Page 12 of The Christmas Letter

‘She’s lonely and worried about dying alone – of course she wants to be found,’ Holly said airily. ‘She’ll want the company, I’m sure of it.’

‘Yes, but sometimes, it’s not about having other people’s company. Sometimes it’s about coming to terms with your own company instead.’

Holly rolled her eyes, even though Abi couldn’t see her. ‘Get that out of a Hallmark card, did you?’

‘Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want to see you get hurt, especially not on Christmas.’ But she was hurting anyway at Christmas, wasn’t she? The time of year she used to love was now the time she dreaded.

So as she drove, she tried to block all thoughts of Christmas from her mind, switching the radio off so she wouldn’t have to listen to Christmas music and ignoring the decorations on passing houses. She also tried to block Abi’s words from her mind. Sometimes it’s about coming to terms with your own company instead.

Because she felt sure that Abi hadn’t been talking about Emma. That no matter how hard Holly tried to pretend that she’d moved on and built a life after the crash, Abi could tell that the fractures were still there, inside of her – and that, sometimes, she feared those parts of her were broken for good.

Chapter Five

Dear Lily,

I’m about to do something crazy. You would definitely tell me not to do it, if you knew. But then again, you were always the one banging on about fate, so maybe you’d tell me to go for it? I’m going to choose to think that’s what you’d say. And I’m going to choose to be optimistic. This is a good thing; I know it is. I feel sure that meeting this woman – Emma – is going to change things for the better. I am doing something productive, and helpful, and not sitting around wallowing. You always did tell me not to wallow.

There are a TON of cyclists in Devon, even on Christmas Eve. It must be miserable, cycling in this weather. I don’t think we noticed that last time we were here, did we? I can’t remember the last time I went cycling. But do you remember when Mum and Dad bought you a new bike for your tenth birthday? It was bright purple with silver stripes, and I thought it was the most beautiful bike I’d ever seen. I was jealous, but you knew that. We went to the park together, and Dad wasn’t really watching when we cycled off. I couldn’t keep up, do you remember? I was on my first little training bike and it didn’t have gears or anything, like yours. Not that I would have known how to actually use the gears, I’m sure, but that wasn’t the point.

I remember giving up and throwing my bike down and crying because you were too far ahead. And you turned around and came back. You were so annoyed with me – because it was your birthday and I was making it about me – but you still came back. And how did I repay you? I pushed you off. I remember it exactly – getting off the ground and shoving you, hating the way you were frowning down at me. I didn’t expect you to fall, though. I was so much smaller than you and I promise you, I didn’t think you’d actually fall. But you did, and the bike fell on top of you, and you screamed, and then Dad came running.

I was so upset when I was sent to my room, afterwards. I lay there for hours, crying – not because Mum and Dad had shouted at me, but because I thought I might really have hurt you. There was blood on your shin, and you were hugging Dad and wouldn’t look at me, and I thought maybe you were really, really hurt. And maybe you wouldn’t ever forgive me.

But you came into my room later to sneak me some birthday cake – I wasn’t allowed any, after what I’d done. I told you that you could have all of my My Little Ponies, and you told me I could ride the bike when I was tall enough, and that was that.

For a while, after the crash, I thought maybe it would be like that. That was stupid, I know. I wasn’t minimising what happened, or what I’d done. It was just hope, and it was something I clung to.

I’ve stopped hoping you’ll forgive me, but I still can’t help hoping that someday you’ll speak to me again. Because as much as I tell you I’m sorry in these letters, it would be nice to tell you in person one day – I never really got the chance to do that.

But I am, you know. Sorry. I hope you know that.

Love,

Holly

Holly sat inside her car, staring at the Impression Sunrise Café.

After a four-hour journey, here she was. Her palms felt clammy on the steering wheel and she flexed her fingers, one by one. She hadn’t thought of how to find Emma, exactly, but the café had seemed like a good place to start. It looked the same as it had three years ago. Fairy lights around the top of the building, silver tinsel along the windows, and a blackboard outside, the chalk still visible despite the increasingly heavy rain, this time with a reindeer drawn on it. An impressive reindeer – more like a sketch than a cartoon, with big, detailed antlers. It had been a snowman the day of the crash. Amazing how much detail came back to her whenever she allowed herself to think about it.

But then, this was the last place she and Lily had had a proper conversation. And if it hadn’t been for her pitstop here, she never would have crashed.

My fault, my fault, my fault. The words echoed around her mind, even as she closed her eyes against them.

Get out of the car, Holly.

Her legs were stiff as she got out and locked her car behind her. She paused for a moment outside the café, staring at the wooden Open sign.

A man approached the door from inside, holding a takeaway coffee cup. He opened the door, holding it for her. Feeling like she’d look like an idiot if she backed away now, she stepped through, and they exchanged cursory smiles. She couldn’t help but be reminded of the last time she’d stepped into the Impression Sunrise Café, the last man she’d bumped into – or barrelled into, more accurately. Jack. She still remembered his name. Remembered those depthless brown eyes, the dark curly hair, the polished, tidy essence of him. The woody scent on first impact. Remembered the way he’d grinned at her later, when he’d broken the chocolate and ginger star in half. How he’d given her a Mirabelle Landor card, written his number on her coffee cup. She’d lost the coffee cup in the crash, along with any chance of contacting him again.

She still had the card, though. She’d tucked it into her pocket, and for whatever reason it had stayed lodged there after the moment of impact, in all its forest glory. It had been lying on her bedside table when she’d woken up in hospital – she’d never found out who took it out of her jacket and put it there. She’d found herself picking it up in comfort during those first twenty-four hours when she was waiting to be discharged, the doctors telling her how lucky she was to have no serious injuries. She’d taken the card home with her when she snuck out to pack up her things from her parents’ house, leaving them in the hospital, talking to the doctors with grave faces. And then she’d taken it to Windsor, to her new job, her new life, and kept it with her, safely stored in her bedside table drawer.

Her legs felt stiff as she walked to the counter, getting in place behind a woman with perfectly blow-dried platinum-blonde hair, a long red coat and impressive red heels. Her mouth felt a little dry as she waited to speak to the woman behind the counter. She’d gone over what she might say on the way down, but attempting to plan it in any kind of depth had felt vaguely ridiculous, so she’d ultimately decided that winging it was probably the best option.

‘Yes?’ The woman behind the counter was smiling at her expectantly – Holly hadn’t noticed that it was her turn to order.

‘I, ah, I’ll have a mint tea, thanks,’ she said, ordering the first drink that came to her, thinking of Lily. ‘And, umm, I also wondered if you knew where I could find Emma Tooley?’ The woman gave her a curious look as she paused in the action of ringing up the till.

‘Emma Tooley?’ For some reason, the woman behind the counter looked at the woman with platinum-blonde hair, who had stopped on her way past Holly, coffee cup in hand.