Elliot Sinclair is standing outside The Brew, wearing the same beanie hat I thought I saw him in yesterday, and looking in at us, almost as if I’ve conjured him into existence just by speaking about him. What’s that saying again? Speak of the devil, and he might appear?
I let out a strange, high-pitched squeak of shock, and the mug in my hand suddenly slips through my fingers, hot coffee spilling onto the table in front of me, and dripping onto my lap.
I squeak again, this time in pain.
“Oh, my goodness! Quick, Holly, take this!”
Maisie and Elsie flutter around me like birds, offering paper napkins and words of advice on how to get coffee stains out of clothes (Baking soda and white vinegar, apparently), and by the time they’re done fussing, and my view of the window is clear once more, there’s no one there.
Of course there isn’t.
Which means that I’m either, a) seeing things, b) going insane, or, c) Elliot Sinclair reallyisskulking around a town he hasn’t visited in a decade, somehow managing to disappear the split second I lay eyes on him.
I’m honestly not sure which of those three options is the least appealing.
(Okay, I’m lying; it’s the last one. I’d much rather be seeing ‘things’ than seeing Elliot Sinclair right now, trust me…)
“Did you see him?” I ask, looking wildly from one sister to the other. “At the window. Did you see him too?”
They stare back at me with identical expressions of bemusement mixed with concern on their faces. I know I must sound crazy rightnow, but Ihaveto know if I actuallyam. Because that would definitely be helpful.
“Did we see who, dear?” asks Elsie cautiously. “I don’t see anyone at the window; did you, Maisie?”
Maisie shakes her head.
“It’s just this time of year,” she says kindly. “It always sends poor Holly a bit loopy, doesn’t it? Remember how she shouted at her poor father that time, Elsie?”
“That wasn’tme,” I exclaim, aghast. “That was Evie Snow inThe Snow Globe. You see what I mean?” I’m horrified to notice that my voice is starting to sound kind of wobbly now. “Everyone thinks it’s true. Everyone thinks I’mher, and that I did all those things in the book, but that’s not true. It’s really not. I—”
But it’s no use; Elsie and Maisie might be nodding along as if they completely agree with everything I’m saying, but I can tell that I’ve lost them. And now I reallyamstarting to sound every bit as irrational as Elliot made me — I meanEvie— sound in his book; which means it’s time for me to go.
“Thanks for the chat,” I say, giving them both a smile which I know they’ll later describe to each other as “brave. “I best be going.”
So I go; leaving quickly, just in case the man I thought was Elliot is still somewhere around; maybe coming out of the gourmet food store, or browsing the market stalls in the village square, hoping to bump into some other unsuspecting woman he can use as ‘inspiration’ for a book.
But he isn’t there. The entire village is conspicuously lacking in anyone who looks even remotely like a bestselling author; or even an American ex-boyfriend.
I’m starting to think I should get my eyes tested.
That would be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. Well, that and the fact that I live in a town that’s absolutely obsessed with my ex.
I guessanyonewould start to think they were seeing him under those circumstances.
Wouldn’t they?
Elliot Sinclair isn’t the only thing that’s stuck in my mind, though, as I make my way to the bookstore. Maisie and Elsie’s words are in there too, circling and repeating like a record with a scratch.
I hate to say it, but maybe Maisie is right? Maybe Icouldbe doing with making a few changes? Maybe not a ‘makeover’ exactly, butsomethingto get me out of this decade-long rut I’ve been stuck in? A confidence boost. A goal of some kind. An opportunity to feel like the main character in my own life, for once.
Maybe if I did that, I’d stop imagining Elliot Sinclair around every corner. Because, call me crazy, but I think it’s long past time to start banishing that particular ghost of Christmas past.
4
DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO
The American is standing by the door, with the collar of his coat turned up against the cold, and he’s so distractingly good-looking that I’m in danger of falling off my seat yet again at the sight of him.
“It’s me,” I agree, pleased to find that I’m managing to sound perfectly normal this time around. “And it’s … you.”
