes this idea sound every bit as unpalatable as Martin’s cinnamon-laced mince pies.

“I thought he was going to be back in America by then, though?” Dad goes on, sounding disappointed. “Has there been a change of plan?”

There’s a silence so loud I start to think I can actually hear the needles dropping off the tree by the window.

“Yes,” I say at last. “Yes, there’s been a change of plan. Elliot’s still going to America, but … well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Because I want to go with him.”