6. Six

6

PAST

DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO

T hings like this don’t happen to me.

I don’t usually bump into handsome strangers in snowy village squares, for instance.

And, if I did, I’d be willing to bet they wouldn’t look at me the way Elliot Sinclair is looking at me now: as if we’re not actually strangers at all, and he can see something in me that no one else ever has.

And yet here we are, tucked into a corner booth at The Brew, on what even I have to acknowledge is most definitely A Date; and a pretty damn good one, too.

He stood up when I arrived. He pulled out my chair for me. He blushed when our fingers touched over the coffeepot, but he didn’t move his hand, and neither did I, so now we’re sitting here across from one another, almost touching but not quite, and I think it might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

And, okay, the ploughman’s lunch is a crushing disappointment — pity the poor ploughman who had to go to work on a single slice of soggy lettuce alongside some pre- packed ham and plasticky cheese — but Elliot politely pretends not to notice, and I’m too nervous/excited to eat much anyway, so it’s all good.

It’s better than just good , actually. From the moment we sit down, being with Elliot feels a bit like finding the missing piece of that puzzle you’ve been trying to solve for years now, and discovering it was in your pocket the entire time. We talk and talk; the words tumbling and overlapping as we attempt to bring each other up to speed on the events of our entire respective lives up until this shared moment, in a quiet little cafe with snowy footprints slowly melting onto the cheap lino floor and sticky tables covered with plastic cloths.

Elliot is 26, he tells me, and his family is from Florida, although he’s just graduated from law school in California. He’s spending a few weeks in England before going home to join the family business at some point in the presumably not-too-distant future — although that’s one topic of conversation I’m determined to avoid for as long as possible.

“But why Bramblebury?” I ask, puzzled, as a bored-looking waitress appears to pour us some more coffee. “It’s not exactly a tourist hot-spot; especially not compared to America or California.” I sigh, thinking of blue skies and palm trees; azure seas and golden sunsets. The America of my imagination is probably nothing like the reality of the place, but I refuse to believe it’s not significantly better than here .

And I’ve always thought reality was overrated, anyway.

“No, it’s not,” Elliot agrees, grinning. “Believe it or not, though, as soon as I saw it, it was love at first sight. And that was even before I bumped into you.”

He smiles shyly, and my stomach does a not-unpleasant little flip-flop as his words sink in.

“But why? What does Bramblebury have to offer that Venice doesn’t?” I ask, trying to sound like it’s completely normal for me to be flirted with by men with beautiful eyes and bewitching smiles. “Snow globes aside, I mean?”

“Oh, I totally came for the snow globes,” he assures me. “Which were one hundred percent worth it. But I also have a family connection to the area that I wanted to check out.”

I blink rapidly, suddenly convinced he’s about to do that very American thing, where they claim to be one-forty-eighth English, and descended from one of Henry VIII’s lesser-known mistresses.

“My great-grandfather was stationed near here during the war,” Elliot goes on, to my relief. “He died before I was born, but he used to talk about the place a lot, apparently, so I kind of grew up hearing about it. He said it was like a village from a story.”

“A horror story, maybe.” I smile, to show I’m joking, even though I’m not really, and fully believe Bramblebury to be the very armpit of England. “I guess it might have looked a bit better back then, though.”

“It looks pretty good from where I’m sitting,” Elliot says softly, making me blush. “But no, not a horror story. Maybe a biography, though? I was… “ He pauses, as if he’s trying to decide something. “I was thinking of maybe having a go at writing it, actually,” he says in a rush. “My great-grandfather’s story.”

He shrugs dismissively, as if this is no big deal. But he’s wrong. What he’s just said is a very big deal indeed. Or, at least, it is to me.

“Wait: so you’re a writer?” I say, leaning forward in excitement. “But I thought you said you studied law?”

“Oh, I did,” he replies. “But only because it was what my family expected, and… well, they were the ones who were paying.” He shrugs again, his cheerful expression faltering slightly. “But I’ve always wanted to write. I’m not sure I’d call myself a ‘writer’” he goes on, making scare quotes with his fingers around the word. “But, yeah; it’s something I’ve always done. Something I’ve always wanted to do more of.” He looks at me across the table, a lock of dark hair falling across his eyes, which are exactly the same shade of blue as the thick sweater he’s wearing, and currently filled with something that might be hope.

“I’ve never actually told anyone that,” he says, bashfully. “I always worry it’ll just sound stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” I assure him, a little too eagerly. “It really doesn’t. I’ve always wanted to write, too. It’s my biggest dream.”

“Really? So why haven’t you?” He reaches up and pushes the hair out of his eyes, which are fixed on mine, as if my answer to this question is of the utmost importance. I don’t remember the last time I was this interesting to someone.

“I’ve tried,” I confess. “Plenty of times. But it just never seems to work. I think… well, you know how everyone tells you to write what you know?”

Elliot nods.

“Well, I don’t know very much,” I tell him bluntly. “I don’t know anything at all , really. Or nothing anyone would want to read about, anyway. I’ve spent my entire life in a bookshop, in a small town. I haven’t traveled, like you have. I haven’t been to Europe — or America. I haven’t been anywhere, really. I’ve just kind of stood still, in the place I’ve always been. I don’t have a story.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, Holly Hart,” Elliot replies immediately, his dancing eyes serious for once. “Everyone has a story. You just don’t know what yours is yet. And that’s fine. I’m not sure what mine is, either.” He shrugs, self-deprecatingly. “But I do know you’re not necessarily going to find it in Paris, or Rome, or any of those places you think you need to go to ‘find yourself’, or whatever it is you’re looking for. Maybe your story is right here.”

“In Bramblebury?” I laugh lightly, already feeling embarrassed by my little ‘poor me’ outburst. “God, I hope not!”

“Why not? My great granddad said he had a helluva time here, apparently. I bet if he was writing his story, he’d set it here.”

“Is that what you want to do, then?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation back into territory that makes me sound a little less unhinged. “You want to write his story for him?”

“Sort of. I don’t really have a lot to go on,” he says. “But I’d kinda like to give it a shot. And I can already see what he liked about the place.”

He gives me one of those smiles of his, and it feels like the first signs of spring, after a long, long winter.

“Is it the snow globes or the ploughman’s lunches?” I ask teasingly.

“Both. It’s mostly the beautiful booksellers with the awesome accents. I like those the most.”

It takes approximately three seconds for my cheeks to turn as red as my coat; the one Elliot said reminded him of the woman in the snow globe.

“Sorry,” he says. “That was super cheesy, wasn’t it? Maybe I should be trying to write a trashy romance instead of a biography.”

“I liked it,” I confess, blushing some more. “No one’s ever called me beautiful before. It was nice. You’re nice.”

I bite my lip, wishing I’d come up with something better than the faint praise that is ‘nice’ — the most lukewarm compliment in all the world. But Elliot’s face lights up as if I’ve just told him he’s won the lottery of life and been nominated for a Pulitzer.

“Well, I think you’re very nice too, Holly Hart,” he tells me sincerely. “And I’m very glad we both reached for that snow globe at the same time yesterday.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” I say, reluctantly breaking the spell our conversation seems to have cast. “You forgot this.”

I pull the snow globe out of my bag and place it carefully on the table between us. Tiny snowflakes float to the surface, stirred up by the sudden movement, then float softly down over the heads of the tiny couple who I’m starting to agree do look a bit like us.

“No I didn’t.” He grins easily. “I wanted you to have it, remember? And I still do.”

I had, of course, suspected as much when I put it in my bag earlier. I just wanted to be absolutely sure.

“Seriously,” Elliot says, seeing me hesitate. “Keep it. It’ll probably get broken if I try to put it in my suitcase, anyway.”

I pick up the globe and pretend to examine it again, so I don’t have to look him in the eye. I don’t want to think about his suitcase, or when he might start packing it. And, in any case, I have to admit, the snow globe is growing on me. I’m starting to quite like it. Or maybe I just feel grateful to it for its role in my meeting with Elliot Sinclair, who thinks I’m beautiful. Elliot Sinclair, who wants to be a writer, like me. Elliot Sinclair, who reaches across the table and takes my hand in his, and who somehow makes it feel like the most natural thing in the world.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asks hopefully. “Maybe show me some more of this town of yours? I should probably get to know it a bit better if I’m going to set my book here.”

I glance guiltily at my watch. I really should be getting back to the shop by now. My lunch break technically ended 20 minutes ago, which means Dad’s left manning the place on his own.

Not that there’s much to ‘man’, though. I served a grand total of two customers this morning — and one of those had only wandered in because she thought we might have a bathroom she could use. (I really hope she enjoys the copy of Rebecca I talked her into buying, though; I might only have spoken to her for a few minutes, but there was a definite air of the second Mrs. de Winter in the timid way she asked to use the facilities…)

Besides, isn’t Dad always telling me I should stop worrying about him and the store, and let myself live a little?

And isn’t he right?

Maybe I could live a little. Maybe I could do it right now, with this lovely man, who’s watching me with so much hope in his eyes that there’s absolutely no way I can bring myself to disappoint him. Or myself, even.

“I’d really like that,” I say, reluctantly letting go of his hand so I can pull my phone out of my bag. “Let me just send my Dad a quick message to let him know I’ll be late, then I’ll be right with you.”

The snow has started to fall again as we leave the cafe and crunch our way across the square. The stalls that make up the Christmas market are still selling exactly the same tat they had yesterday, but today it doesn’t look quite as sad to me. I try my best to see the village through Elliot’s eyes as we wander through the twisty, cobbled streets, past buildings that have stood here for probably hundreds of years, their thick walls and lopsided windows hiding lord knows how many secrets.

I can see how, to someone more familiar with the sun-bleached streets of Florida or palm-fringed California boulevards, Bramblebury might look charmingly quaint, even in its current, slightly dilapidated state; like the kind of place you might read about in one of those paperbacks which have titles like ‘A Christmas to Remember’ or ‘Susan’s Festive Wish’ written in a swirly script. I can see why Elliot might want to set his book here, too, I guess, and as we wander through the streets, me pointing out ‘landmarks’ he’s probably already seen, but pretends to be amazed by, it’s impossible not to be pulled along by his enthusiasm.

We stop in front of the town hall — a Victorian building with a single, square clock tower in the front. It’s normally hired out for things like aerobics classes, and AA meetings, but today it’s busier than usual, with old-fashioned swing music cascading out through the open doors and onto the snowy street. Through the large windows, a small group of elderly folks can be seen jiving and jitterbugging along to the music, their white heads bobbing like dandelions in a stiff breeze as they circle the main hall, which is being used as a dance floor.

If it wasn’t for the advanced age of most of the dancers, the scene would look like it had come straight out of a World War 2 movie; a fact which is explained only when I see a laminated sign on the noticeboard in the entrance to the building, advertising the Bramblebury Over 60s Christmas Dance, which is taking place here this afternoon.

“Is it a dance hall?” asks Elliot, watching as the band strikes up a jaunty new tune. “It looks like a fun place.”

“It’s just the town hall,” I explain, trying to see this, too, through his eyes. “Although I think it might have been a dance hall at some point, back in the day. I’m sure I remember Dad saying something about that. Hey, maybe your great-grandfather came here when he was in town?”

“Maybe he did.” The thought makes his face light up. “Let’s pretend he did,” he says, grinning down at me. “Let’s pretend he stood on this exact spot, with a cute English girl he’d just bumped into in the village, and then they went inside to dance.”

“And then they lived happily ever after?” I say, my heart keeping time with the fast pace of the music as I wonder where he’s going with this.

“Well, no, I guess not,” he says apologetically. “I don’t think my great-grandmother would’ve appreciated that somehow, and she was from Boca Raton, so…”

“Ah. Maybe not, then.”

I stuff my hands into my coat pockets, trying not to be too disappointed at the idea of this completely fictional mini-romance not ending well. Elliot, however, is undaunted.

“Let’s do it,” he says, his eyes shining as he holds out his hand. “Let’s go inside and dance.”

I’m about to say I don’t really dance; which is true, as it happens — not to mention the fact that I don’t think either of us will pass as over 60s, somehow. But it strikes me now, as I stand next to him, that there are a lot of things I don’t do these days; like laughing, for instance, or falling asleep without spending at least 20 minutes worrying about imaginary scenarios that are unlikely to ever come to pass. I don’t ever really let go, and allow myself to enjoy something, without worrying about losing it.

But maybe I should.

“Sure,” I say, returning his smile as I slip my hand into his. “Why not?”

Why not indeed?

Laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, we walk hand-in-hand into the hall, and join the crowd of old folks on the floor, none of whom seem particularly perturbed by our presence among them.

Almost as soon as Elliot and I set foot on the dance floor, though, the music changes from a fast-paced foxtrot — or, at least, I think that’s what it is — to a slow waltz; the kind that requires you to stand close to your partner and put your arms around them.

Okay, this is definitely not how I imagined my afternoon going.

Not that I’m complaining.

“I should warn you, I’m not much of a dancer,” Elliot says softly, reaching out and pulling me towards him. I nestle easily into his arms, surprised to find that it doesn’t feel awkward at all.

It feels quite perfect, actually.

“It’s okay,” I reply, tilting my head to look up at him. “I’m not either. I guess we’ll just have to make it up as we go along.”

And so that’s what we do.

I put my hand on his shoulder, he winds his arm round my waist, and we sway together to the music, slightly out of time, but not remotely caring.

The scene is not particularly romantic. The lights in the hall are far too bright — probably due to some kind of health and safety red tape to make sure no one sues the council if they trip and fall — and Elliot and I are both still bundled up in our winter coats; me with my bag slung awkwardly across my shoulders, and him still with that tomato-red scarf of his wrapped around his neck.

It might not be romantic, but it is absolutely perfect; and when the song comes to an end, and he leans forward and kisses me, his lips soft and warm against my snow-chilled skin, I know beyond doubt that this is one of those moments that I won’t need to redraft in my mind when I think about it later; because it’s absolutely perfect the way it is.

The kiss goes on and on; my body molding to his, and his hands coming up to gently cup my face, until the dancers around us notice the young couple kissing in their midst, and burst into a spontaneous round of applause: which still doesn’t convince us that it’s time to stop kissing.

I don’t think it’ll ever be time to stop kissing.

I do think I’m going to remember this moment for the rest of my life.

What I don’t know — but am destined to find out — is that pretty much everyone I know, plus a few hundred thousand people I don’t know, is going to remember this moment too; but ever so slightly differently, when Elliot puts it into his book, turning the 40s-themed dance into the actual 1940s, and me into a local woman with a faintly ridiculous name.

On this cold December night on my 24th year on earth, though, I have absolutely no idea that none of this is real. All I know is that I’ve just met someone who makes me feel like this Christmas might not be so bad after all. And so I reach up to wind my arms around Elliot Sinclair’s neck, and I kiss him back as if this is the start of something that might last forever.

Because I really think that it might be.