I don’t know that yet, though. So I just sit there, snuggled into his chest, completely unaware that the man beside me does have a flaw.
I just haven’t found out what it is, yet.
11
PRESENT
InThe Snow Globe, Evie Snow is a spy. It’s the reason people in the village are always coming up to me with a conspiratorial wink, as if I’mactuallythe character from the book, and my job at the bookstore is merely a cover for the secret double life I’ve been living all along.
Yeah, right.I wish.
Then again, as I sit in my office in the back of the shop on the evening of Elliot’s book signing, it occurs to me that, for the first time ever, I actuallydohave something in common with Evie, because I, too, have a secret double life right now; only mine is as a ghostwriter, rather than as a spy.
Okay, so it’s notexactlythe same thing. Idofeel abitlike a spy, though, as I pull up a fresh browser window on my laptop and type in Elliot’s name, glancing over my shoulder first, to make sure Levi or Paris aren’t about to burst through the door and catch me in the act of Googling my ex.
Not that there’s anything much to find; a fact I know all too well from all theothertimes I’ve tried typing Elliot’s name into a search engine over the years. This is a guy who didn’t evenattend the premiere of the movie his book was based on — or any of the award shows it was nominated at — so I guess it’s no surprise that he’s not on social media, either; not even an ancient Facebook account or a comment on someone else’s Instagram.
He is un-stalkable. (Which, as Levi says, is just plainrudeof him, really…) And even though this morning’s search results are now filled with links to articles about his rumored new book, and his upcoming appearances at the Bramblebury book fair, there’s still nothing to tell me what he’s been doing with himself for the past decade — or how Katie Hunter comes into whatever that is — so, after a few frustrating minutes, I give up, and type in Vivienne Faulkner’s name instead.
This time, I have much better luck. Faulkner’s been in the business for a long time now, and has a website complete with photos of her posing in what looks like a seafront mansion, plus links to interviews she’s done with various bookish publications. From these, I learn that she’s married, lives in California, and writes romance books “to put a little bit of love into the world”.
Yuck.
At a guess, I’d say Vivienne’s probably in her sixties, and she’s beautiful, in a very sleek, glamorous kind of way that makes me wish I hadn’t looked her up, because it’s just making me feel even more intimidated by her, and completely out of my depth with this commission.
Then I remember the phone-call I had with Harper Grant this morning; the one in which she told me the reason Vivienne is having to use a ghostwriter for this project is because she’s been too unwell to write it herself; and, in an instant, the polished facade of Vivienne’s carefully curated website is revealed for what it is — just another way to hide the truth that lies beneath.
“We’ve pushed the deadline back three times now already,” said Harper, sounding uncharacteristically anxious. “We justcan’t do it again. The readers will be expecting another Christmas novel from her for next year, you know? And Vivienne doesn’t want to let them down. She’s very dedicated to her fans.”
I’d murmured reassuringly down the phone, pretending I knew what it was like to have ‘fans’ already waiting for yournextbook to come out, even though your current one has only just been released.
“So, as you know, the book doesn’t have a title yet,” Harper goes on. “But it’s about a woman who essentially reinvents herself by having a whirlwind romance one Christmas. It’s empowering for her. It allows her to take charge of her life, and become the person she’s always wanted to be. Do you know what I mean?”
“I … yes, I do,” I reply, a vague feeling of déjà vu making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Got it.”
“We’re hoping Vivienne will at least be able to get a fuller idea of the plot over to you soon,” Harper told me. “But in the meantime, if you have any ideas of your own, Holly, well, it wouldn’t hurt to jot them down, and I can pass them on to her. Just … well, just in case.”
Just in case WHAT?I wanted to ask, but didn’t, remembering just in time the advice I wrote intoGlow Up: The Guide to Faking It ‘Til You’re Making Itabout believing in yourself, so everyone else believes in you too.
Maybe I shouldn’t have believed in myselfquiteas much when I assured Harper I’d come up with some ideas for the plot of this book and send them over to her, though? Because now here I am feeling a bit like I’m a toddler who’s been entrusted with transporting a 10-tier wedding cake across town, such is my lack of experience on the romance front.
Then again, I may not know much about romance, but Idohave some form with ‘whirlwind’ Christmas flings, don’t I? Well,onewhirlwind Christmas fling.
Maybe one is all I need, though?
I stare at the blank screen, wondering if I can really do this; if I can use Elliot, and our ‘live for the moment’ relationship as inspiration for Vivienne’s book. It’s whathewould do, after all.
That doesn’t mean it’s therightthing to do, though.
This dilemma, however, is going to have to wait to be solved. For now, I can hear a low buzz of voices on the other side of the door, which tells me the store is starting to fill up already for Elliot’s book signing, so I close the computer with a sigh and go out to help.
“Oh, Holly, there you are,” says Dad, as I emerge from the office. He’s carrying a tray filled with champagne glasses, and the tie he’s wearing has been tossed over one shoulder: a sure sign that he’s feeling stressed. “Look, you really don’t have to be here, you know,” he goes on, reaching out to pat me on the arm, and making the champagne glasses wobble dangerously. “We all know how… well,difficultthis time of year is for you. And that’s even without Elliot being back in the picture.”
I nod, noticing that he’s ‘Elliot’ now, and not ‘your young American’ or even ‘that gormless wazzock” as he once called him. How the times have changed. They clearly haven’t changed so much that people haven’t stopped giving me sympathetic looks and talking about my ‘difficult time of year’, though, and, all of a sudden, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of being poor Holly, who has to be tiptoed around every Christmas, in case she bursts into tears. I’m 34 years old, and a … a boss babe. And I think it’s time to take my own advice; to ‘unfollow anxiety’, and to ‘glow up,’ as it were.
Starting with this book signing.
“It’s fine, Dad,” I tell him, taking the tray before he can spill any more of the drinks. “I can see how busy the place is. You need all hands on deck.”
