Page 26 of The Christmas Letter

‘I think you have tough competition there, mate. What with her husband and two kids and all.’

‘Ah well, a man can dream, can’t he? But anyway, what I was going to say is that if you’re back on the twenty-third, my mate is having this party in Soho on the twenty-fifth, if you wanted to come along.’

‘A party in Soho, hey? For what?’

‘His birthday.’

‘And you don’t think said friend would mind me gatecrashing his party?’

‘Course not. The more the merrier.’ It was said in a bolstering tone, but Ed had been doing this rather a lot recently, springing invitations to random events on Jack.

Jack smiled a little. ‘Mate, you don’t need to worry about me – I’m fine.’ He glanced at the reception desk as they approached it. Mike was there, manning it solo, wearing a red and black spotted tie today. He was talking to a woman who had her back to Jack, a whole lot of red hair cascading over her shoulders. Jack realised that’s what had made him look over. The woman was saying something, gesturing emphatically to Mike, who was nodding in earnest. She had a fancy handbag sitting at her feet, with a kind of print that made it look like it should have teeth.

‘Who’s worried?’ Ed was saying. ‘All I’m saying is, rather than sitting around in that awful flat on your own every weekend, or working just for something to do, you could . . .’

But Ed’s words slid away somewhere in the space between them. Because the red-haired woman had turned, and Jack had seen her face. The face he’d thought of too much in the years since he’d seen it – a face that would sneak into his dreams, where it had no place being, given he’d spoken to the woman all but once. She’d never called, and he’d spent an embarrassing number of days trying to remember if he’d written his number down right.

It was one of his what if moments. What if she’d called? What if they’d gone out? Would he still be working here, in London? Part of the reason he was still in London was because of Vanessa, after all, and maybe he never would have made the leap from being friends with her, if he’d been dating someone else. Stupid, to pin it all on this woman, who he didn’t even know. It was only because she was here that he was thinking about it. Here, in his office. He couldn’t help the jolt to his stomach – at the serendipity of it.

His imagination had not done her face justice – the slightly crooked mouth, high cheekbones, green eyes that you couldn’t help but get lost in. They reminded him of the outdoors, of the green of grass and forests, where there was space to run, space to breathe. He’d come to a stop. Only realised it as Ed was now looking at him questioningly. But he was frozen there like an idiot as she jerked her head towards him. No. Jerk was the wrong word. She wasn’t graceful – he remembered that clearly enough – but she had such energy in everything she did. It was that energy that had drawn him to her at the time, had made him want to linger. He’d been at that café on a day when he’d felt depleted of it, and he’d left feeling like, maybe, he’d be able to face what was coming.

She was looking at him now. So he saw it – that spark of recognition in her eyes. She remembered him too.

Ed was speaking to him, asking what was up. But Jack moved away, walking across the reception, towards her, like his feet were on autopilot. He’d long since given up on the idea that he might just bump into her one day – London was not the kind of city where you just bumped into people. She watched him approach, her gaze flickering over his face, quick assessment there. Her body was very still, held taut. He felt it, the same spark of something he’d felt when he’d first seen her, when their gazes finally collided.

He couldn’t help it. He let out a small, incredulous laugh.

‘It’s you.’

Chapter Ten

It’s you.

His words echoed for a moment around Holly’s mind.

And it was him. Jack, Emma’s grandson, was actually Jack from the café. She’d dismissed the possibility of them being one and the same – because, seriously, what were the chances? But it was him. Out of all the Jacks in the whole of London, Emma’s grandson was this Jack.

And right now, she was staring at him like a catatonic idiot.

Get a grip, Holly!

‘I . . .’ But no words would come out. Because what was she supposed to say? She’d had this all planned out . . . sort of. She’d come to Germain & Co., ask for Jack, be shown up to his office. Then she’d take a seat and calmly deliver the whole speech she’d prepared. About Emma, about the fact that she had cancer and didn’t want to get in touch because she didn’t want to burden her grandson with it after so much time apart. About the fact that Emma was sad, and lonely, even if she wouldn’t readily admit it, and that going through a diagnosis of cancer without any family by your side was something no one should have to do, if there was any other option available. She would do that all levelly, with an air of professionalism, and say it all so reasonably that Emma’s grandson would see that he should pick up the phone and call his grandmother right away.

But now . . . How was this possible? Something tightened in her throat – because Lily would have loved this.

If this isn’t fate, Holly, I don’t know what is.

They were imagined words, of course, but Holly could hear her sister’s voice, could imagine her clapping her hands, beaming delightedly. Nudging Holly right now, to talk to him.

He looked the same as she’d imagined him, whenever she’d brought out the Mirabelle Landor card to look at it. Curly dark hair to go with his dark eyes, eyes that were currently looking at her in a way that made her face heat. A jawline that was an artist’s dream, covered in a light layer of stubble, and an ever so slightly crooked nose that offset the whole thing perfectly. He smelled the same, too – that woody scent which reminded her of somewhere deep in the countryside, rather than a sleek, London office surrounded by city types. Though here he was, in a posh skyscraper office, wearing a long, sensible black coat – and hadn’t he been wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase last time? Most definitely a city type.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked – but his words weren’t accusing; they were more said in wonder.

‘I . . .’ But again, no words would come out. Think, Holly. She should ask if there was somewhere they could talk. Sit him down, redress the balance. Remind herself that she didn’t know him. Maybe he wasn’t even Emma’s grandson – maybe there were multiple Jacks working here, in a big office like this. But even as she had the thought, she knew he was Emma’s Jack.

‘Ah, Hellie?’ The receptionist, wearing a black and red spotted tie over a black t-shirt – quirky, and more interesting than what most office workers wore – was hovering the other side of the desk.

‘Holly,’ Jack corrected.