“Yuck.” Elliot pulls a face which I struggle not to laugh at. He’s wearing a dark blue turtleneck sweater, and has ditched the glasses again; I’m guessing he must have contact lenses now. Nevertheless, he still looks clever and sophisticated, in addition to being ridiculously handsome.
I reach up and pat my hair self-consciously, relieved to find it pencil-free today.
“Are you working on your novel?” he asks now, nodding at my laptop, which sits open on the table in front of me. “If This Was a Movie? Wasn’t that it? It’s a great title.”
I look down at the computer as if I’ve never seen it before. I feel like now would be the right time to tell him it’s not reallymynovel. That although I technicallydohave a publisher, like Paris said, I’m just a ghostwriter, not arealauthor, like him.
Then I remember the look on Katie Hunter’s face as she looked up at him in the street yesterday; and the knowing way she said my name, as if she was privy to some kind of inside information on me — the kind of things you might divulge about your ex-girlfriend during pillow talk with your current one, say.
Elliot’s long since moved on from me. It’s time I moved on, too. And, anyway, the publisher might be Vivienne Faulkner’s, rather than mine, but Iamthe one writing the book; and coming up with the plot, actually. Now I come to think of it, Vivienne’s had no involvement at all so far, other than the very brief synopsis she gave Harper, about the woman who reinvents herself by having a holiday romance.
I guess her health must be even worse than I thought it was.
“Um, Holly?” Elliot says, breaking into my thoughts. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry,” I say, blinking. “I was just … thinking about the book, that’s all.”
“It was like watching an entire movie play out on your face,” he says with a smile. “It must be a great plot, to get that kind of reaction from you.”
“What did you mean yesterday?” I ask suddenly. “When you said the book title was ‘very me’?”
Elliot pauses, his spoon poised just above the bowl.
“Well, just what I said, really,” he says after a second. “Haven’t you spent your entire life comparing everything to fiction? Wishing for the movie version? Or the plot of a book?”
I take a deep breath and push my soup bowl away from me, so I’m not tempted to throw it at him.
“That’s a bit rich coming from the guy who literally turned my life into fiction, don’t you think?” I say levelly. “And how would you know how I’ve spent my life, anyway? It’s not like you’ve been here for any of it.”
“Sorry,” Elliot says, looking stricken. For a second, I think he’s about to reach across the table and take my hand, but he changes his mind. “I didn’t mean it as a criticism,” he says quietly. “I know it sounded like that. I just phrased it badly, that’s all. I just meant you live in your imagination, Holly. All writers do, I think. It’s how we survive life; by turning it into stories. I guess you already know that about me, though.”
He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“And will you be turning Katie Hunter into a story, do you think?” I reply, unable to stop myself. “Like you did with me?”
“Katie?” Elliot frowns. “No, I don’t think so. It’s her grandmother I’m interested in.”
I’m really glad I’ve finished eating that soup, because I’m pretty sure I’d have choked on it, otherwise.
“Her…grandmother?” I splutter, convinced I must have misheard him. “Are you serious?”
“Sorry, no,” Elliot corrects himself. “No, I’m not. It’s hergreat-grandmother,” he goes on, speaking as if this is a completelynormal thing for him to be admitting in public. Orat all, even. “Her grandmother would be too young.”
“Tooyoung?”
It’s more of an incredulous shriek than an actual question, but Elliot appears to consider it carefully.
“Well, yes,” he says seriously, dipping some bread into his soup. “Her grandmother wouldn’t have been alive during the war. So Evie would’ve been her great-grandmother. I’m sure that’s right.”
He pops the bread into his mouth.
“This tastes like grated feet,” he says, chewing. “It’s good to see some things haven’t changed around here. The food’s still pretty terrible.”
“Wait. Evie?” I ask, my mind still struggling to get past the image of Elliot and a 90-year-old. “Do you mean Evie Snow? But I thought your girlfriend’s name was Katie?”
“Girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend,” Elliot replies, confused. “I’m very single right now, I can assure you. Katie’s Evie’s great-granddaughter.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory surfaces. A woman with dark hair and a pale face, laughing up at a handsome American. Katie and Elliot. Or…
