“Martin helped you?” Elliot says slowly. “And he told you all the contacts were missing?”
“Yeah. He said all the data had been wiped when the phone fell. And itwaslost. The numbers weren’t there. I checked about a hundred times.”
Actually, it was more like a thousand times, if I remember rightly; and I’m pretty sure I do. I take a deep breath as more memories of that time come flooding back to me; most of them involving me wandering around in my dressing gown, with puffy eyes and chocolate ice cream dribbled down my front.
“It was a cracked screen, Holly,” Elliot points out. “And I’m no expert, but I’d be surprised if what happened to the phone was bad enough to destroy the SIM card.”
I’m about to point out that there isn’t much point in us debating the finer points of technology from a decade ago — he’s actually starting to sound a bit like Martin himself with his insistence on focusing on this — but then another memory hits me.
Martin, standing at the shop counter, with the laptop I shared with Dad at the time open in front of him. The look on his face when he heard Dad and I talk about my plans to go to the States with Elliot.
My headache suddenly intensifies.
“Martin had access to my email, too,” I say, an idea starting to take shape in the back of my mind. “Dad asked him to come round to fix his, but Martin said he’d have to take the computer away to look at it. He had it for a couple of days. I didn’t think anything of it at the time…”
… but I do now.
And, judging by the look on his face, so does Elliot.
“Martin did this,” he says, as matter-of-factly as if we’re discussing the weather. “He didn’t give you my message, then he lied and told me he did. And I guess he did something to block me from contacting you after that. What was it you used to call him? A nerd?”
“A geek,” I reply, my voice croaky. “Because he always said there was nothing he didn’t know about tech. And, well, also because he lovesStar Warsso much.”
“There’s nothing wrong with lovingStar Wars,” comes Levi’s voice from the other side of the door. “Enough with the geek-shaming.”
For once, though, I don’t have the energy to resent the intrusion; or even to tell him off for eavesdropping. I’m toobusy watching Elliot’s expression change from the guarded mistrust he started this conversation with, through the dawning realization that we’ve been played: and by Martin Baxter, of all people.
Finally, we’re on the same page.
Elliot didn’t rewrite our story when he used it in his book. There were just two sides of it all along; and now we’re finally getting to read both of them — just a little too late.
My heart does a weird little duh-DUM that feels a bit like a jump scare.
“Elliot? Oh, there you are.”
With the worst possible timing, the door into the hall opens to reveal Elliot’s publicist, plus a sheepish-looking Levi, who starts backing away slowly as soon as I make eye contact with him.
“Everyone’s waiting for you,” the publicist says, looking from Elliot to me and then back again. “If you’re ready?”
No, I want to tell her. No, he’s not ready. Because he’s in the middle of a very important conversation — one it’s taken us an entire decade to get around to — and interrupting it now would feel like deciding to leave the theater right before the end of the movie, and before you get to find out whodunnit. (Although, in this case, I think we all know whodunnit; and he’s currently standing at the Hart Books table, wearing an ‘ironic’ Christmas jumper, and a self-satisfied expression which I’m planning to remove as soon as I get the chance…)
“I can’t stall the crowd much longer,” Publicist Woman adds, as if she’s read my mind. “They’re all so excited for your big announcement.”
Elliot hesitates, his eyes flickering over to me as if he’s trying to make his mind up about something.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I have to do this.”
“Sure. I understand,” I reply quickly. Then I remember something.
“Elliot,” I call, as he turns to follow the woman into the hall. “Your dad. I wanted to ask. Did he …?”
The ghost of a smile flickers around the corners of his lips as he pauses in the doorway, Levi hovering excitedly behind him with his eyes like saucers.
“He pulled through,” he says. “Eventually. But it was touch and go for a while there. We were basically living in the hospital. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. Sorry, Harper,” he adds, looking over his shoulder. “I’m just coming.”
He gives a small, apologetic shrug, before walking away, and I frown to myself thoughtfully as I watch him go.
Harper?His publicist has the same name as the one I’ve been assigned to at the ghostwriting agency? What are the odds of that?
