“I don’t believe in signs,” I reply firmly, wishing for the first time in my life that I did. “It’s a coincidence, that’s all. Coincidences happen much more often than people realize. That’s why so many people believe in things like fate. They…”
I stop, realizing I’m about to ruin this near-perfect moment with my unfortunate habit of regurgitating information I once read in a book. And I really don’t want to ruin this moment; or spoil my chances of seeing Elliot Sinclair again.
“I have lunch around one,” I say instead, my voice strangely squeaky.
“Well, great. I guess I’ll see you there, then.”
Elliot smiles with relief. Even though he looks like someone who smiles often, the effect is no less devastating every time he does it, and it’s virtually impossible not to smile back at him; which isn’t something I’m particularly used to doing these days, it has to be said.
He pauses, as if he’s about to say something else, but then the shop door bursts open and a young couple come in, chattering loudly, and breaking the spell.
I have never resented anyone more in my life.
“I’d better get going,” says Elliot apologetically, as the man approaches the counter, ready to ask for help with something.” It’s been nice meeting you, Holly Hart.”
“You too.”
I smile in a way that I hope makes it clear I’m not just being polite, and that I really, genuinely mean it, but he’s already gone, the shop door slamming behind him as a gust of wind catches it.
I go to help the customers at the counter, and it’s only later, when I’m tidying up at the end of the day, that I notice the snow globe still sitting on the counter, next to the cash register.
He left me the snow globe.
And tomorrow, I’m going to see him again.
5
I arrive at the bookstore just in time to intercept Dad, who’s attempting to force a large box filled with books through the door, his glasses steamed up with the effort.
“Here, let me take that,” I tell him, glad of the distraction as I grab one corner of the box and help him carry it inside. “What are these, anyway? Not more copies ofThe Snow Globe?”
I pull a face, but Dad’s too busy moping his brow with the handkerchief he keeps in his jacket pocket to notice.
“No,” he says, turning back to the box. “No, it’s the latest Vivienne Faulkner, Holly. Here, take a look.”
He pulls a hardback out of the box and hands it to me. It’s calledA Season for Second Chances, and the picture on the front shows a couple walking hand in hand down a snowy street, both wrapped up in gigantic scarves and beaming at each other, presumably delighted by their ‘second chance’. On the back cover, Vivienne Faulkner herself flashes an unnaturally white smile as she sits on a chair that looks like a throne, wearing a sharp, Barbie-pink trouser suit, and looking like she’s about to try to sell us something from the Avon catalog.
“Looks like the same old tripe she always churns out,” says Dad, cheerfully. “Should sell well, though; she always does. Let’s try to clear some space near the front of the shop for these, shall we?”
I nod, although I’m secretly planning to read the new book as soon as I get a chance; because Vivienne Faulkner may be the queen of trashy romance, but every single one of her books comes with a guaranteed happy ever after — and normally a dashing billionaire, who falls for a really quite ordinary girl, into the bargain — and she writes so many of them that you have to admire her, really; even though admitting that would be a bit like saying you’d rather have a Big Mac than a nice, juicy steak.
Sometimes you just want a Big Mac, though.
Don’t you?
I’ve just finished unpacking the books, determinedly keeping my back to the window as I do it, so there’s no opportunity to imagine any ex-boyfriends looking through it, when my phone pings with a message alert. I swipe to open it, expecting it to be either confirmation of my last book order for the store, or possibly some foreign prince who desperately needs to temporarily transfer several million dollars to my account as a favor — because those are the only two types of email I seem to get these days, and evenIknow the second one is just spam.
For once, though, it’s neither.
It’s a message from the ghostwriting agency I do all of my work through, and the contents of it do absolutely nothing to reassure me that I’m not either going mad or imagining things.
“Everything okay?” says Dad, seeing me sit down suddenly on one of the squishy sofas in front of the fire. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No,” I reply, feeling the blood rush to my head as I look up from the screen in amazement. “Well, I mean, yes, I think I have. But it’sme, Dad.I’mthe ghost. Or Iwillbe, anyway. I’ve just been offered a fiction-writing job.”
The commotion that breaks out following my latest job offer lasts all day, and is still raging as we prepare to close the store for the night.
“Look, it’s fine,” I tell the room at large, during a brief gap in customers. “I haven’t said I’ll take it yet; I don’t even know anything about this project, other than that it’s a novel, rather than a self-help book, and it’s urgent, apparently.”
