“To, like, get your hair done and stuff?” Paris says, watching as I wrestle with the hair in question, which continues to evade my attempts to wrestle it into submission. “I totally get that. That’s what I’d do too, if I was going to be seeing my ex. And I’d make sure I was wearing something, like,superhot.”
“Um, I just meant time to, you know,mentallyprepare,” I reply, a little taken aback. Now that she’s mentioned it, though, I suppose if I’d known I was going to be bumping into Elliot that day, I might havetaken a bit more care with my appearance. I probably wouldn’t have worn the ‘Jane Eyre’ dress, for one thing. And maybe Ishouldstop using stationery as hair accessories?
“Paris,” I say suddenly. “Whatwouldyou wear if you were going to be seeing your ex? If you were me, I mean?”
I add this last bit because Paris is very much a ‘Gen Z’ dresser, which means she’s currently wearing jeans so wide I’m pretty sure I saw Ed the cat hiding under them earlier. She always looks amazing, but I’m not convinced the same would be true of me if I decided to try to ‘slay’ like Paris.
Paris takes a step back and looks at me critically.
“It depends what kind of direction you want to take, really,” she says seriously. “Like, are you thinking clean girl or cottage core? Edgy or party girl?”
“Um, I just want to look likeme, but better,” I reply, making a mental note to look up all the things she just said later, so I can finally start to understand what the hell she’s talking about. “Just so I can look him in the eye when I see him at the book festival and not have to feel like he’s the only one who’s moved on since … well, you know.”
“Okay, so what I’m hearing is that this is as much about confidence as clothes,” says Paris. “It’s about living your best life. Empowering yourself. Embracing your authentic self.”
“That’s exactly it,” I reply, too relieved by the fact that she hasn’t just laughed at me to question what embracing my ‘authentic self’ might involve. “That’s what I’m trying to do. But what do Iwear, though? To empower myself um,authentically?”
Paris bites her lip thoughtfully.
“I’m thinking a kind of crossover,” she says. “The dark academia thingkindof works for you, but you need to sex it up a bit. You know? Because it’s one thing to love books — that’s why we all work here — but that doesn’t mean you have to dress like a Brontë sister. You know?”
I absolutely donotknow, but I nod anyway, pretending to know exactly what she’s talking about. Paris, however, is not fooled.
“Holly, do you want me to take you shopping?” she asks, with the air of someone offering to do me a huge favor. “Or do you feel like you understand the assignment here?”
I glance over at her. I hadthoughtI ‘understood the assignment’ as she puts it, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that I don’t understandanything, really; and definitely not ‘the assignment’.
“Shopping, please,” I reply meekly. “That would be amazing, Paris, thank you.”
She shrugs, as if it’s no big deal, but the corners of her mouth turn up ever so slightly.
“We can go during my lunch break, if you like?” she says. “There’s that new boutique on the high street. It’s tiny, but it’s got a lot of great brands.”
By ‘a lot of great brands’, I know she means ‘a lot of incredibly expensive brands’. Post Snow-Globe Bramblebury is filled with shops which would probably be best described as ‘chi-chi’. But I don’t have time to drive to the nearest big town just to wander around the charity shops I usually buy my clothes from, and I do have some money saved up, thanks to my habit of never actually doing anything with my life, so it’s going to have to do.
Plus, if someone as picky as Paris approves, that means it’sgotto be good; which is why, just over an hour later, we find ourselves leaving the store together, both of us being very stiff and polite as we try to acclimatize to this unexpected new turn our working relationship has taken. I’m just starting to entertain the beginnings of a daydream in which we become close friends, who’re forever popping in and out of each other’s houses, and borrowing each other’s clothes (Because I’m at least ten years younger and a hundred times cooler in this vision, obviously), when Paris suddenly says the four words guaranteed to ruin my day.
“Isn’t that Elliot Sinclair?”
I look in the direction she’s pointing, and, sure enough, there he is; strolling along the main street of the village, looking for all the world like a man who isn’t even remotely worried about bumping into his ex while wearing a pencil in his hair. And not just because he doesn’t evenhavea pencil in his hair. Actually, he looks like he could easily apply to be in a hair commercial, if the whole ‘bestselling author’ thing ever starts to get old. It’s kind of unfair that he looks so good, while being so …him.
Maybehe’sthe one with the portrait in the attic?
It’s not Elliot I’m looking at, though, great hair aside.
No, all of my attention is currently fixed on the woman next to him; a woman whoalsohas spectacularly good hair, as well as a face I recognize instantly as the one I last saw waving goodbye to Elliot from the doorway of her cottage a couple of days ago.
It’s Katie Hunter: and she’s smiling up at Elliot as if he’s some kind of tasty treat she’s saving for later.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory attempts to fight its way to the surface, before being abruptly drowned out by the wave of inexplicable jealousy that comes after it.
“Holly? Are you okay?”
I tear my eyes away from Elliot and Katie, to find Paris watching me warily, as if she’s already deeply regretting her offer to take me clothes shopping.
“I’m fine,” I reply brightly, in a tone that sounds unconvincing even to me. “Just … just looking forward to my makeover, that’s all.”
“I didn’t say anything about amakeover,” Paris replies, her horrified look casually destroying my vision of our future friendship. “I’m not a miracle worker. But look, here’s the place I was telling you about.”
