His publicist looks at her phone, then back up at the audience, as if she’s trying to decide whether allowing Elliot to reveal his secret pen name has the potential to be the kind of news that will sell thousands more books, or the kind that will completely ruin his career.
For a full 30 seconds, those two possibilities compete with each other. Then the woman turns to Elliot and gives a tiny nod, before turning and abruptly leaving the stage, as if she’s washing her hands of whatever’s about to happen next.
Even from where I’m sitting at the back of the room, I can see the indecision on Elliot’s face. It’s evident in every movement; from the way he reaches up to adjust his non-existent glasses, to the way he swallows uneasily before speaking.
I get quickly to my feet, torn between the need to let him know he doesn’t have to tell us if he doesn’t want to, and the equally pressing desire to know what his pen name is, and whether I’ve read any of his books.
Elliot clears his throat.
“My pen name is one I think quite a few of you will know, actually,” he says, with a nervous laugh. “It’s Vivienne Faulkner.”
29
Outside the village hall, it’s started to snow again; tiny, silver-edges flakes which land on the branches of the giant Christmas tree and glitter there like jewels.
Not that I notice any of that.
Well, it’s hard to think about the scenery, really, when you’ve just found out that the ex who may-or-may-not still be in love with you is also the person you’re supposed to be ghostwriting a book for, and now you’re making a run for it; dashing out of the room like Lizzie Bennet after she turns down Darcy’s proposal.
As always, Elliot is the twist in every plot.
“Holly, wait.”
I’ve just passed the Christmas tree and am headed for the inflatable snow globe when Elliot appears at the door of the village hall, with a small crowd of people — including the guy with the giant furry microphone — behind him.
That’s when I start running.
“Would you just back off?” I hear Elliot yell at the photographers and other curious onlookers as he sets off in pursuit. “Give a guy a minute, would you? Holly, wait!”
But I do not wait. I am very much done waiting, actually. Instead, I run all the way to the bookstore — okay, it’s just a few meters, but still — rummaging in my pocket as I go, and almost sobbing with relief when my fingers close around the keys to the shop, which Past Me somehow had the sense to pick up before she left the house. The store is closed today, because everyone’s been at the book festival, but at least it’ll be somewhere to hide until all of this has blown over.
So, about the next hundred years or so, then.
That should just about do it.
The same keys that will allow me to escape the prying eyes of the entire village, however, are also the ones that lose me a precious few seconds as I fumble them into the lock. Those seconds are all it takes for Elliot to catch up with me, and, before I know what’s happening, I’m opening the bookshop door, and we’re somehow going through it together, Elliot slamming it firmly closed behind us.
“Look, I can explain,” he says, holding his hands up as he turns to face me. “I get that this is a shock, and I promise, I can explain, but … just give me the keys first, will you? I’d rather do this in private, if it’s all the same with you.”
No sooner has he spoken than Levi and Paris appear, their faces distorted against the glass as they peer through the shop door. Now it’s like a scene fromThe Walking Dead.
This day cannot end soon enough for me.
“Holly, let us in,” yells Levi, who’s clearly living in even more of an alternative reality than I thought he was if he thinks he’s getting to film this for his Booktok channel.
I step forward and pull down the blind, hiding them both from view, while Elliot locks the door.
“We do work here, you know,” comes Paris’s voice from the other side. “You can’t keep us out. We have contracts.”
“I’ll pay you double-time if you go home and leave me alone,” I yell back.
There’s a short silence as they debate this, then their shadowy forms disappear from behind the door, leaving Elliot and I alone at last; something I’d have welcomed just a few minutes ago, when he was being all cute and eloquent, and referring to me as ‘the love of my life’, but which is now about as welcome The Grinch on Christmas morning.
I’m about to tell him this, but then I remember how he said he could explain, and, actually, that’s something I’dloveto hear around about now.
“Go on, then,” I say, leaning against one of the bookshelves and giving him what I hope is an appropriately forbidding look. “Explain.”
Elliot reaches up and once again tries to adjust the glasses he no longer wears.
