Page 13 of The Christmas Letter

‘Are you the artist, then?’ the platinum blonde woman asked, giving Holly a quick glance up and down. She was in her seventies, at a guess, and was holding a brown handbag that looked expensive. Her nails were painted bright red, to go with her coat and shoes, and Holly saw the glint of more than one ring on her hand. Could this be her? Emma? She was nothing like the woman Holly had pictured in her head.

‘I, ah . . .’

‘You were supposed to meet her here yesterday,’ prompted the woman behind the counter, also looking at Holly in a rather assessing manner. All this scrutinisation was making her glad she’d at least made an effort today. Not only had she brought out her best handbag – a crocodile print one she’d bought in a charity shop – but she was wearing her pale green coat, which had been an impulse purchase but which fitted her perfectly, and her long brown boots, which had been dubbed ‘wicked’ by one of her second years. She’d tried her best to tame her hair and had put on a light touch of makeup, just to smooth out the shadows under her eyes and take away some of that winter paleness.

‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck now, love,’ continued the woman behind the counter. ‘She was waiting for you for an hour yesterday, then she left.’

‘Put her in quite a foul mood,’ the platinum-haired woman said. ‘I have you to thank for that, do I?’

Holly glanced between the two women. ‘I . . .’

The platinum-haired woman frowned. ‘You are the artist, aren’t you?’

Holly thought of the Dear Stranger letter, sitting in her bag. Then, she went on impulse. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. Because whoever this artist was, she had an in with Emma. ‘Can you help me find her? Emma?’

‘I’m sure Pam will take you,’ the woman behind the counter said. ‘Won’t you, Pam?’

‘Are you sure you want to just show up at her door?’ Pam asked, giving Holly another once-over.

‘Ah . . .’ Holly swallowed. ‘Maybe you could ring her, get her to meet me here instead if you think that would be better?’ Because now that she thought about it, it might be a bit overly bold to show up at her house unannounced.

‘No use,’ Pam said briskly. ‘She never answers the phone these days. Says the only people who call her are those blasted telemarketers. And she wouldn’t come down here to meet you anyway, not after you stood her up yesterday. No, you’ll have to do some serious begging if you want to get an audience with her now.’

And why would the artist want an audience with her, Holly wondered?

‘And I’m afraid I can’t walk up with you,’ Pam said, a small, genuinely apologetic smile crossing her face. ‘I’ve got to do the rest of my Christmas shopping before the shops close in an hour or my husband will not be impressed.’

‘That’s ok – if you give me the address I can find my own way there.’ Better that way anyway, Holly thought – fewer awkward questions she’d have to make up answers to. After a moment’s hesitation, Pam told her the address, and she put it into her Maps app.

‘Thank you,’ she said, working up a smile for both women. ‘Thank you both so much.’

‘Don’t forget your mint tea,’ the woman behind the counter said, handing it over to her. When Holly tried to pay, the woman shook her head. ‘On the house. You’ll need it, trust me.’

It took her ten minutes to walk up the hill to Emma’s house. The cool air hissed between her teeth as she climbed, the wind biting her face and bare hands. The sky was grey above, threatening rain, and with each step her pulse seemed to race.

When she reached Emma’s street, her heart did a funny kind of spasm, into her gut. This was it. There was a line of cottages, all beautiful old stone. The street felt quiet, even though it was lunchtime on Christmas Eve. A few of the cottages had been decorated: one had a big showing of Christmas lights, including a flashing Santa, which didn’t quite fit with the cosy English vibe of the place.

It was too cold to stop and think about what she was doing, so she shoved her phone into her handbag and headed for number twenty-seven. The outside of the cottage looked a little more run down than the others – white paint was flecking off the windowsills, and the garden looked as though it hadn’t been tended in years; the lawn was overgrown even in winter, with grass and moss coming up to hide the stone-slabbed path which ran to the front door, old leaves giving it a discoloured and rather treacherous look.

Holly picked her way carefully to the front door, which, like the window, clearly hadn’t seen a lick of paint for years, pale blue giving way to white underneath. She took a breath and knocked.

It took such a long time for anyone to answer that Holly wondered if she was ever going to come. But then the door opened.

The woman standing there was thin, with long, wavy grey hair that lay flat on her head, wrinkles creasing around turquoise eyes which, though tired-looking, still managed to be striking. She was wearing a white cardigan with holes in the sleeves, and old slippers that looked like they had seen better days. The biggest thing Holly noticed, however, was her scowl. An impressive, all-encompassing scowl which pulled together the wrinkles around her lips and made her eyebrows almost disappear into the flesh surrounding them.

‘Yes?’ she snapped, her voice louder, and sharper than Holly would have expected, given her appearance. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I, umm . . .’

‘Spit it out, girl, I have better things to do than stand here and watch you sputter.’ The woman – Emma – folded her arms, and Holly felt heat travel up her spine. This was not the welcome she’d been expecting.

‘I’m Holly,’ she blurted out.

‘Good for you,’ Emma said.

‘I . . .’ Holly fumbled in her bag, pulling out the Dear Stranger letter, which was folded in half and a little creased from the journey. ‘This is yours,’ she began again. ‘Your letter, I mean. I received it. I’m the one you wrote to, in the Dear Stranger club.’

Emma’s face paled. ‘What?’ The word came out a little strangled. ‘It can’t be.’ Her gaze flickered from the letter to Holly’s face and back again. ‘They told me they didn’t give out contact details!’