20. Twenty

20

PAST

DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO

I sneak out of Elliot’s hotel room before he’s even awake, and head back to the flat for a shower and a change of clothes before I start my shift at the bookstore.

When I come downstairs to the shop, though, I find the lights already on, and Dad sitting behind the counter, with two takeaway coffees in front of him, and a paper bag bearing the name of a bakery in the next town, that everyone secretly agrees is much better than Martin’s parents’ one, next door.

Okay, this is obviously serious. I can tell, not just by the look on Dad’s face, but also by the fact that he never buys takeout coffee. He thinks it’s a waste of money when we have a perfectly good kettle at home.

But, this morning, he’s not only gotten up early, he’s also clearly coaxed our ancient Volvo into action, and driven to the nearest bakery to buy me a treat.

I haven’t even heard what he has to say yet, but I already want to cry.

“I thought we should probably have a chat,” he says, smiling as I pull up a stool to join him. “Here, I got you this. It’s one of those fancy ones you like.”

The coffee he hands me is actually just a regular latte, but that’s what counts as ‘fancy’ to Dad, so, yes, it would appear that he is definitely about to make me cry, one way or another.

“Holly, I think you should go to America for Christmas,” he begins, making me almost fall off my seat in shock — as much at the directness of the statement as at what he’s actually saying. This is a man who can sometimes take a good ten minutes to make a point; but here he is, jumping right into a difficult conversation with both feet.

Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been desperately in need of a change lately.

“You do? Really?” I pick up the cake bag and peer inside, wondering what’s brought this on.

“Yes. I do,” Dad says firmly. “Look, I know I didn’t react as well as I could’ve yesterday, when you mentioned it. It was a shock, that’s all. But I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I think you should go with this young man of yours. It’ll be good for you. Put some color into those cheeks of yours.”

I sip my drink thoughtfully. He’s saying much the same thing he did yesterday, but it feels different, somehow. It feels like this time he actually means it.

“I really don’t want to leave you on your own, though,” I tell him. “I’d worry about you. It’s Christmas. You shouldn’t be on your own at Christmas. And there’s the shop to think about, too.”

“Well, I don’t think we need to worry about me being overwhelmed with customers, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Dad replies, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiles. “And I don’t want you worrying about me, either, Holly. I’m a grown-up. It’s my job to worry about you , and I’m not sure I’ve been doing enough of that, have I? I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems, and trying to make this place work …”

He glances around at the empty store, which we both know isn’t just empty because it’s not actually open yet.

“Last night, when I was doing all that thinking, it occurred to me that I should probably have spent more time worrying about you,” Dad says quietly, staring into his coffee cup, which I notice he hasn’t touched. “I should have been worrying about what it would do to you, keeping you cooped up in this old place when you should be out living your life however you want.”

“Dad, I love ‘this old place,’” I tell him, touching him gently on the hand. “Because it’s ours. And you haven’t been keeping me ‘cooped up’ in it, either. It was my decision to come and work here rather than going to uni. It’s not like you forced me to do it.”

“No. I didn’t have to,” he replies, smiling sadly. “You’ve always been such a good girl, Holly. Never caused me or your mum a moment’s trouble. Of course you would stay here to help your old dad. Of course you would. But that’s not fair on you, is it? And that’s why I think we should sell the place.”

This time I really do sway dangerously on the high stool, because I did not see this coming.

“Sell?” I say, gripping onto the counter with both hands. “Wh … what do you mean sell it?” “Exactly that,” says Dad mildly. “This has nothing to do with you and your young American,” he adds quickly. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, actually. Business … well, it hasn’t exactly been booming, has it? You know that. And maybe it’s time to just admit that it isn’t going to pick back up. There’s a season for everything, Holly. But it’s important to know when the season’s over, so you can move on.”

“I don’t want to move on,” I say fiercely, those tears that have been threatening ever since I walked in finally starting to make their presence felt behind my eyes. “I don’t want to sell up.”

I say it, and in that moment, I absolutely mean it. The bookstore may not have been my dream, but it was his. It was Mum’s. And it’s very hard to watch a dream die. I know that as well as anyone. Which is why I don’t think I can let him do this.

“Now, now,” Dad says in a no-nonsense tone, handing me one of the napkins that was wrapped around the base of our coffee cups. “No tears now. It’s not something to cry over. It’s a new opportunity, I suppose. A fresh start. And, for you, it’s one that can begin with that trip to America. Haven’t you always wanted to go there?”

“Yes,” I admit reluctantly. “But … not like this, Dad. Not by leaving you alone. Not if it makes you feel like you have to close the shop. I was only planning to go for Christmas, you know. And then … well, we said we’d just wait and see what happened after that. I don’t know yet.

“And you never will know, either, if you don’t give it a go,” replies Dad, who I’m starting to think must have put some whiskey in his coffee, because it’s unlike him to be so assertive. This is the same man who puts the SatNav on to drive to the supermarket, even though it’s the same journey he takes every week. Motivational, “seize the day” style pep talks really aren’t his thing.

“And anyway,” he adds, getting up to tidy away our empty cups. “I won’t be on my own. Elsie Poole’s asked me to join her and her sister for Christmas dinner.”

“Wh … what?”

Okay, now I’m certain he must be drunk. Elsie Poole? And Dad ?

“Oh yes,” he says, adjusting his glasses as if he’s preparing for war. “She popped back in after you’d gone, yesterday. Said she’d overheard us talking, and wondered if I’d like to come round and spend the day with them, seeing as you’d be in the States.”

“The States? Who’s going to the States?”

I look up in surprise to see Martin Baxter hovering near the back of the shop, having somehow managed to materialize there without me seeing him come in.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to just pop up like that. I let myself in the back door. Your dad gave me a key.”

None of this makes Martin’s sudden appearance in the still-closed bookstore any less strange to me, but Dad goes forward to greet him as if he’s been expecting him; which, it turns out, he has .

“Ah, Martin,” he says, in a tone that totally belies the fact that he’s just been talking about closing down his beloved family business and having dinner with the Poole sisters: two things I’d have difficulty ranking in terms of how unlikely they’d have seemed to me a mere five minutes ago. “Thanks for coming. I asked Martin to come round and take a look at the computer, Holly,” he says, turning to me. “My email’s been playing up again. He’s very good with technology, aren’t you, Martin?”

“I’m okay, I suppose,” says Martin, looking pleased. “What’s this about America, though? You planning a little holiday, Holly?”

“Um, sort of. Maybe,” I mumble, glancing at Dad, who beams back at me as if this is a jolly little plan that we’ve cooked up together.

“Holly’s thinking of going for Christmas,” he says, still in Possibly Drunk Mode. “With her young man. Elliot, he’s called. You’ve met Elliot, Martin, haven’t you?”

“Not officially, no,” says Martin, stiffly. “I know who he is, though. I’ve seen you two around, Holly.”

He gives me a look which suggests the sight hasn’t exactly been a pleasant one, but I’m still too busy thinking about Dad and the bombshell he’s just dropped — well, the series of bombshells, rather — to care much about what Martin Baxter thinks of my boyfriend.

“Dad, we need to talk some more about this,” I say quietly, surrendering the shop counter to Martin, who slips behind it and switches on the old laptop that sits there. “There’s so much to discuss.”

I go over to him, wishing Martin hadn’t turned up right at this minute. Or at all, even.

“No, Holly,” says Dad, with the air of a man who definitely isn’t drunk, but who has made his mind up about something. “There isn’t. I want you to go. I want you to enjoy yourself for once. I’ve been selfish, stopping you from doing that. And I’ll still be here when you get back, you know. I’m not going anywhere. Well, not yet, anyway.”

I really want to ask him what his plans are; what he’ll do if he does sell the shop, and where he’s planning on living if the flat that . But Martin’s presence makes the shop feel smaller than ever, so I file the questions away for later, sensing I’m not going to get very far with them for now.

“Why don’t you head out for a bit?” Dad says kindly. “Go and get some fresh air. Speak to young Elliot. I can hold the fort here.”

We both know the ‘fort’ really doesn’t require much in the way of ‘holding’ these days, and I do really want to see Elliot, so I can talk all of this over with him, so, after a moment’s hesitation, during which Dad reaches out and almost pushes me towards the door, I hold my hands up in surrender

“Okay, okay,” I say, going to collect my coat from its hook. “I’m going. But we will be talking about this later. And we need to do something about this, too,” I add, looking at the little Christmas tree in the window, which looks even sadder than it did yesterday, with the evil elf still peeking out from the box of decorations which have been left next to it. “Maybe I could get some lights for it while I’m out?”

“Do that,” says Dad, nodding. “That will be lovely, I’m sure.”

I look at him doubtfully, still unconvinced by this positive new persona I’m sure he’s putting on. But he’s already turning away to speak to Martin about his email, so I wait another few seconds, just to make sure he isn’t planning to burst into tears as soon as I’m gone, then I pull on my coat and head out into the snow to find Elliot.

Because if anyone can make me feel better about all of this, Elliot can.

“Maybe you should take him at his word?” Elliot says, a short while later, once I’ve finally tracked him down at The Brew, where he’s busy working on his book. “Maybe he really has been thinking about selling up for a while? Maybe he genuinely does think it would be a good thing for you to come to Florida for Christmas.”

He gives me one of his very twinkliest smiles, but I’m too distracted by thoughts of Dad to give it the attention it deserves.

“I don’t know,” I say, chewing nervously on the end of the pencil he’s given me to make some notes on his latest pages. “I’m not sure I can believe him. He seemed … different.”

“Different how?”

Elliot pushes his laptop aside so he can concentrate on me fully. I love the way he does that. I love the way he always makes me feel like everything I have to say to him is of the utmost importance; whether it’s my opinion on a TV show we’ve both watched, or — as in this case — my complicated feelings about my father’s abrupt personality transplant.

“I’m not sure. He was being weird,” I reply, feeling stupid. “I felt like he was just telling me what he wanted me to hear.”

“Maybe he was,” Elliot says softly.

I blink up at him, surprised. I’d been expecting him to disagree with me; to reassure me that Dad was 100% on the level when he told me he really wanted me to go to America. But here he is, agreeing with the very thing I wanted him to argue with me about.

“Isn’t that what parents do?” he goes on. “Good ones, anyway. They do what they think’s best for their kids, even if it’s not what’s best for them. My mom used to get up at 7 am every Sunday morning to drive me and my brothers to soccer practice. And she once let us raid her makeup bag for our Halloween costumes, even though she was 90% sure Seth would try to eat some of it. And he did. Anyway, it sounds to me like that’s probably what your dad’s doing right now. Not eating makeup, obviously, just … trying to put you first.”

“But I don’t want to be first ,” I wail, making a little girl at the next table look over at me with wide-eyed interest. “I want everyone to be first. I want to do what’s best for all of us. Wait: you played soccer?”

Yet another thing I didn’t know about him. Maybe not a massively important one, granted … but still.

“Yeah. For years. But seriously, Holly; your dad’s right. It would be selfish of him to try to guilt you into spending the rest of your life in the bookstore, if that’s not what you want to do.”

“Like your dad trying to guilt you into becoming a lawyer?” I shoot back, feeling like I need to defend dad suddenly.

Elliot scratches his head as if he’s thinking.

“Well, yeah,” he says, shrugging. “Yeah. You’re right. We should be able to live our lives however we like. Sounds to me like your dad just realized that first. Maybe we should follow his lead.”

I gnaw at the end of the pencil until it almost falls off.

“I’ll do you a deal,” I say at last. “I will if you will. I’ll stop working for my dad and come to America for Christmas if you tell your dad you don’t want to work for him, either. That’s only fair, right?”

Elliot doesn’t answer for so long I start to think I shouldn’t have said it. But then he nods, his eyes meeting mine across the table.

“That’s only fair,” he agrees. “And I guess even if it does all go horribly wrong, and I end up causing a huge scene over Christmas dinner, at least I’ll have you there to comfort me afterwards.”

“Oh God, I wasn’t suggesting you should do it at dinner ,” I reply, my stomach somersaulting at the thought of spending Christmas dinner with Elliot’s family. But the corners of his mouth twitch, and I realize he’s joking.

“Stop messing with me,” I say, punching him lightly on the arm. “This is serious, you know.”

“Oh, I know. It’s very serious. I’d never mess around with Christmas dinner. Once you’ve tasted my Mom’s mashed potatoes, you’ll know why.”

I punch him again, and he grins, then takes my hand; possibly to stop the punching.

“So, we’re really doing this, huh?” he says, making my heart join my stomach in its acrobatics act as the reality of what we’ve just decided starts to take hold.

Christmas in America. Dad selling the bookstore. Elliot telling his parents he wants to be an author. Everything changing.

It’s absolutely terrifying. But, at the same time, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. And if I don’t do it now, I have a feeling it might never happen.

“Yes,” I say firmly, my hand tightening around his as if in a secret handshake. “We’re really doing this.”

“Then that’s settled,” says Elliot, getting to his feet and starting to gather his things. “Come on; we’ve got some plane tickets to buy.”