For the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done in my life, so far it’s all been very … admin-y so far. And with a lot more forms to fill in than I could ever have imagined. But finally it’s done, and it’s official: I’m going to America for Christmas.
I think I might be about to throw up.
I really hope it’s from excitement rather than sheer terror, but I’ll be honest: at this point it’s impossible to tell the difference.
“Relax,” Elliot says soothingly, throwing things into his open suitcase apparently at random as I sit on his bed at The Rose, watching him and thinking about how different this day would’ve been if I wasn’t coming with him. “Everything’s going to be fine. And I spoke to Mom earlier; she says they all can’t wait to meet you. She’s started baking already.”
“That’s great,” I reply, trying and failing to imagine what Christmas will be like under the Florida sun, and whether Elliot’s mother really will be as thrilled as she claims to be to welcome some random English women her son’s known for three weeks into her home.
Well, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
“I have to go home and start packing,” I say, getting up to give him a kiss goodbye. “I’ve just realized I have absolutely nothing to wear for this trip other than jeans and sweaters, and I’m not sure that’s going to cut it, somehow.”
“You’ll look beautiful, whatever you wear,” Elliot assures me, kissing me back. “You always look beautiful.”
Nevertheless, I still end up spending the rest of the day pulling all of my clothes out of my wardrobe and then staring at them in despair. The plan is that I’ll stay for Christmas and New Year, and fly back home on January 2nd — by which point Elliot should have told his family he won’t be joining the firm, and we’ll have a clearer idea of what the future looks like. That’s just over a week I have to pack for, but, all the same, it turns out to be almost as difficult as that 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle Dad insisted we try last year; and twice as frustrating.
The problem isn’t just the change in temperature; it’s also the fact that, from everything he’s said about them, I get the feeling Elliot’s family is just alittlebit richer than we are. The fact that they own their own law firm, and a house on a golf course, kind of gave it away, really.
Elliot and I aren’t just from different countries; we’re from completely different worlds — and the fact that he’s been able to fit fairly effortlessly into mine (A few minor ‘dad issues’ aside) doesn’t leave me with any confidence at all that the same will be true in reverse.
Especially if I can’t figure out something better to wear on Christmas day than the fleece dressing gown I’m currentlywearing while I go through my closet, trying things on, before finally slamming the door shut, and telling myself I’ll go shopping tomorrow and use the last of my savings to buy myself a whole new wardrobe, to go with this brand new impulsive personality I’ve suddenly adopted.
Goodbye, ‘Sensible’ Holly. Hello … whoever it is I’m going to be next.
Seeing as Elliot and I are going to be spending all our time together once we’re in the States, I’d told him I wanted to spend my last couple of evenings at home with Dad, so, once I’ve finished torturing myself by sorting through clothes that suddenly make me wonder what I was thinking when I bought them, I throw together some dinner for us both, and we eat it in front of the TV, as we usually do, both of us delivering Oscar-worthy performances as People Who Have Absolutely Nothing Unusual Going On Here.
I wake up the next morning in my own bed, feeling a strange mixture of nervous and excited. It’s December 23rd, and I have just one day left in Bramblebury; which means I want to make the most of it. The first thing on my agenda is either getting my phone fixed or buying a new one (Which I’m really hoping I’m not going to have to do, on account of the ‘whole new wardrobe’ thing, which is item number two on the agenda…), so I get myself ready as quickly as I can, then head out into the still-snowy village, where I pick up some breakfast rolls at the bakers (Thanking my lucky stars that Martin isn’t behind the counter this morning), then head over to Elliot’s hotel.
Under different circumstances, of course, today would have been my last day with Elliot, and I can’t stop thinking about that as I head straight up to his room, The Rose not exactly being the kind of establishment where they make visitors wait at reception.
“Elliot, are you in there?” I call when he doesn’t answer my knock. “It’s me. I need you to take me to get my phone sorted, remember?”
No answer.
“I’ve got breakfast,” I add, wondering where he could’ve got to at this time of the morning.
Maybe he’s just in a really deep sleep?
I bang on the door a little harder this time, hoping I’m not disturbing any of the other guests, but not seeing any other way to wake him if he is sleeping; my phone isn’t working, and it’s the only place I have his number saved, so without it I can’t even call him from somewhere else.
“Elliot!” I call again, starting to get impatient. “Come on!”
But there’s still no answer. Which can only mean he’s not in his room.
“Are you looking for the American bloke?” says a voice from behind me.
Resisting the impulse to say that no, it’s someotherguy called Elliot whose name I’m shouting at a hotel room door, I turn around to find myself face to face with Sandra, who’s carrying a pile of fresh bed linen and pretending not to recognize me, even though she’s seen me here every day since Elliot and I met,andwe were in the same year in high school.
“Hi, Sandra,” I say with a friendly smile, wishing I had Elliot’s easy way of instantly winning people over, rather than my own version of resting bitch face. “Yes, I’m looking for Elliot. Have you seen him?”
“Did he not tell you, then?” Sandra replies, a look of delight replacing her usual, vaguely hostile expression. “My, my, fancy that!”
“Tell me what? Has he gone out somewhere?” My stomach gives a tiny lurch, which I ignore, telling myself this is just Sandra’s way of entertaining herself by messing with me.
“Well, youcouldsay that,” she replies with a chuckle. “Youcould.”
“Okay, well, did he say where he was going?” I reply, still hoping I can coax the information out of her if I’m patient enough. “Was it The Brew? He sometimes goes there to write.”
