“I didn’t think you’d want me to,” he replies, making it sound like a question. “When I saw you earlier, you seemed so angry about it; about the book, and the attention you’d got from it. I didn’t want to make things worse for you by admitting Evie was based on you — especially not in front of the press that were there. Not to mention Maisie Poole, who made me sign five copies for her. Hey, is it just me, or has she not changedat all?”
He blinks rapidly, and I have to bite my tongue not to laugh at the comical expression on his face.
“Rumor has it she has a portrait in the attic,” I say, deadpan. “Either that or she’s a vampire. It’s definitely one of the two. Possibly both, knowing Maisie. She’s nothing if not thorough.”
This time his smile is one of relief tempered with caution.
“And you?” he asks softly. “What’s your secret? Because you look exactly the same, Holly.Exactly. I felt like I’d gone back in time when I bumped into you the other day. It was … yeah.”
I really want to know what ‘it’ was — ‘yeah’ doesn’t really give me much to go on here — but I’m too thrown by the unexpected compliment to ask.
“Oh, I’m definitely a vampire,” I reply seriously. “I survive on the blood of the people who’ve crossed me.”
“That would’ve made one hell of a plot twist,” he says, chuckling. “Shoulda used that one for sure. Unless I’m one of the people who’ve crossed you, obviously. Which I kind of think I am, given your reaction to me not mentioning you earlier. Either that or this coffee’s much worse than I thought, andthat’swhy you’re annoyed with me?”
He takes another sip and pulls a face.
“Oh, the coffee’s terrible,” I assure him. “And you’re nottotallywrong about me not wanting to be outed as Evie Snow, either. I don’t… I don’t really know why I was annoyed out there when you didn’t mention me. I don’t want that. I’ve never wanted that. I’ve never wanted to be connected to the book.”
“Has it really been that bad for you?” Elliot asks. “Being Evie? I’m sorry, Holly. That’s not what I wanted. Really, it’s not. I didn’t think for a second that the book would make life difficult for you.”
“But … she’s soawful,” I say, before I can stop myself. “I don’t even know why he falls for her; she’s just…urgh.”
I almost knock my drink over as I wave my hands expansively to emphasize my point. Whatever my point’s supposed to be.
Elliot rubs his jaw thoughtfully, in a way that suggests my feedback is critical to him.
“You don’t like Evie?” he says, his tone light. “You think she’s awful? Or ‘urgh’ even?”
“Everyonethinks she’s awful,” I correct him. “Everyonethinks she’s ‘urgh’.That’s why everyone laughs at me. Well, everyone who knows she’s supposed tobeme, anyway. And that includes Maisie Poole, so, you know…everyone.”
Elliot shrugs.
“Ilike her,” he says simply. “I like her a lot. And I don’t think she’s ‘awful’ at all. I don’t think it’s strange in the slightest that he falls for her. I think she’s feisty. I think she’s brave. I think she’s hurt, and damaged, and I think sometimes she does things because she doesn’t want to be hurt any more than she already is.”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Anyway,” he goes on, before I can reply. “It’s done now. I can’t go back and change it, as much as I’d like to. So I’m sorry you hated the book, but trust me; you’re not the only one who was disappointed in it.”
I swallow again. It seems to be the only thing I’m capable of doing right now. Because one thing’s for sure; I have no idea what to say to him. My mind is a blank page; one that I can’t help wishing someone else would write on, just to tell me how to feel about everything he’s just said
I don’t know how I feel anymore.
Not about Elliot, not about his book, not about anything.
And I really thought I did. When I came storming into this office earlier, I had Elliot firmly cast as the villain in this story; the Machiavellian, scheming liar who gas-lit me into thinking heloved me, then wrote a book that guaranteed I’d spend the rest of my life as a joke.
But now I’ve been completely wrong-footed. The Elliot standing in front of me isn’t the two-dimensional character he’s been in my head all these years. He’s a real, whole person; one with thoughts and feelings that I absolutely haven’t taken into account, because it was too easy to just resent him instead.
“I didn’t say Ihatedit,” I tell him, my voice almost a whisper. “I didn’t… I don’thateit.”
“Oh, yeah? You could’ve fooled me.”
There’s an edge to his voice that I’ve never heard in it before. It reminds me of how much I don’t know about him; how I never really did know him. Howcanyou know someone in the space of three weeks? Why did I ever think I did?
“I don’t hate it,” I say carefully, “I just don’t understand it, is all. I don’t understand why you made so much of it up. You were the one who was so set on figuring out the truth. Remember how hard we tried to find the mystery woman from the photo?”
“I remember. The visit to the library. Maisie and her Hercule Poirot novels. Hey, I walked past the library a couple days ago,” he adds, grinning at the memory. “I see it’s had a bit of a makeover, too. It didn’t smell musty at all. Maisie must be delighted.”
