3. Three

3

PRESENT

O f course, in his book, it was Elliot (Or Luke, as he called himself…) who said the now-famous “ It’s you ” line first, not me / Evie. And it wasn’t just a stupid slip of the tongue, either, like it was when I said it in real life. No, in Elliot’s book, it really was love at first sight between the two main characters; and when Luke Saunders looks into Evie Snow’s eyes and says, “It’s you,” he means it’s her — the one he’s spent his entire life searching for.

What a crock of shit, right?

That’s just one of the ways Elliot re-wrote our story, though. Another is the fact that he set that first meeting in the bookstore, rather than at the Christmas market; one tiny change, which was to completely alter the course of our little shop’s history, and force us to start stocking shelves full of snow globes, just like the store in the book.

But I’m not thinking about Elliot this morning; by which I mean I’m very deliberately not thinking about him, as I leave the little cottage I bought a few years ago, when the bookstore’s success finally meant there was money to spare, and walk to The Brew to pick up a coffee before I start work.

I’m not thinking about Elliot Sinclair at all. And I’m definitely not buying my coffee from here just because that’s where we went on our first ‘date’. No, I always get my coffee from The Brew — because the stuff Levi serves at the bookstore tastes like boiled socks, let’s be honest — and I’m not going to let the ghost of Elliot Sinclair stand between me and my routine. Routine is important. It’s one of the few things that stands between me and utter chaos, and so I cling onto it, like Rose clinging to that door in Titanic.

The Christmas market is already in full swing, even though it’s still early. There’s no snow this year (It hasn’t snowed properly in Bramblebury for ten years now, to the eternal disappointment of the tourists, who come here expecting it to look like it does in the movie …) but the village is still looking chocolate-box pretty, with fairy lights strung across the square, and a brass band playing Christmas carols off to one side.

It is, as Levi will later observe in the caption of his next TikTok video, “Festive AF”.

It’s just a shame the same can’t be said about me.

“Drink up Holly; you look like you could be doing with some color in those cheeks of yours.”

Maisie Poole, Bramblebury’s chief librarian and gossip monger, appears as if by magic and slides into the seat opposite mine without waiting for an invitation.

This is the very last thing I need right now.

“Ooh, she does look a bit peaky, doesn’t she?” says her sister, Elsie, joining us, as if to prove that, no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse. “I said you’re looking a bit peaky, Holly,” she repeats loudly for my benefit. “I hope you’re not coming down with something?”

“No, it’s just the time of year, isn’t it?” replies Maisie on my behalf. “Always a hard one for her. And she spends so much time in that bookshop she’s even starting to smell like books. Maybe you should give her one of those cake pop thingummys you ordered, Elsie? The young ones love those. They’re all the rage, trust me.”

The Poole sisters aren’t twins, but they look like they could be; both of them small and bird-like, with ‘harmless little old lady’ vibes about them which totally belie the fact that they have two of the sharpest tongues in town. They’re well past retirement age, but they’ve both been lying about their ages for as long as I can remember, while insisting they’re very much ‘down with the kids’, so their actual age is anyone’s guess.

“Holly might love the cake pops, but the cake pops certainly don’t love a lady’s figure, do they?” says Elise, smiling sweetly as she covers the confectionery on her tray with both hands, as if I might pounce on it without warning. “And she has to be careful, Maisie. She’s not really a ‘young one’ anymore, is she? Not everyone has a metabolism like ours, remember?”

“No. And she’s lost one man already this year,” agrees Maisie, speaking about me as if I’m not there. “You’re right, Elsie. Best not.”

I glance down at my figure, currently clad in my favorite dress, which Paris once described as “dark academia, with a twist”. She didn’t say what the ‘twist’ was, but now I’m worried it’s that it makes me look like Jane Eyre; who she’s also compared me to lately.

“I didn’t ‘lose’ Martin,” I point out, deciding to address the blatant body-shaming another time. “We broke up. It was mutual. He just… wasn’t the right man for me. And I like the smell of books. It’s comforting. What could be better than the smell of books?”

“If you say so,” shrugs Maisie, looking slightly put-out. “What are you writing, dear?” she goes on, perking up at the sight of my notebook lying open on the table. “Christmas shopping list, is it? I’ve had mine done since the start of November. You’ve left it a bit late, Holly, I must say.”

She purses her lips disapprovingly, and I bravely resist the impulse to point out that there’s still over a week until Christmas, and I only have Dad and Ed the cat to buy for; one of the upsides of leaving your long-term relationship before the festive season kicks in, I guess.

“It’s just some notes for my latest ghostwriting project, Maisie,” I tell her instead. “Remember I told you I was doing some freelancing?”

“Ghostwriting?” Elsie’s pink cat-eye glasses slide down her nose as she frowns. “Is that books about ghosts, then?”

“Don’t be silly, Elsie,” says Maisie sharply. “Don’t you think Holly has enough ghosts to deal with? I’m talking about the ghosts of the past , dear,” she continues, leaning forward and lowering her voice dramatically. “Like your poor mother. And that Elliot —”

“Ghostwriting is when you write something for someone else,” I interject quickly, wanting to head this line of conversation off at the pass. “Like when a celebrity claims to have written a book, but it’s really someone else who wrote it for them. Only I don’t write for celebrities: it’s just regular people who have an idea for a book, but don’t know how to put it into words. So they hire a ghostwriter to do it for them.”

“So, you do all the work and they take the credit?” says Elsie, scandalized. “Well, I never. I don’t think that seems fair, do you, Maisie? Why not just write the books yourself, Holly? Cut out the middle-man, so to speak. That’s what I’d do.”

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully, as if she’s thinking of trying her hand at it herself; the Poole sisters never miss a business opportunity if they can help it.

“I don’t have any ideas,” I admit reluctantly. “It’s like… I can write a book just fine, as long as someone else has come up with the plot. But I don’t have any stories of my own. I really wish I did.”

This is a hard thing for me to admit, even after all this time. It’s one of my greatest failings in life; that and my inability to drive on the motorway at night, or maintain a romantic relationship for longer than ten months.

“Anyway, that’s why ghostwriting is perfect for me,” I go on, shaking off the melancholy mood that always descends when I start listing my failings. “I get some writing experience, but I don’t have to come up with the idea for the book, or figure out how to market it. And I don’t really care about not getting credit for it. It’s not like I’m writing great works of literature, you know? They’re self-help books for people who don’t know how to use Google. So it’s fine that I don’t get my name on the cover.”

“Well, it’s nice to have a hobby, I suppose,” says Elsie doubtfully. “You should ask that Elliot Sinclair for advice, though, Holly. He’s a proper author. He writes real books. He’d be able to tell you how to come up with a story.”

“He wrote one book a decade ago,” I point out, churlishly. “Which makes him a one-hit wonder, if anything. He only had one story in him; and it wasn’t even his.”

This is pretty rich — and also kind of mean, really — coming from me, the girl who has so far failed to find any stories in her at all . That’s why I’m a ghostwriter, not a famous author, like Elliot.

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Elsie. “I’m sure someone told me there was a rumor he was writing another one. Now, who was it who told me that? Was it you, Maisie?”

She looks at her sister thoughtfully, then snaps her fingers as the answer comes to her.

“I remember now!” she says, pleased. “It was young Jimmy, who drives the Amazon van. He heard it from Nora, in the florists, and she heard it from Matteo, from that new restaurant. You know the one on Bridge Street?”

“No, Matteo’s restaurant is on Castle Walk, Elsie,” replies Maisie. “You’re thinking of young Mason. His people have the tapas bar. You know, the one with the red and white awning on the front? Not the one with the blue door; that belongs to the Smiths. Or is it the Powells?”

The sisters eagerly launch into a quick who’s who of Bramblebury, and I do my best to tune out. These rumors about Elliot and a new book start doing the rounds at least once a year, and so far, the ‘new book’ he’s allegedly working on has failed to materialize. I’m at least 74% sure it’s just his publisher’s way of drumming up more publicity for The Snow Globe by allowing people to hope there might one day be a sequel to it, but that doesn’t stop my heart doing a fast-paced anxiety dance every time someone mentions it.

The Snow Globe itself was bad enough; I’m not sure I’d cope with a sequel. Not that there would be any chance of me being in it, obviously, seeing as I haven’t seen Elliot since before it was published.

“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat to interrupt the sisters, who are now deeply embroiled in a discussion involving who used to run the greengrocers before it was turned into a health food shop. “Elliot couldn’t help me with my writing even if I wanted him to, because he and I aren’t in touch. I don’t know the guy anymore . And he definitely doesn’t know me. He never really did.”

I glance across at the corner Elliot and I sat in on our first date, as if he might still be sitting there all these years later, listening in to this conversation about himself. But the shabby little booth with the peeling leather seats is long gone; replaced by a huge, glass-fronted fridge containing expensive bottled water and low-cal smoothies. There are no ghosts here. If there were, they’d probably leave, just to get away from the squabbling Poole sisters.

“Evie Snow wasn’t much like you in the movie,” Elsie agrees. “But I do like the bit where she gives the doctor a piece of her mind. That was very you , Holly.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I protest, stung. “That never happened, Elsie. You know that. I’ll never forgive Elliot for writing that book of his. It changed everything; and not for the better.”

Elsie exchanges a glance with her sister that makes me wish it was more acceptable to argue with elderly people.

“Now, now,” begins Maisie. “If it wasn’t for ‘that book’, as you put it, none of us would be here. Well, I mean, we would probably be here , in The Brew; but it wouldn’t look like this. Until ‘that book’ came out, The Brew was dying on its feet. They could barely afford to keep the lights on. And now look at it.”

We all dutifully look around us at the interior of the shop, which bears absolutely no resemblance to the chintzy little tea room it used to be when Elliot and I had our first ‘date’ here over a decade ago. That’s the only reason I can bring myself to keep coming here.

“It’s the Snow Globe effect,” agrees her sister. “It’s like magic. It makes everything better.”

“Not everything ,” I reply, knowing I sound petulant, but not really caring. “Not everything’s been better since The Snow Globe came out. And not everything needs to change, anyway. Maybe some things were better the way they were.”

Like my heart, say. And the way I used to be able to pick up a book without worrying that there might be a photo of my ex on the back cover. Just the simple things, you know?

“That’s the wrong attitude, Holly,” Maisie tells me firmly. “You have to move with the times. Get with the program.”

“You’ve got to catch the vibe,” Elsie joins in eagerly. “Is that how you say it, Maisie?”

“You have to glow-up,” Maisie finishes, ignoring her. “You have to flex . Like Elsie and me. We flex .”

I gape at her, dumbfounded. It’s like she’s swallowed Urban Dictionary whole.

“Oh, that’s a good one,” her sister agrees, sipping her tea primly. “We do like to flex, don’t we?”

“The question is,” says Maisie, leaning forward and fixing me with a gimlet stare. “Do you , Holly?”

“Do I… flex ?” I pick up my coffee mug and take a long gulp in a bid to hide the laughter that’s bubbling up inside me. “I … I’m not sure. I do a pilates workout on YouTube sometimes. Does that count?”

“Do you want to move with the times, I mean?” says Maisie impatiently. “Do you want to glow-up, like the rest of us, or are you just going to keep on complaining about your boring little life, and how Martin left you because you were frigid?”

“Hang on,” I reply. “That’s a bit harsh, Maisie. I wasn’t complaining. And Martin didn’t say that. Wait: did Martin say that?”

“He said you had a heart as cold as ice,” Elsie pipes up importantly. “He said not even dragon fire would melt it. He does like dragons, young Martin.”

“That’s what I said,” replies her sister, irritated. “She’s frigid.”

“Freezing,” nods Elsie.

“Maybe a make-over?” suggests Maisie, frowning in concentration as she looks me up and down again critically. “That couldn’t hurt, could it? Remember that time you went into the bookstore and walked right past her, because she’d blended in with one of the shelves?”

“Ooh, I know! She could have a Main Character Moment,” says Elsie, excitedly. “Remember we read about that on the Internet, Maisie? Everyone was having one. I think I had a bit of one this morning, actually.”

“You did not,” retorts Maisie, who hates being outdone by her sister. “That was just one of your migraines, Elsie. And Holly’s already had her Main Character Moment when she was in The Snow Globe . She can’t have two. That would just be greedy, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t need a make-over,” I explode, suddenly sounding very like Evie Snow after all. “ Or a main character moment. I’m quite happy staying in the background, thanks. And I don’t have a heart of ice. I can’t believe Martin said that. I’m not cold .”

I am actually quite cold right now, to be honest. But my heart is a completely normal temperature, and I’m just about to tell them that when I happen to glance at the window of the shop.

And there he is.

Again.

Elliot Sinclair is standing outside The Brew, wearing the same beanie hat I thought I saw him in yesterday, and looking in at us, almost as if I’ve conjured him into existence just by speaking about him. What’s that saying again? Speak of the devil, and he might appear?

I let out a strange, high-pitched squeak of shock, and the mug in my hand suddenly slips through my fingers, hot coffee spilling onto the table in front of me, and dripping onto my lap.

I squeak again, this time in pain.

“Oh, my goodness! Quick, Holly, take this!”

Maisie and Elsie flutter around me like birds, offering paper napkins and words of advice on how to get coffee stains out of clothes (Baking soda and white vinegar, apparently), and by the time they’re done fussing, and my view of the window is clear once more, there’s no one there.

Of course there isn’t.

Which means that I’m either, a) seeing things, b) going insane, or, c) Elliot Sinclair really is skulking around a town he hasn’t visited in a decade, somehow managing to disappear the split second I lay eyes on him.

I’m honestly not sure which of those three options is the least appealing.

(Okay, I’m lying; it’s the last one. I’d much rather be seeing ‘things’ than seeing Elliot Sinclair right now, trust me…)

“Did you see him?” I ask, looking wildly from one sister to the other. “At the window. Did you see him too?”

They stare back at me with identical expressions of bemusement mixed with concern on their faces. I know I must sound crazy right now, but I have to know if I actually am . Because that would definitely be helpful.

“Did we see who, dear?” asks Elsie cautiously. “I don’t see anyone at the window; did you, Maisie?”

Maisie shakes her head.

“It’s just this time of year,” she says kindly. “It always sends poor Holly a bit loopy, doesn’t it? Remember how she shouted at her poor father that time, Elsie?”

“That wasn’t me ,” I exclaim, aghast. “That was Evie Snow in The Snow Globe . You see what I mean?” I’m horrified to notice that my voice is starting to sound kind of wobbly now. “Everyone thinks it’s true. Everyone thinks I’m her , and that I did all those things in the book, but that’s not true. It’s really not. I—”

But it’s no use; Elsie and Maisie might be nodding along as if they completely agree with everything I’m saying, but I can tell that I’ve lost them. And now I really am starting to sound every bit as irrational as Elliot made me — I mean Evie — sound in his book; which means it’s time for me to go.

“Thanks for the chat,” I say, giving them both a smile which I know they’ll later describe to each other as “brave. “I best be going.”

So I go; leaving quickly, just in case the man I thought was Elliot is still somewhere around; maybe coming out of the gourmet food store, or browsing the market stalls in the village square, hoping to bump into some other unsuspecting woman he can use as ‘inspiration’ for a book.

But he isn’t there. The entire village is conspicuously lacking in anyone who looks even remotely like a bestselling author; or even an American ex-boyfriend.

I’m starting to think I should get my eyes tested.

That would be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. Well, that and the fact that I live in a town that’s absolutely obsessed with my ex.

I guess anyone would start to think they were seeing him under those circumstances.

Wouldn’t they?

Elliot Sinclair isn’t the only thing that’s stuck in my mind, though, as I make my way to the bookstore. Maisie and Elsie’s words are in there too, circling and repeating like a record with a scratch.

I hate to say it, but maybe Maisie is right? Maybe I could be doing with making a few changes? Maybe not a ‘makeover’ exactly, but something to get me out of this decade-long rut I’ve been stuck in? A confidence boost. A goal of some kind. An opportunity to feel like the main character in my own life, for once.

Maybe if I did that, I’d stop imagining Elliot Sinclair around every corner. Because, call me crazy, but I think it’s long past time to start banishing that particular ghost of Christmas past.