Which brings us neatly back to the subject of myownside hustle: and the Christmas romance novel I’ve just been asked to write for it.
“I just don’t think I can say yes to this one, Lorraine,” I say, perching on the end of one of the trestle tables. “What do I know about romance? I’m 34 and single. My last serious relationship ended with me threatening to report him for stalking.”
“That reminds me,” says Lorraine. “Martin was in here earlier, looking for you. Had a face like a wet weekend on him.”
“See?” I reply. “That’s not romance, Lorraine; it’s just plain creepy, the way he follows me around. And Martin was the longest relationship I’ve ever had. What does that say about me?”
“Oh, come on, Holly,” says Lorraine. “So you’ve had a bit of bad luck with men. It doesn’t mean you can’t write about romance. Here.”
She stoops down and rummages through the box on the floor, before holding up one of the books inside it, as if she’s proving a point.
“This,” she says, prodding the front cover with a neon pink nail. “This is one of the greatest romances of all time. Or so everyone says, anyway. And it’s literally aboutyou.You’reEvie Snow. So I’d say you probably know a bit more about romance than you think you do.”
“The Snow Globeisn’t a romance book,” I reply, sounding a lot like Paris. “Romance has to have a happy ending. This doesn’t.We didn’t. You could call it a love story — if you were being generous — but you can’t call it a romance. And, anyway, it’s not even true. Well, hardly any of it’s true. And the bits thatare… they’re just Elliot’s side of the story, aren’t they?”
“So maybe it’s time to tell your side of it?” Lorraine says, shrugging. “Why not? Write your own book. Take control of the narrative for once. At least it would stop everyone asking how it ended all the time.”
She picks up the box of books and starts laying them out on the table, and I stand there for a moment watching her, my mind whirring.
It’s true to say that, ever sinceThe Snow Globecame out, with its cliffhanger ending, readers have been clamoring for a sequel.
It’s also true to say, however, that I can’t be the one to write it. Not just because thereisno ‘part two’ to the story — Elliot and I justended, and that was that — but because publicly associating myself withThe Snow Globeis the verylastthing I’d want. It’s bad enough that everyone here in town knows that Evie Snow was based on me; I don’t think I’d cope if everyone else in the book’s fandom knew too.
Maybe I could do it anonymously, though? Like, under a pen-name, say.
Or as a ghostwriter.
“Thanks, Lorraine,” I say, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as I get ready to leave. “I’ll let you know what I decide to do about the romance book.”
I leave the hall, and step straight into what appears to be some kind of festive theme park that’s been set up in the village square.
There are fairy lights. There are lanterns. There’s food trucks and Christmas music, and a surprisingly large crowd of people, all gathered around the Christmas tree, with rosy cheeks and giant churros in their hands.
Of course; the tree. They’re all here for the annual spectacle that is the switching on of the lights. I completely forget that was tonight.
I’m just passing the tree itself — which I see has been hung with dozens of miniature snow globes this year — when the countdown starts.
“Three!” yells the crowd. “Two!”
I quicken my step in a bid to get out of the way, but the crowd is so large and excitable that I end up stumbling; the heel of my boot sticking on one of those infernal cobblestones, and sending me over on my ankle . For just a second, my hands clutch at thin air, looking for something to grab onto, and then, just as I’m about to lose my balance,an arm appears on my elbow, holding me steady as I wrench my foot free and stand up straight.
“ONE!” yells the crowd.
Fireworks explode above the square as the Christmas tree lights flash on, shimmering against the dark sky.
“Thanks,” I say gratefully, turning to look up into the eyes of the man who’s still holding me upright; dark blue eyes that twinkle with the reflection of Christmas lights and fireworks, and a hundred and one memories. Eyes I would know anywhere. Eyes that are definitely not those of a ghost, or a mirage, or even the product of my over-active imagination, but the familiar blue eyes of the man I once thought was the love of my life. It’s Elliot Sinclair.
6
DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO
Things like this don’t happen to me.
I don’t usually bump into handsome strangers in snowy village squares, for instance.
And, if I did, I’d be willing to bet they wouldn’t look at me the way Elliot Sinclair is looking at me now: as if we’re not actually strangers at all, and he can see something in me that no one else ever has.
And yet here we are, tucked into a corner booth at The Brew, on what even I have to acknowledge is most definitely A Date; and a pretty damn good one, too.
