There are no prizes for guessing where the idea came from, needless to say.
I’m writing the life story I never got to have; bringing my winter of missed opportunities to life, one painstaking word at a time. I’m making it real by writing about it, and my imagination makes it wonderful, in the way all completely made-up things are. It’s a Christmas fling without the fear; and with absolutely none of the real-life consequences that made my relationship with Elliot end the way it did.
On the page, I do all the things I always wanted to do, but never did, and when I’ve written a couple of thousand words without stopping, I take my laptop and wander over to The Brew, so I can read it over while Paris and Levi attempt to join forces in decorating the Christmas tree that was delivered to the shop this morning, and which Levi wants to hangactual bookson, much to Paris’s disgust.
At least here I can work in peace, without being interrupted every few seconds.
“Hello, Holly.”
Or maybe not.
I reluctantly tear myself away from the world I’ve been creating on the screen, and look up to see Elliot standing next to my table, carrying a tray filled with a huge bowl of The Brew’s famous butternut squash soup, and some crusty bread.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks, with a glance around the busy cafe. “There aren’t many spare seats in here.”
Idomind, as it happens — lunch with my ex is the very last thing I had on my ‘to do’ list for the day — but I’m too much of a people pleaser to actually voice this, so I simply nod wordlessly and watch as he takes a seat opposite me, shrugging off his coat and making himself comfortable, as if he’s planning a nice, long, leisurely lunch.
I pick up my own soup spoon and take a huge gulp, determined to force it down as quickly as I can, even though it tastes like wet socks.
“This place has changed a bit,” Elliot says, with a wry smile. “I was hoping the ploughman’s lunch might still be on the menu, but it’s all artisan breads and dishes with truffle in them now. Not a single pickled onion to be seen.”
He picks up his spoon and dips it into his soup, apparently unaware of the door he’s just opened to our shared past, and the effect the memory of our first date still has on me.
“They serve avocado on toast for breakfast now,” I reply, deciding to stick to safer subjects than the one that’s now looming large in my mind, thanks to his mention of that long-ago lunch. “And quinoa porridge.”
“Yuck.” Elliot pulls a face which I struggle not to laugh at. He’s wearing a dark blue turtleneck sweater, and has ditched the glasses again; I’m guessing he must have contact lenses now. Nevertheless, he still looks clever and sophisticated, in addition to being ridiculously handsome.
I reach up and pat my hair self-consciously, relieved to find it pencil-free today.
“Are you working on your novel?” he asks now, nodding at my laptop, which sits open on the table in front of me. “If This Was a Movie? Wasn’t that it? It’s a great title.”
I look down at the computer as if I’ve never seen it before. I feel like now would be the right time to tell him it’s not reallymynovel. That although I technicallydohave a publisher, like Paris said, I’m just a ghostwriter, not arealauthor, like him.
Then I remember the look on Katie Hunter’s face as she looked up at him in the street yesterday; and the knowing way she said my name, as if she was privy to some kind of inside information on me — the kind of things you might divulge about your ex-girlfriend during pillow talk with your current one, say.
Elliot’s long since moved on from me. It’s time I moved on, too. And, anyway, the publisher might be Vivienne Faulkner’s, rather than mine, but Iamthe one writing the book; and coming up with the plot, actually. Now I come to think of it, Vivienne’s had no involvement at all so far, other than the very brief synopsis she gave Harper, about the woman who reinvents herself by having a holiday romance.
I guess her health must be even worse than I thought it was.
“Um, Holly?” Elliot says, breaking into my thoughts. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry,” I say, blinking. “I was just … thinking about the book, that’s all.”
“It was like watching an entire movie play out on your face,” he says with a smile. “It must be a great plot, to get that kind of reaction from you.”
“What did you mean yesterday?” I ask suddenly. “When you said the book title was ‘very me’?”
Elliot pauses, his spoon poised just above the bowl.
“Well, just what I said, really,” he says after a second. “Haven’t you spent your entire life comparing everything to fiction? Wishing for the movie version? Or the plot of a book?”
I take a deep breath and push my soup bowl away from me, so I’m not tempted to throw it at him.
“That’s a bit rich coming from the guy who literally turned my life into fiction, don’t you think?” I say levelly. “And how would you know how I’ve spent my life, anyway? It’s not like you’ve been here for any of it.”
“Sorry,” Elliot says, looking stricken. For a second, I think he’s about to reach across the table and take my hand, but he changes his mind. “I didn’t mean it as a criticism,” he says quietly. “I know it sounded like that. I just phrased it badly, that’s all. I just meant you live in your imagination, Holly. All writers do, I think. It’s how we survive life; by turning it into stories. I guess you already know that about me, though.”
He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
