“He pulled through,” he says. “Eventually. But it was touch and go for a while there. We were basically living in the hospital. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. Sorry, Harper,” he adds, looking over his shoulder. “I’m just coming.”
He gives a small, apologetic shrug, before walking away, and I frown to myself thoughtfully as I watch him go.
Harper?His publicist has the same name as the one I’ve been assigned to at the ghostwriting agency? What are the odds of that?
I shake off the thought as Levi comes bounding over to grab my hand and tow me back into the hall, babbling something aboutMartin, and how romantic it is that he would go to such lengths to see off his rival and win the hand of the woman he loves.
It’s obvious that Levi and I have very different ideas about ‘romance’.
The room in front of me is now at least twice as busy as it was when I left it, with people crammed into every available space, all of them facing the stage, where the man I saw earlier, talking to Elliot’s publicist —Harper— is sitting on one of the chairs in front of the microphone. Levi and I squeeze our way through the crowd and back to the Hart Books stall, where I notice Martin has made himself at home in my absence, and is sitting next to Dad, chatting away like they’re old pals.
Well, we’ll see about that.
I grit my teeth as I approach them, my head pounding with rage as I think about what Martin did — what I’m absolutelysurehe did — to split up me and Elliot ten years ago. Before I can confront him, though, and create my second scene of the day, there’s a shrill screech of feedback from the microphone, and I look around to see Elliot standing next to it, looking handsome and self-possessed, with absolutely no trace of the fact that he’s had his world rocked by the knowledge that his ex-girlfriend’s neighbor-turned-boyfriend deliberately sabotaged their relationship.
From the other side of the stall, Martin grins across at me, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to reach over and shake him.
I’ll have to save that for later.
At the microphone, the woman Elliot addressed as Harper starts talking to the crowd, introducing Elliot — as if he needs introducing in this town — and explaining that he’ll make a brief announcement,before going into a question-and-answer session with the man in the suit, who’s now accompanied by a cameraman, and someone carrying one of those huge furry microphones. At the front of the stage, a small crowd of photographers jostle for space, while, just behind them, the people in the front row all hold their phones in the air, ready to hit record, as if they’re at a rock concert rather than a book festival. Levi gives me an apologetic look before rushing off to join them. After a second, Paris goes too, only without the apology.
Now it’s just me, Dad, Martin, and my burning sense of outrage, which is now so huge I imagine it taking physical shape and floating in the air above me, like a demon. Oh, and a few hundred other people in the audience, who are the only reason I’m not letting that rage-demon loose.
At least, not yet.
“Please welcome the award-winning author ofThe Snow Globe:Elliot Sinclair,” says Publicist Woman, forcing me to look back up at the stage, where Elliot is stepping in front of the microphone, raising his hand to acknowledge the thunderous applause from the crowd.
He hasn’t said a word, and he’s already a hit.
“Thank you,” he says, his eyes roving across the rows of heads in front of him. “Thank you all for coming.”
“Thankyou,” yells someone who I’m pretty sure is Levi. Elliot smiles, looking totally at ease.
“My publishers asked me to come here this morning to talk to you about the sequel to my book,” he says, to another flurry of applause. “But I’m not going to do that.”
The crowd falls instantly silent. From his position in the front row, Levi twists his head around and shoots me an accusing look.
“Instead,” says Elliot calmly, “I’d like to tell you a story, if I may. I’d like to tell you the true story ofThe Snow Globe.”
28
I’m not sure the Bramblebury Village Hall has ever been as silent as it is now. It’s as if the entire village is collectively holding its breath.
On stage, Elliot’s publicist exchanges worried looks with the journalist who’s waiting to conduct the interview after what was supposed to be Elliot’s big announcement.
But the announcement hasn’t come.
Instead, Elliot stands at the microphone, and starts to speak.
“Ten years ago,” he says, in a low voice which is nevertheless carried easily all the way to the back of the hall, “I came here to Bramblebury to research a non-fiction book I’d been planning for a while; a biography of my grandfather, Luke Sinclair. You might recognize his first name from the pages ofThe Snow Globe.”
There’s a murmur of excitement from the audience.
“Luke also came to Bramblebury,” Elliot goes on. “Many years before me. During the Second World War, in fact. And while he was here, Luke met a woman called Evie.”
The crowd rustles again, excitedly aware that they’re hearing the story that directly inspired the book they all love so much.
“Luke and Evie fell in love. And so did I. With the town itself, but also with a local woman I met while I was here.” All around me, theheads of the villagers who know about me and Elliot turn to stare at me curiously. This part of the story, at least, is one many of them already know; Bramblebury’s worst-kept secret. Nevertheless, a small forest of cellphones is suddenly pointing at me. I can almost sense Levi regretting his decision to leave my side and go to the front of the stage; it’s making him miss out on a share of the limelight.
