9. Nine

9

PRESENT

T he cottage I bought when I finally moved out of the apartment above the bookstore has a pretty, white-brick exterior, and roses around the door from late spring to early autumn. It looks like it’s been created just for Instagram, but its location, on the outskirts of the village, and at the top of a steep hill, means the tourists haven’t discovered it yet, so it remains a haven of peace and quiet, even when the rest of the place is busier than a city-center supermarket a few minutes before closing on Christmas Eve.

The morning after my encounter with Elliot, I wake up early and get gingerly out of bed, sighing with relief when I put my foot cautiously to the ground and discover it’s not nearly as painful as I thought it would be. I guess that bag of frozen peas I put on it last night must have worked.

I wander through to the kitchen to make some breakfast, checking my phone first to find that Harper Grant hasn’t replied to my email yet, but I do have three new WhatsApp messages from Martin, suggesting that we get together later ‘to talk’, plus one from Levi, which says simply “OMFG’, with a link underneath it.

I click the link while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, hoping it’s not going to be another one of those TikTok videos he keeps sending me, in which people lip sync ‘hilariously’ along to some of the key dialogue from The Snow Globe , as the movie plays in the background.

But it’s not a TikTok video.

I almost drop the phone into my cereal bowl as the page opens to reveal a photo of Elliot — Current Elliot, not Past Elliot — above a headline declaring that the ‘reclusive author’ is set to return to the setting of his award-winning novel and movie for an event sponsored by his publisher. The website I’m looking at appears to be a book blog, and it goes on to breathlessly report the rumor that a big announcement will be made at the upcoming book festival, before ending with some speculation that the long-awaited Snow Globe sequel might be in the works.

Fantastic .

I push the cereal bowl aside, my appetite suddenly gone.

So it’s true, then.

I don’t mean the bit about Elliot being back in town, obviously: I already know that’s true. But the photo of him on this website is a new one, with a little copyright symbol in one corner, followed by the name of his publisher, Saturday Lane. As far as I know, this is the first new photo of Elliot that’s been released since the book was published, so to call him ‘reclusive’ would be like saying Steven King is quite popular, really.

If he’s agreed to have new publicity photos taken, it must mean he has something to publicize. And I don’t even need to read any of the follow-up messages from Levi which suddenly start blowing up my phone to take a wild guess what it could be.

I pull my dressing gown tightly around me, as if it’s a piece of fluffy armor that might protect me from whatever Elliot has to say about me in his next book; or whatever he doesn’t have to say about me, as the case may be. Because, as I stand there, sipping my coffee at the kitchen window, it occurs to me that I don’t know which is worse; having your ex-lover write an entire book based on your relationship, or having him write a sequel to it that doesn’t include you at all.

Why would he, when I’m no longer even a side-character in his life?

I’m in the process of untangling this thought — and gently chastising myself for thinking it at all, because even I can see how unreasonable it is to be annoyed at him for writing about me, and also annoyed when he doesn’t — when the phone in my hand pings again, and I glance down to see Harper Grant’s name on the screen.

“ Good morning Holly! ” begins the email she’s sent me. “ So great to have you on board with this project! Contract and NDA are attached; if you could sign them and send them back to me ASAP, that would be great!”

I rub my eyes, dazzled by all the exclamation marks, and wondering how on earth she manages to sound so perky at such an early hour. Then again, a glance at the time in the corner of the screen tells me it’s not quite as early as I thought it was, so I hurry myself into the shower, and, before long, I’m in the car, choosing to drive the short distance to the bookstore rather than risk my ankle again by attempting to walk it.

I’ve forgotten, however, that it’s December in Bramblebury. Although it’s still early, the streets are packed with people all making their way to the Christmas market and the snow globe, so I end up stop-starting my way through the village, thanking my stars that, as the manager of the store, at least I can’t get in trouble for being late.

I’ve almost reached the high street, when I’m forced to stop again, for a set of temporary traffic lights the council has set up in an attempt to control the flow of traffic heading towards the square. I prop one elbow against the side window and rest my head on my hand, watching as Christmas shoppers wander by, each of them wrapped up like parcels against the chill; and this time when I catch sight of a familiar figure among them, I know for sure I’m not seeing a ghost.

No, this time I know the man in the wool coat is definitely Elliot Sinclair. I’m not seeing things. I’m not going mad. He really is here in Bramblebury, coming out of a house with a pale pink exterior and a shiny black front door. He really is stopping just outside it, and looking back to say something to a woman who stands in the doorway; a woman with long dark hair piled elegantly on top of her head, and a winter tan that she definitely didn’t get anywhere in England. A woman who’s wearing a very short silk dressing gown and smiling at Elliot in a way that makes my elbow suddenly slip from its position against the window and come crashing down on the car horn, which immediately bursts into life, startling passers-by, and making a little boy burst into tears.

“Patience, love,” yells the man in the car in front of mine. “We’re not going anywhere until the light changes, you know!”

I do know. And so it is that I’m forced to sit there, hemmed in by the traffic on each side of me, as Elliot comes down the path of the house, and lets himself out through the front gate, which is — naturally — a white wooden one, to match the little picket fence around the garden.

I slide down in the driver’s seat until only the top of my head is showing above the steering wheel.

Please don’t let him have seen that. Please don’t let him have noticed me.

“Holly?”

Elliot raps sharply on the car window, peering in with a frown that confirms that yes, he did, in fact, ‘see that’.

Elliot starts to mouth something at me through the window, gesturing for me to wind it down. Before I can do it, though, the light suddenly turns green, and the car in front of me pulls away, moving so slowly it feels like time briefly starts to go backwards.

“Sorry,” I mouth back insincerely. “Got to go.”

And then I put my foot down and pull away, leaving a surprised-looking Elliot Sinclair in my rear-view mirror.

Which is exactly where he’s going to stay.

I walk through the shop door a few minutes later to find the place in uproar.

“An email,” Levi shrieks, coming barreling towards me and sounding like he’s had too much of his own coffee. “We’ve had an email! From Saturday Lane. Read it to her! Read it!”

He looks at Dad, whose hair is standing on end as if he’s been raking his hands through it.

“It is rather exciting, Holly,” he begins, beaming at me. “It says—”

“It’s about Elliot Sinclair,” interrupts Levi, who I’m starting to think missed his calling as an actor, if his current level of drama is anything to go by. “Did you know? Did you know about this?”

“I’ll read it out,” says Dad, patting the pockets of his cardigan in a state of agitation. “Now, where did I put my spectacles? I was sure I had them with me.”

“Could someone just tell me what’s going on?” I beg, as he wanders over to the register and starts rummaging underneath it. “Please, put me out of my misery here.”

Paris steps forward. She’s carrying Ed the cat like he’s a baby, and although she’s trying to project an air of calm, as befits her assistant-manager-who-secretly-wants-to-be-the- actual -manager status, her eyes are shining as if she, too, has recently overdosed on Levis’s Elf Eggnog Espresso.

“We had an email from Elliot Sinclair’s publicist,” she says importantly. “It wasn’t the publisher , Levi. It was the publicist . There’s a difference, you know.”

She shoots Levi a ‘so there’ kind of look, then turns back to me.

“You know how I’ve been keen for us to start hosting more author visits and signings?” she says. I nod, knowing what’s coming, but hoping against hope that I might be wrong.

For once, though, I am not wrong.

“Well,” says Paris, squeezing Ed so hard that he jumps out of her arms and stalks off, disgusted. “It turns out that Elliot Sinclair wants to do a signing while he’s here in town. And he wants to do it here. At Hart Books.”

I step behind the counter and hang up my coat and bag, silently trying to process this information.

“I’m surprised you’re on board with this,” I say to Dad, speaking low enough that only he can hear me. “I thought you hated Elliot?”

Dad freezes in the act of polishing his glasses, which he’s finally realized he was wearing the entire time.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that ,” he says casually, not looking at me. “I didn’t hate him. I didn’t think he was the right man for you , is all.”

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief.

“He’s very much turned out to be the right man for the store ,” though, says Dad, unable to hide his excitement at this. “For the whole town, really. Just think of how many of his books we’ll sell with him here to sign them! I wonder what people would be prepared to pay for a signed copy, plus a chance to meet the man himself?”

“I’d pay a lot ,” confirms Levi, who’s been blatantly listening in. “Like, I already have a copy of every edition they’ve ever released, obviously, but a signed one trumps them all. D’you think he’ll do a Q a ghost of his old smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“I don’t know, Elliot,” I say frostily. “You tell me. What was that this morning?”

“Uh, that’s… that’s what I just asked you?” he points out, not unreasonably. “Or did I just imagine that? I was asking what you were doing, honking your car horn at me?”

“I wasn’t honking it at you,” I reply indignantly. “I was honking it because of you. I, um, just happened to see you, that’s all. Coming out of that house. With that woman. First thing in the morning.”

There’s a good chance I could go on like this forever, in short, staccato sentences that come out sounding more like accusations than statements.

Luckily, though, Elliot steps in to stop me.

“Katie,” he says, his ghost smile fading. “Her name’s Katie. Katie Hunter.”

He looks at me as if this should mean something to me, but it doesn’t, so I simply nod, not knowing what else to do with this information. He’s not denying that he was coming out of this ‘Katie’ woman’s house so early that it suggests he must have spent the night there. Then again, I don’t want him to think I care about who he spends the night with. Because I don’t. I definitely don’t. It’s nothing to me. It’s…

“How’s your ankle, by the way?” Elliot asks, in a change of subject so abrupt that it almost gives me whiplash. “That’s the main reason I came in.”

“It’s fine, thanks,” I reply. “It was just a sprain. I put frozen peas on it.”

“Peas. Right.”

Elliot isn’t listening. He’s stepping a little further inside the store now, gazing around and ignoring the three musketeers over there, who are lined up on the sofa gaping at us over their giant mugs of coffee.

“This place is looking great,” he says, sounding like he means it. “Really. It’s different, but the same.”

“We have you to thank for that,” says Dad, ignoring the warning glance I shoot at him and getting up to join us. “This is still our biggest seller.”

He reaches out and picks up a copy of The Snow Globe from one of the displays. There’s a long and very painful silence as we all stand there looking at it.

This moment should have come with a trigger warning.

Elliot Sinclair should come with a trigger warning.

“Well, great,” says Elliot unconvincingly. “I’m glad it’s helped.”

“Oh, it’s helped alright,” I hiss, unable to stop myself. “If by that you mean it’s helped me become the village laughingstock.”

Elliot’s head jerks backwards as if he’s been slapped. Dad silently places the book he’s holding back on top of the pile and backs away slowly.

“A laughingstock?” Elliot says, frowning. “How so?”

I stare at him incredulously.

“You wrote a book about me?” I tell him slowly, amazed I’m having to explain our personal history to him. “About us? It got turned into a movie?”

There’s a moment when it occurs to me that I might have got it wrong; that maybe he based the love story in his book on some other English girl he met in some other small town, in some other December. But then he nods, and I’m an annoyed mixture of emotions once more.

“I did,” he confirms solemnly. “I did do that.”

We hold each other’s gaze; me wondering how it can possibly be the case that he looks so the same, when everything else about him is so different.

“I knew it,” I hear Levi mutter from position on the sofa, followed by a soft whump , which I imagine is probably Paris hitting him with a cushion.

I don’t look around to confirm it, though. I’m too busy watching Elliot and wondering what he’s going to say. How he’s going to defend himself.

“You didn’t like the book, then, I take it?” he says, shrugging in an ‘aw, shucks’ kind of way that fails to mask the hurt I can see in his eyes.

I open my mouth and then close it again. In the imaginary versions of this conversation — and there’s been quite a few of them, over the years — I’ve always known exactly what to say to Elliot on the subject of his book. But now that the opportunity has finally presented itself, I find myself suddenly struck dumb.

It’s stupid, but I don’t want to hurt him.

Even after all this time, I can’t bring myself to hurt him.

“It’s not so much the book I didn’t like,” I mutter, even though it definitely is the book. “It’s more… well, the attention I’ve had because of it. I don’t like the attention. You know I don’t like attention.”

“The attention?” Elliot’s blue eyes scan the store, which is, of course, currently empty of customers, for what has to be the first time in days. “I saw the globe thing, outside,” he goes on. “Is that what you mean?”

I look at him wordlessly. It’s crazy to me that this man, who I once thought knew me better than anyone, even despite the short amount of time I’d known him, can be so completely unaware of what my life has been like since he last saw me.

Then again, how would he know? It’s not like we stayed in touch.

“That’s one part of it,” I say evenly. “But then there’s also…”

The lies you told about me. The fact that you ghosted me, then made it sound like it was my fault. The way you broke my heart.

“I don’t think I’m really cut out to be the main character in a book,” I say. “Or a movie-based-on-a-book, even. I think I was always destined to just have a supporting role. It’s … it’s strange, is all. It’s been strange.”

The silence that follows this statement is so acute I can almost hear Levi and Paris exchange disappointed glances, having expected more drama from me. Elliot, meanwhile, just stands there, shoulders slumped slightly, looking like I’ve just told him his baby’s ugly.

Which I guess I have, in a way.

“You were always the main character for me, Holly,” he says at last. “Always.”

Across the room, Paris lets out a gasp of delight.

“Oh my God ,” says Levi, in a stage whisper.

Drama delivered.

And now I guess the next line is mine.

I just have no idea what it should actually be .

To hide my discomfort, I reach for the laptop that’s sitting open on the counter in front of me, and start tapping away at it importantly, my fingers moving on auto-pilot as I stare determinedly at the screen.

You were always the main character for me.

Why did he say that when we both know it’s not true?

“Okay,” says Elliot, when it becomes clear that I’m not going to give him whatever answer it is he wants from me, because this is Holly he’s talking to — not Evie Snow, whose lines he can dictate. “Right. Well. I guess I’ll be going, then. How’s Martin, by the way? I was … surprised to see him with you last night.”

The email from Harper Grant is on the screen. I open it, just to make myself look busy, then click again to open the contract attached to it, for good measure.

“Martin? Martin’s fine,” I reply vaguely, distracted by the contract, which is several pages long and written in the kind of legal jargon I’ll probably need a translator for. “He took me home.”

Elliot opens the door ( Deck the Halls sounds very out of place when you’re in the middle of a stand-off with the ex who once wrote a book about you, just in case you were wondering…) and stands there for a moment, as if he thinks he might still be able to rescue this scene if he just gives me a chance to try to stop him from leaving.

I don’t, though.

Because, as I scan the document in front of me, one eye still on Elliot in the doorway, a familiar name catches my eye.

I scroll back up, now fully focused on the screen in front of me.

No. That can’t be right. I must have misread it, surely?

But I haven’t.

There it is, in fourteen-point Times New Roman:

This agreement is made and entered into on [Date], between Vivienne Faulkne r (‘Author’) and Holly Har t (‘Ghostwriter’), collectively referred to as the ‘Parties,’ for the purpose of writing and developing the work [Title TBC]…

I blink several times and read it again, the words starting to swim before my eyes. I feel like I’ve just had a double-shot of Levis’ extra-strong espresso, shortly followed by a ride on a particularly twisty roller-coaster.

Vivienne Faulkner.

The author I’ve agreed to ghostwrite for is none other than Vivienne Faulkner; queen of romance, and the person responsible for a large percentage of our non-Snow Globe related book sales every month.

It doesn’t seem real. It can’t be real.

I, Holly Hart, have somehow managed to land the ghostwriting gig of a lifetime.

It’s an actual Christmas miracle.

And I’m not allowed to tell anyone about it.

Which is just fine, as it happens: because when I finally look up from the computer screen, my fingers still trembling on the keyboard, I find that Elliot Sinclair has already gone.