Page 30 of The Christmas Letter

‘Yeah. Yeah, maybe.’ Holly stood there, allowing the two of them to get ahead of her as they left the office, so that she didn’t look like some kind of stalker as she followed. She heard Ed speaking to Jack as they stepped out through the revolving glass doors: ‘What the hell was that about?’

Well, quite, Holly thought, as she blew out a breath through her nose. It felt like her head was spinning. A drink with him. Was it supposed to be a date? A nervous fluttering started up in her stomach. Which was silly, it was just a drink with a man, for God’s sake. A man who happened to be Emma’s grandson. Who she had to convince to reunite with her after some kind of family feud that she still hadn’t got to the details of.

Which was fine, she told herself firmly. She’d figure it out.

She started towards the glass door herself, felt her phone buzz in her hand again, and looked down to see another message. Think of the devil . . .

Check out the Maureen Paley Gallery in Bethnal Green if you have the chance. And I can probably get you an appointment at Kate MacGarry, which is well worth a visit. How long did you say you were there again? And are you still coming for lunch on your half term? Pam keeps asking me about it and she’s driving me mad.

Holly felt a squirming in her gut. Emma had said she’d send over a couple of art gallery recommendations – conveniently ignoring the fact that Holly had lived in London for many years and had, in fact, studied art in London, because, as Emma put it, You’ve been out of the game a while, my girl, and you have to have an ear to the ground for these things. So yes, Holly had told Emma – and they had been staying in touch on a regular basis – though which one of them that surprised more, Holly couldn’t say. So in one of their conversations, Holly had let slip that she was heading to London for a few days as a chaperone on Abi’s school trip.

She hadn’t told Emma about the other task she was planning to accomplish while she was here, however. Partly because she wasn’t sure if she would track Emma’s grandson down – it had only been an idea, that was all. But mainly because she knew Emma would disapprove. In her head, though, Emma would get over that and be thrilled once said grandson picked up the phone and a tearful reconciliation followed. Because Holly knew that, whatever Emma said, she would love nothing more than to connect with him again.

And that could still happen, Holly told herself firmly. Jack being the man from the café changed nothing. Nothing at all.

Chapter Eleven

She was late. She was the one who had named the time, and she was late. Which was wholly predictable, given her awful timekeeping skills, but still.

What if he’d left already? What if he’d never shown?

Holding her phone in front of her she hurried down the pavement, her leopard-print heels clacking noisily even over the early drunken shouts of Shoreditch. When she reached the bar, she shoved the phone back into her handbag and fluffed up her hair before stepping inside and being greeted by an onslaught of welcoming heat, the hum of chatter and jazz-style piano music. She let out a slow breath and tried to ignore the way her stomach would not stop churning with nerves as she did a quick scan of the bar. It was too dark in here: trendy mood lighting was all very well and good until you want to find someone. Candles flickered on each of the tables, occasionally catching one of the low-hanging glass lampshades and sending off a glint around the room. There were leather-backed sofas crammed full of people, and little square red stools that looked cool but were probably really uncomfortable to sit on.

Holly walked in a little further, trying not to stumble in her favourite heels – favourite because of style rather than comfort. She’d agonised for a solid hour over what to wear, which had left her with less time than she would have liked for hair and makeup. She had at least managed to tame her hair a bit after washing it, though she drew the line at borrowing Abi’s straighteners. Still, she was pretty sure she looked ok, having settled on a dark-green off-the-shoulder top with skinny black jeans.

She headed past the gorgeous wooden bar, with high stools that were currently all occupied, clocked the piano in the corner, a real live pianist playing with deft fingers. And there, a few tables back, on one of the leather booths that ran along one whole length of the wall, was Jack. He waved her over. God, he was attractive, wasn’t he? Why did he have to be so damned attractive? And yes, this place, with the candles and the moody lighting and the music, it would probably make anyone look attractive, but there was no denying that this man was sexy, from the stubbled jaw, to the broad, muscled back, to the slightly rumpled hair he was currently running a hand through.

Focus, Holly. She worked up a nice, polite, appropriate smile, as she walked over to him. She thought of Abi’s advice, which she’d delivered in hushed tones under the chatter of the students as they waited for the bus to take them back to the hotel.

Try not to blurt it all out without thinking, won’t you? But also don’t leave it too long, otherwise it will get awkward. And Holly, have you really thought about what you’re—

Abi! It’s too late now, so words of encouragement, please, rather than concern.

Sorry. Sorry. Well, in that case, keep it professional. Aim to tell him approximately halfway through the first drink, after a brief exchange of small talk, and do not let things get too personal before you do. Make it clear that Emma does not know you’re here, but that you just thought it was worth a conversation with him, and do not, whatever you do, put any sort of pressure on him.

Super-specific, thank you.

It’s always better when you have a set plan.

Yeah, and you know me and planning . . .

She pushed the conversation with Abi out of her mind as she reached Jack. He stood, leaned over the table to kiss her cheek. Formally, she thought, as a posh acquaintance might do. Not that she had many of those, but she imagined it was the type of thing they did.

‘I got here early – thought I should nab us a seat,’ Jack said with a wave at the table. And sure enough, almost every other seat in this place seemed to be taken.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Holly said quickly. ‘I got held up at the theatre.’ Only partly a lie – but he could hardly blame her if she referenced her teacher duties as the cause of lateness rather than her poor planning.

‘No worries.’ He was still in a suit, she noticed, with his shirt unbuttoned slightly, jacket slung on the red stool. ‘Shall I get you a drink?’

‘I’ll get them,’ Holly said, waving him down when he tried to insist. She could feel Jack’s eyes on her as she headed for the bar, making her feel that she should have gone with comfort over style with regard to the shoes. Why couldn’t she be like Abi, who had mastered that somehow efficient way to walk in heels? She ordered a pint for him and a cocktail for herself – asking for the strongest one they had, paying no attention to what was in it. She figured that it wouldn’t hurt, to have her tongue a bit looser and her nerves a bit steadier, with what she was planning to say.

Jack had moved to the red stool by the time she got back, and he indicated for her to take the comfier-looking sofa, in between two women at neighbouring tables. Holly sat, took a sip of her drink. Jack mirrored her. They both put their drinks down, looked at each other.

‘So,’ Jack said.

‘So,’ Holly agreed. Then she laughed a little, still not quite over the strangeness of meeting him again.

He smiled across the table at her. Seeming to read her thoughts, he shook his head and said, ‘I still can’t believe you’re here. That you’re real.’ Then he grimaced. ‘Sorry, that sounds stupid. I mean—’