22. Twenty-Two

22

PAST

DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO

T he next 24 hours are a blur of activity as we attempt to book me onto Elliot’s flight back to the U.S., and sort out something called an ESTA, which is apparently necessary to get me into the country, and which I only just manage to apply for before it’s too late for it to be approved in time.

For the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done in my life, so far it’s all been very … admin-y so far. And with a lot more forms to fill in than I could ever have imagined. But finally it’s done, and it’s official: I’m going to America for Christmas.

I think I might be about to throw up.

I really hope it’s from excitement rather than sheer terror, but I’ll be honest: at this point it’s impossible to tell the difference.

“Relax,” Elliot says soothingly, throwing things into his open suitcase apparently at random as I sit on his bed at The Rose, watching him and thinking about how different this day would’ve been if I wasn’t coming with him. “Everything’s going to be fine. And I spoke to Mom earlier; she says they all can’t wait to meet you. She’s started baking already.”

“That’s great,” I reply, trying and failing to imagine what Christmas will be like under the Florida sun, and whether Elliot’s mother really will be as thrilled as she claims to be to welcome some random English women her son’s known for three weeks into her home.

Well, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

“I have to go home and start packing,” I say, getting up to give him a kiss goodbye. “I’ve just realized I have absolutely nothing to wear for this trip other than jeans and sweaters, and I’m not sure that’s going to cut it, somehow.”

“You’ll look beautiful, whatever you wear,” Elliot assures me, kissing me back. “You always look beautiful.”

Nevertheless, I still end up spending the rest of the day pulling all of my clothes out of my wardrobe and then staring at them in despair. The plan is that I’ll stay for Christmas and New Year, and fly back home on January 2nd — by which point Elliot should have told his family he won’t be joining the firm, and we’ll have a clearer idea of what the future looks like. That’s just over a week I have to pack for, but, all the same, it turns out to be almost as difficult as that 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle Dad insisted we try last year; and twice as frustrating.

The problem isn’t just the change in temperature; it’s also the fact that, from everything he’s said about them, I get the feeling Elliot’s family is just a little bit richer than we are. The fact that they own their own law firm, and a house on a golf course, kind of gave it away, really.

Elliot and I aren’t just from different countries; we’re from completely different worlds — and the fact that he’s been able to fit fairly effortlessly into mine (A few minor ‘dad issues’ aside) doesn’t leave me with any confidence at all that the same will be true in reverse.

Especially if I can’t figure out something better to wear on Christmas day than the fleece dressing gown I’m currently wearing while I go through my closet, trying things on, before finally slamming the door shut, and telling myself I’ll go shopping tomorrow and use the last of my savings to buy myself a whole new wardrobe, to go with this brand new impulsive personality I’ve suddenly adopted.

Goodbye, ‘Sensible’ Holly. Hello … whoever it is I’m going to be next.

Seeing as Elliot and I are going to be spending all our time together once we’re in the States, I’d told him I wanted to spend my last couple of evenings at home with Dad, so, once I’ve finished torturing myself by sorting through clothes that suddenly make me wonder what I was thinking when I bought them, I throw together some dinner for us both, and we eat it in front of the TV, as we usually do, both of us delivering Oscar-worthy performances as People Who Have Absolutely Nothing Unusual Going On Here.

I wake up the next morning in my own bed, feeling a strange mixture of nervous and excited. It’s December 23rd, and I have just one day left in Bramblebury; which means I want to make the most of it. The first thing on my agenda is either getting my phone fixed or buying a new one (Which I’m really hoping I’m not going to have to do, on account of the ‘whole new wardrobe’ thing, which is item number two on the agenda…), so I get myself ready as quickly as I can, then head out into the still-snowy village, where I pick up some breakfast rolls at the bakers (Thanking my lucky stars that Martin isn’t behind the counter this morning), then head over to Elliot’s hotel.

Under different circumstances, of course, today would have been my last day with Elliot, and I can’t stop thinking about that as I head straight up to his room, The Rose not exactly being the kind of establishment where they make visitors wait at reception.

“Elliot, are you in there?” I call when he doesn’t answer my knock. “It’s me. I need you to take me to get my phone sorted, remember?”

No answer.

“I’ve got breakfast,” I add, wondering where he could’ve got to at this time of the morning.

Maybe he’s just in a really deep sleep?

I bang on the door a little harder this time, hoping I’m not disturbing any of the other guests, but not seeing any other way to wake him if he is sleeping; my phone isn’t working, and it’s the only place I have his number saved, so without it I can’t even call him from somewhere else.

“Elliot!” I call again, starting to get impatient. “Come on!”

But there’s still no answer. Which can only mean he’s not in his room.

“Are you looking for the American bloke?” says a voice from behind me.

Resisting the impulse to say that no, it’s some other guy called Elliot whose name I’m shouting at a hotel room door, I turn around to find myself face to face with Sandra, who’s carrying a pile of fresh bed linen and pretending not to recognize me, even though she’s seen me here every day since Elliot and I met, and we were in the same year in high school.

“Hi, Sandra,” I say with a friendly smile, wishing I had Elliot’s easy way of instantly winning people over, rather than my own version of resting bitch face. “Yes, I’m looking for Elliot. Have you seen him?”

“Did he not tell you, then?” Sandra replies, a look of delight replacing her usual, vaguely hostile expression. “My, my, fancy that!”

“Tell me what? Has he gone out somewhere?” My stomach gives a tiny lurch, which I ignore, telling myself this is just Sandra’s way of entertaining herself by messing with me.

“Well, you could say that,” she replies with a chuckle. “You could .”

“Okay, well, did he say where he was going?” I reply, still hoping I can coax the information out of her if I’m patient enough. “Was it The Brew? He sometimes goes there to write.”

“The Brew! That’s a good one.” Sandra chuckles in a way that strongly reminds me of Gollum, when Bilbo’s trying to persuade him to help him find his way out of the cave.

“Nah, he’s gone to the airport, hasn’t he?” she says, relenting at last. “Said he had a flight to catch. All stressed he was, poor love.”

“The … the airport? But … no, that’s not today. That’s not until tomorrow. Surely…”

I pull my phone out of my pocket to check the date, suddenly convinced I’ve somehow managed to sleep through an entire day and miss my flight. But the broken screen of the phone remains frustratingly blank, and now I come to think of it, it’s not particularly likely that would happen: either me sleeping for a full 24 hours without anyone noticing, or Elliot just getting up and leaving without me?

No. He would’ve come to wake me up. He wouldn’t have just gone to the airport on his own.

So why is Sandra trying to tell me he has? And a day early, at that?

My stomach lurches again as Sandra pushes past me and inserts a key into Elliot’s door.

“See?” she says, triumphantly pushing it open and letting me see inside. “I told you, didn’t I?”

I step into the room, my legs suddenly feeling a lot like they did that time I decided to take a step class at the village hall, rendering myself unable to walk for 24 hours afterwards.

Sure enough, Elliot’s room is empty. The bed has already been stripped; the covers piled untidily on top of a suspiciously stained mattress, the sight of which does nothing to settle my stomach. The wardrobe doors are wide open, clearly showing the empty interior, and the shabby little dressing table that Elliot used to use as a desk has been completely cleared of all the papers, notebooks, and other writing equipment that’s usually piled up there.

He’s gone.

Elliot has gone.

But … no. No, he can’t have. He can’t have just gone . And especially not to the airport, of all places. I refuse to believe it.

I won’t believe it.

“Do you have his number?” I ask Sandra desperately. “Elliot; did he give you a number when he checked in? Hotels take that kind of information, don’t they?”

Sandra’s eyes widen. She’s thoroughly enjoying this, I can tell.

“Well, now, hotels might, I suppose,” she says thoughtfully. “But The Rose is really a pub, you know? So no, we don’t take down numbers. And I wouldn’t tell you even if we did. Er, because of the data protection thingy,” she adds quickly, realizing she’s gone too far now. “We’re not allowed.”

“I need to go,” I mumble, suddenly desperate to get out of here. “I have to go and find him.”

“You okay? You’re not going to be sick, are you?” Sandra says, sounding only mildly concerned as I brush past her. But I’m not listening. Instead, I’m stumbling my way downstairs and out into the street, my mind frantically scrabbling to make sense of what’s happening, and how I can possibly figure it out.

But I can’t. I can’t think of a single person I know who’d have Elliot’s phone number, other than me; and my phone’s not working.

I stand there in the street in front of The Rose, frantically looking this way and that, as if I might spot him in the crowd, coming smiling towards me with the collar of his coat turned up against the wind, and his cheeks red from the cold.

Instead, all I see is Martin Baxter — whose cheeks are also red, as it happens, but who doesn’t carry it off quite so well.

“Hello, Holly,” he says cheerfully. “Mum said you’d popped in earlier. I must have missed you. Got yourself some bacon rolls, I see.”

“Martin, you have a car, don’t you?” I say, hope suddenly sparking in my chest. “You couldn’t drive me to the airport, could you?”

Martin’s china-blue eyes widen in surprise.

“The airport?” he says, sounding like he’s only just heard of the concept. “I don’t know, Holly. That’s over an hour, even in good traffic. Mind you, if I took the motorway, I suppose that would shave off a few minutes. We’d have to come off at Hawkesbury, though; the junction after that’s closed. Roadworks, apparently.”

“Right,” I reply, barely listening. “Please, Martin,” I add, aware that I’m begging, but not really caring. “I wouldn’t ask, but I’m desperate. I really need to get to the airport.”

“Well—” Martin pauses, and I can tell he’s torn between the need to feel important, and his reluctance at undertaking a journey by road without meticulously planning it first.

“You’re my only hope,” I say, remembering he’s a big Star Wars fan, and this is something Princess Leia says in the movie. It works for her — at least, as far as I remember — and, to my knee-sagging relief, it works for me, too.

“Well, I suppose I’m not doing anything this morning,” Martin replies, his chest puffed out with importance. “We’ll have to stop to fill the car up, though. It’s unwise to start a long journey without a full tank. And I should probably check the tire pressure, too.”

“Sure, sure,” I say quickly, grabbing his arm and starting to steer him towards the road, where I know he normally parks. “I’ll pay for the fuel. And your time. I’ll buy you new tires, even. Anything you like. You can have both of the bacon rolls. Just … please, can we go? Right now?”

Martin nods, his cheeks turning even pinker at the sight of my hand on his arm.

“Anything to help a damsel in distress,” he says gallantly. “To the airport we go.”

And that’s exactly what we do.