Elliot’s hand instantly rises. So does someone else’s at the back of the room. There are only two bidders, though, and if I was hoping for a dramatic, to-the-death style bidding war — which I secretly was — I’m doomed to be disappointed, because the other bidder drops out quickly, leaving Elliot the proud owner of the kit, for just £185.
“I’d have paid much more than that,” he says, his eyes shining as we gather our things, and get ready to leave, a few minutes later. “Come on, let’s go and pick it up.”
I pull on my coat and follow him wordlessly to the collection point, which is in a smaller room next to the hall.
“Elliot,” I say, watching him hand over his credit card, before carefully taking possession of a sturdy looking polished wooden box with the initials E and S embossed on the lid. “How did you know Evie made snow globes? I’m assuming that’s what you’re thinking here?”
“I didn’t know,” he replies, turning to me and looking at the object in his hands as if he can’t believe his luck. “I had absolutely no idea until Katie told me some of her things were being sold off, and I looked at the auction listing. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. And I don’t suppose it’s got any connection to … well, to our snow globe. But, look, let’s go out here and take a look, shall we?”
He nods in the direction of a set of double doors which have been propped open to allow visitors to exit via the back of the house, where there’s a wide flight of steps leading down to an ornamental garden, with a little tearoom in a conservatory off to one side. There’s even a pond off in the distance, with a pair of swans appearing to float effortlessly on its glass-like surface.
It’s really too cold to be sitting outside, but now that the snow’s finally stopped, the sky has turned a clear, bright blue, which makes the snow on the ground sparkle in the sun, and there are a few hardy souls sitting at the picnic tables dotted around the terrace, their hands cupped around steaming mugs of something that smells nauseatingly spicy. Elliot and I choose a table close to the garden and sit down, the wooden box in front of us.
“Ready?” asks Elliot, looking exactly like the little boy he must once have been, opening a gift on Christmas morning.
I nod, smiling at his enthusiasm. I know from the auctioneer’s description that the kit inside the box is only a partial one, with just enough to make one or two snow globes. It was sold, according to the brochure, as a collector’s piece, rather than as something actually usable — I guess most people just buy snow globes in shops, or from market stalls, like we did, rather than making them themselves — so I’m not really expecting much. The fact that the mystery woman in Elliot’s photos apparently had a hobby that even tangentially links her to us is a big enough coincidence for me to get my head around, without the contents of the box being actually interesting. But then Elliot reaches out and carefully opens the lid of the box, with the air of a man about to unleash all of Pandora’s secrets into the world, and we both lean forward, our heads almost touching as we peer into the velvet-lined interior.
Inside the box is a jumble of items, including tiny houses and other buildings presumably designed to go inside a snow globe, plus a single glass dome.
“It smells funny,” I comment, registering the musty scent of the interior. “It reminds me of churches.”
Elliot isn’t listening, though. Instead, he reaches back into the box, carefully moving the contents aside as he picks up something very small that’s lying in one corner.
“Oh, my God,” I breathe, all thoughts of churches and their smell forgotten as he holds the item up to show me.
There, on the palm of his hand, stands a tiny couple, locked in an embrace; her in a bright red coat, him in an Army uniform, with darkhair and glasses. The colors are a little faded from all the years that have passed since they were painted, but they’re still instantly recognizable.
“It’sthem,” I say, my eyes meeting Elliot’s over the tops of the little couple’s heads. “It’s the exact same couple as the one in our globe.”
He nods, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to speak.
“Does that mean Evie made our globe, too?” I ask, hardly able to believe this can be the case. “I mean, seriously; what are the odds?”
“I think she might have,” Elliot replies, putting the little figures carefully back inside the box. “I guess it’s possible she just bought all of this as a kit, and it was mass-produced somewhere, but I don’t think so. Look, there are paintbrushes in here too.”
There are; plus a couple of tubes of paint, which have long-since dried up.
“I think she at least decorated them herself,” he goes on, sifting through the various items. “Which means there’s probably a reason she painted them the way she did.”
“You mean the army uniform?” I say. “The coat?”
I think of the photo of Evie in her swishy-skirted coat. It’s in black and white, so there’s no way of telling what color the coat was, but … I guess it could’ve been red.
“Yup,” says Elliot, grinning so widely that a woman who happens to be walking past our table turns to look at him curiously. “Something must have inspired her to dress them like that, right?”
“Meaning?”I’m pretty sure I know what he’s getting at here, but I want to be totally sure.
“Meaning exactly what you said.” He leans back in his seat, practically rubbing his hands together with glee. “It’sthem, Holly. It’s Evie and Luke. They’re the real couple in the snow globe.”
Or, to put it another way: it’sus.
20
DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO
I sneak out of Elliot’s hotel room before he’s even awake, and head back to the flat for a shower and a change of clothes before I start my shift at the bookstore.
When I come downstairs to the shop, though, I find the lights already on, and Dad sitting behind the counter, with two takeaway coffees in front of him, and a paper bag bearing the name of a bakery in the next town, that everyone secretly agrees is much better than Martin’s parents’ one, next door.
