Dad blinks, as baffled as I am by the idea that he and Maisie are locked in some kind of bookish fight to the death.
“I suppose it could be good for business,” he says, coming over and taking the leaflet for me. “Christmas Eve, is it? Bit short notice, Maisie, but I suppose you’ll help with this, Holly, won’t you?”
Elliot and I exchange looks.
We both know I’m not just going to drop everything and move to America with him, but we have still been talking about the possibility of me going there for Christmas. “Just for a week or so,” Elliot said earlier, as we drove back to the store, the tree in the back seat tickling the backs of our necks. “Just to get a feel for the place; see how you like it.”
I didn’t say yes or no. I need to talk to Dad about it first; make sure he’s going to be okay with me leaving him on his own for a few days.
And now it looks like the time to have that conversation has come.
“About that,” I begin. “Christmas Eve, I mean. I was thinking … if it’s okay with you, I mean, that I might … well, I might like to …”
The shop door opens, and I stop speaking, grateful for the interruption, until I realize it’s Martin Baxter from next door, carrying a large brown package and shaking the snow off his boots.
“Holly,” he says, beaming at me. “I brought you some mince pies. They’re fresh out of the oven. I thought you and your dad might like them.”
He holds up the bag, and I smile back weakly, not wanting to tell him I can’t stand mince pies.
Across the room, Elliot’s eyebrows twitch as he takes in ‘the competition’. Then he pulls a book from the shelf closest to him and holds it up, winking at me from over the top of it, and forcing me to suppress a giggle.
“Wonderful, Martin,” says Dad, rubbing his hands together with pleasure as he comes forward to take the bag. “How kind of you. You must thank your parents for us.”
Like me, Martin still lives in his parents’ flat above their shop in the village. It’s another example of one of the things he thinks we have in common. Unlike me, though, Martin seems quite content with this state of affairs. I expect he’ll be there forever, untilBaxters and Sonbakers is just the ‘and son’ bit.
I give an involuntary shiver, my life if I stay in Bramblebury flashing rapidly in front of my eyes.
It would be everything I’ve never wanted. A nice, sensible husband; maybe not Martin himself — I can’t bring myself to see him as anything more than the slightly strange guy next door — but certainlysomeonelikeMartin. A job for life in the bookstore. Christmas with the in-laws. Friday nights in the pub.Mince pies.
And there would be nothing wrong with any of that. It would be what most people would describe as ‘nice’. But I am not ‘most people’. And the more I think about it, the more I think I agree with Elliot about that word. I don’t think ‘nice’ is going to be enough for me. Not any more.
Elliot’s eyes meet mine across the top of his book, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then he gives me a tiny nod, which is all it takes to help me make up my mind.
“Dad, that thing I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, speaking with a confidence I don’t feel. “It was about Christmas.”
“Oh, yes?” says Dad, distractedly. He’s fetched a plate from the storeroom at the back of the shop, and is carefully arranging the mince pies on it. He doesn’t look up.
“It’s just, I know we don’t have any plans,” I go on, my courage wavering slightly as I notice the label sticking out of the back of his jumper, a reminder that he has no one but me now to look after him.
Elliot smiles at me from behind his book. It’s calledEscape to the Sun, which feels like a sign.
“So I was … I was wondering if you’d mind me spending it with Elliot,” I say in a rush, wishing I’d chosen to do this without the audience of Elsie and Martin, who’re both looking on with undisguised interest.
Dad looks up, his glasses slightly askew.
“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Right. Well, I suppose he could join us, if he wants to. He’ll have to give me his takeaway order, though. You know how early you have to get it in for Christmas.”
He makes this idea sound every bit as unpalatable as Martin’s cinnamon-laced mince pies.
“I thought he was going to be back in America by then, though?” Dad goes on, sounding disappointed. “Has there been a change of plan?”
There’s a silence so loud I start to think I can actually hear the needles dropping off the tree by the window.
“Yes,” I say at last. “Yes, there’s been a change of plan. Elliot’s still going to America, but … well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Because I want to go with him.”
17
I start writing Vivienne Faulkner’s book the day after my unexpected meeting with Elliot and Katie in town. It’s about a woman from a small town in England who flies to America for Christmas — or ‘the holidays’, as Harper insists I refer to it, for the benefit of Vivienne’s U.S. readers — and has a whirlwind romance with a handsome American.
