“Don’t worry about it,” he replies, picking up a set of car keys from the table next to the door. “It’s an old one anyway, and I’m going home tomorrow, so I won’t need it. Just keep it — or throw it away, or whatever.”
He turns away to open the front door, and my heart gives a lurch of disappointment, which is either from the thought of him leaving, or the offhand way he’s speaking to me, as if wedidn’talmost kiss last night.
Or as if it doesn’t actually matter to him either way.
I know it’s stupid to feel like this. I’m the one who walked away last night; and if I hadn’t, he’d only have hurt me again, anyway. I did the right thing. I know that. So I don’t say anything else as I follow him out of the house and into the car; and the silence continues all the way back to Bramblebury, where he drops me off at my house, then drives off, almost before I have time to get out of the car.
Right. Cool. So I guess we’re back to being strangers again.
Talk about confusing.
My emotions are still completely scrambled after everything that happened yesterday. All I want now is a long, hot bath, an indecently strong coffee, and maybe a rummage around the bookstore for some kind of ‘How to Get Over the Ex Who Wrote a Book About You’ self-help guide. But I promised both Lorraine and Dad that I’d be there to help out at the book festival, so, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing, I have to settle for a quick shower and a cup of instant, before I pull my coat back on and make my way cautiously down the still-slippery hill that leads to the village hall, which has a huge banner strung over the door declaring it to be ‘The birthplace ofThe Snow Globe!’.
I have a feeling this is going to be a very long day.
As soon as I walk in, I’m ambushed by Levi, who hauls me over to our stall, where Dad is presiding importantly over the stacks of books, with Paris sitting behind him, looking bored. Annoyingly, Martin isstanding beside her, looking awkward and out of place — so, just the same as always, really — but still steadfastly keeping his position, his eyes lighting up as he sees me coming towards them all.
“Morning, Holly,” he says brightly, almost knocking Paris off her seat as he takes a step towards me. He reaches out as if he’s going to hug me, but I step out of the way at the last minute, so he ends up just standing there with his arms out like a wooden soldier; a sight that makes me feel even worse than I did already.
Why can’t you just be nice to him, Holly? He’s not the one who abandoned you at the airport, remember?
“Er, you didn’t answer any of my messages about your ankle,” Martin says, recovering. “So I thought I’d just pop in and see how you’re doing?”
“My ankle? Oh. Um, yes; yes, it’s fine. Thanks, Martin,” I reply, going to stand beside Dad, who gives my arm a quick squeeze of solidarity. “All better.”
It feels like weeks ago now since I sprained my ankle. I’d almost completely forgotten about it. Trust Martin to not only remember, but to use it as an excuse to see me again, even though he knows perfectly well that it’s over between us.
Looks like making that message even clearer is going to have to be yet another item on my ‘once all of this stuff with Elliot is over’ agenda. Maybe I should buy myself a notebook, so I can keep track of all of this?
The room is already thronged with people, all chattering excitedly about their Christmas plans as they wander from stall to stall, but my eyes keep wandering over the largest stall, right at the very front of the room, which has the Saturday Lane logo plastered all over it, andcopies ofThe Snow Globepiled high. The woman I saw with Elliot at the book signing is standing in front of it, talking to a man in a suit, who looks like he might be someone important. The stall itself is right in front of the little stage, which is normally used for the annual panto the village school put on every year. Today, there’s a couple of seats up there, with a microphone between them, making it look like the set of a 70s talk show.
I guess that’s for Elliot, and the announcement his publishers are supposedly planning to make about his next book; the one he asked me to help him write.
The memory makes me feel suddenly nauseous. Or maybe it’s just the thought of seeing Elliot himself again. He doesn’t seem to be here yet, though. At least that gives me a bit longer to prepare myself.
“Holly! Oh my God, Holly, I love it! I just love it. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it.”
Aunt Lorraine comes bustling up to our stall, carrying a clipboard, and looking like she’s about to burst with excitement.
“Huh? Did I miss something? I thought this thing had only just got started?” I reply, checking the time on my phone.
“I’m not talking about the festival; I’m talking about your book, silly.” She punches me playfully on the arm. “Well, what I’ve read of it so far. I can’t wait for the rest, though; honestly, Holly, it’s so good. I think Vivienne Faulkner will be so happy with it.”
She beams at me, and I grab her arm, quickly towing her out of earshot before Paris or Levi can overhear us.
“Shhhh!” I say warningly. “You know I wasn’t supposed to tell you who I was writing it for. I’ve signed an NDA. Did you really like it, though? Really?”
I hold my breath as I wait for her reply. I have to admit, I haven’t even been thinking about my ghostwriting job lately, and I’d almost forgotten I’d sent Lorraine those first few pages to read. But suddenly it occurs to me that this is the thing I should be focusing on; not ex boyfriends and the books they write — or might write in the future — butmybook, and the opportunity it represents to start doing something I really love. The present, not the past.
“Holly, it’s fantastic,” Lorraine says, patting me on the arm. “And you know me; I’d tell you if it wasn’t. But I’m loving it. Write more. Do it soon. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agree, my cheeks hot from the unaccustomed praise. “I will. I really need to get on with it, anyway. I’ve been neglecting it since … oh.”
Across the room, Elliot has finally appeared, and is talking to his publicist, who’s wearing a cream-colored dress today, confirming my suspicion that she’s the kind of woman who’s never spilled anything in her life, and thus doesn’t have to worry about the same things as the rest of us mortals. Her shiny hair is slicked back in a low bun, and her arm is on Elliot’s, as she turns him around to show him something on the book table. Elliot looks in the direction she’s pointing, then glances back up, his eyes sweeping the room, until they find mine. He holds the glance for a second, making my heart flutter traitorously until he gives me a terse nod, then turns away. Interaction over.
Well, that was definitely different from the last time we were in this particular room together.
Heart still pounding, I give myself a quick shake, before following Lorraine back over to the Hart Books table, where Dad’s busy serving customers, while Paris and Levi appear to have put their differencesaside for once to join forces in gossiping about Elliot, and what his ‘big announcement’ is going to be.
