26. Twenty-Six

26

PRESENT

M y intention when I walked away from Elliot was to stage a dignified, classy kind of exit that, once all of this was over, would allow him to remember me as the strong, capable woman I am. Or that I will be, anyway, once I’ve completely changed everything about myself — which is the very next thing on my agenda, I promise.

Instead, I first of all walk into a bathroom, and then into a cupboard filled with cleaning products and other random household items.

On the plus side, at least I found the spade I’ll be needing to dig myself out of the snow first thing tomorrow morning.

On the minus side, however, I still have to dig myself out of the mess I’ve made of the last few hours; the memory of which makes me cringe all the way to my toes as I think about everything from the broken snow globe box to the way I almost started crying over a Christmas song. And, as if that wasn’t enough, once I find my way to the spare bedroom I then realize I’m going to have to go right back out again to use the bathroom before bed.

As exits go, then, it’s not a great one. Then, when I return to the room after my bathroom trip, I find one of Elliot’s sweaters lying neatly folded on the bed; I guess he must have left it there for me to sleep in. It has a Miami Dolphins logo on the front and is so over-sized on me it reaches my thighs, but it smells like Elliot and makes me sob uncontrollably for a few minutes, before falling into a surprisingly deep sleep, from which I wake the next morning with a pounding headache, and a furry feeling on my teeth.

So much for classy and dignified.

In a rare moment of good luck, however, it seems the snow has thawed slightly overnight, and by the time I emerge from the bathroom, having attempted to brush my teeth with my finger, I find that Elliot’s already cleared the driveway, and is waiting for me, looking like he’s had a solid 12 hours’ sleep, and is about to star in one of those aftershave commercials, where a square-jawed man does rugged, manly things, ideally while accompanied by a wolf.

“Ready to go?”

He’s standing by the door, and is in the process of pulling his sweater on over the long-sleeve t-shirt he’s wearing underneath, having presumably removed the top layer while he shoveled the snow. As he raises his arms above his head, the t-shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin that makes me wish I’d gotten up earlier to watch him at work. He might look kind of bookish and intense when you first see him, but it looks like Elliot Sinclair is no stranger to the gym these days, either: a realization that does absolutely nothing to ease the confusion I’ve been feeling since all of last night’s mixed signals.

“Sure. I’ve, uh, got your sweater in my bag,” I tell him, patting the bag in question to prove it. “I’ll wash it and give it back to you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies, picking up a set of car keys from the table next to the door. “It’s an old one anyway, and I’m going home tomorrow, so I won’t need it. Just keep it — or throw it away, or whatever.”

He turns away to open the front door, and my heart gives a lurch of disappointment, which is either from the thought of him leaving, or the offhand way he’s speaking to me, as if we didn’t almost kiss last night.

Or as if it doesn’t actually matter to him either way.

I know it’s stupid to feel like this. I’m the one who walked away last night; and if I hadn’t, he’d only have hurt me again, anyway. I did the right thing. I know that. So I don’t say anything else as I follow him out of the house and into the car; and the silence continues all the way back to Bramblebury, where he drops me off at my house, then drives off, almost before I have time to get out of the car.

Right. Cool. So I guess we’re back to being strangers again.

Talk about confusing.

My emotions are still completely scrambled after everything that happened yesterday. All I want now is a long, hot bath, an indecently strong coffee, and maybe a rummage around the bookstore for some kind of ‘How to Get Over the Ex Who Wrote a Book About You’ self-help guide. But I promised both Lorraine and Dad that I’d be there to help out at the book festival, so, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing, I have to settle for a quick shower and a cup of instant, before I pull my coat back on and make my way cautiously down the still-slippery hill that leads to the village hall, which has a huge banner strung over the door declaring it to be ‘The birthplace of The Snow Globe !’.

I have a feeling this is going to be a very long day.

As soon as I walk in, I’m ambushed by Levi, who hauls me over to our stall, where Dad is presiding importantly over the stacks of books, with Paris sitting behind him, looking bored. Annoyingly, Martin is standing beside her, looking awkward and out of place — so, just the same as always, really — but still steadfastly keeping his position, his eyes lighting up as he sees me coming towards them all.

“Morning, Holly,” he says brightly, almost knocking Paris off her seat as he takes a step towards me. He reaches out as if he’s going to hug me, but I step out of the way at the last minute, so he ends up just standing there with his arms out like a wooden soldier; a sight that makes me feel even worse than I did already.

Why can’t you just be nice to him, Holly? He’s not the one who abandoned you at the airport, remember?

“Er, you didn’t answer any of my messages about your ankle,” Martin says, recovering. “So I thought I’d just pop in and see how you’re doing?”

“My ankle? Oh. Um, yes; yes, it’s fine. Thanks, Martin,” I reply, going to stand beside Dad, who gives my arm a quick squeeze of solidarity. “All better.”

It feels like weeks ago now since I sprained my ankle. I’d almost completely forgotten about it. Trust Martin to not only remember, but to use it as an excuse to see me again, even though he knows perfectly well that it’s over between us.

Looks like making that message even clearer is going to have to be yet another item on my ‘once all of this stuff with Elliot is over’ agenda. Maybe I should buy myself a notebook, so I can keep track of all of this?

The room is already thronged with people, all chattering excitedly about their Christmas plans as they wander from stall to stall, but my eyes keep wandering over the largest stall, right at the very front of the room, which has the Saturday Lane logo plastered all over it, and copies of The Snow Globe piled high. The woman I saw with Elliot at the book signing is standing in front of it, talking to a man in a suit, who looks like he might be someone important. The stall itself is right in front of the little stage, which is normally used for the annual panto the village school put on every year. Today, there’s a couple of seats up there, with a microphone between them, making it look like the set of a 70s talk show.

I guess that’s for Elliot, and the announcement his publishers are supposedly planning to make about his next book; the one he asked me to help him write.

The memory makes me feel suddenly nauseous. Or maybe it’s just the thought of seeing Elliot himself again. He doesn’t seem to be here yet, though. At least that gives me a bit longer to prepare myself.

“Holly! Oh my God, Holly, I love it! I just love it. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it.”

Aunt Lorraine comes bustling up to our stall, carrying a clipboard, and looking like she’s about to burst with excitement.

“Huh? Did I miss something? I thought this thing had only just got started?” I reply, checking the time on my phone.

“I’m not talking about the festival; I’m talking about your book, silly.” She punches me playfully on the arm. “Well, what I’ve read of it so far. I can’t wait for the rest, though; honestly, Holly, it’s so good. I think Vivienne Faulkner will be so happy with it.”

She beams at me, and I grab her arm, quickly towing her out of earshot before Paris or Levi can overhear us.

“Shhhh!” I say warningly. “You know I wasn’t supposed to tell you who I was writing it for. I’ve signed an NDA. Did you really like it, though? Really?”

I hold my breath as I wait for her reply. I have to admit, I haven’t even been thinking about my ghostwriting job lately, and I’d almost forgotten I’d sent Lorraine those first few pages to read. But suddenly it occurs to me that this is the thing I should be focusing on; not ex boyfriends and the books they write — or might write in the future — but my book, and the opportunity it represents to start doing something I really love. The present, not the past.

“Holly, it’s fantastic,” Lorraine says, patting me on the arm. “And you know me; I’d tell you if it wasn’t. But I’m loving it. Write more. Do it soon. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, my cheeks hot from the unaccustomed praise. “I will. I really need to get on with it, anyway. I’ve been neglecting it since … oh.”

Across the room, Elliot has finally appeared, and is talking to his publicist, who’s wearing a cream-colored dress today, confirming my suspicion that she’s the kind of woman who’s never spilled anything in her life, and thus doesn’t have to worry about the same things as the rest of us mortals. Her shiny hair is slicked back in a low bun, and her arm is on Elliot’s, as she turns him around to show him something on the book table. Elliot looks in the direction she’s pointing, then glances back up, his eyes sweeping the room, until they find mine. He holds the glance for a second, making my heart flutter traitorously until he gives me a terse nod, then turns away. Interaction over.

Well, that was definitely different from the last time we were in this particular room together.

Heart still pounding, I give myself a quick shake, before following Lorraine back over to the Hart Books table, where Dad’s busy serving customers, while Paris and Levi appear to have put their differences aside for once to join forces in gossiping about Elliot, and what his ‘big announcement’ is going to be.

“I really hope it is going to be the Snow Globe sequel,” Levi says dreamily, his chin resting on his hands as he sits behind the stall, completely ignoring the line of customers. “I don’t think I can go on living without knowing what happened to Evie and Luke after she stood him up at the village Christmas tree”

“She didn’t stand him up,” I snap, before I can stop myself. “She would never have done that. It was him. It was all him.”

Paris and Levi exchange looks.

“Breathe, bestie,” says Paris, eyebrows raised. “It’s not that deep.”

“Don’t listen to her,” interrupts Levi, looking excited. “It’s totally that deep. Tell us everything you know. Because you do know, don’t you, Holly? You know how it ends? You must do. Because it’s you . It’s him . So come on, I’m begging you. Take pity on a poor boy who just wants a happy ever after.”

I roll my eyes. ??“There’s nothing to tell, Levi,” I say firmly. “And if I never hear another word about Evie and Luke, it’ll be too soon. Trust me.”

“So, I’m assuming you didn’t leave him waiting in the village square, like she does in the book,” he goes on, as if I haven’t spoken. “Because that’s, like, right next to the shop, so he’d just have come in and found you rather than standing there like an abandoned puppy. So, where did you do it? And how long did he wait, do you think?”

??“I didn’t do it,” I reply, my voice rising in frustration at the unfairness of this. “I didn’t do anything, Levi. He did it. Elliot did it. He was the one who left me . And I’ll never, ever forgive him for it.”

The last words come out into complete silence; or near enough, anyway. There’s still some noise from the people at the front of the hall, next to the stage, but everyone around us has stopped what they’re doing to look on with interest as I deliver this little speech, the words tumbling out of me as if they’ve been waiting a long time to do it.

Which I suppose they have.

It’s only as I open my mouth again to try to explain myself — not that it worked particularly well the first time — that it occurs to me that the eyes of the people around me aren’t actually on me at all. No, they’re all staring at something directly behind me; which is a relief, until I turn around and realize what it is.

Or who it is, rather.

Elliot is standing at my shoulder, having presumably walked over at some point either before or during my little outburst. His face is pinched and white with shock — or anger, or some other emotion which I don’t have to be a psychologist to know is most likely a sign that yes, he definitely did hear everything I just said.

Looks like I was right then. This is definitely going to be a very long day.

“Holly. Can I have a word, please?”

It’s phrased as a request, but there’s absolutely no way I can refuse it without turning this into even more of a scene than it already is, so I decide to take the path of least resistance and turn to follow Elliot meekly toward the nearest exit, feeling countless sets of curious eyes — and quite a few phone cameras — on us both as we go.

This may not be the show they came for, but it’s definitely the one they all wanted. “Care to explain what that was about back there?”

Elliot whirls around to face me as soon as we’re in the corridor outside the main hall, his eyes flashing dangerously, and his voice a little louder than is wise, given that Levi probably has his ear pressed to the other side of the door we’re standing in front of.

“I left you?” he goes on, before I have time to answer. “I left you, Holly?” Is that what you just said?”

“Um, well, yeah,” I reply, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, and feeling a bit like a naughty schoolgirl who’s been called to the headmaster’s office for a telling off. “Look, I probably shouldn’t have said it right there. I get that. It was … unprofessional. Or something. But … well, it was also true, so…”

I trail off, not knowing what else there is to say.

Elliot stares at me in astonishment.

“It’s true that I left you ?” he repeats, as if he’s determined to keep on repeating the words until they somehow make sense. “Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”

Now it’s my turn to do the staring-in-astonishment thing.

“I didn’t leave you, Holly,” Elliot says firmly, crossing his arms in front of his chest in the manner of a man who’s utterly convinced he’s right. “I think you’ll find you were the one who left me.”