I place the tray of champagne carefully down on top of a pile of Vivienne Faulkner books — the sight of which does absolutely nothing to calm me down — then turn abruptly on my heel and march into my office at the back of the shop, closing the door firmly behind me, then collapsing into a chair, my mind an alphabet soup of emotions.
I can’t believe he did that.
I can’t believe he looked at me as if he was daring me to say something.
I can’t believe he wrote me out of the story of The Snow Globe.
And I can’t believe I care.
WhydoI care?
I sit at my desk, rubbing my temples wearily as I try to make sense of this. I’ve spent 10 years trying to disassociate myself from Elliot and his book. It makes no sense at all that I’d suddenly want to be acknowledged as the woman in the story.
And I don’t.
Not by the rest of the world, anyway.
As I sit there, though, the low hum of conversation from behind the door telling me the question-and-answer session has come to an end, and they’ve moved on to the signing, it occurs to me that Iwouldlike to be acknowledged by Elliot himself.
And he didn’t.
He just pretended I had nothing to do with it; as if I didn’t even exist.
And now I guess it’s time for me to do the same with him.
12
DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO
“Dad, you wouldn’t happen to know how I could go about finding out who the woman in this photo is, would you?”
It’s later the same day, and I’m working a shift at the bookstore while Elliot goes back to his hotel to do some more work on his book, and call his family back home.
Dad takes the photo from me readily enough — he loves this kind of thing — then looks at me suspiciously as he clocks the U.S. army uniform on the man in the shot.
“This isn’t something to do with this Elliot chap, is it?” he asks, his face tight with some repressed emotion.
Dad never refers to Elliot by just his name. He’s always “this Elliot chap”, or “that American of yours”; a way of referring to him that underlines the temporary nature of Elliot’s presence in my life, and reminds me of my promise not to get attached.
“It’s his great-grandfather,” I reply, knowing I’m going to have to tell him the truth if I want to get anything useful out of him. “He was stationed here during the war.”
“At Fort Stafford, I suppose,” says Dad, interested in spite of himself. “I remember visiting the museum there when I first moved herewith your mum. Interesting place. Caused quite a stir in the village, I believe, back in the day.”
“Really? How so?” I lean forward, looking again at the photo of the handsome GI and his ghostly companion.
“Oh, well, not everyone in villages like this welcomed the incomers, Holly,” Dad replies, taking his spectacles off and polishing them with the sleeve of his sweater. “Especially not the men, who had to go off to war and leave their women at the mercy of the glamorous American soldiers. You have to remember, it was a different time back then.”
I nod. Now that he’s put the idea into my mind, I can definitely imagine Elliot’s great-grandfather causing ‘quite a stir’ here, as Dad puts it. His smile reminds me of Elliot’s. It’s almost identical, actually. And Elliot definitely causes ‘a stir’ in me, so it figures his great-grandpa might have had a similar effect on the women of the village; including, I suppose, the one on his arm on that long-ago afternoon.
“But what about her?” I ask, going back to the photo. “I know there’s not much to go on, but I thought it might be some kind of military uniform she’s wearing. What do you think? Could women even join the military back then?”
“Oh, yes,” says Dad, holding the photo up to the light. “Not in combat roles, obviously, but they did lots of other things. Radar operators, code breakers, spies…”
He grins at me, and, for just a second, he looks almost like his old self again; the way he was before Mum died.
“You think she could’ve been a spy?” I ask, already itching to see Elliot and pass on this nugget of information. “That would be amazing for the boo … for her, I mean. How exciting.”
“Hmm, well, I wouldn’t get too carried away,” says Dad kindly. “It’s more likely she was just a clerical worker of some kind. Admin support, that kind of thing. If you look closely, I think there’s a badge of some kind on her jacket. Could be ATS, perhaps? There’s one on her hat, too, although it’s harder to see because it’s so blurred.”
