None of this makes Martin’s sudden appearance in the still-closed bookstore any less strange to me, but Dad goes forward to greet him as if he’s been expecting him; which, it turns out, hehas.
“Ah, Martin,” he says, in a tone that totally belies the fact that he’s just been talking about closing down his beloved family businessandhaving dinner with the Poole sisters: two things I’d have difficulty ranking in terms of how unlikely they’d have seemed to me a mere five minutes ago. “Thanks for coming. I asked Martin to come round and take a look at the computer, Holly,” he says, turning to me. “My email’s been playing up again. He’s very good with technology, aren’t you, Martin?”
“I’m okay, I suppose,” says Martin, looking pleased. “What’s this about America, though? You planning a little holiday, Holly?”
“Um, sort of. Maybe,” I mumble, glancing at Dad, who beams back at me as if this is a jolly little plan that we’ve cooked up together.
“Holly’s thinking of going for Christmas,” he says, still in Possibly Drunk Mode. “With her young man. Elliot, he’s called. You’ve met Elliot, Martin, haven’t you?”
“Not officially, no,” says Martin, stiffly. “I know who he is, though. I’ve seen you two around, Holly.”
He gives me a look which suggests the sight hasn’t exactly been a pleasant one, but I’m still too busy thinking about Dad and the bombshell he’s just dropped — well, the series of bombshells, rather — to care much about what Martin Baxter thinks of my boyfriend.
“Dad, we need to talk some more about this,” I say quietly, surrendering the shop counter to Martin, who slips behind it and switches on the old laptop that sits there. “There’s so much to discuss.”
I go over to him, wishing Martin hadn’t turned up right at this minute. Or at all, even.
“No, Holly,” says Dad, with the air of a man who definitely isn’t drunk, but whohasmade his mind up about something. “There isn’t. I want you to go. I want you to enjoy yourself for once. I’ve been selfish, stopping you from doing that. And I’ll still be here when you get back, you know. I’m not going anywhere. Well, not yet, anyway.”
I really want to ask him what his plans are; what he’ll do if he does sell the shop, and where he’s planning on living if the flat that . But Martin’s presence makes the shop feel smaller than ever, so I file the questions away for later, sensing I’m not going to get very far with them for now.
“Why don’t you head out for a bit?” Dad says kindly. “Go and get some fresh air. Speak to young Elliot. I can hold the fort here.”
We both know the ‘fort’ really doesn’t require much in the way of ‘holding’ these days, and I do really want to see Elliot, so I can talk allof this over with him, so, after a moment’s hesitation, during which Dad reaches out and almost pushes me towards the door, I hold my hands up in surrender
“Okay, okay,” I say, going to collect my coat from its hook. “I’m going. But wewillbe talking about this later. And we need to do something about this, too,” I add, looking at the little Christmas tree in the window, which looks even sadder than it did yesterday, with the evil elf still peeking out from the box of decorations which have been left next to it. “Maybe I could get some lights for it while I’m out?”
“Do that,” says Dad, nodding. “That will be lovely, I’m sure.”
I look at him doubtfully, still unconvinced by this positive new persona I’m sure he’s putting on. But he’s already turning away to speak to Martin about his email, so I wait another few seconds, just to make sure he isn’t planning to burst into tears as soon as I’m gone, then I pull on my coat and head out into the snow to find Elliot.
Because if anyone can make me feel better about all of this, Elliot can.
“Maybe you should take him at his word?” Elliot says, a short while later, once I’ve finally tracked him down at The Brew, where he’s busy working on his book. “Maybe he really has been thinking about selling up for a while? Maybe he genuinely does think it would be a good thing for you to come to Florida for Christmas.”
He gives me one of his very twinkliest smiles, but I’m too distracted by thoughts of Dad to give it the attention it deserves.
“I don’t know,” I say, chewing nervously on the end of the pencil he’s given me to make some notes on his latest pages. “I’m not sure I can believe him. He seemed … different.”
“Different how?”
Elliot pushes his laptop aside so he can concentrate on me fully. I love the way he does that. I love the way he always makes me feel like everything I have to say to him is of the utmost importance; whether it’s my opinion on a TV show we’ve both watched, or — as in this case — my complicated feelings about my father’s abrupt personality transplant.
“I’m not sure. He was being weird,” I reply, feeling stupid. “I felt like he was just telling me what he wanted me to hear.”
“Maybe he was,” Elliot says softly.
I blink up at him, surprised. I’d been expecting him to disagree with me; to reassure me that Dad was 100% on the level when he told me he really wanted me to go to America. But here he is, agreeing with the very thing I wanted him to argue with me about.
“Isn’t that what parents do?” he goes on. “Good ones, anyway. They do what they think’s best for their kids, even if it’s not what’s best for them. My mom used to get up at 7 am every Sunday morning to drive me and my brothers to soccer practice. And she once let us raid her makeup bag for our Halloween costumes, even though she was 90% sure Seth would try to eat some of it. And he did. Anyway, it sounds to me like that’s probably what your dad’s doing right now. Not eating makeup, obviously, just … trying to put you first.”
“But I don’t want to befirst,” I wail, making a little girl at the next table look over at me with wide-eyed interest. “I wanteveryoneto be first. I want to do what’s best for all of us. Wait: you played soccer?”
Yet another thing I didn’t know about him. Maybe not amassivelyimportant one, granted … but still.
“Yeah. For years. But seriously, Holly; your dad’s right. Itwouldbe selfish of him to try to guilt you into spending the rest of your life in the bookstore, if that’s not what you want to do.”
“Like your dad trying to guilt you into becoming a lawyer?” I shoot back, feeling like I need to defend dad suddenly.
