Page 45 of The Christmas Letter

On Monday morning, Holly woke with a new determination – something which only intensified as she packed her suitcase, baffled at the way everything no longer seemed to fit when she’d managed to get it all in in the first place. And yes, she could have done this before she was trying to rush out the door to catch her train, but instead she’d spent Sunday in her hotel room, ordering room service and watching Netflix, stewing over what Jack had said. She hadn’t expected such a strong reaction, and she had therefore felt perfectly justified in what she’d said – he was being unreasonable.

And as though she didn’t feel bad enough, she’d spent a solid hour cyberstalking her sister and then she’d called her parents. Her parents were almost the only people she knew who actually still had a landline, and she didn’t really know why but she always called them on that. Habit, she supposed. And, these days, something about the anonymity of it, the fact that they wouldn’t see her name on the screen.

Her dad had answered. ‘Holly! Helen, it’s Holly!’

‘Holly!’ She could hear her mum’s voice down the corridor, picture them in their little house in Hammersmith, the same one where she’d spent time after her PGCE. Some of her things were still there, she knew – she hadn’t packed properly when she’d bolted for Windsor, and she’d never really planned a trip to pick everything up.

‘How are you, love?’ Her dad’s voice, deep and gravelly, brought a wave of emotion in her fragile state.

‘I’m ok.’

‘Are you sure? You don’t sound ok. Helen, she doesn’t sound ok.’

Her mum spoke down the receiver then, clearly having had the phone shoved in her hand. ‘What’s wrong, love?’

‘Nothing. Nothing, I’m fine. I just . . . I just wanted to see how you were.’

‘Well, we’re fine. How are you? Are you still with that chap? What was his name again?’

God, Daniel. She hadn’t even told them that she and Daniel had broken up, evidence of how long it had been since she’d spoken to them properly.

‘How are things at that school? And when are you next in London? We’ll come to see you if you don’t want to come to the house.’ The way her mum barely paused between questions, ever so familiar, made Holly smile a little. And then there was the slight spasm of guilt at the suggestion that Holly wouldn’t want to visit them there – or maybe it was that they didn’t really want her in the house either.

She could tell them she was in London now, though. Could get the tube, let her dad cook for her, listen to her mum telling her in detail about the latest novel she was reading and inevitably give away all the spoilers, even though she tried not to. She was almost going to, until she heard a voice. Lily’s voice.

‘Hi, Mum! Steve’s got the rest of the shopping, where do you want it? We went for chicken rather than lamb, that ok? Oh, sorry, you’re on the phone.’

There was a pause, minute, but still there. ‘It’s Holly.’

Another pause, and Holly found herself holding her breath.

‘Do you want to say hello?’

Holly could imagine it, the way her sister would be backing out of the living room, where the phone was kept. ‘No. No, that’s ok, thanks. I’ll just . . .’

After that, Holly told her mum she had to go, made some excuse or another, promised to call soon. Because it was a reminder, as if she needed one, that though her parents might not entirely blame her for what happened, her sister certainly did.

She remembered trying to see Lily, a few weeks after the accident. She’d come all the way to London, gone to the Hammersmith house where she knew Lily was staying, back with their parents, Steve there too, until she recovered. Her mum hadn’t let her in past the threshold. You need to give it time, Holly. I think you’ll only make it worse, seeing her now – she’s not ready.

Her own mother hadn’t allowed her back into her own childhood home.

So Holly gave her time. And that time had stretched on and on.

Stop it, Holly. She had to focus. All of that was yesterday. Today, she had a plan.

She checked out of the hotel, pulling her little suitcase – purple with light-blue polka dots – behind her as she headed to the nearest tube station, aiming for the Jubilee line and Canary Wharf. One of the wheels on the suitcase was broken – it didn’t turn properly so kept getting stuck, causing her quite a few annoying moments as she wrenched it on its way, earning disapproving looks from passers-by.

She found the office more easily than the last time and headed through the glass revolving doors into the reception area. She walked past the beanbags, which she had to admit looked pretty comfortable, even if everyone here was too uptight to sit on them, and past the boring-looking magazines on the glass coffee tables. The same receptionist who had been behind the desk on Friday greeted her. He was wearing a blue t-shirt with a black and yellow tie today – and when she looked more closely, she realised the yellow bits were actually feathers.

He smiled at her, flashing brilliantly white teeth. ‘Hello, can I help?’

‘I’m here to see Jack,’ she said, filling her voice with a confidence she didn’t feel. ‘Jack Tooley.’

‘Wait, I think I remember you. You were here on Friday, right? About the jewellery company?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘And you’re here to see Jack? Again?’