“Oh myGod,” says Levi, in a stage whisper.
Drama delivered.
And now I guess the next line is mine.
I just have no idea what it should actuallybe.
To hide my discomfort, I reach for the laptop that’s sitting open on the counter in front of me, and start tapping away at it importantly, my fingers moving on auto-pilot as I stare determinedly at the screen.
You were always the main character for me.
Why did he say that when we both know it’s not true?
“Okay,” says Elliot, when it becomes clear that I’m not going to give him whatever answer it is he wants from me, because this is Holly he’s talking to — not Evie Snow, whose lines he can dictate. “Right. Well. I guess I’ll be going, then. How’s Martin, by the way? I was … surprised to see him with you last night.”
The email from Harper Grant is on the screen. I open it, just to make myself look busy, then click again to open the contract attached to it, for good measure.
“Martin? Martin’s fine,” I reply vaguely, distracted by the contract, which is several pages long and written in the kind of legal jargon I’ll probably need a translator for. “He took me home.”
Elliot opens the door (Deck the Hallssounds very out of place when you’re in the middle of a stand-off with the ex who once wrote a bookabout you, just in case you were wondering…) and stands there for a moment, as if he thinks he might still be able to rescue this scene if he just gives me a chance to try to stop him from leaving.
I don’t, though.
Because, as I scan the document in front of me, one eye still on Elliot in the doorway, a familiar name catches my eye.
I scroll back up, now fully focused on the screen in front of me.
No. That can’t be right. I must have misread it, surely?
But I haven’t.
There it is, in fourteen-point Times New Roman:
This agreement is made and entered into on [Date], betweenVivienne Faulkner (‘Author’) andHolly Hart (‘Ghostwriter’), collectively referred to as the ‘Parties,’ for the purpose of writing and developing the work [Title TBC]…
I blink several times and read it again, the words starting to swim before my eyes. I feel like I’ve just had a double-shot of Levis’ extra-strong espresso, shortly followed by a ride on a particularly twisty roller-coaster.
Vivienne Faulkner.
The author I’ve agreed to ghostwrite for is none other than Vivienne Faulkner; queen of romance, and the person responsible for a large percentage of our non-Snow Globe related book sales every month.
It doesn’t seem real. Itcan’tbe real.
I, Holly Hart, have somehow managed to land the ghostwriting gig of a lifetime.
It’s anactualChristmas miracle.
And I’m not allowed to tell anyone about it.
Which is just fine, as it happens: because when I finally look up from the computer screen, my fingers still trembling on the keyboard, I find that Elliot Sinclair has already gone.
10
DECEMBER, 10YEARS AGO
As it turns out, I’m not particularly good at living ‘in the moment’.
For most people, living each day as if it’s your last means living with gay abandon, and little regard for the consequences. And good for them. I wish they could teach me their ways, because, in reality, it’s kind of exhausting, really, living each day as if it’s your last. Always worrying if you’re enjoying things enough; if you’re truly experiencing life to itsabsolutefullest, or if there’s perhaps something more you could be doing to ensure you’re appreciating it all appropriately.
