Page 38 of The Christmas Letter

‘And you want to marry him?’

‘Yes.’ Again, no doubt.

‘Well, there you go then,’ Holly said, giving her friend’s arm a little squeeze.

Abi nodded, swallowed, then gave Holly a narrow-eyed look.

‘What?’ Holly asked defensively.

‘I don’t like it when you’re the sensible one. It feels off-balance.’ It was probably because she’d just been thinking of Lily that Abi reminded her of her sister in that moment. They had a lot in common, she thought, not for the first time. Both so sorted, both knowing exactly what they wanted from life – today’s little blip notwithstanding. They would have liked each other; she was sure of it.

‘Come on,’ Holly said, forcing brightness to her tone. ‘Let’s rally the troops, get them all safely back to their parents.’

‘Yes. So you can get off to your gallery viewing.’

‘You don’t have to make that sound suspicious – it is in no way suspicious!’

‘It wasn’t suspicious, until you came home last night all energetic and . . .’ Abi waved a hand in the air. ‘Floaty.’

‘Floaty?’

‘Yes. Floaty. In a weird, ungraceful way.’

‘Whatever.’ Holly prodded Abi in the ribs. ‘I’m not going to take this from someone who had a pet woodlouse growing up.’

Abi snorted and got to her feet. ‘Hol?’

Holly looked at her.

‘Thank you.’

Holly shrugged. ‘Always.’

‘And—’

‘I know,’ Holly interrupted, her voice low. ‘Be careful.’

Abi came up to where Holly was still on the bed, ran a hand down her hair in a friendly gesture. ‘It’s only that it feels a little like you’re playing with fire here.’ She gave Holly a small smile. ‘And I just don’t want you to get burned.’

Chapter Thirteen

Holly and Jack walked around the gallery – a bright, open space with panelled wooden floors and white walls – the type of place that was both an artist’s dream and nightmare, Holly thought. A dream because there were no distractions for the gallery-goers, the artwork very much front and centre stage, and a nightmare because there was nowhere to hide. No dim moody lighting, no corners where shadows could play in your favour; if there was an imperfection somewhere, it would be well and truly on show.

Jack had stopped by an abstract sculpture: different rings entwined out of wire, nearly a metre in height. He was frowning at it like it was a particularly difficult puzzle. ‘I don’t get it.’

Holly felt a smile pull at her lips. ‘You don’t necessarily have to get it.’

Jack gave her a sidelong look. ‘Is that what you say to your students?’

‘Sometimes.’ He started walking and she stole a look at him as he glanced around the room, eyes not resting on one particular piece for any length of time. ‘Does that mean you’re having a terrible time?’ she asked.

‘No!’ His head jerked back to look at her. ‘Sorry. I like art. I do,’ he insisted at her raised eyebrows. ‘I kind of think that people who say they don’t like art are a bit stupid, because there are so many different kinds of art and even, like, a birthday card can be art, right?’

Holly thought of the Mirabelle Landor card, sitting on her bedside table back home. ‘Right,’ she agreed with a nod.

They stopped at another piece – clay, this time, a man hunched over, folded in on himself. Betrayal, the label read.

‘It’s just,’ Jack continued, scratching his chin as he studied the man, ‘I feel like an idiot sometimes, like I should be seeing some sort of higher meaning when sometimes all I see is . . .’ – he glanced back over his shoulder at the wire sculpture – ‘hoops.’