Yuck.
At a guess, I’d say Vivienne’s probably in her sixties, and she’s beautiful, in a very sleek, glamorous kind of way that makes me wish I hadn’t looked her up, because it’s just making me feel even more intimidated by her, and completely out of my depth with this commission.
Then I remember the phone-call I had with Harper Grant this morning; the one in which she told me the reason Vivienne is having to use a ghostwriter for this project is because she’s been too unwell to write it herself; and, in an instant, the polished facade of Vivienne’s carefully curated website is revealed for what it is — just another way to hide the truth that lies beneath.
“We’ve pushed the deadline back three times now already,” said Harper, sounding uncharacteristically anxious. “We just can’t do it again. The readers will be expecting another Christmas novel from her for next year, you know? And Vivienne doesn’t want to let them down. She’s very dedicated to her fans.”
I’d murmured reassuringly down the phone, pretending I knew what it was like to have ‘fans’ already waiting for yournextbook to come out, even though your current one has only just been released.
“So, as you know, the book doesn’t have a title yet,” Harper goes on. “But it’s about a woman who essentially reinvents herself by having a whirlwind romance one Christmas. It’s empowering for her. It allows her to take charge of her life, and become the person she’s always wanted to be. Do you know what I mean?”
“I … yes, I do,” I reply, a vague feeling of déjà vu making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Got it.”
“We’re hoping Vivienne will at least be able to get a fuller idea of the plot over to you soon,” Harper told me. “But in the meantime, if you have any ideas of your own, Holly, well, it wouldn’t hurt to jot them down, and I can pass them on to her. Just … well, just in case.”
Just in case WHAT?I wanted to ask, but didn’t, remembering just in time the advice I wrote intoGlow Up: The Guide to Faking It ‘Til You’re Making Itabout believing in yourself, so everyone else believes in you too.
Maybe I shouldn’t have believed in myselfquiteas much when I assured Harper I’d come up with some ideas for the plot of this book and send them over to her, though? Because now here I am feeling a bit like I’m a toddler who’s been entrusted with transportinga 10-tier wedding cake across town, such is my lack of experience on the romance front.
Then again, I may not know much about romance, but Idohave some form with ‘whirlwind’ Christmas flings, don’t I? Well,onewhirlwind Christmas fling.
Maybe one is all I need, though?
I stare at the blank screen, wondering if I can really do this; if I can use Elliot, and our ‘live for the moment’ relationship as inspiration for Vivienne’s book. It’s whathewould do, after all.
That doesn’t mean it’s therightthing to do, though.
This dilemma, however, is going to have to wait to be solved. For now, I can hear a low buzz of voices on the other side of the door, which tells me the store is starting to fill up already for Elliot’s book signing, so I close the computer with a sigh and go out to help.
“Oh, Holly, there you are,” says Dad, as I emerge from the office. He’s carrying a tray filled with champagne glasses, and the tie he’s wearing has been tossed over one shoulder: a sure sign that he’s feeling stressed. “Look, you really don’t have to be here, you know,” he goes on, reaching out to pat me on the arm, and making the champagne glasses wobble dangerously. “We all know how… well,difficultthis time of year is for you. And that’s even without Elliot being back in the picture.”
I nod, noticing that he’s ‘Elliot’ now, and not ‘your young American’ or even ‘that gormless wazzock” as he once called him. How the times have changed. They clearly haven’t changed so much that people haven’t stopped giving me sympathetic looks and talking about my ‘difficult time of year’, though, and, all of a sudden, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of being poor Holly, who has to be tiptoed around everyChristmas, in case she bursts into tears. I’m 34 years old, and a … a boss babe. And I think it’s time to take my own advice; to ‘unfollow anxiety’, and to ‘glow up,’ as it were.
Starting with this book signing.
“It’s fine, Dad,” I tell him, taking the tray before he can spill any more of the drinks. “I can see how busy the place is. You need all hands on deck.”
This is true. The little shop is the most crowded I’ve ever seen it, with people milling around, sipping champagne and chattering excitedly about the ‘reclusive’ author they’re about to meet. I spot Levi holding court over in the Coffee Corner, which has been turned into a makeshift bar for the evening, while Paris stands next to a table piled with copies ofThe Snow Globe, looking like she might start a fight with anyone who dares to take one before Elliot arrives to sign them.
The sofas and squashy armchairs have all been pulled back to the edges of the room to make way for rows of wooden chairs, which are already almost full. Maisie Poole sits front and center, holding a glass of champagne in each hand, and, to my horror, I spot Martin near the back, sweating slightly in his thick puffer jacket, which he’s refusing to take off, even though the room is hotter than Hades.
With the exception of Maisie, the front two rows are filled with what I’m assuming are members of the press — Elliot Sinclair’s first ever public appearance is a big deal in the book world — but there’s no sign of Elliot himself, so I start cautiously circling the room, handing out drinks, and occasionally stopping to sip on one myself, in a bid to steady my nerves.
My plan is to just stay out of his way; which shouldn’t be difficult given that he’s the big, famous author guy, and I’m just the girl servingthe drinks. Just as long as no one mentions my secret identity as Evie Snow (Which they shouldn’t do, after the lecture I gave Levi and Paris this afternoon…), it should be no different from any of the other author events we’ve hosted since Paris stepped in as assistant manager.
Well, other than the huge amount of people in attendance, obviously. Under normal circumstances, these things tend to attract a handful of people at most, but this event is different; as evidenced by the flurry of excitement that ripples through the room as Elliot finally steps through the shop door.
Conversations stop mid-sentence as everyone pauses to watch him shake hands with a flustered-looking Dad, then make his way to the table that’s been set up at the back of the store. Today, he’s wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, which aren’t identical to the ones he used to wear, but which are close enough to take me instantly back to the first time he walked into this store. With his thick hair combed neatly back from his face, and just a hint of stubble on his jaw, he looks every inch the distinguished author, and I instantly start to regret my own choice of outfit, which, Paris informs me, is ‘giving modern-day Jo March,’ whatever that means.
Not that it matters. It’s not like he’s going to see me in this crowd.
Just to make sure of that, I move to the side of the room furthest away from Elliot, who’s accompanied by a glossy-looking woman in a tight black dress, who I’m assuming is his publicist, or assistant, or someone else from the publishing house. She isn’t the woman whose house I saw him come out of the other morning, but I still have to fight back a totally unreasonable twinge of jealously as she lays a proprietorial hand on his arm, showing him where to stand.
“Well, um, good evening, everyone,” says Dad, wringing his hands together anxiously as he steps up to introduce Elliot. “Thank you all for coming. I’m sure the gentleman next to me needs no introduction, so I’ll let him get on with it, shall I?”
He peers around the room, as if asking permission to leave, and the audience applauds politely, everyone’s eyes locked expectantly on Elliot, who has his hands in his pockets, as if this is a completely normal way for him to be spending a December evening.
This is new too. The Elliot I knew would’ve burst out laughing at the idea of speaking in front of a crowd. I always assumed that was why he refused to do any publicity for his book when it came out; because he just wasn’t serious enough to do something as grown-up as making a speech. But now here he is, looking suave and sophisticated, and totally at home as he smiles around at us all from his position in front of the audience.
