Page 16 of The Christmas Letter

‘I’ve only been here once before,’ Holly said carefully.

‘And it made such an impact, did it?’

Holly wasn’t sure she wanted to tell Emma about the crash just yet. ‘I like art,’ she said instead.

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ Emma muttered. ‘So are you really an artist or was that just a lie to get to me?’

Holly winced again. ‘I am really an artist,’ she said, the words out before she could think better of them. ‘But I don’t think I’m the one you’re looking for.’

‘No. Nor the one I’ve just been told off for treating so harshly. That one never showed up. Doesn’t have any interest in her work being on display in a café, apparently.’

Holly looked at Emma, considering her in a slightly different light. ‘That’s what the meeting was for? You’re the one who decides what goes on display in here?’

Emma huffed out a breath. ‘Something like that.’

‘And on that note,’ Mona called, abandoning pretence that she wasn’t listening, ‘we’ve sold another Mirabelle Landor – can you see if she’ll—’

‘I doubt it,’ Emma said, a snap to her voice. ‘She’s having a break.’

Mona raised her eyebrows. ‘If you say so.’

Mirabelle Landor, Holly thought, the name of the artist coursing through her. But Emma was now giving her a very direct look, and she thought it best not to ask about that right now.

‘I don’t know why you thought it was a good idea to come down here from . . . Where have you come from?’

‘Windsor,’ Holly said. And ok, yes, it seemed ridiculous when she put it like that, but it hadn’t felt ridiculous at the time.

A sigh. ‘Windsor. Well, there is no use you sitting here looking miserable and crying into your tea. You’ll make it all salty, for one.’ Holly didn’t know if that was supposed to be a joke and if she ought to laugh, but Emma was already waving a hand to Mona, who looked up. Emma held up two fingers and Mona nodded, and, clearly trying to hide a smile, turned to grab a paper bag from behind her.

‘We’ll take two of the cakes from here – the carrot cake is the only way to go – and two Earl Greys, and you can come back to mine. Only for an hour, do you hear me?’

Holly bit her lip, not wholly convinced.

Emma huffed impatiently. ‘Come on, now. Isn’t this the whole reason you came down here? To come and talk to me? So come, talk. It’s Christmas Eve, after all, and this place is closed – Mona wants to get going with the festivities.’

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Holly said slowly, earning yet another sigh.

‘You didn’t give me the chance to be sure, did you?’ Emma said, as Holly got to her feet. ‘But it’s too late now, so come on. We might as well see it through.’

Chapter Seven

Emma swore under her breath when her key got stuck in the lock. She tried again, shoving her shoulder against the door. The rain had only got heavier – big sheets of it that hid the surrounding view of the countryside.

Holly was well and truly sodden now, her socks squelching inside her boots, her coat heavy with the water it was absorbing – even the vest top underneath her jumper was damp. She bounced on the spot to try and keep warm, but the air was icy and unforgiving. She spoke through chattering teeth. ‘D . . . do you want me to . . .?’

‘I’ve got it,’ Emma snapped. ‘Damn door, always does this.’ She managed to get it open, practically falling over the threshold, and Holly rushed in after her. She only realised quite how loud the wind was once she was out of it.

Emma stripped off her dripping anorak to reveal a long-sleeved grey dress with black flowers on it, over black tights. The dress had certainly seen better days – the sleeves were frayed at the edges and it was starting to wear through in places – but it had the look of a classic, suggesting Emma had once been more stylish than she seemed now. Holly studied her, whilst trying to look like she wasn’t. She wondered just how the cancer was affecting her, if it caused her pain day-to-day. She didn’t feel like she could ask.

Holly took off her coat too, shivering as she did so – the house wasn’t exactly warm. She couldn’t work out whether it was better or worse to keep her jumper on, given how damp it was, and in the end decided to keep it on in the hope it would dry quicker that way.

‘You can hang it up there,’ Emma grunted, indicating the coat in Holly’s hand and a coat rack to the left of the front door.

Just below the coat rack was a small wooden table, and Holly did a double-take when she saw what was on top of it. A beautiful glass sculpture – two thin waves rising out from the bottom, one blue, one silver, twining together. She’d mainly worked with clay herself, but she loved the look of glass sculptures. Togetherness, the little plaque said – and though it must have once been bright and shiny, ready to capture the light, it was now gathering dust. She reached out her forefinger to touch it, to sweep away the layer of grime, but felt the back of her neck tingle with warning. She retracted her finger quickly and looked over her shoulder to see Emma watching her.

‘My husband gave that to me on our twentieth wedding anniversary,’ she said, and though she had the same brisk tone, the way she held herself – stiff, unmoving – hinted at the emotion under the surface. A brittleness Holly herself knew well. ‘It’s had pride of place since that day, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to put it away since he died. Sentimental fool,’ she added in a mutter – though ‘sentimental’ wasn’t exactly the word Holly would use to describe her.

Emma shuffled through the house and jerked her head to indicate Holly should follow. There was a surprising lack of clutter – weren’t you supposed to accumulate stuff as you moved through life? But though Emma’s house had all the usual furniture, though the carpets and curtains were all intact, though there were paintings hanging up on almost every wall, the place seemed somehow . . . empty.