This is true. The little shop is the most crowded I’ve ever seen it, with people milling around, sipping champagne and chattering excitedly about the ‘reclusive’ author they’re about to meet. I spot Levi holding court over in the Coffee Corner, which has been turned into a makeshift bar for the evening, while Paris stands next to a table piled with copies ofThe Snow Globe, looking like she might start a fight with anyone who dares to take one before Elliot arrives to sign them.
The sofas and squashy armchairs have all been pulled back to the edges of the room to make way for rows of wooden chairs, which are already almost full. Maisie Poole sits front and center, holding a glass of champagne in each hand, and, to my horror, I spot Martin near the back, sweating slightly in his thick puffer jacket, which he’s refusing to take off, even though the room is hotter than Hades.
With the exception of Maisie, the front two rows are filled with what I’m assuming are members of the press — Elliot Sinclair’s first ever public appearance is a big deal in the book world — but there’s no sign of Elliot himself, so I start cautiously circling the room, handing out drinks, and occasionally stopping to sip on one myself, in a bid to steady my nerves.
My plan is to just stay out of his way; which shouldn’t be difficult given that he’s the big, famous author guy, and I’m just the girl serving the drinks. Just as long as no one mentions my secret identity as Evie Snow (Which they shouldn’t do, after the lecture I gave Levi and Paris this afternoon…), it should be no different from any of the other author events we’ve hosted since Paris stepped in as assistant manager.
Well, other than the huge amount of people in attendance, obviously. Under normal circumstances, these things tend to attract a handful of people at most, but this event is different; as evidenced by the flurry of excitement that ripples through the room as Elliot finally steps through the shop door.
Conversations stop mid-sentence as everyone pauses to watch him shake hands with a flustered-looking Dad, then make his way to the table that’s been set up at the back of the store. Today, he’s wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, which aren’t identical to the ones he used to wear, but which are close enough to take me instantly back to the first time he walked into this store. With his thick hair combed neatly back from his face, and just a hint of stubble on his jaw, he looks every inch the distinguished author, and I instantly start to regret my own choice of outfit, which, Paris informs me, is ‘giving modern-day Jo March,’ whatever that means.
Not that it matters. It’s not like he’s going to see me in this crowd.
Just to make sure of that, I move to the side of the room furthest away from Elliot, who’s accompanied by a glossy-looking woman in a tight black dress, who I’m assuming is his publicist, or assistant, or someone else from the publishing house. She isn’t the woman whose house I saw him come out of the other morning, but I still have to fight back a totally unreasonable twinge of jealously as she lays a proprietorial hand on his arm, showing him where to stand.
“Well, um, good evening, everyone,” says Dad, wringing his hands together anxiously as he steps up to introduce Elliot. “Thank you all for coming. I’m sure the gentleman next to me needs no introduction, so I’ll let him get on with it, shall I?”
He peers around the room, as if asking permission to leave, and the audience applauds politely, everyone’s eyes locked expectantly on Elliot, who has his hands in his pockets, as if this is a completely normal way for him to be spending a December evening.
This is new too. The Elliot I knew would’ve burst out laughing at the idea of speaking in front of a crowd. I always assumed that was why he refused to do any publicity for his book when it cameout; because he just wasn’t serious enough to do something as grown-up as making a speech. But now here he is, looking suave and sophisticated, and totally at home as he smiles around at us all from his position in front of the audience.
I wonder if this is who he was all along? If the bashful, self-effacing Elliot I met by the market stall was just an act, and the whole time he was hiding this heart-breakingly handsome stranger behind his sweet smile and sparkling eyes?
Was it all just pretend?
“Thank you, Alan,” he says to Dad, sounding very American, somehow, in the confines of the little bookshop. “I’m so happy to be back here in Bramblebury. This is where it all started for me, and I can’t think of a better place to celebrate the 10th anniversary ofThe Snow Globe.”
The audience applauds again, with the exception of Levi, who gives a small shriek of excitement, before being elbowed in the side by Paris.
“I think the plan is to take some questions before I start signing; is that right?” Elliot asks, turning to the woman in the black dress, who nods her confirmation. Instantly, a small forest of hands springs up as the members of the audience all compete for his attention. Elliot leans back, perching casually on the edge of the table behind him as he scans the audience, before selecting a woman in the front row, who’s carrying an expensive-looking camera and a notebook.
“Is it true that you’re also here to announce your next book?” she asks breathlessly. “And that it’ll be a sequel toThe Snow Globe?”
Before Elliot can answer, little black dress woman steps forward.
“Mr. Sinclair will only be answering questions aboutThe Snow Globeat this time,” she says, sounding like she’s reading a statement that’s been prepared in advance. “His focus is verymuch on the anniversary for now, and we really appreciate your understanding on that.”
A small sigh of disappointment ripples through the audience — started, no doubt, by Levi. But they soon recover themselves, and within a few seconds the hands are in the air once more, and Elliot’s answering questions ranging from the banal (“How long did it take you to write the book?”) to the really quite ridiculous (“If you were a cat, what would your cat name be?”).
Elliot answers every question with the same care and attention, no matter how stupid it is, pausing to consider his answers (His cat name would be ‘Jay Catsby’, he says…), and looking each questioner in the eye as he responds, as if they’re uniquely important to him. He’s funny, self-deprecating and clever, and as I stand at the back of the room, watching him, I can’t help but smile along with everyone else, caught up in the spell he’s casting over the room.
Finally, Elliot’s glance lands on Levi, who’s been straining so hard to get his attention that he’s almost lifted himself right off the ground.
“My question is about inspiration,” says Levi innocently, his eyes flicking over to me, before re-focusing on Elliot. “I wondered if there was anything in particular that inspired you to write this particular book? Or anyone, even?”
I clench my hands so hard I almost drop the tray I’m holding.
IknewI shouldn’t have just taken his word that he wouldn’t mention me. Iknewhe’d somehow find a way around it.
Levi keeps his eyes fixed on Elliot, knowing perfectly well that if he were to turnmyway, my glare would probably turn him to stone. Elliot, however, looks out at the audience, his familiar blue eyes searching the room until he finds me.
“Yes,” he says, holding my gaze in a way that makes it impossible for me to look away. “Yes, there was someone, as it happens. Someone very special.”
The entire room seems to hold its breath; or maybe it’s just me. I’m definitely the only one whose hands are shaking right now as I wait for the answer that has the potential to turn my life upside down for a second time, as well as confirming that I, Holly Hart, am ‘someone special’.
So, a bit of a double-edge sword, really. To say the least.
“His name was Luke Sinclair,” Elliot says. “And he was my great-grandfather. I named the main male character in the book after him, in fact, although I changed his surname, to make the connection less obvious.”
