“Hey. Don’t do that,” Elliot says seriously. “Don’t put yourself down. I asked you to take a look at it because I value your opinion. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
I force a smile, stoically resisting the ever-present impulse to say something self-deprecating, and completely spoil the moment. Because that’s not what ‘live for the moment’ Holly would do, and that’s the Holly I’m currently pretending to be.
“You’re smart, Holly,” Elliot insists, refusing to let me off the hook. “I don’t understand why you seem to think you’re not. Did someone tell you that? Is that why you doubt yourself so much?”
He sits up, as if he’s prepared to leap out of bed and fight them, if I say they did. This time, my smile is genuine.
“No one said that,” I assure him, giggling at the fierce look on his face. “It’s just… well,me, I guess.Itell myself that. Look, I didn’t go to college like you did. Or like all of my friends did. I just stayed at the bookshop. And then the people I grew up with all graduated and moved away, and I’m still here; still in that bookshop, still doing exactly what I’ve always done.”
I do my best to keep my tone light, but Elliot isn’t fooled.
“Well, for one thing, there’s nothing wrong with the bookstore,” he says firmly. “I think it’s pretty cool, actually. And, for another—” he reaches out and threads his fingers through mine — “Just because you’re here right now, it doesn’t mean thisis where you’ll always be. There’s a big old world out there, you know. Maybe it’s time to think about seeing some of it?”
The words hang in the air between us. I think about Florida, with its orange groves and theme parks; about California palm trees swaying in the sun. I think about sunshine; the kind of heat that feels like a physical presence — a wall of warmth that hits you as you step off the plane.
Then I think about Dad, trying to manage the bookstore alone; going home each night to an empty flat; getting a little older, and a whole lot lonelier with every year that passes.
The sunshine and the six-lane highways abruptly disappear, like the mirage that they are.
“Maybe I will one day,” I say, as if the thought of leaving doesn’t occupy my every waking thought. “Right now, though, we have this book of yours to think about.”
I pick up the pages again, signaling that this part of the conversation is at an end. Elliot watches me for a few moments longer, then gives the tiniest of shrugs, before reaching out and picking up the photo from the pile on the bed.
“Okay,” he says thoughtfully. “So, what are we thinking? Who is she? How does he meet her?”
I rest my head on his shoulder so I can look at it with him.
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know who she was in real life,” I say. “But it doesn’t really matter if it’s fiction you’re writing. You can just make something up.”
“It wasn’tgoingto be fiction,” Elliot says, still looking at the photo. “I had it in my head that it would essentially be a biography. But I get what you mean about it needing a sub-plot. I guess it’s a bit dry without one. And I kind of like the idea of turning real life into a story. That could be fun.”
“Real lifeisa story,” I protest. “But you could still make this a true one, if you really want to. You could still write it as abiography, I mean. You’d just need to find out who she was, first. If that’s even possible.”
“Oh, it’ll be possible,” he says. “Maybe noteasy, granted, but still. It’s notthatlong ago, really. I found tons of records going back to the war when I visited Fort Stafford — that’s the military base he was stationed at. It’s a museum now, though, so that made it easier.”
I nod, remembering visiting Fort Stafford on a class outing when I was a kid. It’s just a couple of miles from Bramblebury, and the soldiers would apparently frequent the village pubs and dance hall on their time off. It’s strange to think Elliot’s great-grandfather was one of them; that he might even have sat at the bar below us at some point, or visited the bookstore — or whatever it was back then. To Elliot and me, itisjust a story, but to him — to the man this book is about — it was very real. It was his life, and he was the main character; just as we all are, in our own stories.
“I like that way of thinking about it,” Elliot says, when I share this thought with him. “I like the idea that we’re all busy writing the story of our life, even if we never put pen to paper. And he never did; which makes me all the more determined to do it for him. Find out the truth. Tell the full story. And I guess that means starting with Mystery Woman here.”
Our heads touch as we peer together at the photo, but the woman in it remains frustratingly indistinct, almost as if she’s a ghost who got caught in the act of disappearing.
“And you’resurehe didn’t leave any letters or diaries?” I ask again, thinking longingly of how amazing it would be to solve the mystery of the woman in the photo by poring over some decades old journals, found in a musty old attic. Like one of those old adventure stories I used to love so much as a child, brought to life.
But Elliot shakes his head.
“Nope. Or, if he did, no one bothered to save them. Like I said, his house was sold years ago; these photos are all that were left. I guess I could go back to the military base and see if there’s anything I missed,” he goes on. “But I doubt there’d be anything useful. They kept records of the men who stayed there, sure. But there’s nothing about their actual lives.”
“No, I guess there wouldn’t be,” I reply, saddened by the thought of all those lives being reduced to simply the known facts: that all that’s left is a start date and an end date, and none of the really important stuff that happened in between.
“I suppose we could try the library?” I go on, not feeling particularly hopeful. “I haven’t gone in there in years, but I guess they might have a local history section. Or I can ask Dad if he has any ideas; he’s pretty into anything involving the war.”
“Maybe his parents knew my great-grandpa?” Elliot says, his eyes lighting up. “Or his lady friend? Shit!” He slaps a hand over his mouth, a look of horror on his face. “What if she’s your great-grandma?”
“Relax,” I reply, laughing. “Neither of my parents were from here. Mum’s family moved down from Scotland when she and Lorraine were just toddlers, and Dad grew up in London. He met Mum at university. So it’s okay; we’re definitely not related.”
“Well, thank God for that.” He pulls me closer. “I’m still not sure you should ask your dad about this, though. I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
I glance up at him. He’s smiling, but his eyes are serious. Also: he’s not exactly wrong.
