Page 32 of The Christmas Letter

‘Yeah. Most people think of Paris or New York for art – or London, I guess – but the Museu de Arte Moderna is supposed to be amazing, and it has a garden where there are these cool sculptures and— Sorry,’ she said, noticing the way he was looking at her. ‘Talking too quickly.’ And she’d been gesturing emphatically, hands going every which way. She took a sip of her cocktail to give them something to do – sweet, with enough sour taste that it wasn’t overpowering.

‘No, you’re not,’ Jack said. ‘It’s just . . . I remember you like this – at the café.’ His voice. Had she thought it was light? Because it wasn’t. It was gorgeous, all smooth and sensual, liquid dark chocolate. ‘When you were talking about the painting, and then looking at the cards. You had the same kind of . . . expression, and it took me back for a moment.’ Her face heated at his words, and she hoped it was dark enough that he didn’t notice. He picked up his drink, made a face. ‘Sorry. That sounds bizarre.’ Before she could contradict him, he spoke again. ‘You’re not an artist anymore, then?’

Holly felt the flinch run through her, even if she didn’t let it show on the outside. I never was. But she didn’t want to sound sorry for herself, so instead she said, ‘Well, I teach it.’

‘What’s that like?’

‘It’s . . .’ Holly chewed her lip as she thought about it. ‘Difficult, sometimes. I teach teenagers, so there are obviously ups and downs in terms of how they’re feeling, and that can have a real impact. Plus there is a lot of work to do for not much money, but, well, it’s also pretty cool. It’s a specialist arts school, which is amazing because the kids all want to be there – and some of them are so talented. And you get to come up with ways to challenge them – like, I set this task where they had to build a sculpture out of the materials I provided them at the front of the class, or where they had to do a real-life drawing but only in green, which got them thinking about all the different shades of green.’ She gave a small, self-deprecating shrug when she realised she was babbling. ‘I really like green.’

‘Why wouldn’t you? Green is great.’ Only then did she remember that she was currently wearing green. And that her eyes were also green – eyes he was currently looking at. She decided the safest thing to do was to take another sip of her drink.

‘Sounds like you kind of love it,’ Jack said. ‘Teaching, that is, as well as green.’

‘I guess I do,’ she said slowly.

‘You guess?’

‘I don’t know.’ She reached up to toy with the hoop earring. ‘I sort of fell into it, I suppose. And it’s not what I imagined myself doing.’ It had felt like a stopgap at first, something she needed to do to have an income while she figured out her next step. But somewhere along the line, she’d stopped thinking of next steps. Stopped thinking of anything too far into the future, come to think of it.

‘Doesn’t mean you can’t love it.’

‘No. No, I suppose that’s true.’ And she was lucky, wasn’t she, to have that? Despite that little niggle, the one that came out to play whenever she stared at the clay for too long, or caught sight of something that really inspired her, when she wished she could be doing as well as teaching.

‘What about you?’ Holly asked, setting her near-empty glass down on the table. ‘Do you love what you do? Management Consultancy, right?’

Jack made a face. ‘That’s not fair – I gave you an easy in with the plane.’

Holly grinned. ‘Ok. Umm . . . Would you rather sit in front of a fountain or a fire?’

Jack blinked at her. ‘That is so random.’

‘Well, some of us don’t check out the best openers on Google beforehand.’ She flicked her hair back over-dramatically, saw him follow the movement.

‘Very true. I’d say fire,’ he said firmly. ‘Definitely fire.’ It wasn’t just her face that heated this time – she felt the warmth spread through her whole body. Jack gestured to her empty glass. ‘Another drink?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘What was it?’

‘No idea. Anything is fine.’

‘Whatever?’ He frowned at that, like the concept baffled him.

‘A cocktail. Or wine. Anything,’ she repeated, waving her hand.

‘Right.’ He took the two empty glasses with him, which Holly couldn’t help but find endearing. She didn’t realise she was watching him – and the impressive muscles in his back – all the way to the bar until someone, a skinny guy in his early twenties maybe, wearing tweed trousers came over to her.

‘Anyone sitting here?’ He indicated the stool Jack had just vacated.

Holly looked up at him. He had one of those tiny little beards that she’d never fully understood the point of. ‘Yes.’

But he’d already picked up the stool, started dragging it back to his table.

‘Hey!’ He didn’t turn back, so Holly got to her feet, calling after him. ‘Hey, I said—’ But Jack was back now, and the sight of him cut her off mid-sentence.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Who are you shaking your fist at?’

‘I’m not . . .’ She looked down, to where she was gesturing – with a closed palm. She immediately dropped her hand. ‘They stole your seat,’ she said by way of explanation.