“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 lifeandbeen 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 ofRebeccaI 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.”
