17. Seventeen

17

PRESENT

I start writing Vivienne Faulkner’s book the day after my unexpected meeting with Elliot and Katie in town. It’s about a woman from a small town in England who flies to America for Christmas — or ‘the holidays’, as Harper insists I refer to it, for the benefit of Vivienne’s U.S. readers — and has a whirlwind romance with a handsome American.

There are no prizes for guessing where the idea came from, needless to say.

I’m writing the life story I never got to have; bringing my winter of missed opportunities to life, one painstaking word at a time. I’m making it real by writing about it, and my imagination makes it wonderful, in the way all completely made-up things are. It’s a Christmas fling without the fear; and with absolutely none of the real-life consequences that made my relationship with Elliot end the way it did.

On the page, I do all the things I always wanted to do, but never did, and when I’ve written a couple of thousand words without stopping, I take my laptop and wander over to The Brew, so I can read it over while Paris and Levi attempt to join forces in decorating the Christmas tree that was delivered to the shop this morning, and which Levi wants to hang actual books on, much to Paris’s disgust.

At least here I can work in peace, without being interrupted every few seconds.

“Hello, Holly.”

Or maybe not.

I reluctantly tear myself away from the world I’ve been creating on the screen, and look up to see Elliot standing next to my table, carrying a tray filled with a huge bowl of The Brew’s famous butternut squash soup, and some crusty bread.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, with a glance around the busy cafe. “There aren’t many spare seats in here.”

I do mind, as it happens — lunch with my ex is the very last thing I had on my ‘to do’ list for the day — but I’m too much of a people pleaser to actually voice this, so I simply nod wordlessly and watch as he takes a seat opposite me, shrugging off his coat and making himself comfortable, as if he’s planning a nice, long, leisurely lunch.

I pick up my own soup spoon and take a huge gulp, determined to force it down as quickly as I can, even though it tastes like wet socks.

“This place has changed a bit,” Elliot says, with a wry smile. “I was hoping the ploughman’s lunch might still be on the menu, but it’s all artisan breads and dishes with truffle in them now. Not a single pickled onion to be seen.”

He picks up his spoon and dips it into his soup, apparently unaware of the door he’s just opened to our shared past, and the effect the memory of our first date still has on me.

“They serve avocado on toast for breakfast now,” I reply, deciding to stick to safer subjects than the one that’s now looming large in my mind, thanks to his mention of that long-ago lunch. “And quinoa porridge.”

“Yuck.” Elliot pulls a face which I struggle not to laugh at. He’s wearing a dark blue turtleneck sweater, and has ditched the glasses again; I’m guessing he must have contact lenses now. Nevertheless, he still looks clever and sophisticated, in addition to being ridiculously handsome.

I reach up and pat my hair self-consciously, relieved to find it pencil-free today.

“Are you working on your novel?” he asks now, nodding at my laptop, which sits open on the table in front of me. “ If This Was a Movie ? Wasn’t that it? It’s a great title.”

I look down at the computer as if I’ve never seen it before. I feel like now would be the right time to tell him it’s not really my novel. That although I technically do have a publisher, like Paris said, I’m just a ghostwriter, not a real author, like him.

Then I remember the look on Katie Hunter’s face as she looked up at him in the street yesterday; and the knowing way she said my name, as if she was privy to some kind of inside information on me — the kind of things you might divulge about your ex-girlfriend during pillow talk with your current one, say.

Elliot’s long since moved on from me. It’s time I moved on, too. And, anyway, the publisher might be Vivienne Faulkner’s, rather than mine, but I am the one writing the book; and coming up with the plot, actually. Now I come to think of it, Vivienne’s had no involvement at all so far, other than the very brief synopsis she gave Harper, about the woman who reinvents herself by having a holiday romance.

I guess her health must be even worse than I thought it was.

“Um, Holly?” Elliot says, breaking into my thoughts. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” I say, blinking. “I was just … thinking about the book, that’s all.”

“It was like watching an entire movie play out on your face,” he says with a smile. “It must be a great plot, to get that kind of reaction from you.”

“What did you mean yesterday?” I ask suddenly. “When you said the book title was ‘very me’?”

Elliot pauses, his spoon poised just above the bowl.

“Well, just what I said, really,” he says after a second. “Haven’t you spent your entire life comparing everything to fiction? Wishing for the movie version? Or the plot of a book?”

I take a deep breath and push my soup bowl away from me, so I’m not tempted to throw it at him.

“That’s a bit rich coming from the guy who literally turned my life into fiction, don’t you think?” I say levelly. “And how would you know how I’ve spent my life, anyway? It’s not like you’ve been here for any of it.”

“Sorry,” Elliot says, looking stricken. For a second, I think he’s about to reach across the table and take my hand, but he changes his mind. “I didn’t mean it as a criticism,” he says quietly. “I know it sounded like that. I just phrased it badly, that’s all. I just meant you live in your imagination, Holly. All writers do, I think. It’s how we survive life; by turning it into stories. I guess you already know that about me, though.”

He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“And will you be turning Katie Hunter into a story, do you think?” I reply, unable to stop myself. “Like you did with me?”

“Katie?” Elliot frowns. “No, I don’t think so. It’s her grandmother I’m interested in.”

I’m really glad I’ve finished eating that soup, because I’m pretty sure I’d have choked on it, otherwise.

“Her… grandmother ?” I splutter, convinced I must have misheard him. “Are you serious?”

“Sorry, no,” Elliot corrects himself. “No, I’m not. It’s her great -grandmother,” he goes on, speaking as if this is a completely normal thing for him to be admitting in public. Or at all , even. “Her grandmother would be too young.”

“Too young ?”

It’s more of an incredulous shriek than an actual question, but Elliot appears to consider it carefully.

“Well, yes,” he says seriously, dipping some bread into his soup. “Her grandmother wouldn’t have been alive during the war. So Evie would’ve been her great-grandmother. I’m sure that’s right.”

He pops the bread into his mouth.

“This tastes like grated feet,” he says, chewing. “It’s good to see some things haven’t changed around here. The food’s still pretty terrible.”

“Wait. Evie?” I ask, my mind still struggling to get past the image of Elliot and a 90-year-old. “Do you mean Evie Snow? But I thought your girlfriend’s name was Katie?”

“Girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend,” Elliot replies, confused. “I’m very single right now, I can assure you. Katie’s Evie’s great-granddaughter.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory surfaces. A woman with dark hair and a pale face, laughing up at a handsome American. Katie and Elliot. Or…

“Of course,” I breathe. “The woman in the photo. That’s who she reminded me of.”

“Right,” Elliot says. “Who did you think I was talking about?”

“Wait,” I reply, leaning forward. “So, Katie Hunter is related to Evie Snow. Your mystery woman.”

Elliot nods.

“Uh-huh,” he says, his mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile. “Did you really think she was my girlfriend?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I reply quickly, too relieved to be embarrassed by my mistake. “But… how did you find out, Elliot? I thought it was going to be impossible to track Evie down?”

Elliot stares guiltily down at his food.

“I, um, hired a private detective,” he says, still not looking at me. “I just wanted to know, Holly. You know how much it bugged me, not knowing. And it turns out that nothing’s impossible if you throw enough money at it. Who knew, huh?”

I take in the expensive wristwatch he’s wearing, the designer cologne that keeps wafting over to me, the sweater that looks like cashmere.

I guess being on the bestseller list every Christmas really does pay well.

“But… after all this time?” I reply at last. “You still wanted to find her so badly you paid someone to do it? But why? You already wrote the book. You gave her a story.”

He gave her my story, is what I mean to say. In the pages of The Snow Globe , Evie and Luke became me and Elliot. We didn’t know their story, so Elliot gave them ours, instead. And now he’s telling me there’s another story, just waiting to be told.

And suddenly, everything clicks into place.

“Wait,” I say, my voice tight with emotion. “Is it true, then? You really are writing the sequel? You finally found the story you were looking for, and now you’re getting to write it?”

Elliot doesn’t reply, and in the silence, another realization dawns.

Katie Hunter, laughing up at Elliot, the same way her great-grandmother looked up at his great-grandfather; that’s who they reminded me of yesterday. Luke and Evie. Katie and Elliot.

She may not be his girlfriend — yet — but I think I know who’s going to be the inspiration for Evie Snow in the long-awaited sequel to The Snow Globe . Because wouldn’t it make sense that the man obsessed with recreating their story on paper might also want to recreate it in real life, too?

I’ve been well and truly replaced.

“Wow, is that the time?” I say, glancing at the spot on my wrist where my watch would be if I hadn’t forgotten to put it on this morning. “I have to go. The bookstore will fall apart without me.”

This is blatantly untrue, as anyone who’s ever met Paris would testify. I’m ‘doing her dirty’ here, as she would say herself. Nevertheless, I start gathering my things as if I know everyone’s going to be desperately waiting for my return, then rush out of the cafe with the same haste, leaving Elliot at the table behind me.

Okay, so he might not actually be dating someone’s great-grandmother, and that’s definitely a relief, don’t get me wrong. But his obsession with the people who inspired his book is only slightly less weird than that, and I think I’ve heard more than enough about it now. Even watching Levi hang books on a Christmas tree would be better than this.

“Holly, wait.”

Elliot catches up with me just in front of the village Christmas tree, which I see has been hung with dozens of miniature snow globes this year.

This place.

I mean, seriously.

The Christmas market is in full swing, and there’s a line of people waiting to have their photos taken in the snow globe. They all watch with interest as Elliot grabs the sleeve of my coat, turning me to face him.

“The publisher does want me to write a sequel,” he admits, ignoring the onlookers. “They’ve been putting a huge amount of pressure on me, actually. It’s been … well, it’s been really hard.”

I shrug, not really caring how ‘hard’ the life of a world-famous author is. It’s kind of hard to feel sympathy for him, all things considered.

“They want to announce it at the book festival,” Elliot goes on, looking desperate. “But I don’t want to do it. I still don’t have the answers. Katie doesn’t know anything about Evie and Luke. She’d never even heard of him; I guess that, whatever happened between them, Evie didn’t tell anyone. So I still don’t know how it ends.”

“Elliot, this is insane,” I tell him firmly. “You know that, right? You’ve been chasing this story for over a decade now. You don’t need to know how it ended for real. You just need to decide how you want it to end, then write that. You’re an author. I’m sure you can do that.”

“That’s just it,” he says in a strained voice. “I don’t think I can, Holly. Not without you to help me, like you did with The Snow Globe . That’s what I wanted to ask you. That’s why I really came here. Will you help me?”

He scans my face for a reaction, his expression suddenly vulnerable in a way that makes me want to reassure him. At the same time, though, I can’t quite believe the audacity of the man — to come here and ask me to help him write the sequel to the book that’s been the bane of my life ever since it came out.

“Are you for real?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low enough not to be overheard by all the passers-by, out doing their Christmas shopping. “Do you know what it was like for me when your first book came out, and everyone figured out who it was based on? Do you seriously think I’d want to have anything at all to do with the next one?”

Elliot takes a step back, as if I’ve slapped him.

“No,” he says. “No, I should’ve … it was stupid of me. I’m sorry. You’ve been … very clear how you feel about my book.”

His shoulders sag with defeat and I once again find myself fighting the impulse to comfort him, which is ridiculous, really. I know Elliot doesn’t need comforting. Elliot’s a rich, famous author, whose biggest problem in life is a mild case of writer’s block.

All the same, as I stand there in the crowded village square where we first met, I can’t quite bring myself to walk away from him.

“What happened to her?” I ask suddenly. “Evie, I mean? You must know that much, if your detective tracked her down?”

“Yeah,” he says, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. “Yeah, I know that much. I know she survived the war — well, obviously, given that she has great-grand kids. And I know she moved away from here, and got married, and settled down. She had a nice life, from what I can gather.”

“Nice?” I reply, raising my eyebrows. “You must hate that for her.”

He chuckles softly.

“I’m going to an auction tomorrow,” he says. “Katie told me about it. Her parents just finished clearing out some stuff from her grandparents’ house, and they’re selling it off. She thinks some of Evie’s things might be among it.”

“Right,” I reply, not really sure what to make of this sudden change of subject. “That’ll be … fun.”

I imagine a serious-faced Elliot rifling through a pile of old-lady clothes and random pieces of bric-à-brac, and stifle a smile.

“I suspect ‘weird’ is the word you were going for there.” He grins ruefully. “Look, I know I’m not going to find anything significant,” he adds. “I’m not totally obsessed.”

He waits for me to agree with him, but I’m not sure spending years of your life obsessing over a random old photo is a good way to demonstrate how not obsessed you are, so I just wait for him to continue.

“I’m really not,” he insists, as if he’s read my mind. “I haven’t spent the last ten years thinking about this, you know. I hadn’t been thinking about it at all, actually, until my publisher started leaning on me for a sequel. But once it was back at the front of my mind again it became … oh, it’s just a loose end, I guess. And I figured now was as good a time as any to tie it up.”

He shrugs again, and I wonder if he’s thought about me in the last ten years, or if it’s just his return to Bramblebury that’s brought me back to the front of his mind, too.

Quite the trip for him, if so.

“Well, I know how much you hate loose ends,” I tell him, wondering if I’m one, too, but somehow managing not to ask.

“You could come with me?” Elliot says, proving there’s apparently no end to the way he can surprise me. “To the auction? It’s not far from here, actually. It’s in this big old country house. It looks pretty cool, from the website. I think you’d like it.”

I really want to point out that he has no idea what I’d like any more; and no right to be acting like he still knows me. I want to tell him that he has no business asking me to do anything anymore — not helping him write his books, and definitely not tracking down long-lost mystery women, who may or may not have had a role in one of his ancestor's lives.

I want to tell him all of this, but right at that moment, something cold and wet falls out of the sky and flutters past my nose. It’s followed by another, then another, and when I tilt my head back to look up at the sky, I realize two things in quick succession.

The first is that it’s snowing in Bramblebury, for the first time in almost a decade.

And the second is that, even though I know it’s quite possibly the worst idea ever, I want to know how Evie’s story ends, too.