Page 47 of The Christmas Letter

She’d opened her mouth to continue but now she snapped it shut, dumbfounded. He’d seemed so reasonable during the time she’d spent with him, that she’d convinced herself that Saturday afternoon was just a blip. That once he’d had time to think it through, to calm down and get over the shock of it, he’d be willing to hear her out.

‘Look,’ Jack continued. ‘You’ve known Emma,’ – Emma. Not my grandma, not Memma – ‘what, all of three months, if what you’re saying is true? And you think you can just come swanning in and fix something that’s been broken for twenty years? That’s not how life works.’

‘But she’s ill,’ Holly said, and she hated the pleading note that had crept into her voice.

‘Her being ill does not change the last twenty years,’ he said, totally level.

She stared at him. ‘How can you be so callous?’

He closed his eyes briefly, so that she couldn’t catch whatever emotion might have flashed there. ‘This isn’t . . . Forgiveness takes work. And generally speaking, it also takes an apology, which Emma has not given. You don’t just turn around one day and decide to forgive and forget and have some sort of cuddly, Hallmark reunion.’

Rocks slid into her gut. Because she realised that’s exactly what she was hoping for with Lily. And if Jack wouldn’t – couldn’t – forgive Emma, would it be the same for her sister?

‘Jack . . .’ And now when she spoke, her voice was a little wobbly. ‘I—’

But his office phone started to ring, cutting her off. He pressed a button on it, answering on speakerphone. ‘What is it, Mike?’ His voice sounded a little weary.

‘Ah, sorry, Jack, I know you’re in a meeting, but it’s just your wife is here to see you.’

Jack’s gaze snapped to the phone. Holly’s heart lurched.

‘She says she hasn’t been able to get through to you – she wanted me to call up, wouldn’t take no for an answer, actually and . . . well . . . Do you want me to send her up, or—?’

‘No,’ Jack said shortly. ‘Just tell her to wait.’ He pressed a button on the phone.

Holly was staring at him. Very slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. His wife.

‘You’re married,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

He said nothing. But he’d asked her out. Twice! And he’d been about to kiss her – he’d said so himself. But now, he wasn’t speaking, and with every growing second of silence, her throat became more and more clogged.

‘You never . . .’ She shook her head, the action a bit frantic. ‘You didn’t say anything!’ It was a demand for information, anger and hurt lacing her voice.

He dropped his gaze. ‘Well,’ he said, his tone clipped. ‘I suppose we were both hiding things, then.’

She gave it a second longer – waited a second for him to contradict that statement. The she stood and spun away, nearly tripping as she pulled her suitcase along.

She opened the door, rushed through it. She heard him get to his feet behind her but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back. He might have said her name – once, quietly – but she couldn’t be sure, because she couldn’t hear properly over the pounding of her heart, her now frantic breathing.

This was all wrong. Fucked-up. This was so fucked-up.

There was a giant wrench inside her, one that felt out of place – too intense.

She was the one driving.

Not everyone survived.

Get out of my face.

I lost the baby. Because of you.

She killed him.

Your wife.

She wasn’t concentrating, was hurrying to get to the lift, to get away, and so she didn’t see the woman until she nearly ran her over. The woman took a step back – and even in the state Holly was in, she could admire the beautiful pointed red heels. She looked into the woman’s face. Blonde, blue-eyed. Perfect hair and neatly manicured nails.

‘Woah there, honey,’ the woman said with a smile.