I stare at it for a little longer, as if the plane might suddenly change its mind and turn back, then, when it doesn’t, I wander back over to the security gate, just in case Elliot changedhismind, and is, even now, pushing through the crowds, calling out my name.
That could happen, right?
Right?
But no. Of course it couldn’t. Because the longer I stand there, watching people come and go, all of them having the absolute audacity tonot be him, the clearer it becomes.
It’s too late.
For reasons unknown, it’s looking increasingly likely that the man who told me he loved me just two short days ago, has boarded a flight and flown to America, without so much as a backwards glance.
Elliot’s gone.
And this has just become thesecondworst Christmas of my life.
25
I close the front door of the Airbnb, already shivering from the cold outside. From the kitchen, I hear the low murmur of Elliot’s voice, and he emerges a few minutes later, holding his phone.
“I managed to get hold of the property manager for this place,” he says. “She said the main road should be cleared by morning, so we should be fine for the book festival. We might have to dig the car out ourselves, though. There’s a spade in one of the cupboards, apparently. I’ll look for it later.”
“Right,” I say faintly, as he goes back into the kitchen without waiting for an answer. “I’ll … just have to wait it out then, I guess.”
I go back over to the sofa and sit down, already worrying about what I’m going to look like tomorrow morning, once I’ve slept in my clothes; not to mention how I’m going to get through the next few hours with just me and Elliot, and absolutely no distractions.
Unless we’re counting that whole ‘love letter’ thing he said earlier, which is definitely proving to be one hell of a distraction forme…
“Do you still like pasta?” Elliot calls from the kitchen. “I hope so, because that’s all I’ve got.”
“Um, sure. Whatever.”
I’ve been so focused on everything else that’s been happening today that I haven’t even been thinking about food, but my stomach gives a loud rumble at the very mention of it, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
“Feel free to switch the TV on if you like,” he yells again. “This shouldn’t take too long.”
There’s a moment of silence, then the radio comes on in the kitchen; a 70s rock band singing about how they wish it could be Christmas every day.
Yeah, right.
I take a quick look at the huge TV that’s built into the wall above the fireplace, but the remote for it looks a bit like the control panel of the International Space Station, so I decide not to risk it, and set to work lighting the fire instead; which is harder than you might think, because it’s one of those electric ones that are designed to look like real flames, and it, too, comes with a remote I’d need a degree to figure out. I manage it at last, but I somehow press a button that dims the living room lights at the same time, and it’s only as I stand back to admire my handiwork, taking in the flickering logs and soft lighting, that I realize I’ve inadvertently managed to create quite a romantic little scene out here: a scene I’m still struggling to reverse a short while later, when Elliot appears in the kitchen doorway, holding two plates piled high with spaghetti, and looking completely taken aback by the changes in the room.
“I, uh, I was really cold,” I say quickly. “I thought I’d switch the fire on, but then I did something to the lights as well. Sorry.”
“Oh. Okay,” Elliot says, carrying the plates over to the dining table and setting them carefully down. “D’you want some wine with this? There’s a nice bottle of red in the kitchen.”
Through the open door,Jingle Bell Rockcomes to an end, and Ella Fitzgerald starts singingHave Yourself a Merry Little Christmasinstead. I swallow hard, trying not to listen to the lyrics, which always make me cry.
“Fine. Sure,” I say quickly, ignoring the fact that red wine always seems to stick to my teeth, making me look like Dracula’s stressed-out sister. “Whatever you like.”
I take a seat at the table and sit there silently as Elliot produces the wine and pours it into two crystal glasses. Ella’s almost at the bit about how someday we’ll all be together, and I’m dangerously close to tears now.
“Right,” says Elliot, having finally run out of things to do rather than sit down opposite me. “Well, I guess we should … hey. What’s wrong?”
His ‘man stoically about to face dinner with his ex’ expression changes to one of concern as he catches sight of me sitting there, my bottom lip starting to tremble.
“It’s nothing,” I say firmly, determined not to let this get to me. “I’m fine. Seriously. I’m absolutely fine.”
I pick up my fork and stick it into the pasta in a way that I hope demonstrates someone being ‘absolutely fine’.
