Page 22 of The Christmas Letter

Emma shrugged but didn’t contradict the statement, and when Pam poured out the champagne, Holly took the glass she was offered and followed the two women to the living room, claiming the armchair again, while Pam and Emma took the sofa.

Pam sat forward on the edge, sipping her champagne and studying Holly over the rim of the glass. It made her feel self-conscious – like she ought to be wearing something more glamorous than a dressing gown, like maybe she should have bothered to brush her hair when she woke up this morning. Not that she’d brought a hairbrush with her, but still.

‘So, Holly. What’s your story?’

‘My story?’

‘Yes, yes, your story. What brings you here?’

‘I, ah . . .’ She couldn’t help it: she glanced at Emma, though whether it was for help in avoiding the question or permission to answer it, she couldn’t quite be sure.

‘Holly’s an artist; that much is true.’

Presumably Emma said it to help, so that Holly didn’t have to talk about the crash, but Holly grimaced all the same – at the fact that she wasn’t, not even close. And despite what she told herself, the failure of that still hurt.

‘Speaking of which, where’s my tiger, hmm?’

Pam looked questioningly at Emma, and she lifted the paper giraffe Holly had made earlier in the air. Holly hadn’t even noticed Emma picking it up. ‘Oh, how brilliant – can you make me one too, Holly? A lemur, I think – my soul animal.’

Emma was already handing her another newspaper, and with both women looking at her like that, Holly saw no choice but to take the paper and crack on with it.

‘So that’s what you do, is it? Paper animals?’

Holly couldn’t help a small chuckle – at the fact that making paper animals sounded like a perfectly reasonable career choice when Pam said it. ‘No, I’m an art teacher.’

Pam sat back, nodding serenely and sipping more champagne. ‘Ah, filling young minds, a valuable career. I always thought I would have made a good teacher.’

Emma snorted. ‘I beg to differ.’

‘Ignore her, Holly,’ Pam said loftily. ‘She gets like this sometimes, but you just have to drown it out.’

Holly decided not to comment on that and focused on Pam instead. ‘What do you do?’

‘Did, my darling. I’m a lady of leisure these days.’

Holly grinned. ‘What did you do, then?’

‘Oh, this and that,’ Pam said, with a casual hand wave.

‘She never gives me a straight answer either,’ Emma muttered.

‘So are you good at art then, Holly?’ Pam pressed.

Holly gave an awkward little shrug. ‘I’m alright, I suppose.’

‘Alright.’ Emma huffed. ‘Don’t be self-deprecating. Either you’re good or you’re not.’

‘Well, I am, I suppose.’ Holly swallowed. ‘Or used to be. I lost it, after . . . Well, I just lost it.’

‘But you’re making art now, aren’t you?’ Pam said, gesturing at the tiger that was coming together between Holly’s fingers. ‘You can’t have lost it all.’

Holly was so stumped by the way she said it, the simple fact of it, that she couldn’t think of anything to say in response. Because on some level, she supposed this was art. Nothing grand, nothing special, nothing more than silly little entertainment – but art, nonetheless.

‘It’s either in your soul or it’s not,’ Emma said, matter-of-factly, ‘and I’m going to take a bet and say it’s the former for you, my girl.’

‘Emma’s an art expert,’ Pam said, nodding her head impressively.

‘I am not.’