27. Twenty-Seven

27

PRESENT

“ U m, no, Elliot,” I tell him, shaking my head until it hurts. “Uh-uh. You’re not doing that. You’re not getting to rewrite the past by saying I’m the one who ended it. I know that’s what you did in your book — that whole thing with him waiting for her at the Christmas tree, and she never shows up? But that didn’t happen, did it?”

I prop my shoulder against the wall, and cross my own arms just as tightly, convinced I’ve made my point, and made it well. There’s no chance of him wriggling out of this one.

“Yes, it did,” Elliot says, speaking quietly but firmly. “And, no, not at the tree; that was a bit of artistic license. I waited for you at the airport, though. For as long as I possibly could. I waited until the flight had finished boarding and they told me if I didn’t get on it, it would leave without me. I waited and waited, Holly. But you didn’t show up.”

“I did show up!” I blurt out, incensed. “Of course I did. I waited at the airport! But you seem to be forgetting that you left on the wrong day, Elliot. We were supposed to leave on Christmas Eve, but you went the day before. Didn’t you?”

I glare at him, daring him to challenge me on this. Because I know I’m not wrong here. I know because I checked the ticket a million times; both as soon as I got back from the airport that day, and on all the days after it, until I finally accepted that I hadn’t made a mistake. My flight was definitely booked for December 24th. His was too. Which means this is still failing to make any sense at all to me.

“Well, yeah,” Elliot replies, frowning. “Yeah, I had to get an earlier flight home. But you knew that. I left messages for you. Tons of them. I told you to meet me there, and we’d try to change the ticket. There was no time to do it before that; it was all such a rush.”

“A rush?” I reach up and massage my temples, where a headache’s starting to form. “Well, yeah; I mean, I know it was a bit of a rush trying to get everything sorted in time. That doesn’t explain why you suddenly decided to change your flight and leave early, though. We still had a whole day to get everything done.”

Elliot just stares at me for several long seconds.

“My dad,” he says at last. “My dad had a heart attack the day before we were supposed to leave. They didn’t think he was going to make it. When my mom called, she said … she said I needed to get there right away. But you know this. Surely you know this? I sent you so many messages.”

I shake my head, silently trying to process all of this.

“I didn’t get any messages from you,” I tell him quietly. “I couldn’t have. My phone was broken, remember?”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I couldn’t call you. Or message you. But I came round to tell you myself, Holly. It was the middle of the night, but I knew I had to let you know what was going on; and not just for your sake, but for mine, too. I needed you with me, Holly. God knows, I didn’t want to have to do it alone.”

He’s looking me right in the eye. He sounds so sincere that it’s impossible to think he could be lying about this. And yet…

“So, why didn’t you?” I ask desperately. “Why didn’t you tell me, Elliot? I was right there. If you were coming to tell me, then why didn’t you? I’m not that deep a sleeper. I’m pretty sure you could’ve woken me up.”

Elliot rakes a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“I was on my way to your place,” he says, “When my mom called again to say she’d booked me onto the next flight out. She was freaking out, Holly. Like, completely hysterical. And the flight she’d booked was leaving almost right away. It was so tight. Honestly, I’d never have made it if I hadn’t walked right into your neighbor. Well, your boyfriend, I guess. Or whatever he is. Martin.”

He pulls a face which suggests that whatever Martin is, it’s not to Elliot’s liking.

“You met Martin ? But what does he have to do with any of this?”

Elliot looks at me as if he can’t quite believe he’s having to tell me this.

“He heard me on the phone,” he says slowly. “Asked if there was anything he could do to help. And when I told him what was going on — because I was kinda freaking out myself at that point — he said not to worry, he’d go and get you, while I went back to the hotel to grab my stuff. He said he’d explain what was going on, and bring you to meet me, so we could go to the airport together. And my mom was still panicking on the other end of the phone, so I took him at his word.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have.” My entire body has gone cold at the implications of what he’s just told me. “Because he didn’t come and get me. He didn’t even tell me. This is … this is the first time I’ve heard any of this.”

I’m really glad I’m leaning against this wall, because my legs have suddenly started to shake, as if they’re doubting their ability to hold me up.

“Are you absolutely sure it was Martin you met?” I ask suddenly. “You only really met him that one time at the bookstore. And it would’ve been dark. Maybe it wasn’t him? Maybe it was … um, someone who looked a bit like him?”

Maybe it was a demon? Or one of those Japanese spirits that can change shape? Because either of those options would be significantly more believable than it having been Martin .

I mean, seriously .

Elliot, however, just looks at me skeptically.

“Holly, Martin drove me to the airport,” he says calmly. “I spent almost an hour in the car with him. So I’m pretty sure it was him.”

“But … Martin drove me to the airport,” I shriek, feeling like I’ve slipped into an alternative reality. “Don’t you think he’d have mentioned taking you there too?”

A flicker of doubt crossed Elliot’s handsome face.

“He took you to the airport? But …. when? Because when he came to the hotel to pick me up, he told me he’d gone to the flat to wake you up, but you wouldn’t come. He said you point-blank refused, actually. And when I tried to come and see you myself, he said there wasn’t time, and he was right. I had to get to airport or I would miss my flight. He promised that he would speak to you and try to persuade you to come the next day.”

I gape at him incredulously.

“Elliot, absolutely none of that happened,” I say shakily. “None of it. I woke up in the morning and went to your hotel room, like we’d planned, but you weren’t there. It was Sandra who told me you’d gone to the airport, not Martin. Martin didn’t say a word. Not a single word.”

My voice is wobbling dangerously by the time I get to the end of this, but Elliot just shakes his head.

“He must have,” he insists. “He told me he did. And not just that night, but afterwards, too. He texted me when I got back to the States: said you’d asked him to get in touch and tell me to stop messaging you, because you didn’t want to hear from me. I’d sent you so many messages at that point; so many emails. I … well, I guess it took a while for it to sink in that you just didn’t want to hear from me.”

He swallows, as if this was a hard thing for him to get out, and now he wants to get rid of the taste of it. Possibly because, as far as I can tell, he appears to be speaking a completely different language; and it’s not one I’m even remotely fluent in.

“But I did want to hear from you!” I wail, feeling like stamping my foot in frustration. “I got a new phone as soon as the shops opened after Christmas. Martin helped me set it up. All the numbers on the SIM card were lost, so I couldn’t call you, but I kept the same number in case you called me . But you didn’t. You definitely didn’t, Elliot. I think I would remember.”

I’m sure I would remember. I definitely remember all the sleepless nights I spent endlessly checking my phone for messages, then the laptop for emails. Going back and forth between the two, and always ending up disappointed.

“Martin helped you?” Elliot says slowly. “And he told you all the contacts were missing?”

“Yeah. He said all the data had been wiped when the phone fell. And it was lost. The numbers weren’t there. I checked about a hundred times.”

Actually, it was more like a thousand times, if I remember rightly; and I’m pretty sure I do. I take a deep breath as more memories of that time come flooding back to me; most of them involving me wandering around in my dressing gown, with puffy eyes and chocolate ice cream dribbled down my front.

“It was a cracked screen, Holly,” Elliot points out. “And I’m no expert, but I’d be surprised if what happened to the phone was bad enough to destroy the SIM card.”

I’m about to point out that there isn’t much point in us debating the finer points of technology from a decade ago — he’s actually starting to sound a bit like Martin himself with his insistence on focusing on this — but then another memory hits me.

Martin, standing at the shop counter, with the laptop I shared with Dad at the time open in front of him. The look on his face when he heard Dad and I talk about my plans to go to the States with Elliot.

My headache suddenly intensifies.

“Martin had access to my email, too,” I say, an idea starting to take shape in the back of my mind. “Dad asked him to come round to fix his, but Martin said he’d have to take the computer away to look at it. He had it for a couple of days. I didn’t think anything of it at the time…”

… but I do now.

And, judging by the look on his face, so does Elliot.

“Martin did this,” he says, as matter-of-factly as if we’re discussing the weather. “He didn’t give you my message, then he lied and told me he did. And I guess he did something to block me from contacting you after that. What was it you used to call him? A nerd?”

“A geek,” I reply, my voice croaky. “Because he always said there was nothing he didn’t know about tech. And, well, also because he loves Star Wars so much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with loving Star Wars ,” comes Levi’s voice from the other side of the door. “Enough with the geek-shaming.”

For once, though, I don’t have the energy to resent the intrusion; or even to tell him off for eavesdropping. I’m too busy watching Elliot’s expression change from the guarded mistrust he started this conversation with, through the dawning realization that we’ve been played: and by Martin Baxter, of all people.

Finally, we’re on the same page.

Elliot didn’t rewrite our story when he used it in his book. There were just two sides of it all along; and now we’re finally getting to read both of them — just a little too late.

My heart does a weird little duh-DUM that feels a bit like a jump scare.

“Elliot? Oh, there you are.”

With the worst possible timing, the door into the hall opens to reveal Elliot’s publicist, plus a sheepish-looking Levi, who starts backing away slowly as soon as I make eye contact with him.

“Everyone’s waiting for you,” the publicist says, looking from Elliot to me and then back again. “If you’re ready?”

No , I want to tell her. No, he’s not ready. Because he’s in the middle of a very important conversation — one it’s taken us an entire decade to get around to — and interrupting it now would feel like deciding to leave the theater right before the end of the movie, and before you get to find out whodunnit. (Although, in this case, I think we all know whodunnit; and he’s currently standing at the Hart Books table, wearing an ‘ironic’ Christmas jumper, and a self-satisfied expression which I’m planning to remove as soon as I get the chance…)

“I can’t stall the crowd much longer,” Publicist Woman adds, as if she’s read my mind. “They’re all so excited for your big announcement.”

Elliot hesitates, his eyes flickering over to me as if he’s trying to make his mind up about something.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I have to do this.”

“Sure. I understand,” I reply quickly. Then I remember something.

“Elliot,” I call, as he turns to follow the woman into the hall. “Your dad. I wanted to ask. Did he …?”

The ghost of a smile flickers around the corners of his lips as he pauses in the doorway, Levi hovering excitedly behind him with his eyes like saucers.

“He pulled through,” he says. “Eventually. But it was touch and go for a while there. We were basically living in the hospital. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. Sorry, Harper,” he adds, looking over his shoulder. “I’m just coming.”

He gives a small, apologetic shrug, before walking away, and I frown to myself thoughtfully as I watch him go.

Harper ? His publicist has the same name as the one I’ve been assigned to at the ghostwriting agency? What are the odds of that?

I shake off the thought as Levi comes bounding over to grab my hand and tow me back into the hall, babbling something about Martin, and how romantic it is that he would go to such lengths to see off his rival and win the hand of the woman he loves.

It’s obvious that Levi and I have very different ideas about ‘romance’.

The room in front of me is now at least twice as busy as it was when I left it, with people crammed into every available space, all of them facing the stage, where the man I saw earlier, talking to Elliot’s publicist — Harper — is sitting on one of the chairs in front of the microphone. Levi and I squeeze our way through the crowd and back to the Hart Books stall, where I notice Martin has made himself at home in my absence, and is sitting next to Dad, chatting away like they’re old pals.

Well, we’ll see about that.

I grit my teeth as I approach them, my head pounding with rage as I think about what Martin did — what I’m absolutely sure he did — to split up me and Elliot ten years ago. Before I can confront him, though, and create my second scene of the day, there’s a shrill screech of feedback from the microphone, and I look around to see Elliot standing next to it, looking handsome and self-possessed, with absolutely no trace of the fact that he’s had his world rocked by the knowledge that his ex-girlfriend’s neighbor-turned-boyfriend deliberately sabotaged their relationship.

From the other side of the stall, Martin grins across at me, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to reach over and shake him.

I’ll have to save that for later.

At the microphone, the woman Elliot addressed as Harper starts talking to the crowd, introducing Elliot — as if he needs introducing in this town — and explaining that he’ll make a brief announcement, before going into a question-and-answer session with the man in the suit, who’s now accompanied by a cameraman, and someone carrying one of those huge furry microphones. At the front of the stage, a small crowd of photographers jostle for space, while, just behind them, the people in the front row all hold their phones in the air, ready to hit record, as if they’re at a rock concert rather than a book festival. Levi gives me an apologetic look before rushing off to join them. After a second, Paris goes too, only without the apology.

Now it’s just me, Dad, Martin, and my burning sense of outrage, which is now so huge I imagine it taking physical shape and floating in the air above me, like a demon. Oh, and a few hundred other people in the audience, who are the only reason I’m not letting that rage-demon loose.

At least, not yet.

“Please welcome the award-winning author of The Snow Globe: Elliot Sinclair,” says Publicist Woman, forcing me to look back up at the stage, where Elliot is stepping in front of the microphone, raising his hand to acknowledge the thunderous applause from the crowd.

He hasn’t said a word, and he’s already a hit.

“Thank you,” he says, his eyes roving across the rows of heads in front of him. “Thank you all for coming.”

“Thank you ,” yells someone who I’m pretty sure is Levi. Elliot smiles, looking totally at ease.

“My publishers asked me to come here this morning to talk to you about the sequel to my book,” he says, to another flurry of applause. “But I’m not going to do that.”

The crowd falls instantly silent. From his position in the front row, Levi twists his head around and shoots me an accusing look.

“Instead,” says Elliot calmly, “I’d like to tell you a story, if I may. I’d like to tell you the true story of The Snow Globe .”