“That would actually be slightly more believable than you writing one to me,” I retort. “Especially one that wasn’t true. And it wasn’t, was it? The story you told wasn’t even true.”
My voice is starting to sound croaky now, which is a sure sign I’m about to cry; and I amnotabout to let Elliot Sinclair see me cry, so I jump up from the sofa — well, it’s more like an odd kind of bounce, really, but hopefully he won’t have noticed — and reach for my coat.
There’s absolutely no plan in my head beyond getting out of this room before I burst into tears and embarrass myself even more than I already have. I have no idea how I’m going to get home in the middle of a blizzard. Or what I’m going to do once I get there. All I know is I don’t want to behereanymore, so I pull on my coat and whirl around to face the door, ready for my big exit.
Only it doesn’t quite work out like that.
Because the thick winter coat is both longer andswishierthan I’d given it credit for. And, as I turn around in the space between the sofa and the coffee table, the hem whips out and hits something. Something fragile and old, which falls to the tiled floor with a sickening crash that seems to go on and on, even though it only takes a fraction of a second to fall; a fraction of second, in which Evie Snow’s box hits the floor of a luxury Airbnb that she couldn’t even have imagined existing, and breaks into a million pieces.
22
DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO
The next 24 hours are a blur of activity as we attempt to book me onto Elliot’s flight back to the U.S., and sort out something called an ESTA, which is apparently necessary to get me into the country, and which I onlyjustmanage to apply for before it’s too late for it to be approved in time.
For the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done in my life, so far it’s all been very … admin-y so far. And with a lot more forms to fill in than I could ever have imagined. But finally it’s done, and it’s official: I’m going to America for Christmas.
I think I might be about to throw up.
I really hope it’s from excitement rather than sheer terror, but I’ll be honest: at this point it’s impossible to tell the difference.
“Relax,” Elliot says soothingly, throwing things into his open suitcase apparently at random as I sit on his bed at The Rose, watching him and thinking about how different this day would’ve been if I wasn’t coming with him. “Everything’s going to be fine. And I spoke to Mom earlier; she says they all can’t wait to meet you. She’s started baking already.”
“That’s great,” I reply, trying and failing to imagine what Christmas will be like under the Florida sun, and whether Elliot’s mother really will be as thrilled as she claims to be to welcome some random English women her son’s known for three weeks into her home.
Well, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
“I have to go home and start packing,” I say, getting up to give him a kiss goodbye. “I’ve just realized I have absolutely nothing to wear for this trip other than jeans and sweaters, and I’m not sure that’s going to cut it, somehow.”
“You’ll look beautiful, whatever you wear,” Elliot assures me, kissing me back. “You always look beautiful.”
Nevertheless, I still end up spending the rest of the day pulling all of my clothes out of my wardrobe and then staring at them in despair. The plan is that I’ll stay for Christmas and New Year, and fly back home on January 2nd — by which point Elliot should have told his family he won’t be joining the firm, and we’ll have a clearer idea of what the future looks like. That’s just over a week I have to pack for, but, all the same, it turns out to be almost as difficult as that 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle Dad insisted we try last year; and twice as frustrating.
The problem isn’t just the change in temperature; it’s also the fact that, from everything he’s said about them, I get the feeling Elliot’s family is just alittlebit richer than we are. The fact that they own their own law firm, and a house on a golf course, kind of gave it away, really.
Elliot and I aren’t just from different countries; we’re from completely different worlds — and the fact that he’s been able to fit fairly effortlessly into mine (A few minor ‘dad issues’ aside) doesn’t leave me with any confidence at all that the same will be true in reverse.
Especially if I can’t figure out something better to wear on Christmas day than the fleece dressing gown I’m currently wearing while I go through my closet, trying things on, before finally slamming the door shut, and telling myself I’ll go shopping tomorrow and use the last of my savings to buy myself a whole new wardrobe, to go with this brand new impulsive personality I’ve suddenly adopted.
Goodbye, ‘Sensible’ Holly. Hello … whoever it is I’m going to be next.
Seeing as Elliot and I are going to be spending all our time together once we’re in the States, I’d told him I wanted to spend my last couple of evenings at home with Dad, so, once I’ve finished torturing myself by sorting through clothes that suddenly make me wonder what I was thinking when I bought them, I throw together some dinner for us both, and we eat it in front of the TV, as we usually do, both of us delivering Oscar-worthy performances as People Who Have Absolutely Nothing Unusual Going On Here.
I wake up the next morning in my own bed, feeling a strange mixture of nervous and excited. It’s December 23rd, and I have just one day left in Bramblebury; which means I want to make the most of it. The first thing on my agenda is either getting my phone fixed or buying a new one (Which I’m really hoping I’m not going to have to do, on account of the ‘whole new wardrobe’ thing, which is item number two on the agenda…), so I get myself ready as quickly as I can, then head out into the still-snowy village, where I pick up some breakfast rolls at the bakers (Thanking my lucky stars that Martin isn’t behind the counter this morning), then head over to Elliot’s hotel.
Under different circumstances, of course, today would have been my last day with Elliot, and I can’t stop thinking about that as Ihead straight up to his room, The Rose not exactly being the kind of establishment where they make visitors wait at reception.
“Elliot, are you in there?” I call when he doesn’t answer my knock. “It’s me. I need you to take me to get my phone sorted, remember?”
No answer.
“I’ve got breakfast,” I add, wondering where he could’ve got to at this time of the morning.
Maybe he’s just in a really deep sleep?
I bang on the door a little harder this time, hoping I’m not disturbing any of the other guests, but not seeing any other way to wake him if he is sleeping; my phone isn’t working, and it’s the only place I have his number saved, so without it I can’t even call him from somewhere else.
“Elliot!” I call again, starting to get impatient. “Come on!”
