“It’s a great view,” Elliot agrees, pretending not to notice how defensive I sound.
I cringe inwardly at myself. It’s not like he was accusing me of buying a house near the bench we used to sit on just for old time’s sake, was it? But now I’ve made it sound like Ididdo that, which means our trip together is off to a predictably awkward start. Not that there’s any way us taking a trip together could be anything other than awkward, I suppose.
Remind me why I agreed to this, again?
“Where are you staying, by the way?” I ask once we’re safely cocooned inside Elliot’s hire car and driving away from the hill and its memories. “I keep meaning to ask. I’m guessing it’s not The Rose this time?”
“The Globe, you mean?” he says, with a chuckle which suggests he’s much more comfortable with references to his book than I am. “No, I decided to give it a miss this time. I’m staying in an Airbnb just outside town. My assistant found it for me. It’s pretty nice, actually. You’d like it.”
There it is again; that casual assumption that he still knows me. It’s both infuriating and confusing, because it makes it hard for meto pretend we’re just two random strangers who happen to be taking a car ride together; which would be my preference for this situation.
But Elliot continues talking as if we’re a couple of old friends who haven’t seen each other in a while, and he does it all the way to the house the auction is taking place in; which is, as he said, on a country estate around 10 miles from Bramblebury. By the time we pull into a parking space in front of the old Georgian manor which sits at its center, I know he’s living in Sarasota now, in a house near the beach, and that he has three nephews and a niece, all of whom he dotes on. I know he made enough fromThe Snow Globeto not have to join the family law firm after all, and I know his parents discovered they were actually pretty okay with that turn of events after all — presumably once the royalties started rolling in.
“So, what do you actuallydo, though?” I ask, as we get out of the car and crunch our way across the vast, circular driveway towards the house, which looks straight out of a Regency romance. “If you’re not writing, I mean? What do you do with your time?”
“Oh, I still write,” Elliot replies vaguely. “Just … nothing likeThe Snow Globe.”
His answer only gives me even more questions, but before I have time to ask any of them, we’re walking up the steps to the polished front door, where a well-dressed woman greets us and hands us a glossy brochure each, before directing us to the ‘great hall’ as she calls it, where the auction will be being held.
“Isn’t this place amazing?” says Elliot as we make our way down a long hallway lined with oil paintings, our feet sounding unnaturally loud against the tiled floor. “It has a maze in the grounds, apparently. And it looks like it’s haunted. Don’t you think?”
“Oh, it’sgotto be haunted,” I agree, as we pass a particularly creepy painting of one of the previous owners, who looks like he probably sleeps in a coffin and comes out at night to stalk his innocent victims. “I’d be thoroughly disappointed if it wasn’t.”
“Same,” replies Elliot. “I’d be asking for my money back if there wasn’t a mysterious lady in white, at the very least; or a creepy little girl, say. Twins, ideally.”
I laugh, remembering the night we watchedThe Shiningtogether on the tiny screen of his laptop, and I dropped the entire box of popcorn on the floor when the twin girls appeared.
Elliot smiles down at me as if he’s thinking of the same thing, and my laughter abruptly turns into a wave of sadness for the life we could have lived if things had been different. The movies we could’ve watched together. The books we would’ve read, and then completely re-written in our heads when we compared notes on them later. The trips we would’ve taken, and the completely uneventful evenings we’d have spent at home, doing nothing more exciting than simply being together.
“Um, I think it’s this way,” I say, breaking eye contact before Elliot can figure out what I’m thinking, in that uncanny way he always had of knowing what was on my mind almost before I knew myself. “Either that or this is where all the ghosts are, judging by the noise.”
The low murmur of voices guides us to the hall, where rows of chairs have been set up, all facing a makeshift stage, which a man in a tweedy kind of suit — the auctioneer, presumably — is standing on.
“What is it you’re hoping to find here, anyway?” I ask as we take our seats near the back of the room, me very aware that this is nothing like the jumble sale I’ve been imagining ever since Elliot told me about it. “You said you thought there might be some things that belonged to Evie?”
“One thing in particular,” Elliot replies, flicking through the brochure. “Let me try to find it…”
I can’t begin to imagine what kind of thing Evie Snow might have left behind that would hold any clues at all to what happened between her and Elliot’s great-grandfather, Luke, but the auctioneer is clearing his throat loudly, then banging his gavel on the desk to signal the start of the auction, so I leave Elliot to his brochure, and turn my attention to the front of the room instead.
It’s the first time I’ve ever attended an auction, and I’m pleased to find that it’s almost exactly the way it always looks on TV, with the auctioneer talking very fast, and a smattering of people standing at the back of the room with phones clamped to their ears and serious expressions on their face.
The goods on offer, meanwhile, range from the eye-wateringly expensive (A tall and rather ugly vase, which sells for £30,000), to the comparatively affordable (A portrait of a sad-looking dog that only reaches £90, although that’s only because I sit on my hands to stop myself putting in a sympathy bid, just to make it feel better), and I look on, fascinated, as all of these little fragments of the past find their way to new owners.
“You really wanted that vintage teddy bear, didn’t you?” whispers Elliot during a short gap in the proceedings while a gigantic tapestry with a picture of a frog on it is hauled up to the front of the room. “I saw the look on your face.”
“Don’t,” I groan, holding my hands over my face. “It was the saddest thing ever. Imagine some child having that, and cherishing it, andthen it ends up at some auction, unloved. It makes me want to cry. And, well,buyit.”
Most other people would laugh at this, but Elliot just nods, as if it makes perfect sense to feel sad over the fate of some long-ago child’s much-loved toy being auctioned off to the highest bidder — whose bid was actually disappointingly low, as it happens. But the auctioneer is starting up again, so I sit firmly on my hands once more, terrified to move in case I inadvertently buy something, as the frog tapestry sells for more than I paid for my car, and the next lot is carried up onto the stage.
“Lot 32,” calls the auctioneer. “Antique snow globe making kit, dating back to the early twentieth century.” He continues speaking, but now my attention is focused on Elliot, who sits up a little straighter in his seat, his eyes fixed on the front of the room.
I’m confused. Elliot said the item he was interested in buying belonged to Evie Snow. He didn’t mention anything about snow globes.
What does Evie Snow have to do with snow globes?
Surely it can’t be…?
“… which would be ideal for collectors of holiday memorabilia,” finishes the auctioneer, whose speech I’ve completely missed. “Can I start the bidding at £100?”
