5. Five

5

PRESENT

I arrive at the bookstore just in time to intercept Dad, who’s attempting to force a large box filled with books through the door, his glasses steamed up with the effort.

“Here, let me take that,” I tell him, glad of the distraction as I grab one corner of the box and help him carry it inside. “What are these, anyway? Not more copies of The Snow Globe ?”

I pull a face, but Dad’s too busy moping his brow with the handkerchief he keeps in his jacket pocket to notice.

“No,” he says, turning back to the box. “No, it’s the latest Vivienne Faulkner, Holly. Here, take a look.”

He pulls a hardback out of the box and hands it to me. It’s called A Season for Second Chances , and the picture on the front shows a couple walking hand in hand down a snowy street, both wrapped up in gigantic scarves and beaming at each other, presumably delighted by their ‘second chance’. On the back cover, Vivienne Faulkner herself flashes an unnaturally white smile as she sits on a chair that looks like a throne, wearing a sharp, Barbie-pink trouser suit, and looking like she’s about to try to sell us something from the Avon catalog.

“Looks like the same old tripe she always churns out,” says Dad, cheerfully. “Should sell well, though; she always does. Let’s try to clear some space near the front of the shop for these, shall we?”

I nod, although I’m secretly planning to read the new book as soon as I get a chance; because Vivienne Faulkner may be the queen of trashy romance, but every single one of her books comes with a guaranteed happy ever after — and normally a dashing billionaire, who falls for a really quite ordinary girl, into the bargain — and she writes so many of them that you have to admire her, really; even though admitting that would be a bit like saying you’d rather have a Big Mac than a nice, juicy steak.

Sometimes you just want a Big Mac, though.

Don’t you?

I’ve just finished unpacking the books, determinedly keeping my back to the window as I do it, so there’s no opportunity to imagine any ex-boyfriends looking through it, when my phone pings with a message alert. I swipe to open it, expecting it to be either confirmation of my last book order for the store, or possibly some foreign prince who desperately needs to temporarily transfer several million dollars to my account as a favor — because those are the only two types of email I seem to get these days, and even I know the second one is just spam.

For once, though, it’s neither.

It’s a message from the ghostwriting agency I do all of my work through, and the contents of it do absolutely nothing to reassure me that I’m not either going mad or imagining things.

“Everything okay?” says Dad, seeing me sit down suddenly on one of the squishy sofas in front of the fire. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No,” I reply, feeling the blood rush to my head as I look up from the screen in amazement. “Well, I mean, yes, I think I have. But it’s me , Dad. I’m the ghost. Or I will be, anyway. I’ve just been offered a fiction-writing job.”

The commotion that breaks out following my latest job offer lasts all day, and is still raging as we prepare to close the store for the night.

“Look, it’s fine,” I tell the room at large, during a brief gap in customers. “I haven’t said I’ll take it yet; I don’t even know anything about this project, other than that it’s a novel, rather than a self-help book, and it’s urgent, apparently.”

“But why would someone ask you to write a novel for them, Holly?” says Dad, puzzled. “I thought it was just non-fiction you’d been writing for this ‘agency’?”

He says the word ‘agency’ as if he fully suspects there is no ‘agency’, and it’s all just an elaborate cover for something far more nefarious.

“I think the person they’d originally hired for it must have dropped out at the last minute or something,” I tell him. “That’s the only reason I can think of that they’d ask me to do it instead. It’s not like I have any novel-writing experience that might have won them over. Everything I’ve done for them so far has been non-fiction. So, you know, it might not go anywhere.”

“Probably not,” agrees Levi, cheering up. “Are you sure it’s not just another one of those phishing emails? You do get a lot of those, Holly.”

“Shut up, Levi,” says Paris firmly. “Of course Holly can write fiction. She won that creative writing contest, didn’t she?”

I smile at her gratefully, even though I know she’s just saying this because she wants my job. And also because she’d say anything to contradict Levi.

“That was in high school,” I admit. “It was before…”

It was before Mum died, is what I’m about to say, but don’t, stopping myself at the last second because I don’t want to upset Dad any more than I have already. Before Mum died, I still planned to go to university; to study creative writing, and to maybe one day be a writer myself. Before Mum died, I planned to travel the world, live somewhere hot and sunny, and fall in love. Before Mum died, I planned to do a lot of things.

But then everything fell apart; me and Dad most of all.

There was no way I could leave him after that; no possible way I could leave home — not for college, not for love, not for anything. So, instead, I stayed; to help with the bookstore and everything else. I didn’t go to university. I didn’t see the world. And okay, I technically did end up with a writing career of sorts; but titles like Unfollow Anxiety: Breaking Up With Your Fears , and Hashtag Hustle: Turning Your Passion into Your Paycheck aren’t exactly the kind of thing I was thinking of when I said I wanted to be an author.

But this latest project could be. And, okay, I won’t get to have my name on the cover of whatever novel I end up writing, but, even so, it’s a start. And wasn’t I just thinking about how much I needed a change? A ‘glow-up’ as the Poole sisters called it?

I was. And now here’s the very opportunity I was looking for, arriving with absolutely impeccable timing. All I have to do is say yes to it; which is exactly what I’m going to do. Before I can change my mind, I hurry into my office, where I pull out my phone, and call Harper Grant, the woman whose name is on the bottom of the email from the agency, with a signature explaining that she’s a commissioning editor, responsible for connecting ghostwriters with clients.

“No, it’s right enough; the job’s yours if you want it,” Harper confirms, once I’ve sheepishly explained that I think she might have messaged the wrong person by mistake. She has a soft, maternal-sounding voice, which is immediately reassuring, and makes me picture her sitting at a desk covered with family photos, with a purring cat on her lap.

“Really?” I know from my research for my last writing project — ‘ Glow Up: the Guide to Faking It Til You’re Making It’ — that I should be trying to project my ‘best self’ here, in order to convince this woman I know my own worth, and am a fully competent adult who she can trust to do the job. It’s just… well, I don’t really feel like a fully competent adult who she can trust to do the job. Or even an averagely competent one, if we’re being brutally honest.

“Yup, really.” Harper sounds amused by my surprise. “The client’s seen some of your previous work, and they really liked it. They’re offering more than your usual rate, too, seeing as it’s such short notice.”

She names a figure that’s almost twice what I’ve been making for my self-help stuff, and makes me wonder again if I’m imagining all of this.

“That’s… that’s amazing,” I say croakily. “Really… amazing.”

“Look, I’ll get all the details over to you along with the contract and the non-disclosure,” Harper goes on, kindly pretending not to notice I’ve apparently lost the power of speech. “I don’t have everything to hand right now, but I can tell you it’s a fiction project; a Christmas romance.”

“Oh.”

My excitement at being picked for this project goes down a notch. The whole time I’ve been thinking about this job, it never once occurred to me that the book they’d ask me to write might be a romance — and a Christmas one, at that. And as much as I love reading romance, I haven’t exactly been living it; not even when Martin and I were still together. No, with the exception of the books I squirrel away to read in secret, my life is a romance-free zone. And a Christmas-free zone, too. All of which makes me the least-qualified person on the agency’s books — and maybe even in the entire world — to attempt to write a Christmas-themed romance novel. It’s like asking a snowman to write a book about saunas. Or a vampire to write a cookbook.

What if you make a complete mess of it, and it all goes tits up? says Levi’s voice from the back of my mind.

He’s right, though, isn’t he? Harsh … but right. Me writing a Christmas romance would be a recipe for total disaster. It would almost definitely all go “tits up”. I should say no. I’m going to say no.

“Holly? Are you still there?” Harper sounds worried. “Is there a problem?”

“Um, no, no problem,” I reply, not wanting to let this nice-sounding woman down. “It’s just… can I think about it? Just for a bit?”

There’s a short pause, during which I cross my fingers tightly, willing her not to hate me for my indecisiveness.

“Sure,” she says, her voice reassuringly warm. “I can give you until tomorrow morning. Will that be long enough?”

“Of course,” I say quickly, not at all sure it will be. “That’ll be just fine.”

“I can’t do it. I absolutely cannot write a Christmas romance. I’m going to have to say no.”

It’s a few hours later, and I’m standing in the main room of the village hall, watching my Aunt Lorraine issue directions to a group of volunteers who’re all busily hanging up Christmas decorations. The hall is festooned with fairy lights, like most of the other buildings in town at this time of year, but the interior hasn’t changed in decades, and the magnolia walls and faint ‘gym hall’ scent are the only clues I’m not living in a simulation here in Bramblebury, which was looking almost sickeningly festive on the way here.

“Don’t be silly, Holly, of course you can write a whatever-it-is,” says Lorraine, looking at me sternly over the top of her glasses. “You can write anything you like. You can do anything you like. Never forget that, okay?”

Lorraine is Mum’s sister, and while Mum was soft and nurturing, like a hug in human form, Lorraine is what would probably be best described as a ‘force of nature’; which is why she’s the perfect person to head up the village community association — the reason we’re here on this cold December night.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I tell her, as she hands me a large cardboard box filled with what I’m assuming are more decorations. “It’s just … a Christmas book? It’s not me, Lorraine. I’m not…”

“You’re not a Christmas person,” Lorraine finishes for me, in the tone of someone who’s heard all of this before. Which she has, to be fair. “But maybe you should be. Have you ever thought about that?”

“What, opening up my cold, hard heart to the wonder of the season?” I say, going for sarcasm as my first line of defense, as usual.

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” says Lorraine, who, true enough, isn’t exactly known for her way with words. “But it was your mum’s favorite time of year, Holly. You know that. She’d hate to think she’d ruined it for you.”

“She didn’t ruin it for me,” I reply shortly. “It’s not like she died on purpose. And anyway, it’s not just Mum. It’s everything. This place, and its weird obsession with Christmas. Its obsession with—”

“Elliot?” suggests Lorraine shrewdly. “Is that what this is about? Elliot and his book? Still?”

I shrug, feeling like a sulky teenager again as I put the box of decorations on the floor at my feet. As I straighten back up, I notice I’m standing right next to a small brass plaque that’s set into the wooden floor.

“ This is the exact spot where Evie kissed Luke for the first time in The Snow Globe ”, it says, in swirly letters. I close my eyes in an attempt to fend off the memory the sight of the plaque always triggers, but it slams into me anyway, almost knocking me off my feet with the force of it.

This place.

Seriously.

“I thought I saw him earlier,” I confess, shaking off the memory like a dog shaking the rain out of its fur. “Elliot. At The Brew. And yesterday, too, outside the shop. I thought I was going mad for a second.”

I glance around the hall, suddenly worried I might see him again. If his ghost was planning to appear anywhere, it would be here; right on this exact spot , in fact, to quote the writing on the floor.

But the room is reassuringly ordinary.

It’s just me who’s haunted.

“Do you think I’m going mad?” I ask Lorraine, knowing I sound stupid, but feeling the need to put the possibility out there, anyway. My aunt frowns.

“I think this is just a difficult time of year for you,” she says, unconsciously echoing Maisie’s words from earlier. “And all of this probably isn’t helping, is it?”

She indicates the box at my feet.

“What, Christmas decorations? Well, no, I guess not. I’m pretty used to them by now, though. I—”

I pause, noticing that one corner of the box is torn, with something that doesn’t look much like a Christmas decoration peeking through the gap.

“Wait. What is this stuff, anyway?”

I bend down and pull the lid off the box, somehow knowing already what I’m going to find.

And yup: there it is. Approximately 20 copies of The Snow Globe , all staring up at me smugly, as if to say “I told you so”.

“What are these doing here?” I ask, straightening up and turning back to Lorraine, who has the grace to look sheepish. “I thought I was here to help you set up for the Over 60s Christmas Dance?”

“Oh, you are,” she assures me, not quite meeting me in the eye. “But … that’s not until next week. First, it’s the book festival. Remember?”

I groan, slapping my hand across my forehead in frustration.

The book festival — or ‘fayre’ as I believe it’s styled here in good ol’ Bramblebury. How could I have forgotten about the book festival? It’s not like Paris and Levi haven’t been talking about it every day for the last month. I’m pretty sure Dad’s even booked a table at it for the shop, actually; didn’t he mention something about that just the other day?

“I’ve been so busy trying to finish my latest ghostwriting commission before Christmas,” I tell Lorraine, in an attempt at an explanation. “It completely slipped my mind.”

“Is that the book about learning how to communicate with your cat?” asks Lorraine, who’s the only person who even feigns interest in the books I produce for the agency.

“No,” I reply gloomily. “They said there wasn’t enough of a demand for that one. It’s the one about side hustles.”

Which brings us neatly back to the subject of my own side hustle: and the Christmas romance novel I’ve just been asked to write for it.

“I just don’t think I can say yes to this one, Lorraine,” I say, perching on the end of one of the trestle tables. “What do I know about romance? I’m 34 and single. My last serious relationship ended with me threatening to report him for stalking.”

“That reminds me,” says Lorraine. “Martin was in here earlier, looking for you. Had a face like a wet weekend on him.”

“See?” I reply. “That’s not romance, Lorraine; it’s just plain creepy, the way he follows me around. And Martin was the longest relationship I’ve ever had. What does that say about me?”

“Oh, come on, Holly,” says Lorraine. “So you’ve had a bit of bad luck with men. It doesn’t mean you can’t write about romance. Here.”

She stoops down and rummages through the box on the floor, before holding up one of the books inside it, as if she’s proving a point.

“This,” she says, prodding the front cover with a neon pink nail. “This is one of the greatest romances of all time. Or so everyone says, anyway. And it’s literally about you . You’re Evie Snow. So I’d say you probably know a bit more about romance than you think you do.”

“ The Snow Globe isn’t a romance book,” I reply, sounding a lot like Paris. “Romance has to have a happy ending. This doesn’t. We didn’t . You could call it a love story — if you were being generous — but you can’t call it a romance. And, anyway, it’s not even true. Well, hardly any of it’s true. And the bits that are … they’re just Elliot’s side of the story, aren’t they?”

“So maybe it’s time to tell your side of it?” Lorraine says, shrugging. “Why not? Write your own book. Take control of the narrative for once. At least it would stop everyone asking how it ended all the time.”

She picks up the box of books and starts laying them out on the table, and I stand there for a moment watching her, my mind whirring.

It’s true to say that, ever since The Snow Globe came out, with its cliffhanger ending, readers have been clamoring for a sequel.

It’s also true to say, however, that I can’t be the one to write it. Not just because there is no ‘part two’ to the story — Elliot and I just ended , and that was that — but because publicly associating myself with The Snow Globe is the very last thing I’d want. It’s bad enough that everyone here in town knows that Evie Snow was based on me; I don’t think I’d cope if everyone else in the book’s fandom knew too.

Maybe I could do it anonymously, though? Like, under a pen-name, say.

Or as a ghostwriter.

“Thanks, Lorraine,” I say, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as I get ready to leave. “I’ll let you know what I decide to do about the romance book.”

I leave the hall, and step straight into what appears to be some kind of festive theme park that’s been set up in the village square.

There are fairy lights. There are lanterns. There’s food trucks and Christmas music, and a surprisingly large crowd of people, all gathered around the Christmas tree, with rosy cheeks and giant churros in their hands.

Of course; the tree. They’re all here for the annual spectacle that is the switching on of the lights. I completely forget that was tonight.

I’m just passing the tree itself — which I see has been hung with dozens of miniature snow globes this year — when the countdown starts.

“Three!” yells the crowd. “Two!”

I quicken my step in a bid to get out of the way, but the crowd is so large and excitable that I end up stumbling; the heel of my boot sticking on one of those infernal cobblestones, and sending me over on my ankle . For just a second, my hands clutch at thin air, looking for something to grab onto, and then, just as I’m about to lose my balance, an arm appears on my elbow, holding me steady as I wrench my foot free and stand up straight.

“ONE!” yells the crowd.

Fireworks explode above the square as the Christmas tree lights flash on, shimmering against the dark sky.

“Thanks,” I say gratefully, turning to look up into the eyes of the man who’s still holding me upright; dark blue eyes that twinkle with the reflection of Christmas lights and fireworks, and a hundred and one memories. Eyes I would know anywhere. Eyes that are definitely not those of a ghost, or a mirage, or even the product of my over-active imagination, but the familiar blue eyes of the man I once thought was the love of my life. It’s Elliot Sinclair.