“Well, nice seeing you again,” he says politely, turning to Elliot, who hasn’t spoken since Martin arrived on the scene, like a churro-weilding knight in a shining puffer coat. “We’d, er, best be getting off home, then.”
He says this in a way that strongly implies that the ‘home’ we’re going to belongs to both of us, and I don’t bother to correct him. Whyshouldn’tElliot think I’ve moved on? I mean, I have,haven’t I? And, okay, it’s not actually with Martin — right now it’s not withanyone— but that doesn’t mean I’m some kind of modern-day Miss Havisham, still sitting among the ruins of my youth, in my Dad’s dusty old bookshop, does it? There have been other men since Elliot. I’ve done things with my life. I’ve even written books; and, okay, they might not be bestsellers,likehisbook, but at least they’re true. (Well, most of them are. I still have doubts about the usefulness ofHow to Manifest Your Dreams Using Your Moon Sign, but that doesn’t mean the information in it wasn’t meticulously researched, to the best of my ability.)
“What’s he doing here, then?” Martin asks, as I hobble on his arm towards the street he’s parked his car in (“A real gift of a space, Holly; I couldn’t believe it when I saw it was empty!”). “It’s not something to do with this book he’s supposed to be writing, is it?”
I glance up at him, surprised. Martin is one of the few non-bookish people in my life. In fact, other thanLord of the Rings (Which is a given, really), andA Game of Thrones(Which he claims to have read, having only seen the TV show), I’m not sure he’s finished an entire book in his life. He’s the last person in the world to have his finger on the pulse of the publishing industry; which means he’s either been talking to the Poole sisters, or this rumor about Elliot and a new book really has grown legs.
“Where did you hear about that?” I ask casually. “Did Elsie tell you?”
“No, Levi did,” Martin replies, holding onto me a little tighter than is necessary. “When I popped into the bookstore earlier, looking for you. He was all excited about it — more than usual, I mean. Said he’d seen something about it on TikTok, so he was sure it must be really happening this time.”
“Oh. Right.”
We walk on — or hop on, in my case — and I try to ignore the creeping sensation of doom that’s prickling the back of my neck. I often feel a sensation of doom. It’s one of my defining characteristics; the way I always anticipate the worst, as if expecting bad things to happen will somehow rob them of their power to hurt me.
But this is different.Thisfeeling of doom is very real; and I’m 100% sure it’s connected to Elliot Sinclair. Well, who else has the ability to make me feel like my world’s been turned upside down with just a few short-sentences? Not Martin, that’s for sure. Notanyone, actually.
Only Elliot.
“So, is he?” says Martin, blissfully unaware of my uncharitable thoughts about him. “Is he here to write another book? Is that what you were talking about just now? Or did he want to talk about something else?”
His hand tightens on my elbow, and I feel a flicker of sympathy for him. It can’t have been much fun for him, either, living in the shadow ofThe Snow Globe, and constantly having to field questions about a decade-ago relationship his girlfriend had with someone else. And I may be his ex-girlfriend now, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care how he feels.
“No,” I tell him truthfully. “No, he didn’t mention a new book. We didn’t really talk much at all, really. I just tripped right in front of him, and he stopped to help me. That was it.”
And thatwasit. Someone tripped. Someone else caught them. End of story. Not even Elliot Sinclair could turn that briefest of interactions into the opening scenes of his sequel.
But what if hedoes?
Ortriesto, at least?
The thought rolls around my head all the way back to the car (Which is, as Martin promised, parked in areallygreat space). And, by the time we pull up outside the gate of my house, and Martin finally accepts my assurances that no, I don’t need him to come in and ‘look after me’, the bouncing thought is creating so much noise in there that the only way to silence it is to pull out my phone and open up the email from the agency.
“Hi Harper,” I type, collapsing onto the sofa and propping my foot up on the coffee table in front of me. “Hope you’re well. Justwanted to thank you again for the ghostwriting offer, and let you know that I’m happy to accept. Let me know when you’d like me to start!”
Then I hit send.
If Elliot can write a book, then so can I. But if he thinks he can use me as material for his plot this time… well, let’s just say he has another think coming.
8
PAST
DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO
When I wake up next to Elliot Sinclair the morning after our first date, and first dance, I have three thoughts in quick succession.
The first is that I never, ever do things like this. I do not crash pensioner dance parties with virtual strangers, no matter how handsome they are, or how much their accent makes me feel like the leading lady in the movie of my life. I do not spontaneously agree to go back with them to their slightly dodgy hotel room, above a pub. And I definitely do not sleep with them on the first date. Nuh-uh.
The second thought is that I really hope Dad hasn’t called the police and reported me missing, because, well, see above: I never do things like this. No, really: I don’t. I’m good ol’ sensible, reliable Holly: the daughter you never have to worry about, because she’s so scared of seeing that look on your face again — the one you didn’t know you were making when we realized Mum was dying and we were going to have to spend the rest of our lives without her — that she never puts a single foot wrong.
The third thought, though, is different. The third thought isI bet this is the firstandlast time this ever happens, and it’s quickly followed by a fourth thought, which isI don’t want it to be.
(There is a fifth thought, too, and it’s that The Rose Tavern is every bit as grim on the inside as it looks from the outside. Elliot’s room has a rusty old sink in the corner — presumably to make up for the lack of an en suite — and the tobacco-yellow walls have been painted only three-quarters of the way up, as if whoever did the job couldn’t find a ladder high enough to reach all the way to the ceiling. But, right now, I don’t care about any of that.)
“Good morning.”
Elliot smiles up at me sleepily from the pillow, his arms already reaching for me. Thanks to him, I don’t have any more thoughts for quite some time. Later, though, once I’ve texted Dad to let him know I’m fine, and he’s not to worry about me, another thought occurs to me.
