It would be everything I’ve never wanted. A nice, sensible husband; maybe not Martin himself — I can’t bring myself to see him as anything more than the slightly strange guy next door — but certainly someonelikeMartin. A job for life in the bookstore. Christmas with the in-laws. Friday nights in the pub.Mince pies.
And there would be nothing wrong with any of that. It would be what most people would describe as ‘nice’. But I am not ‘most people’. And the more I think about it, the more I think I agree with Elliot about that word. I don’t think ‘nice’ is going to be enough for me. Not any more.
Elliot’s eyes meet mine across the top of his book, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then he gives me a tiny nod, which is all it takes to help me make up my mind.
“Dad, that thing I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, speaking with a confidence I don’t feel. “It was about Christmas.”
“Oh, yes?” says Dad, distractedly. He’s fetched a plate from the storeroom at the back of the shop, and is carefully arranging the mince pies on it. He doesn’t look up.
“It’s just, I know we don’t have any plans,” I go on, my courage wavering slightly as I notice the label sticking out of the back of his jumper, a reminder that he has no one but me now to look after him.
Elliot smiles at me from behind his book. It’s calledEscape to the Sun, which feels like a sign.
“So I was … I was wondering if you’d mind me spending it with Elliot,” I say in a rush, wishing I’d chosen to do this without the audience of Elsie and Martin, who’re both looking on with undisguised interest.
Dad looks up, his glasses slightly askew.
“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Right. Well, I suppose he could join us, if he wants to. He’ll have to give me his takeaway order, though. You know how early you have to get it in for Christmas.”
He makes this idea sound every bit as unpalatable as Martin’s cinnamon-laced mince pies.
“I thought he was going to be back in America by then, though?” Dad goes on, sounding disappointed. “Has there been a change of plan?”
There’s a silence so loud I start to think I can actually hear the needles dropping off the tree by the window.
“Yes,” I say at last. “Yes, there’s been a change of plan. Elliot’s still going to America, but … well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Because I want to go with him.”
17
PRESENT
Istart writing Vivienne Faulkner’s book the day after my unexpected meeting with Elliot and Katie in town. It’s about a woman from a small town in England who flies to America for Christmas — or ‘the holidays’, as Harper insists I refer to it, for the benefit of Vivienne’s U.S. readers — and has a whirlwind romance with a handsome American.
There are no prizes for guessing where the idea came from, needless to say.
I’m writing the life story I never got to have; bringing my winter of missed opportunities to life, one painstaking word at a time. I’m making it real by writing about it, and my imagination makes it wonderful, in the way all completely made-up things are. It’s a Christmas fling without the fear; and with absolutely none of the real-life consequences that made my relationship with Elliot end the way it did.
On the page, I do all the things I always wanted to do, but never did, and when I’ve written a couple of thousand words without stopping, I take my laptop and wander over to The Brew, so I can read it over while Paris and Levi attempt to joinforces in decorating the Christmas tree that was delivered to the shop this morning, and which Levi wants to hangactual bookson, much to Paris’s disgust.
At least here I can work in peace, without being interrupted every few seconds.
“Hello, Holly.”
Or maybe not.
I reluctantly tear myself away from the world I’ve been creating on the screen, and look up to see Elliot standing next to my table, carrying a tray filled with a huge bowl of The Brew’s famous butternut squash soup, and some crusty bread.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks, with a glance around the busy cafe. “There aren’t many spare seats in here.”
Idomind, as it happens — lunch with my ex is the very last thing I had on my ‘to do’ list for the day — but I’m too much of a people pleaser to actually voice this, so I simply nod wordlessly and watch as he takes a seat opposite me, shrugging off his coat and making himself comfortable, as if he’s planning a nice, long, leisurely lunch.
I pick up my own soup spoon and take a huge gulp, determined to force it down as quickly as I can, even though it tastes like wet socks.
“This place has changed a bit,” Elliot says, with a wry smile. “I was hoping the ploughman’s lunch might still be on the menu, but it’s all artisan breads and dishes with truffle in them now. Not a single pickled onion to be seen.”
He picks up his spoon and dips it into his soup, apparently unaware of the door he’s just opened to our shared past, and the effect the memory of our first date still has on me.
“They serve avocado on toast for breakfast now,” I reply, deciding to stick to safer subjects than the one that’s now looming large in my mind, thanks to his mention of that long-ago lunch. “And quinoa porridge.”
